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DeadManWalking
Duke of the Mostly Dead
Joined: 24 May 2006
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 Posted: Fri Aug 28, 2009 3:40 pm Post subject: Sky Island: Finally OVER!!! (Ignore the poll) |
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The knife glistened, sending glimmers of light flashing across the wall. It was an old blade, one that contained countless memories, had spilled blood across the centuries, and contained the souls of all the kills it had made. These souls, however, were completely inaccessible to the current wielder of the weapon. The sould absorbed into the Manokiri were available only to the ruler of the land, and whe wielder of the original Manokiri, from which all others were merely copied.
The Great King, wielder of Mercygiver.
The man holding the knife watched the dancing patterns of light, eyes unfocused, reflective. He himself had just committed his first kill a few days ago. It had been a huge ceremony, during which he had been placed in an arena and forced to fight a drugged prisoner… even this act, one of killing a hated enemy sickened him. The sound of the blade running through flesh, the feel of the red, sticky life-blood, the dying scream of a human being just like him… these memories would stay with him forever. He had washed his hands countless times afterwards, but the blood stains would not remove itself from his mind.
And now…
He had to kill his father.
The prince sighed, and put the knife down.
He didn’t want to.
Waiting was no longer an option. He had already put it off for several years, and he was sure that his father was suspicious. After all, rumor had it of countless attempts at the old man’s life- most by his own sons. It did make the prince wonder- just how old WAS his father? He himself had always seen his father as a force- like the wind or the waves. Everlasting, ancient, powerful. In fact, the prince couldn’t remember his father looking younger then- well, the castle itself. He had always been old, and always would be old. Until someone finally freed him of his curse.
It was his heritage, he knew that. It was his right, his DUTY to kill the king. That was the way of his bloodline- live by strength. The weak must make way for the strong. It was expected of him.
But he was scared.
He walked through the halls of the palace, empty only because of the hour. His heart was beating so loudly, he was sure the very palace would rock in its foundations.
You have to do it, he kept repeating to himself, stepping noiselessly through the dark and empty halls. You have to do it. If you don’t, then who will?
You have to do it.
Finally, he stopped. He was standing in front of his father’s bedchamber. The prince gulped, tightened his grip on the dagger, and pushed the heavy door open slowly. Inside the room lay a huge bed, with a prone figure underneath the blankets.
The prince walked slowly across the room, the hand holding the dagger shaking more and more with every step, until finally he was at the head of the bed. The body of his father was there, right in front of him, unsuspecting and asleep, right in front of him. It was right there.
Right there. Now’s the time to do it got to kill him but I don’t want to have to embarrassment to family kill him just do it don’t want to do it can’t scared DO IT-
The prince looked down- to see the knife protruding out of the now lifeless lump of tangled bedsheets. Carefully, he prodded the mass with a single finger.
It didn’t move.
“I did it.” He whispered out loud, to convince himself that it wasn’t a dream. And then, a bit louder. “I did it!”
With that, the prince was jumping up and down, thrilled that he had been able to commit such an act, practically crying with happiness-
“Well done, m’boy.” A voice sounded from behind.
The prince froze in mid-celebration.
“That pillow won’t hurt anyone ever again.”
Recognizing the voice, the prince whirled around, dread filling his heart. He had one glimpse of the familiar face, one glimpse of the Manokiri knife pointed directly at his eye before the dagger leapt forward, going straight through his head, and through his brain. Through the unimaginable pain, the prince let out a last breath- and with it, felt something leave his body and soar into the knife.
And with that, the prince was gone. Just as silently as he had appeared, the prince fell to the floor, lifeless and soulless.
***
King Kennis Rochelnese was weary. No, weary was not the right word. Neither was tired. Perhaps bored.
He removed his Manokiri, the Manokiri, Mercygiver, from what was no longer his son’s head, wiping it clean on what was no longer a clean and well-made court outfit, shoved the whisperings of what was no longer alive, now just a mass of memories, to the back of his mind, and sheathed the knife in a motion of hand and mind he had done a thousand times, a motion as automatic as taking a breath.
He pulled a cord on the side of the room. A minute later, Montoral, a close confidante and the Voice of the King arrived, his clothing neat and immaculately clean, as always. He gave the corpse hardly a glance, looked up at his king.
“The usual funeral m’lord?”
Rochelnese sat in a gilded chair, but his words were plain, a thug’s tongue set in a gilded mouth. “Whatever. The usual. But nothing with those pink things. I have no idea what you were thinking last time, but I draw the line at pink.”
“Of course sir.” Montoral neglected to mention that the pink roses of Sky Island had been extinct longer than he had been alive. By the King’s order of course.
He waited for another order, but the King simply sat, staring quietly ahead. After a long silence, Montoral bowed. “By your leave, m’lord. Telin shall have a splendid funeral. A tourney and a feast. All of Sky Island shall be invited.”
Only a grunt came from the King. Montoral reached behind him for the door handle, and started to back out.
“Wait.”
Montoral waited.
“Open the tourney to all.”
“All, sir?” Montoral didn’t understand. Only the nobility of Sky Island could afford the horse and the armor, and the ransom that would result with a loss, and all of the nobility would already be invited.ß
“Send messages to all the cities on the coast. Word will spread from there.”
“What? Sir! Sky Island has always been separated from-“
“Three hundred years, Ventnor. Three hundred years I have sat on this throne. Always for you is yesterday for me.”
Ventnor had been the seneschal before Karim, who had been before Montoral. But Montoral let it go; bigger issues were afoot.
“But sir-“
“No buts, Ventnor! The weak obey the strong and the Strongest commands you.”
Montoral bowed his head.
“And arm them with Manokiri.”
Montoral’s eyes nearly bulged from his sockets, and he was silent with shock. Even the watered-down versions were priceless. Then he saw the look on his king’s face, and he choked down his disbelief. But he had to ask.
“Why, sir?”
Kennis Rochelnese met his eyes for the first time since he had killed his son.
“Three hundred years I’ve sat on this throne. Three hundred years of sons and daughters who’ve tried to kill me. My father lasted twelve years. His uncle lasted twenty. And my great-grandfather lasted forty. He was named Valarr the Long-Lived. But my seed…. Do you know what kind of crap was going through Telin’s head before I scrambled his brains? He was RELIEVED. Relieved that an enemy is dead, relieved that he no longer had to watch my every move, I can understand. But no, he was relieved that his hand had been able to do the deed. And Noris! He missed his first opportunity to kill me because, to work up the courage to assassinate me, he had to get so drunk that he couldn’t even hold the knife! He had to give up that night. Oh he tried again later, but it was a half-hearted thing.”
The King spit on his son’s corpse, spit on the corpse of all his sons.
“We’ve grown weak. We need new blood. The strong devour the weak and thus the Strong grow stronger. The Rochelnese have always been the Strong. Our motto, “On the heads of the weak.” But now the Strong are weak, excluding only myself. We need fresh blood on the island. So call the tournament. Screw the feast and screw the funeral, just call the tournament. Let them come from far and wide, from mountain and forest. Let them all come, and we will see if the last of the Rochelnese is Strong enough.”
Thanks to Phan for the first segment. It helps to have an alternate perspective sometimes.
Anyways.
To any who followed or participated in Idea Master's Asylum for Storyless Characters, (and if not, look it up) I found IM's concept for his contest an innovative approach to contests.
So I'm ripping him off. :-P (that is, i waited very patiently for him to return from his absence, but he didn't. And i'm not known for patience.)
To those of you new to the rules, things work like this.
You submit a character (more details on that at a later date) and pay a small fee of 20 or so fables. The author of each character will remain anonymous to the general public. Then, your character roams around the island going where you direct him or her, or perhaps an it (or any other variation on that line of reasoning.). Every week or so, we announce the fights. This is the key concept behind this contest.
You will have what amounts to a one-on-one write-off with the opposition, both of you writing a version of the same fight, presumably you writing a version where you win, and they writing a version where they win. Although that is not technically necessary. Then both versions are posted, and people vote on which version they prefer. When the voting period is over, the winning version is accepted as canon and we go on to the next fight. After each round you have the option of traveling to a different locale, which will be the setting of the fight. Although you will have to stay on the island.
When we are down to one or two, your character will fight the King, the whole reason for this tournament in the first place. If you win, your character is the new King, assuming there are no other living fighters on the island, and you, the writer, shall recieve the sum total of all the submissions fees.
While i will try to be as lenient on lateness as possible, things do need to move along, so if you are too late, your character may suffer a fatal accident.
Some notes: yes, I will be submitting a character. Simply because i want to. No, this will not give me any advantage over any other characters, as all round are user-decided and i will make a solemn vow not to look at other people's travel choices or stories before choosing or writing my own. Because that would be cheating, and i'd like this to be a contest of pure writing skill and imagination. (If my character were to eventually duel the King, unlikely as that is, I'll recruit someone else to write the king's side.)
More on the characters:
Simply send in your character bio to me privately, along with a 20-fable fee to get registered.
Here's a template.
Name:
Appearance:
Powers: (including weakness. Yes, i know, you'd rather your character didn't have any, but please. Someone's going to have to write a way to fight you, and you really don't want them to have to make up some ridiculous weakness for you. Cuz that could get embarassing)
Past: (Included in this is the motivation for joining)
Also, there is an option of writing a story introduction for your character, about how they found out about the tournament and why they wish to join. This is completely optional, but it'll give you more time for character development, and you aren't exactly losing anything. These will be posted.
A couple ground rules. Actually, more like Ground Guidelines, since I'm not actually going to enforce these. Just going to state my preferences.
I'd say nothing too overpowered, but i feel like the general public would shoot down any Mary Sue of their own accord. Still, use your common sense on that point.
Second, I'd like for things to be kept medieval if possible. However, if you're really digging a sci-fi character, go ahead if you must. Just please give a relatively good reason for that character to be in this setting.
Anything else, I'll address as it comes up.
Never mind what i said before, single submission only. Sorry, thought it over and there are some problems with multiple characters per person.
DEADLINE FOR SUBMISSIONS: ALREADY erm... Deadlined? NO MORE SUBMISSIONS (Unless you are willing to pay a little extra and have a reduced prize.
So if you're interested, go on! Sign up! It doesn't cost much!
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
Last edited by DeadManWalking on Thu Oct 21, 2010 6:13 pm; edited 31 times in total
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Phantomfan
Citizen
Joined: 01 May 2008
Posts: 309
Location: Deep within the music of the night
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| Posted: Tue Sep 01, 2009 3:23 pm Post subject: |
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Kickass! Count me in! We'll see if this ends any better than Asylum did. Gimme a bit to come up with a character.
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I've been pulled back from oblivion to lurk about the City once more. Though the music of the night always beckons...
Here's some stuff I started writing a long time ago. Orb. Nexus.
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BlackAmaranth
Tourist
Joined: 19 Sep 2008
Posts: 28
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| Posted: Wed Sep 02, 2009 2:52 pm Post subject: |
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Sounds interesting...I didn't enter Asylum last time, so I think I'll give this a try 
_________________
"Well, here I am...in the towers of an insane asylum...wearing a straitjacket...talking to myself..."
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The White Blacksmith
Elder
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| Posted: Thu Sep 03, 2009 1:59 am Post subject: |
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I might have a go. When's the deadline for entries?
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Tea Cures All.
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DeadManWalking
Duke of the Mostly Dead
Joined: 24 May 2006
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| Posted: Thu Sep 03, 2009 12:15 pm Post subject: |
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Let's say by the 19th or so. I may change that later, but we'll just say that's the working date right now.
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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DeadManWalking
Duke of the Mostly Dead
Joined: 24 May 2006
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| Posted: Mon Sep 14, 2009 4:46 pm Post subject: |
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We currently have two characters submitted! Please, the deadline is coming soon, and if you wish to join the tournament, you must act!
Also, we have the introduction piece of one of our characters (well technically two persons, but they count as one character.)
Someone was trying me to tell me to stop drinking. Either that or they just really didn’t like me. I just wish they wouldn’t keep tap-dancing on my skull.
I opened my eyes a squidge, and, just as the sun stabbed me in the face, the tap-dancers gained fifty-pounds and decided they needed to exercise some more. Needless to say, the collaboration of the two did not leave me in a good mood.
Maybe the two events were related. I don’t know. It was too early in the morning for thinking.
I poked my head out the window, checked the sun, just to get it over with early. Noonish. Time to go back to sleep.
I tried. Honestly, I did. Only when my head fell down to meet my pillow, it flew up to meet me. In the face.
Goddamn vermin problem.
I stumbled out of bed, flailing with my usual grace as the pillow slapped me a couple times along the face, then in the back of the head for good measure. I finally managed to grab it and throw it back on the bed, where it lay dormant again. I tried to yell at Fluffers, but a coupla feathers had gotten in somehow and all the came out was a spluttered mumble. Didn’t matter. He knew what I was saying. And what I wasn’t saying as well. Which is the only reason I keep him around.
Fluffers is… well something. A coupla friends down at Morostown University took a look at him and had no idea what he was. Nearly put me in a jail cell, they were so eager to keep him there for study. He’s basically a cross between a puff fish, a cat, and swamp gas. With some added psychic powers, as if he weren’t annoying enough. He floats around, a big hairy ball that bounces around the walls shedding in the strangest places. (And somehow he manages to track dirt into the house without ever touching the ground. I swear he does it just to mess with me.) His real names is something unpronounceable mostly because his species or race or whatever don’t have mouths. At least I think there’s more of him; otherwise, why would he need a name? Anyways, it translates to, or so he tells me, Fluffier than Necessary. So I call him Fluffers. Pretty much the only way I get back at him, and in return he gets me into all kinds of trouble, but if I ever give that up then he’s just walking all over me. Or floating. Or whatever.
But yeah, more importantly, Fluffers is psychic. Telepathic and telekinetic, to some extent. And he hints at all sorts of other things, pyrokinesis and a whole host of other things, although I ain’t ever seen him use it. Hell, he’d claim he had elephantinesis if there were any elephants near this piece of dirt we call home. But yeah, telepathy is the only reason I keep him around. It’s invaluable for my line of work. The little puffball knows that. Which means he can act like a little twat all he wants and I can’t pop him with a knife.
Still, it pays to have a telepath around. Especially in my line of work.
You see, I, Meryn Weir, am a private investigator. Or that’s what I like to call myself. I do what I can. Some muscle work, some debt collection. But what I specialize in is finding things or people, usually the second, that are lost, or, more usually, don’t want to be found. You see why a telepath is pretty helpful. It means in a lot of places where I’d usually need some fancy knife work (or alternatively, a very large club, something I usually use when flashing good steel only gets it stolen) I don’t. So handy. And I’ve kinda gotta admit that I’ve gotten used to him. He’s grown on me.
The traditional response to that Is “like a fungus,” but I have to say I might get broken up if he left. There might even be tears. Still, he should be thankful his telepathic abilities make it so I don’t need to leave a lot of weapons lying around.
Anyways, back to the present, a time in which Fluffers should be ESPECIALLY thankful there were no weapons around. The little fluffball came bouncing in, projecting an air of total innocence that was as unbelievable as it was blatantly false. The only way of it being at all believable is if the pillow decided all on its lonesome that today would be a good day to pop up and hit me in the face. To which I must naturally reply, “Hey check out those pigs flying south for the winter!”
“Goddamnit, what did you do now?”
Why is that the first thing you ask when you see me? I’m truly hurt. Fluffers’ telepathic voice echoed through my head.
“It’s a fact that the more innocent you look the more deep shit you’re shoveling. So what is it?” This was not completely true. When the shit got above his head, he could get serious. But the head of a floating little puffball is surprisingly far off the ground.
Well the mayor may have thought he was a cat in the middle of a meeting. And the mob outside thinks it was my fault.
“A cat? What was- Wait. A mob?” It was the morning, and my keen deductive skills are not very good at that time of the night. Ok fine, it was at least noon. But I had been up late last night with urgent work. Some beers had urgently needed to be hidden, and I figured my stomach was a good place for it. (Ok, my wit needs work in the mornings too. Now shush.) I stuck my head out of the window. But not for long. There were torches. At noon. Somebody was really pissed.
“What else did you do?” There were too many people in that mob for it to just have been a case of mistaken personality. Or whatever you’d call that.
What do you mean? If he had had innocence reeking from his pores before, now it almost oozed out in a thick syrupy...Thing. Whatever. You get the point.
“There are GRANDMOTHERS out there.” Which was not strictly true. The only person out there old enough was the Widow Gehrkestar, and her sons would have to come back from the dead for her to be a grandmother. Anyways. People who hadn’t gotten out of their houses in years and years were coming out now, a lot of them with pitchforks and other unpleasantly sharp objects. Most of them were looking for a furball to pop and didn’t seem too adverse to the idea of popping any private investigators that got in their way.
I may have also planted the idea that the Minister from Margonia was a large dog. He came perilously close to jumping from a second floor balcony.
Oh crap. Manook, the little patch of dirt we call home is proud for a village that doesn’t have much in it besides a bunch of cows and some cowherds. And, of course, every village needs a rival. Margonia is theirs. Ours I guess. Although Manook was pretty much just where I landed after I finished my army tour and I was just too lazy to get my ass anywhere else.
Sometimes I curse my laziness. Fluffers claims that if I wasn’t so slothful I wouldn’t be in half as much trouble as I usually am. He could be right, although I’m willing to bet that if he weren’t around, I wouldn’t have any.
I rushed down the stairs, struggling into my clothes as I did, a task that took rather too much coordination for someone just waking up from a drinking binge. Anyways, I gathered myself at the bottom of the steps, stumbling towards the Closet. The Closet is the place in my house where I keep most of my… items of a dubious and/or (mainly and) sharp nature, shall we say. It’s an arsenal I keep for when the times demand more than just knuckles.
Throwing open the door, I grabbed first my trusty head knocker. Two feet of nice solid oak, as painful as a night of binge drinking without all the fun bits first. Followed that with a couple of knives placed in circumspect areas, and then a peek out the window to see how much more hardware I would need.
…
Crap.
Out the back way then. I threw on a coat that concealed most of my usual bruises, collected on the job, and put on a hat, and called it a day. I never wear hats. It should be enough to fool the crowd, if they happened to glance down the alley behind my house. Of course, I forgot about the little fluffball that insisted in tagging along. As it turns out, they did happen to glance down the little back alley, and one of them managed to pierce my elaborate disguise. My day was then shot to hell in a handbasket. Not even one of those handbaskets that people use to carry picnic lunches. One of those heavy duty things with wire that scratches.
First my usual headache, than a mob, and now exercise. Although exercise was the better of the two options. That mob looked like it wanted to rip me apart and feed the pieces to their children.
Scrambling down the street, with Fluffers floating along at a surprising speed, I came up to the docks. Only one ship was left, lagging slightly before the winter iced in the port. And that one looked like it was in a hurry to get out.
I jumped onboard, poured some silver into the surprised captain’s hands, and watched as the mob grew smaller.
Only then did I think to ask where we were going.
“Sky Island, for the fighter’s tournament. You’re the last contestant on our route, so I guess we’ll just head straight there.”
I moaned, not even caring that the black-bearded captain gave me a funny look.
Yup. Definitely shot to hell in a handbasket.
And here we have our first contestants. Meryn and Fluffers, the floating puffball! Remember, you only have until the 19th!
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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DeadManWalking
Duke of the Mostly Dead
Joined: 24 May 2006
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| Posted: Tue Sep 15, 2009 5:51 pm Post subject: |
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We now have a third character submitted! Come one come all!
(Also, in the interests of more characters being submitted, submission fees will now be cut down by 25%! The cost is now a mere 15 fables. FIFTEEN FABLES. (People who've already paid: you will be receiving partial refunds.)
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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Thunderbird
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Joined: 13 Sep 2009
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| Posted: Tue Sep 15, 2009 7:04 pm Post subject: |
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| gimme some time an' I'll put my submission in
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DeadManWalking
Duke of the Mostly Dead
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| Posted: Wed Sep 16, 2009 4:08 pm Post subject: |
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If enough people express interest this late in the game, i may push the deadline back a bit. Because we only have three submissions thus far, and that isn't exactly a great number.
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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Klafarius
Resident
Joined: 29 May 2009
Posts: 82
Location: "...I took the one less traveled by..."
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| Posted: Wed Sep 16, 2009 7:46 pm Post subject: |
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I would love to join up because this sounds like an awesome way to SG but I'm going to be really busy with the RL here pretty quick. I can't wait to read the game as it progresses though. 
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DeadManWalking
Duke of the Mostly Dead
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| Posted: Sat Sep 19, 2009 12:38 pm Post subject: |
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Instead of pushing the deadline back by date, I think i'll be pushing it back until the indeterminate time when we have at least six contestants. Which i hope should not be too far in the future.
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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Thunderbird
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| Posted: Sat Sep 19, 2009 3:59 pm Post subject: |
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| That's a good idea... I'm still thinking my character through...
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DeadManWalking
Duke of the Mostly Dead
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| Posted: Wed Sep 30, 2009 5:33 pm Post subject: |
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And we now have FOUR contestants! We're very nearly there! Just those last two, and any others who take interest in this little competition.
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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jhonscrypt
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Joined: 02 Oct 2009
Posts: 5
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| Posted: Sun Oct 11, 2009 8:25 pm Post subject: |
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SO Joining this.
_________________
don't you just love things that make you wonder if death is contagious?- Cornelius Huxley;freedom is the freedom to say two plus two equals four;to die hating them that is freedom;"Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen to-morrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind." There was a long silence. "I claim them all," said the Savage at last.;
Last edited by jhonscrypt on Sun Nov 01, 2009 11:01 pm; edited 1 time in total
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jhonscrypt
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| Posted: Sun Oct 11, 2009 8:34 pm Post subject: |
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But i have a question about the setting....
is it a jungle island?
or more like just an island with "contestants" fighting (probably signified by something to differentiate oneself from pedestrians)?
or is it like a caged brawl two at a time last (wo)man standing?
or somewhere else completely?
because if it is just an island without people, where does the king stay?
why would we want to have royalty of it if it is just an island?
depending on setting these stories, my character would act very differently,
like if it is in the wilderness, characters would have to bring rations, and tracking might be a useful skill.
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don't you just love things that make you wonder if death is contagious?- Cornelius Huxley;freedom is the freedom to say two plus two equals four;to die hating them that is freedom;"Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen to-morrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind." There was a long silence. "I claim them all," said the Savage at last.;
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DeadManWalking
Duke of the Mostly Dead
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| Posted: Sun Oct 11, 2009 8:37 pm Post subject: |
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I was going to get to this after contestants were submitted, but I'll explain a bit now, i guess.
It's an island surprisingly diverse in its environments. There's a hugeass mountain right in the middle. Rumors of a volcano are unfounded, as of yet. There's also some forests, a river with some flatlands, and some beaches. Fighting in the towns is discouraged, though you can still be killed there. There's also the Castle, whose doors are closed to you until the final rounds.
But yes, that's a summary of the environments.
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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The White Blacksmith
Elder
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| Posted: Mon Oct 12, 2009 8:24 am Post subject: |
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The story this one was inspired by can be found here. Hope that helps you work it all out.
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Tea Cures All.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Mon Oct 12, 2009 3:55 pm Post subject: |
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Yeah too bad it never finished...
I really wanted Aeger and Liane to OFFICIALLY win the contest.
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Fri Oct 16, 2009 3:43 pm Post subject: |
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YAY A second person wrote an intro. We now have five contestants, with a couple people (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!) who will of course soon be submitting their characters.
Vestis
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, He read For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore.
Vestis looked up from his book on island traditions at the painting of Lenore.
His only love. But he no longer felt this emotion, love, he had not since her death, nor any emotion really. He stood up, in his lamp-lit room filled to the brim with books, most of which he had read. Not novels, no, not histories, no, he was interested in fact, in reality, in opportunity. He was searching for something. He had read one hundred books on rituals, two hundred on simple magic, and yet he didn’t care to learn them, they weren’t what he wanted. He stepped around the towering columns of tomes on the tile floor of his house. Tiles containing a map of the world, as he had traveled it. It marked everywhere he received his swords. “I need more whiskey.”
He walked downstairs to see the fire he had started in his fireplace but had forgotten to put out. He saw only the edges of innumerous beasts reflected in the dying fire. Claws, horns, skulls, and stingers and hides were just barely illuminated by the flickering. A reanimator could become a king with such things. But Vestis cared not for his past victories over nature. He only looked with the slightest feeling of anger towards the head of a demon mounted over his wall.
As he walked over to his pantry he glanced at a rack of swords, tall and wide with forty shimmering edges. Of all shapes and sizes they glowed in the fading light, as though someone had taken a golden brush to the dark wall and made lines purposely different. Curved, thin, ornate, they made a menagerie of metal, wood, bone, and several other ungodly materials. Each one had its own place on the floor map, as he stepped over an ‘x’ on the town of Helmsdale. That blade had spilled many a blood.
Before entering the pantry he looked across the floor tiles, barely visible on the horizon of the fireplace, he saw his journey as great as in had been, his best triumphs, the people he met, the collections he amassed. But the sun was setting, and it didn’t matter what happened in between, it all lead here, and this was it, the end of his journey. What he had lost he could never get back, and maybe, finally, he could accept that. He discarded the notion. “I need more whiskey.”
He walked into it, the pantry, consisting of darkness. It stank the strange stench of cured meats and whiskey. Although he could not see anything, he walked over to the rows of whiskey bottles and picked one up. This one was empty. He grabbed the next one, it too was empty. He remembered that he was almost out. He was getting his shipment in tomorrow. He only accepted the whiskey brewed in the mountain of Kincraig. He still was discounted for a drake he had slain, but he was running out of money. Between the books, meat, and whiskey, he was losing his fortune. Soon enough, even if he found his answer he wouldn’t be able to afford it.
“How long have I lived like this?” he said drinking down a shot or two of the new whiskey bottle. “Ever since that demon, I haven’t fought. It took it all away from me. My ambition, my emotion, Lenore. I think I should be angry, but I no longer know what it is I’ve lost. Ten years,” he remembered, “that’s how long.” He walked back to the drying flame and looked down at his arm, rugged and leathery, scarred innumerously. He had not always been this way, that he knew. His entire body had once been tough but clean of demonic scars. He had memories, no, distant dreams of feeling with them. He looked up at a portrait of himself; large, proud, and standing over the carcass of the white gorgon spider. He was clean. His face was unscathed, approachable, in the prime of his life. He had changed.
He walked over to the swords and picked up the largest, a blade unornamented, basic, and natural. It was just huge. He turned the face of the blade to reveal his own through the light of the fire. It was a depressing imitation of the portrait. His skin was like petrified wood, a crumbling faded imitation of something long past. It was a face that frightened children. In his once glorious days of walking the land as an angel, righteous swords on his back, they would flock to him in admiration. Now he had become a beast, an abomination which people were afraid of. His name was forgotten, Vestis was no one.
But he didn’t care. That was the root of all the problems, he didn’t care. He had gotten everywhere he once was by caring. He put enough effort into his swords, his body, and he had beaten everyone else, beasts and swordsmen. He had had everything he cared about, but now he didn’t care how far he had fallen. All he wanted was to care again. He thought of Lenore. If he had grieved, if only had had grieved perhaps he would still be atop the world.
And so he had read, books upon books to try to get emotion back but he had filed, for the past ten years he had found no way to get a soul back. It must be possible, to get his occult punishment undone. Of course his soul was gone, far and away wherever souls go, but he could find another. Or so he had thought for ten years now.
The fire went out. He walked up the staircase to the book on island royalties, and remembered that he hadn’t read the newspaper today. He tried to keep up with the world just in case he might reenter it. There was a small passage outlining that the royalty of Sky Island was being offered in a tournament. He had never been to Sky Island, one of the few places somewhat nearby. It would be a week’s journey from here, and it was to be held in a week. Anyone hoping to enter would have to leave tomorrow. But he didn’t need an island, he needed a soul.
So he returned to his book on island tradition, opening it to the chapter on Sky Island. Somewhere deep inside his mind, there was a small laugh. He read all about the roses at the funerals and the theology of weak being under the strong. Then he read a passage on the knife, Manokiri, which steals the souls of those it kills.
If he could be ecstatic, he was. He had waited ten years for this. “One more sword. I need just one more sword.” He thought of his rack, remembering the fleeting feeling of his past, the want to collect swords. He remembered every great swordsman he had had killed for these swords. The duke of Helmsdale, the Buzaymah master pitfighter, the twins Doemix, and the giant Zippen’s faces came to him.
He looked back at the newspaper article “A tournament of the strongest the mainland has to offer.” He would get the sword or die. His petrified face cracked a smile. Just like old times.
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
Last edited by DeadManWalking on Tue Nov 10, 2009 5:44 pm; edited 2 times in total
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sat Oct 17, 2009 12:20 pm Post subject: |
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And a Third!
Lacrymos
"This? You would die for this eh?" The scrap of paper was much torn, filthy with blood. But the writing was legible. An invitation.
The lump of meat crushed benieth one massive hoof was in no shape to speak. His question was met with silence. One cracked talon tracking across the paper, lips slowly puzzling out the sounds.
He could vaugely remember tales of this place...was it not ruled by a mad king of some such? Azure tail flicked against midnight hocks, free talons scratching through his tangled mane. "Hummm...so they want fighters eh? Open to any and all eh? This one might just give it a shot, what do you think eh?"
With a savage kick he sent the two pieces of the corpse hurtling into the brush beyond the road. Reaching down he picked up his halberd, swinging it over one massive shoulder. Whistling off key, he crossed the road and stepped into the stream beyond.
As the cool water cleaned away the blood and dust he turned his craggy head in the direction of the ocean. He followed the water on it's course to the sea and followed the sea on it's course to the island.
At last a chance to be truly free. For who would ever call a king a slave? And when would a slave ever get a chance to be a king again?
"Or at least be given the chance to die with honor eh?" He shook his heavy horned brow and let loose a bugle into the glowing dusk. "This one comes! Do you hear? Lacrymos comes!"
We now have SIX entries. However, as some others have expressed interest in joining, I will be leaving this open for twenty-four hours more ONLY. I may allow others to enter after the contest has started, but doing so will result in a higher entrance fee and possibly a smaller reward.
15 Fables to join, along with a character bio and an optional intro story. You have TWENTY FOUR HOURS!
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sun Oct 18, 2009 10:43 am Post subject: |
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With only an hour or so more to join, we have another entry and another intro!
Fairuza
Fairuza had never really understood the term “fish out of water”. Until now, that is.
The tiny little port town of Taramink was sick with the smell of rotting fish, mingled with the cool, biting sea air. She couldn’t walk two strides without stepping in some ominous puddle left behind by a fishmonger carting his catches of the day across the cobblestone square.
And the people! Fairuza thought the wretched Kiryona warriors were loud. They were nothing compared to the shoving, crowing, cursing and sweating that were the town’s locals. The slavers couldn’t have taken her people here, of that she was sure. The proud Caryani would rather die than be caught in such a godless place. Hell, she didn’t even like being here, and she was here of her own will. But at the moment, this humanly cesspool was the only lead she had. The noises beating endlessly on her ears, the sickly sweet odors that danced through the air, the blinding sunlight…it all made her feel more than a little ill. Fairuza shook her head roughly, as if to scare her senses into submission, and plodded on through the disgusting tangle of humans.
But wait…something caught her attention. Yes…it seemed she had walked into a thickening of the crowd. She could hear a man’s voice booming in the center of it all. But what was he saying that had gotten them all so interested? She edged further into the throng, earning more than a few dirty looks, and caught sight of a tiny man perched precariously on a pile of splintered crates. He seemed to be the source of the excitement. As far away as she was, her quick ears were able to catch the end of his speech.
“—so who among you is man enough to brave the horrors of Sky Island? Mark my words, the reward will more than make up for a few lost limbs—aha-hah-hah-hah!” The caterwauling laugh was a bit much, but it the message got across as the crowd was sent into bristling whispers.
“I’ll do it!” a voice screeched towards the front of the crowd. Fairuza’s gaze shifted to a skinny bald man, clearly drunk, with several broken teeth sticking awkwardly from his mouth. “That whole damned island won’t know what hit it!”
“You? Ha!” another voice piped up. “That deathtrap is way out there for a reason, you loony jackass!”
“I hear their king is really a demon in disguise,” Said yet another voice, “How else d’you think he’s been king for damn near 300 years?”
“But he can’t do anything to us here, right?” a woman this time.
“I’d like to see him try. Why, if that urzzzh-legh even set foot in this here town, I’d take his—“
“Urz-what? How much have you had to drink?”
Fairuza sighed. Idiots. I bet I could rip his vocal cords out before anyone knew what happened. But this wasn’t the time to cause an uproar. She still needed some answers out of these people. She quickly scanned the crowd for someone who wasn’t passed out, babbling feverishly, or drunk out of their mind. Damn…that man on the crates had disappeared.
“Excuse me,” she said, in broken Commontongue, to the man standing next to her; he seemed clear-headed enough to answer her questions. His head swiveled in her direction.
“Yeah? What is it?”
“I wanted to ask if you’ve seen someone pass through here. Have any soldiers wearing red and purple armor docked here lately?” The man drew uncomfortably closer to Fairuza, his beady eyes trying unsuccessfully to peer into her drawn hood. She felt her knees crouch, involuntarily preparing to spring. Her hands trembled as she tried to keep her claws from instinctively sliding out.
“You…ain’t from around here, are ya?” He finally said.
“No, I—I’m just passing through too.” She looked in the opposite direction, hoping her eyes hadn’t given her away as anything beyond a simple traveler. Or even human. The man stared at her for a bit longer, then he snorted.
“No. I ain’t seen anyone like that. But then, no one’s really been watching who docks here lately. Y'know…’cause so many people have been coming in to hear about that…”
“About this…Sky Island?” Fairuza was getting impatient; if this man hadn’t seen the slavers, then he had nothing useful to offer. “What is that?”
“Ain’t you heard? King Whats-is-face is opening the gates. They’re saying he’s holding a tournament. The last man standing gets his whole damned army…and some sorta weapon. Mana…mona…?” The man shook his head, and rummaged around in his pocket. Fairuza watched in mild bemusement as he fished out a filthy piece of newspaper. “It’s in there. The last ship that can take you there is pushing out today.” He said, extending his arm out to her. She took the paper tentatively and smoothed it out, skimming it for anything interesting. Her eyes couldn’t translate about half of the alien words, but the basic idea of it sunk it.
“Oi! Brom!” A shrill voice pierced the air. An elderly, overfed woman stood in the doorway of a bakery on the nearest end of the square, batting a rolling pin against her free hand. The man flinched, but didn’t look in her direction. “I know you can hear me, you no-good son of mine! Stop flirting with that tart and get your lazy ass to work!”
Brom’s shoulders sagged. “Coming.”
“Coming what?” the woman barked.
“Coming, mother.” Brom gave Fairuza a pained look and vanished into the building, leaving her bristling at being referred to as a “tart”. The anger was quickly drowned out, however, by a wave of dread as another truth sunk in.
“No one’s really been watching who docks here lately.” Then it was likely that no one had seen the slavers at all. But they had to have passed through here…that soldier who’d been left for dead told her they would. Granted, she had killed him anyway for what his men had done, but what reason would he have had for lying to her? She could see the fear behind his eyes as he lay bleeding…he was far too much a coward to defend his fellow slavers, especially not in his dying breath.
But where was she to go from here, if the trail had gone cold? How was she supposed to find out where they had taken her people? Her heart sunk painfully as she wracked her brain for answers. I can’t search the whole world…
Wait. What had that paper said? Fairuza looked at it again, her eyes dropping to the excerpt about the rewards.
The power of a king…surely that would be enough to find her family? And to strike the blight of the Kiryona from this world. After all, they were responsible for our capture. With an army to command, she could have revenge as well…
“It…could work.” She breathed. And she was sure she could handle whatever that island had to throw at her. She was a Caryani, after all.
“Last call for Sky Island!” A voice bellowed from the docks, bursting the bubble of excitement that had risen in Fairuza’s throat. It seemed she had arrived just in time then. She hitched her hood further up around her head and headed briskly for the water.
“You wanna join the tournament?” the ship’s dock-master said as she was walking up the boarding plank. She stopped and turned to him.
“What?” Fairuza asked. He smiled, and he let his eyes travel insolently up and down her body, as if she were a piece of meat. She saw something flash across his eyes, and she forced down a snarl. What was it with these people? Not enough “tarts” to go around?
“It’s just…it’s pretty dangerous out there.” He said finally, his smile flickering, “I wouldn’t think a girl like you would wanna go to a place like that.” Fairuza stared at the sailor for a moment, her rosewood eyebrows raised. Then, without warning, her face split into a wolfish grin, her rows of razor-sharp teeth glinting viciously in the sun.
“Oh, I’m sure I can manage.”
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sun Oct 18, 2009 11:42 am Post subject: |
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Well since you asked....
I can let you in a little later, but if it's after the first round starts (which should be in a week or so) I may end up having a depleted pot for you if you win, since you would then have effectively skipped one of the elimination rounds.
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sun Oct 18, 2009 1:24 pm Post subject: |
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There were four of them, not well-armed or armored, except for the fact that all carried Manokiri. They started to spread out halfway across the throne room, carrying their weapons openly. Councilors slipped out of the room as the four thugs passed, and the two guards by the throne seemed not to notice their advent, staring off into space.
King Kennis Rochelnese rose from his throne, drawing Mercygiver with a snarl. He had expected some contestants to go directly for him, but the way the guards pretended not to notice the threat to their king suggested, nay declared that someone high up in the nobility wanted him dead quickly.
Which was not entirely unexpected. Any who entered the tournament could win the kingship, but many would be claiming the kingship not for themselves, but for a lord. Too many generations of the same noble family ingrained in the minds of commonfolk that not brawn ruled, but blood.
That would change, the King thought. If a tournament can choose a king, it can choose nobility as well. A massive reshuffling of the nobility was on its way.
Perhaps not all. Loyal barons and dukes could remain, provided they proved their strength. But the men behind these thugs would have to go, once he found out their names and houses.
Even as his mind worried at the puzzle of who had hired the men, the King’s body was in motion. Mercygiver slid silkily up into the gap of armor at the armpit, finding the first traitorous guard’s heart. As he started to slump over, the other guard started to move, bringing his spear around in a defensive slash.
But Mercygiver was out of the corpse now, and with the same motion the Strongest threw the dagger across his body, Mercygiver speeding eagerly through the air to pierce the second’s eye.
The four thugs began to hurry, their faces grim. The old man was harder prey than they had thought.
The King retrieved his blade, sorting his newest souls in his expanding hive of minds. Then, he called back a different one.
This was a soul ancient and worn with use. So many times had it been summoned by the Rochelnese line that it was like a tattered thing, absent of any memory and now more of an attitude than an actual soul.
As the soul of the great cat settled into its familiar place, his stance shifted, his knees bent and one hand on the ground. As the seconds ticked by, the panther became more and more of who he was.
A single tooth in hand, but the hunt is the same. Four stand before, spreading out, acting like predators.
A sanguine grin splits an aged visage. Predators surround. Prey survive by sticking together. Prey that don’t stick together get cut out of the herd. Feint to the right, then dash left. The bearded thug there is surprised, swings at the face. The tooth bites deep into the bearded one’s stomach, as the swing goes high above the ducking hunter’s head.
Kick the dying man into the nearest thug, then deal with the other two. Leap at the third, tooth meeting throat in a gurgling scream as eyes widen in surprise at the direct attack.
Only two left. Jump backwards to avoid the stabbing knife, watch for the one behind you. Duck down again, hamstring.
As he falls, grab at his knife, stab and twist with the first tooth. Now we have two long-teeth. Turn around, watch as the last flees. Throw it.
He stumbles, a metal tooth in his back, slows. And then the hunter is on him.
King Kennis Rochelnese returned, banishing the panther soul to the back of his mind. He finished the men lying gurgling on the ground. As he delved his new memories for their hirer, he grew angry.
“Montoral,” he growled, a hint of the panther still in his voice.
And the entry period is now closed. We have seven contestants.
Now we go into the travel phase. There are six areas on the island. The first is the villages, scattered around the island, which you are strongly discouraged by the king from staying in for too long. Property damage you cause in fights will have to be paid out of your own pocket. Contestants may go there to buy supplies, but collateral damage is much frowned upon. So try not to go there. The Castle, similarly, is an area closed to you right now. It will be opened after there are few enough contestants left.
The other four areas are the forest (standard woody area, flora and fauna nothing out of the ordinary.), the mountain (a possibly dormant volcano near the center of the island. Barren, rocky, and full of ridges.) the beaches (erm... beaches? Sand, water, maybe a couple of steep cliffs falling downwards towards conveniently sharp rocks) and the river (The forest has been cut away from the river in places to help with shipping routes along it, so there's a semi flat area on either side of the river in most places. The river itself is not that big, but definitely not a stream.)
Basically, you PM me telling me where your character travels to in this round. This travel time lasts one week. After the weeks end, I will note who is in which area and assign fights accordingly within each area. That means not everyone will be fighting every round.
If you have any questions, just PM me or leave it up here.
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sat Oct 24, 2009 11:27 am Post subject: |
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They sit, some of them glancing nervously at the tent around and some of them staring with the frozen gaze of a man already dead. Only Montoral is resolute.
One of the glancers speaks up, his voice quavering, putting a voice to the fear they all shared. "He's killed them and he knows who we are! It's over, and we've got to get out of here. There are a lot of ships in the harbor; we can hire one to take u-"
"We stay." Montoral's voice is steady.
“He’s right; we might as well.” A middle-aged man, brown eyes and a drooping face. “No matter how far we run, no matter how hard we try, he’ll find us.”
Montoral turned on this second man. “We are not dead. We will not run. We started this and now we finish it.”
Kareen, the first to speak, looked at Montoral with a crazy look on his face. “But we can’t win! He’s the Strongest. The Rochelnese have always been the strongest.”
Montoral met his gaze. “So why did you join us in the first place?”
“Well because…” Kareen started to speak, but trailed off under Montoral’s gaze.
Montoral finished his sentence for him. “Because it doesn’t have to be that way. They may have been the strongest in the past, but we can change that!”
He turned to address the entire tent, nervous-glancers and dead starers alike. “Our current king has ruled for two hundred and eighty-three years. In that time, there has been no change in political structure or in technological advancement. The past is bringing us down gentlemen. This idea that being the strongest entitles a man to be in charge must end. We must usher in a new era of government responsibility. Where the government rules for the good of the people.
“When I approached you men with this plan, you joined because you knew it had to be done. The King must be overthrown. And we knew it wouldn’t be easy. Hiring those men was a long shot, and we knew it probably wouldn’t work. And we may have played our hand, but we still have some cards up our sleeve.”
He paused, looked into the eyes of each of his coconspirators in turn.
“We can still do this. Our chances of success are just as great as they were to start. The King must stay holed up in his castle, lest he be mobbed by competitors that wish to take him out early. Not even he can stand against a hundred men, and at least that many will figure out that taking him out first will make everyone’s chances better.
“And as you remember, our next step is simple. We find contestants that do not want the throne and we make sure they win. And when they leave, we step in. Are you men still with me? No matter what path you choose, I will go ahead with this, but I will need your help. One man can not be trusted to govern the people. Rochelnese has proved that. With you, I can create a government where a group can decide the fate of a nation. We are the men who own this nation. We are its economy, and we are its population. Should we not be its rulers as well?”
There is an affirmative susurrus in the tent. There is a little more life in the eyes of those who had accepted death, and a little more calm in those of the men who were waiting for it.
Montoral smiles, not a smile of happiness, but rather one of determination and strength.
“Now which candidates should we back? And how openly?”
They spent the next hour debating between methods and men, finding those who would give them the throne and how to get them to. It is generally agreed that any overt gestures will simply make those men targets. Perhaps just a general “Don’t mess with them or you will be messed with” put out will work. There are plenty of men who, despite being in this competition, will kill for money, and however much they might lack confidence, the men in the tent to not lack for specie. Finally, they decide on eight candidates to back. Several humans, and a couple not. Several of them simply want glory or prestige, though their wants differed. One wishes for Mercygiver, a concession the men are willing to make, and another wants simply to survive. Yet another wants freedom.
None of them would interfere with the goals of the conspirators. Hopefully.
And we have an explanation as to why these contestants only fight among themselves. And no, these events are not organized, these fighters simply blunder into each other because everyone else is avoiding them.
And now the part you all have been waiting for. This round's Fights in order!
A wealthy young glory-seeker and her bodyguard against a man, and his telepathic pet, looking only to survive! We have Alena and Gwydion vs. Meryn and Fluffers in the Forest!
A mad blacksmith against a master of disguise! Alys vs. Filchus Emry in the Forest!
A Satyr who gains power from the very water itself against a Man who slays monsters for a living! We have Lacrymose vs. Vestis at the beach!
And two contestants will not be fighting this round. Fairuza, who is also in the Forest, and The Ebon Acolyte a.k.a. the Moth and the Flame, who is heading for the hills. Erm. Mountains.
The way we will be handling these fights is thus: First, I will send the details of the opponents to the first two combatants. They will have one week to write a fight. After one week, their fights will be posted and I will send the details of the opponents to the next two fighters. In the time that the next two writers are writing, votes will be happening for the first fight. At the end of that week, we will declare a winner and post the next fight. I know the schedule may seem a little tight, but it ensures that no group has more time to write than any other. Hopefully, we won’t have any hiccups timingwise. If you have any time restrictions, just let me know and I will attempt to work around those.
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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jhonscrypt
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| Posted: Sun Oct 25, 2009 8:53 pm Post subject: |
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couldn't you just give everyone three weeks, then release them each two days apart, leaving each poll open for about a week, to give some of the more time constricted writers a chance? this way no one has an advantage, like now, whoever isn't fighting first already might know something about the person they are fighting. (for the first round this doesn't matter as nuch, but for the latter rounds, after we've read each others pieces, those whose fights are anounced but do not have to fight first could get a head start.
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don't you just love things that make you wonder if death is contagious?- Cornelius Huxley;freedom is the freedom to say two plus two equals four;to die hating them that is freedom;"Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen to-morrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind." There was a long silence. "I claim them all," said the Savage at last.;
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Mon Oct 26, 2009 4:54 pm Post subject: |
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The problem with that idea is that I can only run one poll at a time. Running multiple polls would require multiple threads, which I don't really want to do as of yet. Maybe if i had a forum. And while it is true that some people might have extra time in later rounds, since each person would fight someone who had more time, later fights might have been written over a longer period than previous fights, but they would be going against fights that had been written over an equal length of time.
That could have been phrased better.
What I mean is, if say, Alyss and Lacrymose were to be paired in the next round, and Filchus Emry and Fairuza were also paired, Alyss and Lacrymose might have one week to write their fights and Filchus Emry and Fairuza two, but neither of the two combatants of the fights would have an advantage over the other.
Alternatively i could just announce the fights right before the official writing period for each person starts.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sun Nov 01, 2009 1:50 pm Post subject: |
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And we have our first two fights! Apologies for the slight delay, but I had some guests over that just WOULD NOT LEAVE. One of them is actually still here, but I'm ignoring him. Anyways. Alena and Gwydion vs. Meryn and Fluffers.
First is Meryn and Fluffers' version of events.
Lightning should have been flashing, thunder should have been booming, and the lack of rain really didn’t do much for the atmosphere either. But instead, the sun hung bright in the sky, without clouds to lessen its harsh gaze.
“I can see you’re hurting, but we’ve both lost someone today. Just end it now before we lose more than our friends!” I backpedaled furiously, trying desperately not to be hit with three pounds of sharpened steel wielded by a man beyond reason. All I had was Headcracker, now chipped and scarred from the last ten minutes, probably beyond repair.
A particularly vicious swing sent me tumbling backwards, off balance, and I saw the flash of the sun’s light on a sword readied for the killing strike. I brought HeadCracker up, hands on both ends like a quarterstaff, as the sword came slashing down.
***
I had a killer headache. The sun was way too bright, and sleeping on a mixture of crushed leaves and tree roots probably hadn’t helped either. I got up, groaning, as the elves in my head went back to their hammering.
How do you even have a hangover? You had nothing at all to drink last night!
Not for lack of trying. Note to self: Acorn tea does not get you drunk. “Look, it’s just a thing with me all right? Ever since I hit puberty I got these killer headaches. How come you haven’t noticed by now? I feel like six years has been long enough.”
You know, I feel like I would’ve noticed too, except that I haven’t actually seen you go to sleep without either a conk on the head or enough beer to drown a walrus. Those tend to disguise headaches pretty well.
Which was true. To an extent anyway. But I figure if I’m going to have the headache anyway, might as well enjoy myself first, right? The little floating fluffball continued, literally talking through my headache.
You know those headaches could be a sign of some latent psychic ability. I could help you train-
“Look, I don’t want to become psychic. I have enough problems with people’s thoughts coming through you.”
But it would really help your chances of survival if-
“I said I didn’t want to. And can I remind you whose fault it is that we’re stuck on this goddamn island in the first place? Don’t think teaching me a few mind tricks will get you out of that!”
Look-
I just blocked out his messages and kept on talking. I’ve found that I can, if I concentrate hard enough. Must be the psychic in me.
“You know, this always happens. Every single time. You do what you want and I have to take the shit. We can’t all float away from our problems! Maybe you should just get away!”
It was a bad headache that morning. It doesn’t excuse what I said, but I was frustrated and angry and feeling helpless.
A voice spoke behind me. “Much as I hate to intrude in your personal situation, I’m wondering if maybe you’d like to, I don’t know, grab a sword or something and fight?”
I whirled, surprised first of all by the fact someone managed to get behind me. The Takan Wars tended to teach people to be alert, and all its failed students shortly found themselves with dagger-shaped holes in their backs. Secondly, though I didn’t really register it ‘til I had already started turning, the voice was higher in pitch and lower in height than it should’ve been.
It was a girl. I guess a woman, technically, but I don’t consider the female species grown up until they fill out a bit more. A slight build explained her silent creeping, though it still took skill, hung as she was with sword, shield, and other warlike implements.
My third surprise came a second later. Leaning against a tree was a couple hundred pounds of disapproving glare sheathed in what looked like scale mail and plate. How the hell…?
I took my hands away from my weapon, despite what the girl said, and raised them in the air. It was a calculated risk but…There we go. The girl lowered her sword, her face suspicious, but not overly so. Which was good. Maybe we could get out of this peacefully.
This is not to say that I am a coward necessarily. I fight when I have to. But first of all, even if I did reach for my weapon, it was pretty much a stick, however solid or handy, against steel, and I’d put my money on steel. And secondly, two of them, one of me.
And thirdly, I guess, she was a girl. I mean, I don’t want to say that females in general are less capable of taking care of themselves; I know plenty of women who do fine for themselves in the world. I watch one of them regularly hand men their asses in the training ring of the exercise school I keep on meaning to sign up for. And for general athleticism, well… let’s just say that it’s been a while since I’ve been in the army, and women these days just seem to keep on going longer than they used to.
But despite all of that, despite the fact that I’ve had my ass handed to me a couple times by girls I refused to fight, I still will not hit a girl if I can possibly help it. Call it the benefits of a classical education, or call it the last remnants of my time as a knight in rusty armor, but it just doesn’t seem right.
‘Bout some things, I’m just a big softy.
“You’re going to have to kill him, Alena.” The girl glanced back at the man leaning against the tree. “He’s going to die sometime, and you need to take down your first.”
So an inexperienced fighter? But her footwork was good, and I recognized her stance from back when. So someone with technical training, but little practical experience. Which explained her curious sense of honor. If I’d been her, I would’ve stabbed me in the back in a second.
Ignore the dubious morality of my previous thought. I may think like a hardened criminal, but it’s incredibly hard to get rid of the incurable romantic compulsions of my younger self. Though I may be a cynic by inclination, I will always be a romantic at heart.
As my distractedly musing mind went off in its fickle swingings between analysis of my opponents and of myself, my concentration on blocking out Fluffers finally eroded enough for him to break through.
What’re you doing? You need to attack now! She’s going to attack you in-
“Look, just butt out of this will you?” As I reaffirmed my mental wall, the girl’s hesitation ended. Perhaps it was the fact that I appeared to be talking to thin air. In the two seconds it took to charge from there to here, I managed to spin away and grab HeadKnocker. I had no time for anything else, though, before her attacks came.
A slash to my midriff sent chips flying from HeadKnocker, banged and chipped enough as it was. Inexperienced in real combat she might be, but this girl was well set on the theoretical side. She followed up immediately with a upward stab to the throat, sending me flailing backwards as I only just managed to knock her sword away, followed by a blow to the chest with her shield that would have sent me sprawling if I hadn’t scrambled furiously to keep my feet. We danced around trees, my constant retreating sending her rushing after me.
I was in a bad place. I couldn’t scramble backwards indefinitely, and only one of us could actually look where we were going. The odds of my tripping on a dead branch and getting gutted were growing every step.
As if to punctuate my thought, a patch of particularly slippery moss wormed its way under my foot, and I fell backwards. My concentration slipped, again, and I heard, screaming in my head, -ack her! You can’t keep up your idiotic ideas of chivalry and romance if you want to survive! Hi-
“Shut the hell up!” I blocked Fluffers off again. I just couldn’t handle his constant prattling and advice; it was his fault I was on this island, and if he thought advising me would settle the score, he was sadly mistaken.
The girl, Alena, held her final blow back for a moment, a little surprised at my repeated talking to invisible ghosts. I took the opportunity to violate pretty much the only principle I had left, however unfounded on actual morality it might have been. I hit a girl.
Or to be more accurate I tripped her. My foot lashed out, hooking behind her ankle and sending her sprawling to the forest floor. I scrambled to my feet before her, HeadKnocker whirling, fast enough to have some impact, but still precise. The blow whacked her sword right above the hilt, at the crossguard, a backhanded swing that sent the sword flying away.
“Look, I don’t want to have to do this. But I WILL if I have to.”
The girl’s hand drifted down to her waist, where her manokiri was sheathed. I tapped her gently on the wrist with HeadKnocker, hoping it’d be enough.
Apparently it was. Alena brought her hands out, empty. Then she looked behind me, shouted, “Gwydion!”
I’d completely forgotten about the guy! Whirling around, I brought HeadKnocker into some semblance of a defensive position, hoping against hope to block…. Nothing.
Too late, I heard that mental screech, like fingernails on a chalkboard, as Fluffers fought to penetrate my mental shield. I kept on whirling, hearing in my mind that horrible sound, which slowly faded into darkness. The sight that greeted my eyes was of a rag, hanging with straggly hair, hanging on the tip of that long black knife, the manokiri.
Cursing, the girl tried to flick away what remained of my only friend on this island, trying again to stab me. This time no floating fluffball would intercept the blow. But this time she had crossed a line.
While HeadKnocker may not do well against swords, but against knives it works well enough. It darted in, snapping the girls wrist, again sending her blade flying, although this time the hand it left would not be able to draw another. My foot caught her in the stomach, sending her reeling back.
My thoughts clouded by rage, I wound up for a true blow. Her eyes darted behind me, and relief appeared. With hardly a thought, I whirled away, restraining the blow, instead using the momentum of the windup to spin to the side.
This time the man with the sword was actually behind me. His momentum drove the sword through chainmail with a sickening squelch. And Alena fell, gasping, sliding off his rigidly held sword like a ragdoll, falling to the ground near what looked only like a fluffy rag.
***
The man’s sword came down on Headcracker, and it splintered, nearly breaking in two. Only nearly though. As the wood broke and splintered, the two pieces ending in shards that sagged towards my throat under the pressure, I leaped away. HeadCracker, no longer a single stave, was now two jagged pieces of wood only barely connected together. I broke the two apart, now holding two wooden stakes.
Even less use against a sword. We returned to our normal game of me running the hell away and him trying to spit me on the end of a sword. And like my chase with the girl, the chance of me falling down was getting higher by the second.
You know, I swear I jinx myself or something. Maybe some malevolent god takes pleasure in irony. I didn’t fall over this time. Instead my back hit a tree. Without anywhere to back up, I had to meet a thrust head on. Perhaps the gods took pity on me. Or maybe they were saving me so they wouldn’t lose their favorite toy. With one of the staves I managed to change it from a fatal thrust to a thin line of fire on the underside of my arm. I felt the solid thunk of the sword sinking into the tree. And with the other stave, I stabbed sharp splinters up into the bottom of his chin.
He opened his mouth to scream in pain, but no words came out, only an unintelligible moan of pain.
He fell backwards, and I drew my own manokiri.
For the first time, I really looked at the weapon I had been given at the start of this tournament. Long and thin, too thin to be very strong. A misericorde. A mercygiver. A weapon used to end pain.
I bent down, and planted it in his eye. The guttural moan ended.
I cleaned the weapon, resheathed it. I went over to the girl, checked her for life. Surprisingly she was. The weapon had gone in low; Gwydion, taller than I am, had stabbed downwards towards my heart, and the further difference in distance meant that the sword had gone into her gut. A killing blow, though slow. And painful, all the way.
I gave her the gift of mercy.
I buried them. Shallow graves, for hands do not work well as shovels. The three of them, in three graves barely big enough to hold their occupants. I kept one of the swords, buried the rest of their equipment with them. I never could handle armor.
The girl’s manokiri I left for last.
I sat down beside it, staring at the weapon that had ended the only other person I really knew. I hadn’t gone back to my hometown after the Takan Wars. It didn’t seem… right.
I stewed in my own thoughts for a while, headache pulsing and throbbing. And then, in a sudden frenzy of emotion, a mixture of anger and frustration, and… loneliness I guess. Perhaps some other things mixed into a cocktail of passion. I grabbed the weapon and hurled it deep into the forest.
Or I was about to. As I grabbed it, I heard a voice in my head that I didn’t think I would ever hear. Goddamnit Meryn, CAN YOU HEAR ME?
I stared at the manokiri.
And we have Gwydion and Alena's version of events:
Alena lopes through the long grass impatiently, searching for a clearing. Her breath is light, and her legs move easily with the grace of rest and food, but she stops, and leans against a tree. Her blue eyes gaze restlessly around, flickering back the way she came every few seconds, but it is not apparent, to the careless observer, what she is looking for until a minute or so later, when a faint whisper in the grass announces the arrival of a man, heavily armoured and carrying a large pack.
“What took you so long?” Alena’s voice is clear and demanding. Her eyebrows fall into a frown as she takes in the beads of sweat on Gwydion’s brow. “I thought you were here to protect me, not to drag me back.”
“I’m here to protect you, and only that – you know it! You should be carrying your own gear, and I shouldn’t have to remind you about not making noise, or covering your tracks!” His voice comes out in an angry whisper, but the look on his face is of exasperation rather than ire.
The young noblewoman’s eyes pause guiltily on the wide path she’s left behind her, but her voice comes out steady. “I want to get my first fight done before I’m tired. I’ll carry the bag after that, but I want to be ready, at least at first. Someone’s bound to follow that path eventually, and when they do...” She loosens her thin sword in its scabbard, and her fingertips brush the hunting crossbow on her left hip. “Anyway, I thought this would be a good place to get ready. I can’t see any clearings near, but this has no leaves on the ground – better footing – and the trees look good for climbing, if it comes to that. OK?” Her tone is authoritative and sure, but she watches carefully for a nod from Gwydion, the old woodsman, before she starts gathering sticks for a fire.
The fire is crackling merrily and it is almost dark before Alena, perched high up in a tree, hears a slight tread, coming from direction of the port and the town. She scrambles down and seizes her sword and buckler, left by the fire so not to hinder her while climbing.
“Who’s out there?” She calls, bouncing on the balls of her feet nervously. “A contestant? I’ll fight you!”
The grass rustles then, and a man strolls out from behind a tree, much closer to her than she expected. He wears a heavy greatcoat, worn in patches, and has his hands stuck in his pockets, but Alena can see the ornamental dagger on its belt, slung carelessly over his shoulder, that marks him out as a contestant. The handle of a weapon, either a stave or club or axe of some description – she can’t tell – stick out from his other shoulder, so he is prepared to fight. Her own dagger is slotted carefully into her belt, and she checks the handle, making sure she can reach it if all else fails.
She tightens the grip on her sword, calling out:
“Are you going to fight me or not? I’ve seen the dagger: you can’t hide it.”
The man runs a hand through his short brown hair before returning it to his pocket.
“Do we have to? I’m not really meant to be in this, you know. I don’t want to fight you.”
Alena does not answer but charges at him, sword aiming at his throat and buckler up to protect her own, but he moves with a quickness that belies his relaxed pose, and when his hands come out of his pockets they each hold a long-bladed fighting knife. She swears under her breath, then lunges again, following it by a sweep at his legs. He dodges, and they enter into an intricate dance of sword and knives. Her reach is too long and his guard too good for either of them to gain an advantage. One slice almost reaches her face though, and when she raises her buckler to block it the thud echoes loudly. A few birds scatter from a nearby tree and she makes the mistake of glancing at them, smiling a little.
At least Gwydion won’t think I’m such a pathetic fighter after this. Maybe he’ll go home!
But this split second distraction takes her attention away from the combat, and in the hasty jump to avoid her opponent’s knives she stumbles on a root, falling and winding herself.
In her gasps she remembers to bring her buckler up, tensing herself in preparation for the inevitable strike, but all she can think of is the shame – shame in being killed or crippled in her first fight, shame in her angry last words to her father, shame in what disappointment her teachers might feel – and she experiences real terror. But the blow she expected never came.
“I told you. I’m not really meant to be here. I’m certainly not going to kill a girl who just made a clumsy mistake.”
Rage overtakes the shame, and she doesn’t even register the stranger’s kindness. Clumsy? She will prove to him that she is not clumsy – that she has every right to be here, fighting here. She stumbles to her feet, gripping her sword tightly, and attacks with a renewed ferocity, though she has not had time to catch her breath. He is taken aback by her attack, and finally she scores blood. A cut along his right forearm, not enough to kill him but chipping the bone and rending that arm useless for a while. He turns white and drops his weapons.
“Shit! Why did you do that? I just spared your life!”
She smiled coldly.
“And I’m saving yours. I’m not going to kill you – you can go. But I want to win this, and I’m not going to leave someone who might stab me in the back later.”
There is a chuckle from the trees. Gwydion steps out from the shadows, holding a few rabbits in one hand.
“Well, milady, I didn’t expect that sort of thing from you. If you can keep on like that I might have very little to do in this whole thing.”
Alena turns, her cool demeanour gone.
“Gwydion! I... didn’t expect you back. You... you saw the whole thing, then?”
“Only the last bit.”
“Well, then, you’ll have seen that there’s no reason for you to stay really. I’m going to pack up the campsite – I want to move it. You take this man’s... Manokiri, it’s called? Take it. I want proof. Direct him back to the port then. No need for him to hang around, right?”
Gwydion Williams bent over the lifeless body of the man in the greatcoat, smiling slightly. No need for him to hang around... right? His mistress had not killed him because she had not killed before, but leaving him to live might be a fatal mistake. She wouldn’t check on him again, so Gwydion had done the job. He knew the true reason the Baron Portsgena had sent him – not to cart bags around but to do everything the Baron’s daughter couldn’t. Killing, deceiving... winning.
A sound made him look up. Cowering against a tree was a... a hairball? It was alive, but it didn’t look like anything he’d ever seen before. It had probably come with the dead contestant. He would kill it. He would kill it, but... it looked harmless. Why would he kill such a harmless creature? He should really get back to the Lady Alena.
He grabbed the ornate Manokiri and left, not giving any thought to the uncharacteristic thoughts that had so suddenly entered his head.
So who is left? Is Meryn the only one to survive, or is he the only one to die? Vote now!
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Thu Nov 05, 2009 6:11 pm Post subject: |
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We will be closing the poll in three days! And the Night Raven vs. Alys fight is due by then.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sat Nov 07, 2009 7:38 pm Post subject: |
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I apologize but the next fight will be a bit late. The writer of Alys is having some busy RL events. However, we hope that the fight will be up soon.
But Anyways, Meryn goes on to the next round! Gwydion and Alena both lie buried. And the bios of Lacrymose and Vestis have been sent to their opponents.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sun Nov 08, 2009 11:52 am Post subject: |
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And we have the fight! Only a day late.
Alys
Rays of light were scattered across the sky as the sun moved slowly across the sky. The forest below was silent, excepting the occasional bird song.
The tall, black-haired woman stepped silently through the dense forest, a feat that seemed practically impossible, considering how much metal she was wearing. Ropes of metal hung down from her belt, yet so skillfully she walked, not a single one made sound. An unnatural glittering came from the base of her neck, where a deep-red ruby embedded in a silver ankh hung. The ruby bent the sunlight oddly, sending the bloodied sparkles scattering in all directions.
Alys paused and leaned against a tree, lightly brushing her red-tipped bangs out of her eyes, hand reaching down to finger the hammer at her belt. She had been walking for hours, trying to find her first opponent before they found her. She cautiously pulled her bangs out from in front of her left eye and looked around. Through this eye, her vision was rather black and white, with the hint of color every now and then. The lack of bright colors signified the lack of enchantments, and she let her bangs drop back in place with a sigh, sitting down at the base of the tree.
Her opponent was nowhere to be found, and it was getting late. She pulled one of the daggers out of her belt and idly began playing with it, contemplating whether or not to set up camp while watching the blade reflect the light with a single-minded intensity.
A small crack jerked Alys out of her reverie. Her head snapped up and she froze, her one uncovered eye flicking back and forth, trying to discern what was beyond the dense circle of trees. Another small snapping sound had Alys on her feet, dagger ready in her hand. A small movement in the corner of her eye- and Alys threw herself to the ground. A millisecond later, a dart had imbedded itself into the tree truck, right where her head had been.
Facedown in the mat of fallen leaves that covered the forest floor, she felt the ankh hanging from her neck heat up suddenly, sending a burst of extreme through her body. Before she even knew what was happening, Alys was up and had thrown the dagger in her hand towards the area where the dart had come from. A yelp of pain confirmed her accuracy. She drew the blacksmithing hammer out of her belt and stepped towards the sound, senses at an all-time high.
A man was laying on the mossy floor, Alys’ dagger imbedded in his leg. He looked up at her, grimacing, as she approached.
“Nice arm you’ve got there,” he said, reaching down to the handle protruding out from his thigh. She said nothing, instead examining him thoroughly with a quick cursory glance.
Thin and short, the man really didn’t look all that dangerous at first glance. But his toned muscles and shifty eyes told Alys to be wary- this one was a trickster. Best to be on her guard.
“I don’t suppose you could… give me a hand?” the man said, giving Alys a look that was obviously meant to be seductive.
She raised an eyebrow, but remained where she was.
After a few seconds, the man shook his head and chuckled dryly. “Funny, that one usually works with the females.”
A twitch of the corner of her mouth was the only sign the man had to tell him she could understand him.
He sighed, then yanked the dagger out of his leg with a grunt. “Surprised you haven’t killed me yet.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” were Alys’ only words to him.
He looked up surprised, only to watch as the strange woman in front of him pushed her bangs out of her face, revealing an eye of complete silver. Time slowed down for a brief moment as they made eye contact-
And she was in his mind. It was a dark slippery thing, full of shadows and dead ends, but still it vibrated with the life of emotion that nearly overwhelmed Alys at first. She wormed along dark corridors, slipped beneath false coverings of other nonexistent personas, pierced his defenses to find his inner self
only to resume its normal course as she let her bangs fall back down in front of her face, recovering that cursed eye.
Slightly disconcerted, the man tilted his head, looking at her strangely. “True, true.” He said, seemingly to himself, and began to pull himself up off the floor. “If it’s fun you want, then I’ll give you fun!” On his last word, his hand flicked so suddenly that Alys barely had time to dodge her own dagger as it flew back towards her, impaling the tree behind her. Tensed, she stood back up, hammer ready to strike- only to find the spot where the man had stood empty.
Cursing herself for letting her guard down, she gripped her hammer even tighter and strode forwards. Considering the fact that her opponent was now wounded, he shouldn’t be too hard to follow…
As she ran forwards, following the trail of blood spots, she reviewed what she had just learned about this man from her mind probe. His name was Night Raven, and he was a true trickster. His mind was fascinating, full of disguises, thievery and traps. He was going to be rather difficult to beat, she thought as she dodged through trees, ducking large branches and jumping over roots.
Alys’ run was suddenly halted as she smacked into something. Confused, she tried to step back- only to find her legs immovable. She tried to bend down- but her arms weren’t moving either. She was stuck, hanging a few inches from the floor in a sort of spread eagle. A stray ray of light peeked down through the trees, revealing what had caught her. A net, woven so thinly that it was practically invisible, had been stretched tightly across two trees- and she had run straight into it, tangling herself up so badly that she could barely move.
A scream of frustration erupted from her mouth, echoing through the forest and shocking all the birds into silence. She was stuck, trapped by a few mere woven strands, and nothing could get her out of here- neither her metal skills nor her daggers- she couldn't even reach her belt.
A chuckle resounded next to her ear and she whipped her head around, a snarl scrawled across her face.
“I honestly can’t believe you fell for that,” Night Raven said, stepping out from behind a tree and stepping slowly towards her. “Oldest trick in the book, that is.”
Alys glared at him furiously, but stayed silent.
He chuckled again, and with another twitch of his hand pulled his manokori out of what seemed to be thin air. “Honestly though, that’s just pathetic. I expected so much more of you.” He grinned and stopped right in front of her. “But that’s just part of the game, isn’t it?”
A small bit of heat began emanating from her choker, growing stronger and stronger by the moment, sending an insane burst of energy through her veins. Ignorant to the sudden change in Alys’ strength, Night Raven pointed his manokori at her chest.
“And it looks like I’ve just won.” He whispered.
Alys’ arm broke free of the net with an insane burst of strength and swung forward, hammer connecting with Night Raven’s ribcage with a sickening crunch.
Eyes open with shock, he swayed and collapsed, desperately trying to pull air into his crushed ribcage and punctured lung.
Lip curled in disgust, Alys managed to grab a dagger in her belt with her newly freed arm and cut her way out of the tangled threads, until she stood next to the wheezing body of Night Raven. She sheathed the dagger and drew her own manokori, watching the blade glint coldly in the last rays of the afternoon sun. Then suddenly- it stabbed downwards towards the man’s heart.
A shudder, and then stillness.
Alys remained in that position for a while, crouched slightly with her manokori in the man’s heart. At a certain point, she rose and pulled the blade out of the lifeless body of the trickster. It was replaced in its sheath, the hammer slid through the loop in her belt.
She sighed heavily, then glanced upwards. There, through a gap in the trees, the first stars were appearing out of the sunset. Watching them, she gave a small smile, and resumed walking through the trees without a second glance.
Filchus Emry's Version
A cry rang out through the forest, piercing the silence of the night. The full moon, undisturbed, continued beaming its rays of light through the trees, casting long shadows across the forest floor.
Nearby, a predator perked up her ears, the moon casting a blood stained hue to the vermillion streaks in her flowing raven hair. A gleaming silver dagger flipped between her fingers, rolling stealthily across her knuckles from years of practice.
She straightened her blouse and rose from a crouch to peer around the shrub she’d been hiding behind.
But the veil of night played tricks on her eyes; motion seemed all around her. A log appeared to be a warrior in hiding. Men with knives seemed to take cover in the branches of trees overhead until a soft breeze reveled little more than pine needles. Something scurried in the underbrush, but when the diminutive creature met the gaze of her silver eye, she knew it to be a mere squirrel.
But the voice that had cried out had definitely been that of a man. And it was nearby. It certainly had not been the sounds of clashing steel she had heard ringing through the forest earlier that eve, apparently at quite a distance off. So this had to be someone else apart from those combatants-someone new. But why had he cried out? It sounded like… there it was again!
It was a cry of pain! What luck, she considered as she wiped a sweaty palm across her leather breeches. Perhaps she could take down one of these contestants with nary a fight if he were to be found injured. Poor fool likely found his leg in a bear trap, or twisted his ankle in a gopher hole. There, he cried out again. Follow his screams.
Alys held her blacksmith’s hammer against her leg, slung from her belt by a leather strap, to keep it from making a noise as she slunk through the forest, carefully selecting her footing so as to pad from mossy patch to soft loam, her passage noiseless and swift.
From beyond a turn in the bend around a rocky outcropping ahead, the man’s moaning echoed. Placing her back against the stone, she peeked around the corner, careful not to reveal herself too greatly in the process.
There was a dip in the forest floor here, a murky pond had formed in its basin. Just beyond the pond, a man groaned as he weakly shoved at what appeared to have been a tree, fallen across his legs.
Strange, Alys considered, I don’t recall any winds strong enough to blow a tree over, nor any loud sounds indicating such might have occurred. She had been stalking her sector all evening and this had not been far enough away to have avoided sparking her interest earlier. Someone, she reasoned, was trying to play a trick on her.
Though she could not see the majority of the man, his legs poking out from under the fallen tree, bloody and bent, his torso lost in the shadows behind, she could tell he was an armored sort. She’d recently seen such chain and plate leggings on the guards in town.
Perhaps it was just one of those neutral event coordinators, she mused, but then caught the glint of a Manokiri, strewn to the ground just a yard from the hapless man’s feet. A contestant! She grinned like a wolf as she carefully stalked her way around the pond, staying to the shadows and keeping a vigilant eye pinned to the man, searching for any further definition to his torso.
“Help!” the man called out. “I can hear you moving around.” He could?!? “I’m one of Montoral’s men. There… I see you in the moonlight. You’re one of the contestants we sponsored, no?”
Damn but she couldn’t see his face! It was still masked in shadow. She crouched lower, still stunned she’d been detected at all. She made no reply but to ready a dagger in her left hand as well.
“Aarrgh,” the man moaned as he shifted in an attempt to face her, “I am not a contestant myself. Help me, and I shall give you that Manokiri I took off the wizard who fell this tree on me with his dying breath.”
“I cannot trust the likes of you, sir, for I cannot see you,” she hissed. “But I’ll gladly take your Manokiri all the same.” The man gasped as if surprised she’d spotted it beneath him.
As she slunk towards the blade, her mind raced. Something wasn’t right about this… but what? Pausing in the bushes that formed a hedge around the pond, a spark went off in her mind. “How did the blade end up beneath you if the wizard still held it when he fell this tree upon you?” she asked.
“I stabbed him through the heart,” the shadowy figure explained, “forcing him to drop the blade as he tumbled into the pond. He murmured his sorcery and went on to his watery grave. His body lies at the bottom of the murk. Urgh,” he grunted, “Please help this log off me so that I may request of Montoral to offer you greater assistance than merely turning a blind eye to you!”
Fat chance of that, Alys considered. Taking a few cautious steps into the moonlight like a cat pawing at uncertain ground, she crept forward to grab the blade…
Suddenly the log came rolling down the dip at her, pulverizing the legs trapped beneath as it rolled!
With battle trained reflexes, Alys leapt the log, landing gracefully as it sent the blade twirling off into the underbrush, the fallen tree hitting the pond with a splash and a gurgle.
But before she could react, a man was on her, blades flashing! Apparently, the legs had been those of a dispatched guard, nothing more than a ruse, the log having cleverly concealed a fully healthy man in black leather armor.
She brought her daggers up to bear against his, their dance a whirl of glinting blades in the moonlight, sparking off each other as each blow was deftly deflected by the other. Amidst their lethal ballet, Alys found herself determined to know the nature of this man, and angled herself such that his face would be revealed beneath the light of the moon.
His black hair brushed to the side as she feinted to throw off his balance, revealing his face. She gasped as he smiled, knowingly casting his gaze deeply into hers. In the flash of a moment, his soul revealed itself to her through her mind-probing silver eye.
~
I had seen her on the ferry passage that took us to this island. Alys. The bounty hunter. Oh I knew her well enough. Perhaps as well as I had ever known any woman.
Years ago, after I made off with the Bracelet of Lords, she had been sent to bring me in, living or dead. Once I had noticed her trailing me, I began to study her, research her. Some friends in the area told me some of the rumors that surrounded her.
A mad blacksmith? She’d burned her village to the ground just to forge that ruby necklace she wears? According to the tale, she since had wandered the land, finding her way into the bounty hunter profession to fund further efforts to forge whatever her whims directed her to design, such as the exquisitely crafted daggers she carried to battle.
But she was not just a bounty hunter. No, far more than that to mine eyes. For never had I seen such beauty in a woman. She was tall, graceful, slender. Her fair skin evoked such lust that could nary be denied. And her hair, her cascading black hair, streaked with crimson, screamed of erotic counterculture defiance. Not only did I have to deny her the prize she sought to bring in for a mere profit, myself of course, I had to have her.
After many plots, and many schemes, and not a few clashes, the mysterious Alys was mine. For months, it was her heart I had stolen, her bed I had robbed. Our nights of passion seemed as if they would never end. I had found a lonely soul in her breast, and filled it with my own longing for companionship. No woman before, nor none after, would ever be what she had been to me. All the rest were stepping stones, but she had been an island.
Oh yes, I knew Alys, and she knew me.
But my wanderlust could not be quenched. As I felt my life becoming the lives of the normals around us, falling deeper and deeper into the indulgent pit of the bonds of relationship, I knew I could not trust her to remain my companion forever. She would have days at a time when her psychosis would erupt, leading her into a meditative trance from which her only escape would be for us to find a forge and for her to hammer out her demons. I found myself living for more than simply me, and it was simply more than I could bear.
I left her thinking I had died at the hands of the bounty hunter they sent for me in her stead. Of course, the poor decoy hadn’t been me, but I’d always hoped she’d have been convinced. Over-reliant she was on reading the thoughts of those around her but a corpse could not divulge such detail. She was a good tracker though. If she’d thought me alive, she’d have found me.
So when I noticed her on the ferry, myself disguised as a guard, knowing she was here to compete, I knew what had to be done. And I had to be careful not to let her look into my eyes until the time was right.
~
“Alys!” the Night Raven, Filchus Emry, cried, breaking her moment of connection to his gaze. She came back to the present finding her wrists firmly in his grasp, her blades fallen numbly from her grip.
“YOU!” She gasped, “You were… dead!”
“I know, my love, I know,” Filchus bent in to embrace her in a kiss, a kiss that while summoning deep pain from both of their hearts and souls, reopening ancient wounds buried within, was as readily like a glass of fresh water on a parched throat, one that had never expected water to ever be available again.
Their passion rose to a crescendo, neither sparing a moment for thought as their hearts pulled towards each other like magnets to iron fillings. Before either could come to their senses, their clothes and armor had been torn clear and bare skin pressed against bare skin.
As their passion reached its crescendo, screams of pain and battle were not the all that could be heard echoing through the trees under the moonlit night.
In the calm of the thereafter, they lied there in each other’s arms, panting, perspiration rolling down their skin in the cool air.
Suddenly, Alys jumped to her feet, scrambling for a dagger discarded nearby. In a flash, she held the blade to Filchus’s throat. “You BASTARD!” she hissed.
“Look,” he began, only to be cutoff.
“You LEFT ME! All I’ve had for company has been the voices in my HEAD! I HATE YOU Filchus Emry!”
Holding up a hand, the rogue backed away from beneath her knife. “I know. I’m sorry, my love.”
“WHY!?! Why did you leave me?”
Coming to his feet, his back against a tree, his physique glinting in the moonlight, Filchus replied, “I… I couldn’t do it Alys. I couldn’t settle down and fade from the history of the world. And you couldn’t either. I could tell it was getting to you too. Our love was erasing us from the world, leaving us with each other, yes… but nothing more.”
“You snake!” she snarled as she slashed out, scoring a thin red line across his chest. Seeing him stand there taking the strike with little more than pleading eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks, realizing her own face had become moist with more than passion, she dropped the dagger from her quivering fingers.
“I… I can’t do it…” she stammered. “I can’t kill you Filchus. It would be like tearing my own heart out!”
“I know. I could no sooner bring harm to you, my love.”
“Then what do we do now?” Her voice quivered in anguish, knowing one of them would perish before this competition was decided.
A wry, foxy smile crossed the Night Raven’s lips. “I have a plan,” he said simply.
~
“Where should we proceed to now, my love?” A surprisingly masculine voice spoke from the guise of a raven haired beauty. Inks and dies stained the pond at the water’s edge, free fallen, unrecovered strands of hair floated across its surface, its red tips dipping beneath the ripples.
“The hills I’d say. We can use the rocks and boulders there to conceal our moves,” spoke an unusually feminine voice from behind the helm and armor of a town guard.
As the Night Raven, garbed in Alys’s clothes, stood to full height, the female in metallic garb tsked. “Its amazing you can contort yourself to appear so… feminine,” she said.
“Your corset helps,” he explained, “but it does constrict the airflow a bit.”
“I just hope nobody notices your eyes don’t match the original.”
“Never fear, my love,” Filchus assured, “By the end of this tournament, I shall have my blade, you shall have the throne, and we shall forevermore have each other’s hearts.”
“We shall see, Filchus. It is that last promise that I shall hold you to above all else.”
“But of course, my dear.”
Holding hands for a moment, moving in to embrace in a soulful kiss, the two then put on their game faces and strode off into the night.
O.o Erm... ok. So what happens? Does Alys kill the Night Raven? Or do the two go off together?
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jhonscrypt
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| Posted: Mon Nov 09, 2009 8:28 pm Post subject: |
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hmmmmm this one is interesting.... i don't know who to vote for.
alys didn't really get me with no backstory to get an ankh of power and mindreading. good descriptions, but come on, at least throw us a bone as to how the hell that happened.
Night raven.. really? thats just cruel.
Creative! REALLY creative, but cruel. I mean, STEALING another persons character?
i disapprove.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Mon Nov 09, 2009 8:31 pm Post subject: |
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If Night Raven wins, his author is proposing a collaboration with Alys's author. So it would not be stealing, as such.
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Bookwizard
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| Posted: Tue Nov 10, 2009 7:08 am Post subject: |
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Bravo DMW, I have only found time to read the last few chapters... but all the same very good SG, something I will hopefully be keeping up with in the future!
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| Posted: Tue Nov 10, 2009 3:58 pm Post subject: |
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Bugger i have missed this whole thing.... oh well i'll have to keep this in the back of my mind as a refrence Good stuff by the way
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Phantomfan
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| Posted: Tue Nov 10, 2009 7:47 pm Post subject: |
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Both of these were very well written. There were a few problems with both, i thought- as Jhony boy said, Alys' has no backstory, which is a bit of a pain. The second one, as creative as it was, just seemed kinda cruel though...
Both stories had radically different takes on Alys. The first was rather emotionless and kind of... "Ice-queen"-y, whereas the second one was VERY emotional, and almost comical in the emotion. The Alys in the second seemed a bit shallow...
Personally, I'd like to follow the First version of Alys a bit more. That one seems a lot more fascinating, with a lot more character depth.
Plus that one actually had a death in it. (Not that teaming up is bad! Just that I'd rather see a fight scene rather then a sloppy love scene)
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BlackAmaranth
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| Posted: Wed Nov 11, 2009 1:01 pm Post subject: |
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Oh wowwww...seems it's neck and neck.
...please, someone break the tie 
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| Posted: Wed Nov 11, 2009 3:17 pm Post subject: |
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Uh oh we have tie... looks like this fight is going extra rounds
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Wed Nov 11, 2009 4:17 pm Post subject: |
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Actually, I'm thinking that if the tie isn't broken by the end of the round (so three or four more days) I'll just break it myself. Just to keep things as much on schedule as possible.
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Kalanna Rai
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| Posted: Wed Nov 11, 2009 8:09 pm Post subject: |
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Tie broken.
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| Posted: Sat Nov 14, 2009 7:30 pm Post subject: |
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So I've closed the poll, but will not be posting the next fight because I have as of yet not received both fights. So Send it in. You know who you are.
*cough*YOU*cough*
Anyways, Alys and Meryn are the two victors so far. And Fairuza and the Ebon Acolyte have been without a fight so far.
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| Posted: Mon Nov 16, 2009 10:19 am Post subject: |
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And we have our fights!
Vestis
“Tell me, beast, what are you?” Vestis stood ankle deep in the tide pool formed of dark volcanic rock and filled with holes. Besides a few barnacles, the pools were undisturbed, lifeless.
Rations aside, Vestis carried his ten best swords, and his old armor. The armor was made of iron plates secured by leather, battered and bloodstained through the ages by countless monsters. Leather harnesses for all his swords, six at his sides, and four on top, overlapped the plates. His helm did little to hide the massive demonic scarring on his skin. He was driven to this bold confrontation by three things: The desire to win a soul, his first quarry in ten years, and the whiskey in his throat.
“Lacrymos.” Thirty paces away from Vestis stood a monster of nearly nine feet, with the legs of a horse and the torso of a man, covered in fur of a varying blue. The head of a goat and wings broken and punctured like a beggar’s cloak made him a true aberration of nature. The animal was scarred all across his body, just as Vestis was. He looked abused, but most certainly not broken, he instead was strengthened by the scars, and they were the source of his ambition. Fastened around him was a suit of strange suit of armor, or better said armors. Plates from all around the world, of many cultures and sizes, few of which Vestis recognized, were strapped haphazardly on to the beast. Quite a few powerful men must have fallen to this thing. “Who are you, eh?”
“Vestis, the beast slayer.” A corner of his mind wondered if he was still worth of the title. In 10 years of looking for a way to bring back his soul, he had never fought any beasts. Perhaps he no longer had it in him.
“Vestis, eh!?” The beast laughed an insulted chuckle. “Don’t insult me with the guise of a dead man.” He drew a pole arm well the height of two men. It didn’t look that well crafted, just a sturdy wooden rod with a bladed head, though it looked heavy.
“Dead?” Vestis said, immediately thinking of his near soullessness.
“Ten years dead. Perhaps a dragon finally gave him what he deserved. Nothing gives a man the right to kill the strong simply because he so desires. Innocence, despite what he thought is not limited to your kind, you human. What right had he to slay beasts eh?”
“Ambition.” There was a chuckle in the recesses of his mind as Vestis drank from his whiskey canteen. “Is that what became of me and my legend? That I was finally bested?” he put his canteen back. “Not entirely wrong.” Vestis thought, remembering the demon that stole his love, Lenore. “I assure you I am Vestis. In the flesh, swords and all.” He checked that he had them all, heir familiar weight in his back, the only oddity being the unusual dagger, the manokiri.
“Hmmm. Ghost? Reanimation eh? It matters not. You’ll be a dead man soon if you’re not one already.”
“I asked ‘what are you?’ A satyr? Some kind of chimera? A malformed gryphon?”
“This one is unique, and will not become your slave or blood-sport because of it. This one is the master of his own life, as free and mighty as the tides-Lacrymos!” small ebbs formed in the pools, going back and forth from him as he spoke. Vestis noted with a bit of trepidation that his yells weren’t loud enough to do that.
“Is that so? I’ve never killed one of you then. You see, I once was a collector of sorts. Looking at your armor, it appears you are one yourself.”
The plates the animal wore were in countless styles and materials, of varying quality. “This one uses those who try to shackle him by taking what he can. He will be king so he will be free from those shacklers.”
“A worthy cause.” Vestis pointed at his breastplate. “Take it from me. Perhaps you are worthy enough to wear it.” He picked up his bottle of whiskey and drank deep. “How choice for us to fight? Scarred collectors that look downright unnatural. Beast versus slayer. We are so similar standing at opposite ends.”
The behemoth growled. “I am not like you! Slayer of innocents!”
“You will either make me a dead man, or you will make a fine pelt. To the victor a larger collection and to the loser an honorable death.”
Lacrymos spoke contemptuously at such a lie. “Honor in such a man as Vestis! Bah!”
“Enough talk. Come at me!” Vestis unstrapped his top harness, the four blades on his back and his pack, tossing them on a nearby rock. He drew a short sword made of a shimmering unmarred black alloy. In this scene of scarred and marred surfaces, only the sword and the talons of the beast, long, black, counterpoints to his own sword, were unscathed. Everything else, both of their bloodstained armor plates, the sea’s porous rocks, and of course their equally marred skins were all unclean to the black shines of the sharp tools.
They ran at each other filled with ambition, honor, and disgust. Water splashed up as Vestis’ feet came down, his boots smashing hard against the crags, but the beast walked through without a ripple. Vestis was a large man but this beast was huge, and it was strange that the animal’s hooves would not disturb the water at all. It wasn’t easy for Vestis to run in such conditions, yet the beast did so effortlessly.
Lacrymos thrust the head of his weapon towards Vestis’s neck. The slayer swung his black sword, Forge, seeking to knock the other weapon off its path.
The strength of the beast was much greater than Vestis had expected. Forge had only just slightly altered the pole arm’s movement, it moved from his neck to the edge of his helm, knocking it right off, though it was strapped. The force of the pole had made Vestis to take a knee, and now his ugly, bald, ragged face, was open to the attack. His mind raced. With a flick of the beast’s wrist, he would be decapitated.
With his other hand, Vestis quickly drew a katana of a dark blue hue from his side, one named Scox. A cold mist following its presence and odd crackles that glowed just under its surface, the blade was otherworldly. It was a blade of ice, freezing the things around it. He braced the sword against the pole, preventing it from moving. Confused, Lacrymos wondered at Scox for a moment, then, before he could react, Vestis whirled Forge around, bringing it down beside Scox, causing the now-frozen pole to shatter. Icy splinters stung Vestis’s unfeeling face as they hit him. The shards hissed when they landed in the water.
The beast slayer regained his footing in a fighting stance. Vestis looked the annoyed Lacrymos in the eyes, who said “What honor is there in breaking my weapon eh? It seems hypocritical for a man of so many blades.” Angered, he readied his talons, black and powerful, and charged.
Talons they might be, and long ones at that, but Vestis’s swords were longer. Scox snapped through the air, a bitter wind trailing icy tendrils. Lacrymos ignored it, bring an armored arm up to block it, and simply smashed into Vestis, all his weight and momentum behind the blow.
Vestis flew back and landed on a rock. Surely that would’ve hurt if he had enough soul to feel pain. When his mind recovered from the horn’s slam, he looked down at his hands, and saw both Scox and Forge had fallen away in the landing. “Damn.” he thought. He looked up to see the beast charging at him, claws up this time. By instinct he grabbed his rapier, one of the finest crafted swords he owned, and one of his firsts. Then he commanded his wounded legs to move. He threw himself past the beast. Lacrymos crushed the rock, leaving massive crevices in the unfortunate sea rock where Vestis just was.
Vestis dashed up behind the beast, his hand moving fast and instinctively, cutting the strange ragged wings in the back. The beast let out a loud noise, some fell mixture of pain and rage, and the water around his feet erupted, knocking Vestis down again.
For a moment Vestis’s head submerged. “I’m out of practice.” he thought to the watery sound of his own heartbeat, thumping in his ear. His grip on his rapier tightened with anger. At least he hadn’t dropped it to.
He came up out of the water, Lacrymos before him. Water dripped over the wings strangely, moving into the cuts, seeming to reknit the flesh. It made sense now to Vestis , this strange animal had some sort of link to water. And he was ankle deep in the opponent’s advantage.
“You can fight water with fire, and you can’t heal away poison.” Vestis thought, seeing the way the water simply regrew the flesh, and he kinds of branding scars the beast had. “The water doesn’t purge the blood, and cauterization might also negate this.” He withdrew the rapier, and drew a katana and a falchion. The katana, named Phox, was Scox’s fraternal twin, made of what looked like magma, with glowing red cracks through a dark red material. Imbued within it was an eternal fire, tah out off heat whenever it was unsheathed. The falchion was the only weapon Vestis owned made of a beast. Made from the claw of the great jabberwock, It still had the poisonous effect, fast-setting paralysis.
Lacrymos paid no attention to this in his rage and sent a wall of water in Vestis's direction. He cut through it with Phox, evaporating the attack. But, Just behind the wave the beast was already stampeding towards him.
His claws came down on Vestis, because he did not try to dodge at all, allowing his blades to hit instead. The talons slammed together at his torso. Although he couldn’t feel the pain he should have, the claws broke a rib and caused massive bleeding. Vestis’s swords cut Lycramos’s arms though. Finally Vestis had the chance to do this, not being thrown back. The arm cut by the claw-sword fell limp, while Lacrymos drew the other up, screaming in pain, as it was seared by Phox. Noting the sudden hatred and fear in the satyr’s eyes, Vestis put the jabberwocky sword away. “Fire it is then.”
Vestis grabbed Phox with both hands, remembering the strength of his opponent. Vestis ran towards him with the intent to kill, now that he had lost one arm to use in defense. Lycramos seethed with rage and ran at him with his remaining claw.
Ignoring the claw attack again, Vestis rammed Phox into Lacrymos using the full force of both their charges to lodge it just below Lacrymos’s Breastplate. The fiery blade went straight into the flesh of the beast, burning his insides, straight into the heart.
The animal’s mighty innards burned for a moment, the sound of sizzling flesh hitting the beast slayer’s ears. Vestis stepped aside and removed his blade, causing the massive body to fall over, no longer supported. Vestis watched the dead body until he was sure the vigor once contained in it was gone. Vestis kicked him over, to see his face. Lacrymos’s dying expression was of petrified anger. His seething would be eternal.
The victor felt his sides where the claws he struck him. Vestis was wounded, lots of bleeding and a broken rib. He checked his back and head next. He had taken a significant amount of damage. As he removed his bandages from his pack, he wondered if his was really ready to die for this. With a swig of the whiskey he pushed the thought away. He hadn’t truly lived in ten years, and to be able to live was worth dying. He was sure of that more than anything, remembering how he once loved Lenore.
He decided not to take Lacrymos’s pelt, though he had promised to do it. Vestis undressed and carried the corpse out to the deeper water. “As free and as mighty as the tides.” He repeated to himself solemnly, respect in his eyes as he watched the honorable enemy drift away.
Lacrymos
The last of the sunlight gleamed from the dagger on the rocks. The lonely sound of the surf and gulls nearly drowning out the sound of the approaching footsteps. The rhythm of their muted falls unsteady. One blue ear flicked. Eyes contemplated the waves until the breeze brought him the stench of the other. The drunken man. The man with the swords. The man with a face scarred as his own blue visage.
Slowly he turned his back on the waves. Hooves thumped solidly on the rocks as he descended the rocky arm of the cove to the beach. The soul-stealing knife was left on the rocks. He wanted no part of that. No part of that ultimate slavery. Weapon was removed from the loops that held it against his back. Ruined wings shifted as the weight pressing against them was released.
The feathers covering his hooves blurred his tracks in the sand. His tail twitched in agitation as he observed the drunken warrior. Nostrils wrinkled at the smell that wafted off of the other. Head was shaken as the final judgment of the fighter was observed. "You hunt monsters eh? You must be very good, this one supposes, otherwise you would not be being so foolish."
The man came to a wobbling halt in the sands. Hooded head rose as scarred lips spat slurred words. "Foolish? A good swordsman knows how to pick his opponents. I am familiar with the dispatching of the monsters that plague this world. Besides, you're big as a barn. Much easier to hit than some of those nimble little fellows."
A blue ear was flicked in assent. He was much easier to hit than a smaller human. But he still thought the man a fool. If the man had been smart he would have discarded some of the swords he carried. He would have sobered up. He would have waited to face Lacrymos where the footing was not so bad. Lacrymos had been fighting on sand most of his life. But he was not the one come seeking this battle. "This one would ask a boon. If this one should fall in battle, end my life. Give me an honorable death eh? Not an eternity of servitude."
The man didn't answer. Instead he merely reached behind him and loosened several leather buckles. One massive blade fell with a thud to impale itself in the sands. Another was clenched in his hand. A strange squared sword decorated with carvings such as Lacrymos had never seen before. Hooves dug into the sands as stance was shifted. Hands slid along the shaft of his weapon to find the perfect grip.
And then they clashed. A powerful swing from the hooded man aimed at knocking down the heavy head of the halberd. Lacrymos spun his weapon easily to catch blade on blade. Then he stepped forward and continued his motion by bringing the weighted butt of the shaft around and aiming for the hooded man's shoulder. But the hooded man was no fool as his strange sword rose to bat away the attempt.
Lacrymos went on the offensive as he looped the halberd back around yet again and aimed the hooking bill at the gap between pauldron and gorget. He scored a hit as he punched into the battered metal shoulder covering and yanked back with all his force. The hooded man staggered as his drunken state compromised his balance and his strange sword flailed to knock the shaft. Dislodging the hook of the halberd before it could rip the pauldron fully off.
Dropping the strange sword he reached behind his back again with both hands this time. Advancing swiftly while Lacrymos was still recovering. This time in one hand was gripped a small dagger with a slight curve. The other wielding a large flat blade with two prongs.
Lacrymos bared his yellowed teeth. He hated mismatched blades. Large blades were easily blocked but small ones were so much harder to stop before they stung him. A strange whistle issued between his teeth and a flash of light only the hooded man could see burst before him. A simple dazzle that allowed Lacrymos a moment to charge forward, smashing the smaller knife out of his hands. A bellow issued from both of them. The hooded man over his hand. Lacrymos over the line of fire that opened along his ribs, one of the prongs of the scimitar opening a weak seam on his leathers and cutting into his flesh.
With a vicious motion he brought the head of the halberd down in a double-handed swing. A high elliptical that feinted at the torso but whose real goal was the legs. The swordsman negated this effectively by stumbling backwards and losing his balance in the sands, the scimitar spinning from his grasp.
Grip was shifted. Halberd was swung downward with screaming force. And the sound of blade meeting blade was heard as the hooded man interposed a short black blade between his chest and the onrushing edge of the halberd. The reverberation from the thwarted blow echoed up the shaft. Stinging Lacrymos hands into numbness and forcing him to step back or lose his weapon.
He never got a chance to recover the momentum as suddenly heat assailed him. Heat. Hot. Like the flaming brands that had been thrust toward him. The chill that accompanied it no comfort at all. Instead it was merely the lesser of two evils, two enchanted blades that shimmered in the twilight. Ears flattened and halberd was raised to ward them away as he stepped backwards. The hooded man laughed. "Got you now beastie."
He charged across the sands and Lacrymos retreated before him. The halberd danced and spun in his massive hands as he was forced to block both of the vicious weapons with its length. The head would clash against the blade of lava. The butt against the edge of ice. Then it would reverse. Only the nearness of the ocean in all its vast majesty gave him the strength to face the fire. The heat searing at him. Battering at him.
At first only the most daring of waves lapped at the fringes of hair that surrounded his hooves. But as he backed the water rose. Climbing. Until finally the hooded man stopped in wary confusion. Lacrymos stood to his waist in the water. Butt of the halberd was planted in the sands and he rested on it, panting. But his would come no further. "Will you not come and get this one? Are you tired eh?"
Slowly the icy blade was sheathed and replaced by a long razor of what appeared to be bone. When the hooded man charged again, Lacrymos was shocked. The blade moved so fast. He stumbled backwards away from the heat and watched his life flash before his eyes as the pale blade clove a lock of hair from his head.
He let himself fall. Let the water embrace him. And he begged it for its aid. It was he who had been foolish. He'd let himself be lulled by familiar footing. By the man's drunkenness. He'd forgotten the first rule of survival. Never underestimate your foe.
The sea slowly responded. Sluggish and grumbling.
When Lacrymos rose again the pale blade was waiting. It knocked aside the halberd and cut a line of agony along his thigh. He gasped and lashed out with a fist to catch the pale man under his jaw. Screaming as the sword of fire scorched his forearm. Bone crunched under his knuckles and blood spattered his blue skin. Already it was growing hard to move. Poison catching his muscles and locking them. Dropping him to his knees.
The hood fell to reveal the ruins of the man's face. A snarl on pulped features as he picked up his blades for the killing blow that would never come. Instead his eyes grew wide and traveled upwards. Around them the water drained away to leave them on bare sands. Had Lacrymos been able to smile he would have. And when the great wave of the sea crashed down he would have laughed.
Instead he could only watch as they were sucked out to sea. Watch the grasping hands of the undertow drag the hooded man down and away. Watch as the man struggled and fought. Watched him go limp.
By the time the sea cast him back on the sands Lacrymos was able to move sluggishly. To collect the fallen blades with tender care. His halberd would wash up in the coming days. He was sure of it. The sea would give it back. In the meantime he would gather weeds and wrap his wounds. Slowly he sorted through the blades. The blade of bone he kept. The blade of heat. The big blade was laid aside for him to make a grave marker of. The others were cast into the sea to be carried to where their master lay eternal.
Anyways, I'm leaving this poll up until next Sunday]. Happy Voting!
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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jhonscrypt
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| Posted: Mon Nov 16, 2009 5:04 pm Post subject: |
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its kind of funny that both the authors ended up using both the bone sword and the fire sword in the attack of the slayer guy.
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don't you just love things that make you wonder if death is contagious?- Cornelius Huxley;freedom is the freedom to say two plus two equals four;to die hating them that is freedom;"Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen to-morrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind." There was a long silence. "I claim them all," said the Savage at last.;
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Fenris
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| Posted: Wed Nov 18, 2009 1:39 pm Post subject: |
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Had to go with the Big L on this one  Nice chapter Deady!
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Thunderbird
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| Posted: Wed Nov 18, 2009 4:04 pm Post subject: |
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There were a number of typos in the first, a great many incomplete sentences in the second, and both suffered from an overuse of pronouns that often had me wondering who was doing what.
That said, both were charged fight scenes and both seemed to portray the other character well. Hard to decide really. It's a close one. But I think Vestis wins this one, if only due to some of the cleverness of his victory.
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 CHAPTER 25: Near-Light Speed (NEW CHAPTER! (12/4/2011))
Zephyrrr! And...  
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sun Nov 22, 2009 6:46 pm Post subject: |
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And closing now!
Who survives?
Lacrymos
42% [ 3 ]
Vestis
57% [ 4 ]
Total Votes : 7
Who Voted: BlackAmaranth, Crunchyfrog, jhonscrypt, Kalanna Rai, Phantomfan, The White Blacksmith, Thunderbird
Congratulations Vestis on going on to the next round!
Our survivors/winners currently are:
Alys- in the Forest
Fairuza- in the Forest
Meryn- In the Forest
The Ebon Acolyte- In the Mountains
Vestis- by the sea
The Fallen:
Alena and Gwydion- Finished off with Meryn's Manokiri
Emrus Filchy- Finished with Alys's Manokiri
Lacrymos- Spitted and Roasted, then sent out to Sea
Fluffers- Currently residing in Alena's Manokiri, currently carried by Meryn
This next week we have our traveling round, in which the contestants again move around the island. Again, the areas are the Forest, the Mountains, the River, the Ocean, and the Towns, though the last is not recommended by the King and most of the subjects (Although it is a choice).
And, for your viewing pleasure, we have an interlude from Rochelenese's point of view.
The girl, at best a young woman, does her best to appear attractive, appealing. Her clothes disheveled, and her hair trailing down between her breasts, an enticing smile on her face, But she trembles as his hand approaches, and there is fear in her eyes.
She has heard too many tales of girls who entered these chambers and never left.
The King looks at her, eyes running along her body, the pale whiteness of the skin along her thigh, the slight shaking of her hand on the bedspread.
She is trying very hard not to appear afraid. But fear is not easily smothered.
“Come closer.” His voice is flat, not the voice of a man filled with desire. The girl complies.
He brings a hand to her face, sliding it down her smooth skin until his hand rests in the hollow of the neck’s union with the body.
Then he stabs her.
As the life flies from her blue eyes, the King shuffles through memories, to find one well-worn. As the soul surges along the steel like a wave of electricity, it replaces the fading one it finds.
Clara stretches luxuriously. She takes a moment to examine herself, stripping off the robe, now stained with the blood of this body’s previous occupant. As she ran her hand through long blonde hair, she smiled at him.
“You chose a healthy one this time, Blue.”
This vessel has blonde hair, not the soft brown he remembers, and its eyes are blue, not the gray of his love. But her face is there, in the way she speaks, in the way she smiles, in the way her eyes dance. His Clara is there. His wife.
She glances at him, curious at his silence. Words tumble playfully from her full lips. “It’s been a long time, Blue, but if you’ve forgotten me, I swear I’ll kick you until you remember again.”
Kennis Rochelnese says nothing for a long time, but a smile cracks his weathered face.
“So you invited anyone who felt the urge to become a king to come onto your island and kill you? That’s not like you, Blue”
They lay on the sheets together, their arms intertwined. The King chuckles. “Why do you have to keep on calling me that?”
She snuggles up closer to him, smiling as well. “You know why.”
“Just tell me again.”
Clara turns her face to him, her dancing eyes now serious. “I remember the night you killed your father. When you came to me, and I just held you that night. I remember the tears in your blue eyes. You were like a little kid. It just… reminded me of that poem. Little Boy Blue? Those last lines… Will you wake him? No, not I. For if I do, he’s sure to cry. Killing him was just so hard for you. And that was the man I married. The man who cried at nights, who cared about how things should be, not how things were. But you had to murder your own father. And I could see how hard it was for you.”
Kennis brings his head down to Clara’s. As their foreheads touch, his tears stain the sheets, leaving wet streaks on the cloth. A sob broke from his throat. “Murdering you was a thousand times harder. I… I just…”
She strokes his face with his hand. “Not murder, Kennis. Never murder. I was dying. We both know that. No one survives the wasting sickness. And I was in pain. Willow bark tea can only do so much. You ended the pain. You rescued me.”
He brings up his hand between their faces, eyes unseeing. “I… I couldn’t get the blood off my hands.”
She grabs his hands in her smaller ones. “You rescued me. I’m still alive, only in the manokiri. And I’ll be there until someone gets you. And then… we’ll be together.”
He smiles, finally. “All eternity together.”
They kiss, just a soft brush of lips.
“Wait for me, Clara. I have things I need to do. I can’t be the boy I was. I have to be harder, stronger. Then I’ll be with you.”
They fall asleep like that, hands clasped together, foreheads touching. But when the sun rises and the king wakes, only a cold corpse shares his bed.
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When the dead walk, the living run.
Last edited by DeadManWalking on Mon Nov 23, 2009 9:55 pm; edited 1 time in total
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Mon Nov 23, 2009 9:49 pm Post subject: |
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With an amazing amount of promptness, I've already gotten the locations of all of our contestants. I didn't even have time to write more interludes! T.T
Anyways, the fights are as follows:
Fairuza vs. Meryn in the Forest! Our furry friend has her first bout against our private eye!
The Ebon Acolyte vs. Alys! A dark knight from the depths of hell against a woman who still suffers from the flames of her past.
(Boy, the Forest sure is a popular fighting spot isn't it?)
And Vestis, the man of many swords is in the town, without any contestant willing to face him.
The authors of Fairuza and Meryn have ONE WEEK FROM TODAY until they must turn in their fights.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Wed Dec 02, 2009 9:10 am Post subject: |
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Here we go! Sorry for the tardiness. One of the writer's was having time troubles, and RL was hectic enough that I just never really got around to putting up any notice. But here we are!
Meryn's Version
Look, if you’d just sit down for five minutes and meditate like I told you, you could just SENSE THE MINDS of any game that might be out here! Fluffers’ voice spoke in my mind, as I grasped the hilt of the sheathed Manokiri, panting.
“And I told you to STOP DISTRACTING ME. We both know that hasn’t worked any of the times we tried it.” I straightened up and looked around. Damn. No sign of the bunny I could’ve sworn had run this way. Pity too. Rabbit is pretty tasty.
Well maybe if you got your stomach to stop rumbling so loudly, you would’ve been able to catch something! And you did sense that deer the third time, even if you walked into a tree trying to catch it. This was perhaps one perspective of the happenings of that event, though not entirely true. That tree ambushed me. Sneaky bugger.
My stomach rumbled again, protesting its loneliness, but the only things to eat that I could see were mushrooms. And I don’t like mushrooms. I got nothing against the taste, or the texture, or anything like that; just the memory of a corpse shriveled up like a fifty-year old corpse left to dry in a desert. The Takan Wars were fought in an area of pretty high magic concentration, and the various plant life in that particular forest our ragtag group decided to hide in was apparently harvested regularly for its spectacularly horrible poisons. And Gregin, when we ran out of our regular provisions, decided that he would rather eat mushrooms than his horse.
Stupid calvaryman. I survived. He didn’t. Life goes on, mostly. But yeah, not a big fan of the mushrooms in general any more.
And don’t even get me started on bamboo shoots. Don’t bother with shoving it up people’s fingernails; just feed it to them, and in five minutes they’ll be blabbing the names of their Great-Aunt Millie’s second husband.
I spotted movement in a bush. Instantly, automatically, my saliva glands decided it was time to start opening the floodgates. Treacherously, my mind brought forth succulent images of red meat, squirrel, deer, boar. Even cow. They have cows in forests, right?
If only I had a beer to go with it. But too bad. Despite the constant monologue about the evils of alcohol from my no-longer-fluffy friend, despite the fact that I was waking up somewhat earlier, and without headaches (although that could be attributed more to some kind of release of telepathic energy, according to Fluffers (but only when he’s NOT talking about the evils of alcohol. When he is, he seems to conveniently forget that point)) I still longed to wet my tongue with what I now came to think of as “liquid joy”. Absence from one’s love only makes one pine for it more.
I drew one of my longer knives, nearly a little sword, and swept aside the brush, visions of little pigs and rare beef dancing in my head.
What the hell?
A slight figure, cloaked and hooded, lay on the mossy ground. As she shifted in sleep, I saw the reason the bush had moved; as she rolled, she pushed on the one of the branches.
Perhaps I stepped on a branch on my way in, or perhaps rubbing against the bark of the bush finally woke her. But she suddenly tensed, and without a second passing, was suddenly five feet farther away, and on her feet. As she sprang up, her cloak got caught on the bushes, and she unfastened it, letting the hood fall away with the rest of the fabric, and I saw her face.
She had a long scar across her right face. But that was not what was so interesting. Her eyes were like a cat’s, slitted and yellow. She wore a quiver of javelins on her back, but she didn’t reach for them. Instead, she bared many more teeth than should have fit in such a delicate mouth and I swore I could see claws extend from her fingers.
There was a tense moment, as neither of us moved. I held the knife before me, and she kept her claws before her, her muscles tense, both of us ready to explode into movement at a moment’s notice.
The bunny I had been chasing hopped between us. Seriously, it hopped between the two of us, and just sat there. Both of our eyes went down to it.
We both went for it. Sad to say that the girl got it first. Killer claws cut through the little thing’s neck with a savage ferocity, as it died without even a squeal of protest.
As she efficiently strung the corpse of the little woodland creature up, her yellow-green eyes caught my own hungry brown ones. Right then, my stomach rumbled. She gave me the once-over and shrugged. Tearing the rabbit apart with her bare hands, she tossed half at my feet.
I gave her the once-over right back, then gave her a twice and a thrice over. Despite her catlike eyes, her claws, and the fact that that mouth had way too many teeth in it, she looked a lot like a human girl, and one put together pretty well at that. A tunic and leggings may not be the most flattering dress, but they hug the curves that count.
She sat down, still without a word, and started tearing into the corpse ravenously. Blood spurted disconcertingly, as the girl, who could’ve passed for a normal farmer’s daughter if she kept her eyes down and her hands hidden, tore bloody strips away. I sat down and stacked up wood for a cook-fire. Luckily, I always keep flint shards attached to my belt buckle. You never know when you need it. And it makes for a good impromptu weapon. As I hunted for a handy stick to spit my half on, I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that the girl warmed her hand on the flames.
***
“So what’s your name and story?” I was, if not satiated, at the very least less hungry than I was before. And when my other needs are met, curiosity often becomes my main focus. I’m a private detective. It’s what I do.
She raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be the first to answer? Being my guest and all.” As she shifted, I caught sight of a misericorde at her waist, and my breath caught momentarily in my throat. An image of Alena flickered through my mind, momentarily, as she lay dying on the ground. I suppressed it.
I berated myself momentarily for not making that connection. Why else would anyone be here in this wilderness? I pretended to collect my thoughts, running my hand through my hair sheepishly. I don’t think she noticed my small pause.
“Well it goes like this…” I gave her the general gist of the reason I was here, running from a mob angry at a friend, and now trying to survive in a land full of men killing everyone in sight. I left out the exact nature of my friend though, or the fact that I was myself now a contestant, though I did tell of the death of the rich girl and her bodyguard. “…Which is how I, Meryn Weir, ended up in this godforsaken forest.”
The girl was quiet for a second. She looked off into the underbrush as the sun hung at high noon. “It’s not really godforsaken though, is it? There’s life everywhere.” Unsure how to respond to that, I simply remained silent, watching her watching the forest.
“My home is like this. Though it has different birds and beasts, there is always something happening. It is a great feeling, never being alone. Always knowing that someone you know is near.”
She stared out into the forest. As she fell silent, I really heard the forest. A thousand beasts scurried through the trees, and creatures roamed the underbrush, as birds sang their lives away. In a way, it reminded me of the constant buzz of the city. I hadn’t been to Minoch since I signed on to the Marines. Maybe I should go back sometime…
But that was a question for another time, if I survived this at all. As she stared into the forest, I attempted to revive the conversation. No offense, but I can only stand so much of chirping birds. “So, not to be cliché, but what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
It may have earned me a raised eyebrow, but she stopped looking out into the wilderness. For a second, I didn’t think she would answer. But her mouth opened, revealing too many teeth. She paused before speaking, but she answered. “I’m looking for some people.”
I sent the raised eyebrow right back at her, and raised her a quizzical glance. “On this island? Then why would you need to be a contestant?”
She looked back out into the wilderness. “It’s a big world out there, and not much of it is like the forest. I need somebody to help me find them. Who better than a kingdom?”
She made sense, in her own way. “You know, I AM a private detective. Finding things is my specialty.” Yes, I am a nice guy. And it seemed like a pretty generous offer too. But she looked at me, sudden suspicion clouding her eyes.
This is why the knights died. Real life beat them down with suspicion and pettiness.
All right, I’ll admit the offer wasn’t entirely altruistic. If she accepted my offer, she wouldn’t have as much reason to be in this whole crazy contest. And if she needed me to help her find whoever she was looking for, I’d have someone else besides myself (and Fluffers, I guess) with an interest in my continued breathing.
But she only stared at me suspiciously, and I could tell already that nothing I said would bring down that wall that my simple offer had built.
So I got up to go. “Well, I’d better be off,” I said lamely, absent of anything else to say. As I got up, something at my waist caught her eye.
The Manokiri.
Well, Crap.
She leapt at me, claws extended, as I scrambled backwards, all her suspicions now confirmed. Her claws came a hairsbreadth away from cutting open my gut, leaving a slashing rip across my clothes. As I stumbled back, my hands instinctively went to a couple of the sheathed knives that hung at my belt.
But I couldn’t do it. Even as she attacked, long hair streaming in the wind of her charge, her claws slashing and her teeth bared. Perhaps it was because a girl had died already in this whole horrible affair, because of me. Alena’s death hit me harder than I liked to let on. Sure, perhaps I didn’t swing the blade myself, but those were just semantics. We fought and she died, and I walked away. And now another girl was in front of me, a woman with a personality and a goal and a future. I’ve never really gotten why I don’t have this problem with men.
Someone should’ve told me that plate tends to be a requirement for someone who aspires to be a knight in shining armor. A claw ripped through the muscles in my left arm as I kept on trying to get out of there.
I TOLD you to get over yourself Meryn.
My right hand rested on the hilt of the Manokiri now, on the verge of drawing, but unable to. This is the second time in this tournament. You’re going to have to fight females. Look at her. She had a wild look in her cat’s eyes, and her teeth were bared in a frenzied snarl. She’s just as willing to kill you as some guy with a sword would be. But you can’t see that. And now there’s no convenient bodyguard to stab her for you.
I didn’t respond to him at that moment, concentrating on dodging. I wove semi-successfully, gaining only several scratches instead of a ripped-out throat or a torn-open gut. But as a claw came way too close to an eye for comfort, I yelled. “Stop lecturing and help me will you?”
Fine. There is a way to get around your infantile notions of chivalry. Just give up control. A chill went down my spine. I can use your body as a vessel and kill her myself. The blood will not be on your hands. Metaphorically speaking.
But the burden would still be mine. How was that any different from dancing out of the way of Gwydion’s death blow? I didn’t like it. But as I gained more scratches and scrapes, I saw that there was no other way.
I gave up control. As his mind rose up into mine, our consciousnesses touched momentarily, and I saw, truly saw, how alien his mind was. At the flip of a switch, it could go from a childlike humor that turned grown men into cats, to a logical mind capable of killing others in cold blood.
Which is what he was attempting to do now. All I could do was watch, a spectator in my own mind. My hands drew the sword I had taken from Gwydion’s corpse, and swung. The woman leapt back, her claws no match for the length of steel. She darted in, trying to get within my/Fluffer’s range, but I/he kept her at a distance. With a snarl, she went for a tree, hand reaching for a javelin. I/Fluffers pursued her, but was unable to catch her, a brown blur that streaked up the tree. She crouched on a tree branch, and threw a javelin. I/he sidestepped, anticipating her movement, and, with a fluid motion a dagger left my/his fingertips, to bury itself in her shoulder. I cried out in my head, but no sound left my mouth. Overbalancing, she toppled from the branch with a cry of alarm, and fell, landing hard. Despite her pain she struggled to get up. All I could do was watch.
I was beside her in a moment, silent, with the sword drawn back to strike. My foot caught her in the chest, pushing her to the ground. I couldn’t move my sword hand, but it sprang forward, point-first. I yelled at Fluffers, in my own head, to stop. The swordpoint leapt for the woman’s eyes, defiant in the face of death.
I attacked Fluffers. Scrabbling for control, attacking the walls that now separated me from my own body, I somehow broke through. But my hand was already in motion.
I managed to twitch aside at the last moment, the sword burying itself in the earth, leaving a long red slash across the woman’s forehead and cut strands of hair on the ground. I stumbled backwards, falling on my ass, leaving the sword where it stood, the blade rising straight up from the ground until it crossed the guard. It looked like a cross.
I’d planted Alena’s sword in the ground as a grave marker in the same way.
I lay back on the ground, waiting for this woman to finish me. I just couldn’t do it. At least this way I’d be off this dying Island. Hundreds of people all flocking to one place to die. What a joke. The sun shining down from directly above was making my eyes water.
Then its light was blocked as a dark silhouette appeared above me, recognizable mainly through the green-gold eyes that seemed to glow. She held out her hand to me in silence. I took it. She pulled me up, but she continued to grip my hand tightly. As I watched, her claws extended, cutting into my wrist. Her hand came up to her face, and her tongue flickered out to taste my blood. She noticed my lack of claws, and she cut her own wrist with her other hand, and held out the bloody claw to taste.
I gave her my best eyebrow-raise. She gave me a quizzical look. “For the blood contract?” I surprised myself and pushed my eyebrow to new heights. “For your idea earlier. That you help me find my tribe. You give me your blood and I give you mine, and then we are bound.”
I leaned forward and touched my tongue to her claw. It was warm, and hard. And the taste of blood, was, well, the taste of blood. I wiped my mouth with a bloody hand, ignoring the long scratch that sent rivers of blood down the back of my hand.
I didn’t know what she meant by her tribe, or how I planned to find them, or even how I was going to get off this island alive, but damn it if it wasn’t good to have someone on this island who wasn’t trying to kill me.
Fairuza's Version
“I believe I told you, little one, that it does not do to flail blindly like that. Your opponent can and will take advantage of your recklessness.”
“Tell us the story again, Big Sister! About the time you beat the White Wolf all by yourself?”
“I’ll not have you cropping your hair like that. You’re a Caryani, for Myrta’s sake!”
The voices wove together in Fairuza’s mind, twisting and turning into a mass of whispering memories. There were faces too, though they were not as easy to catch…Mother and Father, their place in the village hierarchy second only to the wizened old sages…the wide-eyed, dirty-faced young, chirping for a race to the top of the old oak tree…and strong, beautiful Sen—how she wished she could be his!
But this was not the time for fond memories. For all she knew, they were being carted off to the edges of the earth, their arms and legs in shackles…or worse, butchered for their insubordination, tossed off the path to be devoured by scavengers. The latter seemed more likely…her people would rather die than be condemned to the life of a slave.
Something in the real world disturbed Fairuza, and her eyes creaked open. She’d nestled herself in a tree fork, some thirty feet off the ground. After a few seconds of grogginess, she stretched, her claws flexing in and out of her hands. Her long pink tongue uncurled from her mouth, her teeth longing for something to chew on.
She sat up to observe her surroundings, especially noting the moon that hung full over the trees. Nighttime already? A day had passed, and still no one had come along to challenge her. Perhaps anyone who’d passed by was scared off by the mutilated corpses of woodland creatures that now littered the ground. Corpses which had been her dinner, by the way. Still, it was a little strange that she’d woken up as abruptly as she had. She’d long since learned to shut out the noise of the ever-breathing forest while she slept. Unless something else had—
“For crying out loud, I told you shut the hell up!”
The alien voice rang through the serene woods, shattering Fairuza’s fleeting moment of peace.
As quickly and as quietly as possible, she slid off the cloak she’d been using as a blanket, and kicked off her boots, setting them both aside. She rose cautiously, slinging her quiver of javelins across her back. Still in an instinctive crouch, she strained to detect the source of the noise.
And then she caught it again: quick, shuffling footsteps, and a human scent to match. Fairuza’s teeth clenched together, and she darted forward across the branches towards the sound. She stopped at a reasonable distance away, in case her prey could spot her in the dark. Ah…there you are. Her keen eyes fell on a lone man, trudging in a seemingly aimless way through the fallen leaves. He had a scruffy, disheveled look about him, as if he hadn’t slept in a while. That, or he was completely lost. And what was more, she could clearly see the misericorde that hung from his waist. An opponent? If she had learned anything from her encounters with humans, it was to take them out before they even had the chance to hurt you…or your family. Fairuza extended her claws, and struck a single one once, twice, three times against the bark. If her first attack succeeded, she might not even need them.
She slowly drew a javelin from its quiver, certain that she had a clear shot from here. But still, something made her pause. Fairuza tilted her head, a frown creeping across her face. There was something…odd about that man. She couldn’t quite explain it, but it almost seemed as if there was a second presence there, ghosting alongside him. She shook her head. Well, it won’t matter when you’re dead. Her arm drew back, and she let the spear fly from her hand. It zoomed towards the man with no hesitation, intent on piercing his heart. But a split second before the tip made contact with his chest, the man whirled out of its path, an almost comical look of surprise on his face. The javelin buried itself harmlessly in the mossy soil, having failed its mission.
Fairuza’s brow furrowed. What was that? The man’s movement looked unexpected even to him. Almost as if something else had…no, there couldn’t have been. He looked up in the direction the javelin had come from, slowly edging backwards.
“This doesn’t need to be a fight.” He said in a clear tone. His voice didn’t falter, but Fairuza could hear his heart quickening, could smell the cold sweat forming on his brow. “Whatever reward it is that you’re after, I don’t want it. This is all just a misunderst—“ Another javelin, barely dodged. Damn it, just…hold still! She gritted her teeth and jumped to a different vantage point. Another one thrown, another evaded. Even through her frustration, she couldn’t help admiring his reflexes; he was dodging pretty well for someone who couldn’t see in the dark. Unless someone was helping him.
“Hey!” He finally barked, all of his previous hesitance gone. “Are we gonna do this all night, or are you gonna show yourself? You have to run out of weapons eventually.”
Fairuza reached for another javelin, only to find she had a single one left. He was right about that. Curiosity overwhelming logic, she set the quiver down and slowly crept out the shadows, fully revealing herself. The man’s face betrayed his shock upon seeing her.
“You..you’re not—“
“Who are you?” Fairuza growled from atop the branch. She saw him swallow, hesitant to answer. Finally, he spoke.
“My name is Meryn Weir.” He said, “I know what this must look like, but believe me when I say that I’m here by accident.” Fairuza continued to glare, suspicion clouding her better judgment.
“Who were you talking to?”
“I…what?”
“Just now. You were yelling at someone.”
“I, ah…no one. I was talking to myself.” When his reply was greeted by an even darker stare, he held up his hands in apology. “Look, I didn’t even know anyone was out here. Honestly, I don’t want to hurt you.”
Compassion was failing her. Perhaps it was simply because he was human, but something about this man…she couldn’t bring herself to believe him.
“I’m sorry,” Fairuza said, after what seemed like an eternity of tension, “but I can’t take that chance.” And then, in an outburst of primal instinct, she took a monstrous leap from the branch, claws fully extended and honing in on Meryn’s throat. He jumped backwards, hands darting for the longsword at his belt. But he didn’t draw it, even as she sprang again. Instead, a dagger flew up in his defense, slicing her hand wide open. A hiss of pain escaped her lips, but the pain made her even more certain that he needed to die. Meryn rushed her, in what looked like another lunge. But something made him falter at the last possible second, as he made a broad slash at her face. She jerked her head back, the tip of the dagger zinging across her cheek, dangerously close to her temple. Ducking under his outstretched arm, her hand made a wild swing at his right side. He turned, not quickly enough, and a horrible tearing noise split the air.
Meryn staggered backwards, clutching the three gouges across his chest, wounds which were rapidly beginning to draw blood. His blindly swinging fingers closed around one of Fairuza’s buried javelins. Something in his eyes changed, as he yanked the weapon from the ground. Even she had to stop for a moment.
“What are you doing?” Fairuza barked, “Those are useless at close range.”
“I told you,” Meryn croaked, blood trickling from his mouth, “I don’t want to hurt—“
”Lies!” She screeched, “You humans are all alike! No more games, fight me like a real warrior!” She launched herself through the air, claws outstretched. A split second too late, she realized the cut to her face was deeper than she thought. As she lunged, blood clouded her vision, and her target grew dim. Taking initiative, Meryn blocked her weakened blow, lashing back at her with the blunt end of the spear, the wood cracking against her ribs. A howl of pain tore through her throat, as she lost her footing and toppled backwards.
Meryn walked slowly closer to where she lay collapsed, trailing blood from the wound that was refusing to stop its flow. An agonizing moment passed between the two of them. Fairuza could see the turmoil behind his eyes. He didn’t even need words; she knew he was debating whether or not he should kill her.
The forest seemed to fall away, as Fairuza remembered that day…the clash of metal, the screams of her family, her friends...no, they were war cries, weren’t they? Yes…the Caryani faced battle with no fear in their hearts. So why was she so terrified by this man, looming over her like Death itself?
She never found that answer. She never found out what Meryn had decided to do with her. Because in that single, beautiful, hellish moment, her conscious mind shorted out, and she sprung up to meet him, her razor-like teeth fully bared. With a horrible, wet, squelching noise, her powerful jaws snapped shut around his throat, and she tasted human blood for the first time. They fell to the ground together, she still pinning him down. His struggles grew weaker and weaker underneath her, until she finally lifted her head. He still hung from a thread of life, his windpipe crushed, making no more than a pitiful gurgling sound. Certain that he wouldn’t get back up, Fairuza took the manokiri from his belt, examining it. Through her heightened senses, it seemed to pulse with a strange energy. Perhaps this was what she sensed before?
“Looks like you weren’t as peaceful as you claimed.” Fairuza murmured, her voice dead. “Whoever you’ve already killed with this, you might as well join them.” And in a swift, decisive movement, she plunged the misericorde through his heart, ending whatever life he had left.
~
She sat there, over this man she murdered, for what seemed like forever. Absently wiping off the knife with the hem of her tunic, she thought about what she’d just done. She’d been raised on the idea that humans were not to be trusted, that they would double-cross you in the blink of an eye. So why was she so sickened by the taste of this man’s blood on her lips? Because he might not have killed her? Because this one human may not have been like the slavers who tore her world apart?
Because his blood tasted so much like her own?
With a weary sigh, Fairuza slowly rose with the intention of digging a grave for Meryn Weir. She said a silent prayer for him, even though she knew his soul was now trapped in this dagger that dangled uselessly at her side. And she was to blame for it.
So does Meryn die or not? You choose!
By the way, the next fight will be delayed until Monday the 14th. Time troubles for all involved, etc. Apologies!. (This poll will only be open one week, until the 9th)
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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Shady Stoat
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| Posted: Wed Dec 02, 2009 11:56 pm Post subject: |
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What a quandary!
On the one hand, I like to see a firm winner and a firm loser in competitions like these.
On the other, I love to see the underdog getting through, even though it'll just make it harder for them next round.
I like both characters, but I particularly want to see more of Meryn, so I think I'll just go with the selfish option and let them both survive
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Wed Dec 09, 2009 8:57 pm Post subject: |
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And the poll is closed! Both Meryn AND Fairuza go on to the final rounds.
Apologies, but I do not in fact have any story progress to put up right now. The next fight should be up by the 14th.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sun Dec 13, 2009 9:02 pm Post subject: |
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Much sadness and dolorosity. The fight will not be happening for another week or so, due to some time problems for one of our writers.
But in order to keep you all entertained, I've been talking with the authors of the three people who are definitely going on to the next round about some interludes! So you may not be as bored as you could be. Or something like that. >.<
But anyways, apologies for the lateness.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Wed Dec 23, 2009 11:42 am Post subject: |
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Sorry guys, but only one of the two combatants have sent in their fight so far. If the person who hasn't sent theirs in still hasn't sent it to me or responded to me in any way by the end of the year, we'll give the win to the person who HAS sent me something.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Fri Jan 01, 2010 2:23 am Post subject: |
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The pure tardiness of this fight is inexcusable, and I fervently apologize. I had a deadline for today, but the tardy contestant recently contacted me, so I gave him until tomorrow. In the meantime, an interlude.
NOTE: This is actually AFTER the next fight. The contestant not present is whoever wins of Alys and the Ebon Acolyte.
The contestants gather in the dining hall. Few remain, a meager handful from what had been an entire island full of men and women eager for his blood.
Rochelnese stands before them, dressed in the finery of his throne. A moth-eaten cloak in the blood red of his house graces his shoulders, and additional silks and velvets make up the rest of his garb, a contrast to his usual utilitarian clothing. He looks on the four before him for the first time.
Two sit together, a rather ordinary, battered man, in a long coat with scratches and scars crisscrossing his hands and face, and a woman, or something like one, dressed in tunic and pants with fur and claws. She uses only her clawed fingers to eat the meal before her, unlike the man who uses knife and fork, though they both attack their food with a comparable voracity. A third man sits by himself, multiple swords strapped to his back, nursing only a cup of wine.
The fourth man isn’t eating, but is instead watching. A flicker of surprise shows on Rochelnese’s face.
Montoral. Dressed up in hunting gear and wielding a longbow, and with a month’s worth of beard on his face, but still the seneschal. He wears a manokiri on his belt, not-so-spotless leather standing out against the ornate surroundings. He had not been given a manokiri at the beginning of this tournament.
Rochelnese addresses all four contestants, ignoring the empty seats at the bench.
“There will be one other joining us presently, having just arrived from a struggle, but we can begin. I wish to welcome you all to the hospitality of Starstone. Now that all of the contestants have arrived, I believe it is time for me to explain its name, and the name of the Island. I prepared an explanation, but I believe it will be simpler just to show you.”
He places his palm over a rune on the pulpit before him. Harsh words he spoke, guttural, from an older, harsher time.
A giant rumbling sound is heard, and the room shakes. All in the room hold on to something, guards standing at the doors lean on walls, stumbling. Only Rochelnese stands strong.
Then, unmistakably, the entire castle rises. Through windows on the west wall, the glimmers of sunset that previously had been blocked by the walls around the castle break into the room, sending shadows dancing on the eastern door.
Starstone, an immense castle of stone and wood, flies.
“Thousands of years ago, a castle was built on the mainland, of wood and stone, like any other castle. But incorporated into the structure were traces of skyrock, metal that fell from the sky. A sorcerer wove spells into that magical metal that allowed him to pick up the castle and go. He was a great hermit, that sorcerer, and was tired of building castles in wastes that eventually become populated, as generations scurried by. So he built a castle that he could move.
He landed on this island hundreds upon hundreds of years ago. But here, he met his end, at the hands of a rogue named Rochelnese, with a magical dagger that the sorcerer himself had made and left lying carelessly in the castle. Thus, the Rochelnese line was born, and thus Mercygiver was wedded to the line.”
Rochelnese gestures to his guests, as the motion of the castle slows. “Only by killing me with a Manokiri and taking my memories will you be able to learn how to control my castle. Otherwise, you will spend the rest of your life floating up here, with only the food and drink currently in the castle. Each of you will face another, until there is only one left. Only one person may survive."
At this point the man in the trench coat and the woman exchange glances. Rochelnese makes a note of it, and adds, "Whatever alliances you have made to get here are defunct. Only one person, the strongest of you all, will face me.
"But enough of that. You are here as my guests for now. Eat, drink, rest, and recover. You must be at your best before the final rounds of the tournament.”
Montoral speaks up, the first one besides Rochelnese to utter a sound since the castle had moved. “And how do we know this food and wine you give us isn’t poisoned? How do we know that this feast isn’t simply the most expedient way to kill us?”
The other contestants glance down at their fare. The man in the trenchcoat puts down his fork.
Because, you idiot, the entire point of this tournament is to find my replacement. I am tired, but I need someone strong to replace me. I have an obligation to the people of Sky Island that the strongest rule, and thus, no matter what I wish, if I am the Strongest I must rule. But that doesn’t mean I can’t look for someone stronger than I.
It is on the tip of his tongue. But weakness is not something a Rochelnese shows easily. So he simply says, “I swear on my ancestors that, until the final winner of this contest faces me down, none of you shall be killed by my hand or the hand of any of mine.”
Montoral looks him in the eye.
“Fine.” He whips his bow out, slaps an arrow out of the quiver in the space of a heartbeat. “Then I’m sure this shouldn’t be too difficult.”
The arrow flies, but Rochelnese is already delving his memories. He finds the one he is looking for.
Time seems to slow down as his reaction times increase by a thousand times. The arrow moves towards his belly, no doubt to cripple him so a manokiri can follow, at a snail’s pace. It is an easy matter to brush it aside.
Time speeds up again, and the arrow smacks into the throne behind him. He runs at Montoral with his bare hands.
The fight is entirely one sided. Montoral tries to draw the Manokiri at his belt, but is stopped when his hand is grasped by Rochelnese’s left. The right comes down to shatter the wrist in a dozen places. As he gasps in shock, an elbow drives into his ribs, cracking a couple and driving the wind out of him, followed by a spinning kick to the side of his head, sending him staggering. But even as his body starts to fall, a punch hammers him in the kidneys, sending him upright again and spinning him around for a punch that completes the breaking of his rib and sends it into his lung, puncturing it. He goes down coughing blood.
The arrow clatters to the ground.
Montoral is a broken man, coughing blood and wheezing, but he is alive.
“Bring him to the surgeon. Make sure he lives at least until the fighting is over. I am a man of my word after all.”
Rochelnese leaves the room, leaving the three in the hall to their meal.
Yes, whoever wins is going to have to fight Rochelnese. But first of all, he's the final boss, so it should be pretty difficult as a rule, and secondly, well... I'm sure you'll do fine. 
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| Posted: Fri Jan 01, 2010 6:05 pm Post subject: |
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And I am sorry to say that the Ebon Acolyte is disqualified. Yes, it took me long enough. My apologies. In order that this fight was not a complete waste of the last three weeks, here is Alys's version.
The clanging of a hammer striking metal. Heat. Clang. The crackling of a fire. Clang. Searing heat. Clang. Shouts. Screams. Clang. Death. Clang. Clang. Clang...
Alys woke with a start, nearly falling off of the branch she had been sleeping on. It took a few seconds for her to realize where she was, and a few more seconds for her tensed muscles to realize that she was not about to fall out of the tree. She sighed and relaxed against the tree trunk, closing her eyes against the slowly rising sun.
It was still early, but better to be up then to be in that dream. She shivered as she remembered it. It was kind of funny… she hadn’t relived that past for years, having blocked it and all emotion from her mind, but there was something about this island that brought it to the forefront of her mind. Her ice-queen exterior had slowly been cracking ever since she got here...
Ah well, best not to dwell on the past. She thought briskly, pushing the memory out of her mind before sitting up and jumping out of the tree to land on the ground. Now was as good as a time as any to find the next opponent. Checking first to make sure her daggers and hammer were still in place, she began walking through the dense forest.
~~~~~
Hours later, she still had yet to find any sign of the next opponent.
The sun was high in the sky when she finally stumbled into a small clearing. Alys pushed her bangs out of her eyes for a brief second, and seeing no enchantments, she let them drop with a sigh and was about to sit --- when a voice like dried sheets of paper being crumpled into dust resounded behind her.
“Face me, mortal.”
She whirled around, a dagger suddenly in each hand ready to be thrown with deadly accuracy at the intruder. There, in the middle of the clearing, was a shadow. No, not a shadow. It was a man dressed in funeral robes. Alys stood frozen for a beat, waiting for an attack. A breeze whistled through the clearing, stirring the man’s robes and blowing Alys’ bangs out of her face. Time froze for a brief second as the wind uncovered her left eye.
A bright flash of color was suddenly visible through her magiked eye. Layer after layer of magic surrounded the man-like figure, encircling him in a dark menacing aura… one the color of dried blood.
Time sped up again as her bangs re-covered her eye, and she staggered backwards slightly before recovering and taking up an even better position. This… thing in front of her was not human. No, it wasn’t even alive. The spells that surrounded it were ones of preservation, of animation, protection. One of the undead? she thought to herself. If that was the case, then using pain to toy with it wasn’t an option. She’d have to go in for the direct kill.
The silk covering over the thing’s mouth fluttered, indicating that it was about to speak.
“I am the Ebon Acolyte,” it said, in that same dry, crackling voice, sending shivers down her spine. “I am here to claim your soul for the undead, along with all the others on this island.”
Alys blinked, then narrowed her eyes, a rare burst of anger surging through her veins. Who was this creature to just waltz right up and claim the thing she could barely call her soul for darkness? “Like hell you are,” she spat, and a dagger flew from her hand and impaled itself directly in the center of the thing’s face, knocking its head back.
Slowly, the Ebon Acolyte lifted its head, dagger hilt protruding from its facial covering. It grasped the handle with a bony hand and pulled the dagger out of its skull with a jerk. Alys frowned uneasily. If a dagger to the head hadn’t done the trick, she may be in more trouble then she thought… She crouched, ready to bolt.
Before she could though, the Ebon Acolyte had dropped the dagger and drawn a sword. Alys barely had time to glimpse the long, black blade before the creature lunged forwards with inhuman speed, running the blade through her stomach all the way to the hilt.
Alys’ eyes widened with shock and pain. She could feel the ice-cold steel inside of her stomach, so frigid that it was leeching the very heat of life from her body. Yet she was frozen, unable to move, unable to do anything but let the death-chilled blade suck her life away.
She screamed.
The sound filled the silent forest air, sending birds squawking towards the heavens. Yet still the sound continued, a hopeless, fear-filled, painful sound. Even though she knew it was coming from her, it was still a strangely familiar sound, one from a distant memory. It was a scream not unlike the ones she had heard that day… the scream of someone about to die.
It was the ankh that did it. She had been gripped with her metal working trance for three days, working tirelessly over this small symbol, not stopping to eat, drink, or rest. She had heated the forge to an unbearable temperature, struggling to make this new resistant metal obey her hammer. She had stoked the flames higher and higher- never feeling the sparks that flew from the flames, burning her skin, and setting the wooden houses around her on fire. Even when the uncontrollable fire started, she hadn’t been able to tear herself away- she could only listen half-heartedly, uncomprehending in her trance, as her village, her family, her friends, burned down to the ground. She had toiled at the anvil, the tiny clinking of the hammer on chisel as she finished the delicate scrollwork drowning out the screams of the villagers burning around her, the whoosh of the bellows drowning out the snapping and crackling of burning thatch. Only when the ankh was finally done had she come back to her senses, realizing what had happened. But by then it was too late… Smoke clouded the skies. Charred bones surrounded her. Everyone was gone. And it was all her fault.
And suddenly, the memory and the feel of the cold metal inside her stomach was gone, leaving the chill of death behind. Without the support of the sword, Alys collapsed, writhing in agony. Pain clouded her mind, blocking her senses. She was unable to think, unable to do anything- and then, a sudden ray of clarity pierced the fog that was now her mind. The ankh at the base of her neck was heating up, sending a burst of strength through her body and a sense of coherence through her head.
It took all this newfound energy to stand, but somehow she managed. Hand clasped to the wound trying to stem the flowing blood, she stood, swaying drunkenly, spots dancing before her eyes. Yet still she stood, glaring at the undead defiantly. She refused to lay down, to accept defeat on the ground. She would stand and fight until there was not a single drop of life left in her body. A peaceful death was not in her blood. If she must die, it would be kicking and screaming, struggling against the chains that pulled her down to the depths. Defiant till the end. After all, what had she to lose?
If she had been able to see the thing’s face, she was sure she would have seen lips curled in disdain. As it was, she could only guess what it was feeling. She stood, one hand gripping her hammer, the other clutching her wound. She waited for the killing blow.
It never came.
Instead, the creature raised an empty hand, and began muttering. Even through her bangs, Alys’ hidden eye could catch a huge glimpse of bright color, indicating an explosion of magic. Two shadows rose next to her, twisting with newfound life. She stepped back, wary of whatever spell the undead was casting.
“I thought,” it said, rasping voice exuding the slightest touch of cruel amusement, “you might enjoy seeing these old friends again.”
Alys frowned, then gasped and backpedaled, accidentally slamming herself into a tree as the two newly summoned spirits made themselves known.
Her mother and Father stood before her, faces she had not seen since the fire that had killed everyone off. They floated there, gazing at her. For the first time in years, Alys felt a feeling other then anger. Guilt pierced her heart, leaving her belly almost as cold as the Ebon Acolyte’s sword had. She looked back at them, unbidden tears welling up into her eyes.
“Mother… Father…” she whispered in a voice filled with pain. The Ebon Acolyte merely watched. Using its opponent’s pasts against them before delivering the final blow was a trick he had learned years ago. After all, saddened souls were always riper.
Alys didn’t even notice the creature still standing there. Her wound was forgotten, the forest surrounding her was forgotten- all that she saw were her parent’s faces gazing impassively at her. Memories of that day surrounded her; the heat, the screams, and her complete inability to care, to want to help.
And then, in a voice choked with emotion, Alys whispered the words she had never thought she would be able to say.
“I’m sorry.” Unwanted tears burned her eyes. It was all she could do not to break down and sob, and after repressing her emotion for so long, something as big as this was completely unbearable.
Through her clouded gaze, she saw her parent’s spirits suddenly smile. Her breath caught in her throat. Still smiling, they glided towards her until they stood right next to her. With one hand, they each reached out towards her neck- and touched the ankh that sat there. Alys froze, and the Ebon Acolyte growled, raising its sword. Apparently this was not supposed to happen.
Before either could move, the ankh and the ruby within glowed with a sudden strange and powerful light. It was much like when it gave her extra power, but much, much stronger. Heat and strength sped through her veins, blocking out the pain and erasing the chill of death.
With this newfound energy, Alys was able to stand straight, ignoring the pain of her tattered stomach. One look at the smiling faces of her parents was all it took to give her the second burst of strength that she needed. With a battle cry, Alys leaped towards the undead, hammer swinging. It must have been too surprised to move, and she was able to get a good blow to the head in. Before it could recover, Alys had grabbed its long, black sword out of its temporarily limp hand and impaled the creature with it.
Even as the chill of death crept up her arm and threatened to snuff the very life out of her, she held on. Then thing rippled, emitted a huge scream- and… imploded with a huge burst of light. The shockwave sent Alys flying backwards into a tree, sword spinning from her grasp and falling to the floor. She crouched there, dazed and temporarily blinded.
As the spots in front of her eyes started to fade, she could see the clearing was empty. A small pile of funeral robes were all that remained of the Ebon Acolyte. Her parents were gone too, along with the burst of vitality that had kept her upright and brought her to victory mere moments before. The pain of a gut wound and the weariness of the day caught up to her, multiplied by tenfold. Her knees buckled under the wave of weariness and she collapsed under a tree, watching as the world slowly became shifting shadows around her.
The last thing Alys felt before blackness overtook her was the ankh around her neck warming gently and glowing with a soft light, and her skin slowly knitting itself back together. The corners of her mouth twitched slightly upwards as she fell into a healing sleep.
And thus it goes. The three groups have advanced to the finals, but due to number problems and story issues, Meryn and Fairuza will be split up into two separate contestants. Also, no further team-ups will be allowed, as we are now in the finals.
The Finals will work thus: Standard elimination tournament, two matches of two, then the victors, and then that last winner will face the King. The matches will take place in a specially arranged room, with all other contestants observing from a higher balcony. The room is circular, with rough stone floors. The walls are too high and too smooth to climb.
The matchups for the semi finals are: Fairuza vs. Alys and Meryn vs. Vestis
Fairuza and Alys will have their fights due on the tenth of this month.
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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The White Blacksmith
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| Posted: Mon Jan 04, 2010 6:31 am Post subject: |
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I vote Alys to beat the Ebon Acolyte. That was very well-written.
One question, though. Will Meryn and Fairuza both be written by the same author still?
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Tea Cures All.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Mon Jan 04, 2010 4:44 pm Post subject: |
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Meryn and Fairuza will be written by their original authors. Also, there's no vote, currently, since we only get one side of it, but your admiration of the work will be noted. :-P
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Mon Jan 11, 2010 10:29 am Post subject: |
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Due to many many MANY RL problems for pretty much every contestant left. (>.< Yeah, I'm a little pissy. So sue me.) the deadline will be moved to February 3.
>.<
Yeah.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Wed Feb 03, 2010 10:05 am Post subject: |
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And here we are! Actually on time! We will have one week of voting, followed by the Meryn vs. Vestis fight.
Fairuza's Version
Down…so far down…why would anyone choose to distance themselves from the precious earth like this?
Fairuza stood on the stone balcony overlooking the forests, her form silhouetted against the moon that looked close enough to touch. It was an unusually warm night, an eerie peace draping over the castle like a shroud. The calm before the storm, she thought dubiously. The balcony was certainly a strange place to be, floating so high above the living world. At least within the castle walls one could find some semblance of normalcy. But out here, Fairuza felt almost suspended in time, like at any moment reality could come crashing back down, sending her tumbling to earth along with it.
So close...she was so close to her goal, so close to her family she could hear their voices, a mad rush of laughter and singing and screaming and battle cries and…and perhaps they were just memories, ghosts of a dead life, pleading to be released and forgotten? She shook her head. No…she would not lose faith now, not when she had come so far. She let out a breath of warm air and leaned further over the railing.
“Can’t sleep either?” Meryn said, seeming to appear from nowhere in the doorway. Fairuza barely turned her head as he shuffled over to the railing to stand beside her, his expression somewhere between restlessness and concern.
“I have no use for human beds,” she snorted, her gaze still fixed on the ground below, “they’re just so…soft. Flat. Nothing like the wilds. At least out here I can see the stars.” She turned to look at him fully. “I don’t suppose you’re here for the same reasons?”
“Can’t say I have that problem, no. Just…raging insomnia, I guess.” He gave a half-apologetic shrug, though judging from the shadows under his eyes it seemed a perfectly good excuse.
“He’s acting up again, isn’t he?” Fairuza asked, her mouth forming some trace of a smile.
“Who, Fluffers? Nah, he’s been pretty quiet since we got up here.”
“I can’t say I blame him. I’m not meant to be this far off the ground.”
“Are any of us? I’ll be glad when this is all over, let me tell you.” He laughed weakly, although Fairuza knew what they were both thinking. She closed her eyes for a moment, and then looked up at the sky again, her gaze drinking in every last detail etched into the dark blue night.
“I wouldn’t be here to see it then.” She said quietly. “You know, I just realized that this may be the last time I see the moon.” The words were barely out of her mouth before she felt a shift in the air; if Meryn hadn’t sensed her dread before, he certainly had now.
“Hey, I didn’t mean…that’s not…”
“Listen, Meryn. You and I both know that even if one of us survives this, it will be at the cost of the other’s life. That’s why—“
“No.”
“That’s why I want you to promise me something.” She continued, barely pausing at Meryn’s quiet objection. “Meryn, I don’t know how else to say this. If by some chance you are the last one standing, it will mean I have failed, failed my family, my tribe, everything I once stood for. And if that should ever happen—“
“No.” Meryn repeated, more forcefully this time. “That’s not going to happen. You won’t die, Fairuza. I won’t—“
“You won’t what? Let them kill me? Even if it means laying down your own life? I have enough blood on my hands, Meryn, and I will not add your needless sacrifice to that list. No, I will fight on my own, with every ounce of power I possess, and you can be sure I will not stop until I or my opponent lies dead. And should that not be enough—and you know that’s entirely possible,” she snapped when Meryn started to protest again, “then you must succeed where I failed. You must be victorious, and once you are, I want you to find my tribe. If any of them are still alive, please tell them what happened to me. Tell them…tell them that I tried.” Her voice faltered, and she had to close her eyes again.
“You won’t die.” Meryn murmured again, though he looked equally conflicted. A moment of grim silence passed, before he made up his mind. “But…alright. If by some miracle I’m the one to get out of here alive, I’ll find them. And I’ll tell them you died as a hero. That was our original agreement, after all.” A smile flashed across his face, fading just as quickly as something else occurred to him. “But you said you would fight until you or the enemy is dead. Will…will you fight to kill even if that enemy is me?”
His gaze met hers, and for a moment both could fully see the maelstrom of emotion brewing behind the other’s eyes. How much time had passed, neither could say, before Fairuza looked away, breaking the spell.
“You know what’s at stake for me, Meryn.” She said, “The next time we meet may very well be on the battlefield. And regardless of my opponent, I must fight without mercy. Even if we are…” Allies. Partners. Friends. She couldn’t bring herself to say any of these words, not to a human, not when they were so close to the face of death. “…bound by contract.” She finished lamely. “So, do I have you word?”
“I…yes, you have my word.” Meryn said, his mouth settling into a tight line. Fairuza found some comfort in his promise, despite what it meant for both of them. She relaxed a little.
“Thank you.” She said gently, almost a whisper.
For the rest of that night, neither of them spoke, simply looked out onto the sprawling world sleeping below them. At some point before the sun rose, Fairuza stole a quick glance at Meryn. Even in the dim glow of the dying moon, he looked paler than usual, even a little sick. It was then that she was reminded of what made them so different.
She was prepared for death. He wasn’t.
~~~~~
Fairuza shifted from foot to foot restlessly in the darkened room, waiting for the doors to slide open. This was it…one way or another, she would be leaving this accursed island. She just had a few more opponents to face.
Who was this Alys anyway? She didn’t recall seeing a woman in the dining hall last night, at least not one that looked able to handle a weapon. She must have been the late contestant then. Whoever she is, I’ll tear her apart. A smile split Fairuza’s face nearly in half, as she fought to control the unexplainable, animalistic frenzy rising inside her. All of the fear from last night, the thoughts of death, the solemn vow Meryn had made to her, none of it seemed to matter here.
Here, there was only battle.
The heavy stone doors opened soundlessly, and Fairuza darted into the circular room, the bright lights making her vision shimmer at the edges. She thought she heard voices somewhere above her, maybe an audience watching from a safe distance. She didn’t care; all of her attention burned into her enemy.
A woman was kneeled in the center of the room, her head bowed. She was muttering something under her breath…praying? Meditating? Either way, she didn’t seem to acknowledge Fairuza’s presence. Even in her half-crazed state, Fairuza was stopped momentarily by something. She didn’t need heightened senses to know that there was something very, very wrong about this woman. The very air around her seemed…rotten, as if her heart had died a long time ago and the rest of her body hadn’t yet realized it.
And then the woman stopped muttering, and as smoothly as can be, she stood up, her half-opened eyes still trained on the ground.
“Alys.” Fairuza said simply, her voice twisting into a growl on the last syllable. Alys brought her hand to her forehead, as if she meant to sweep away her heavy bangs.
“I am,” She said, her voice piercing the air like a frozen stiletto, “and you’re…” she slowly moved the curtain of raven hair from her face, Fairuza still unable to look away, “…dead.”
Alys’ left eye shot open, revealing a spiral of icy silver with no visible pupil. Fairuza stood rooted to the spot, completely transfixed by the swirling, probing thing that wormed its way into her mind. All of her triumphs, her failures, her heart’s desires, her painful flaws, were surely plain for Alys to see. Still it searched, still it fumbled and clawed, even as Fairuza’a entire being screamed at her to stop. But the very center of Fairuza’s being, the essence that was now being horribly violated, didn’t hold Alys’ interest for long. A second, or perhaps an hour passed before she withdrew, seeming to have found what she was looking for.
“Ah,” Alys said, her frigid voice barely registering surprise, “no magic in you, then?” Fairuza took a step forward, shaking with a cold, silent rage at what Alys had just done.
“You…you bitch…” Fairuza hissed, taking another mindless step towards her. The frenzy from just moments before hadn’t left her. No, far from it. It had turned dark, coiled, preparing to strike.
“Very well,” Alys said, seemingly oblivious to the enraged Caryani creeping towards her, “I suppose we’ll do this the hard way then.” With lightning reflexes, she drew a silver knife from her belt and sprinted towards Fairuza, a strange wave of energy exploding from her throat. Alys lunged for her jugular, the energy spiraling from the tip of her dagger. Fairuza flicked her head to the side, sunk her claws into Alys’ outstretched hand, and twisted her wrist back with a savage glee. Alys hissed in pain, blood flowing freely from the wound, but she refused to drop the knife. She then kicked Fairuza’s foot out from under her, throwing her hard to the ground.
Fairuza only had a split second to react before an enormous hammer came crashing down at her. She rolled out of the way, barely having sprung to her feet before narrowly dodging another hammer swing. She could feel the power radiating from that hammer as it whooshed by her. It was considerably slower than the knife, but one hit and it was over, of that she was certain. But still the rage tugged at her, urging her to attack.
Alys took advantage of her distraction and swung the hammer again. Fairuza dodged it again, seeing it as the bigger threat. Her eyes barely even registered the glint of the dagger, which had immediately followed the hammer, before it sunk itself into her shoulder. She bit down, fighting back a cry of pain, tearing her bottom lip in the process. That power and speed couldn’t have been natural. But where was it coming from?
A strange, scratching sound escaped from Alys’ throat, and it continued even as she dropped the bloodied knife and started to pull a silver chain from her belt. Fairuza darted forward, only to be kept at bay by the hammer. The noise grew steadily louder, and it took Fairuza a moment to realize that she was laughing. Finally, Alys pulled the chain free and swung it like a whip, wrapping it around Fairuza’s arm, now laughing freely.
“Is that it?!” Alys crowed, her laughter reaching a hysterical level, “And here I thought you’d be a challenge!” She yanked Fairuza towards her, binding her arm even tighter. Fairuza couldn’t pull away from the cold metal as it bit into her skin. The energy…it was pulsing from that thing at her throat. The ankh, glowing at its center with a blood-red gem. That had to be the source.
“You are pathetic!” Alys laughed again, giving the chain another yank. Fairuza didn’t struggle, but just let Alys reel her in. She just had to get close enough…
“What’s wrong? You’ve given up already?” Yank. “I must say, I’m disappointed. When I looked into your mind, I thought this fight would at least be—“ She choked mid-sentence as Fairuza lunged forward. With a roar of effort, she broke free of the chain and dug her claws into Alys’ neck, ripping the ankh from its choker and leaping backwards. Alys staggered backwards, chain dropped and hammer dangling at her side, her free hand flying up to clutch her throat.
“You…you…!” Alys breathed in outrage, blood trickling from underneath her hand. She didn’t seem to have torn anything vital, unfortunately. A frozen moment passed before a cry of rage ripped its way out of her throat, and she charged Fairuza, hammer cocked over her head.
Fairuza had half a second to decide. Bracing herself, she moved all but her hand, still clutching the ankh, out of the way of Alys’ blind hammer. The blow smashed against the wall, and her hand, crushing both mercilessly. This time Fairuza really screamed as she felt every bone in her hand shatter under the hammer. Alys stood there for a moment, hunched over her weapon, breathing furiously. Her breathing stopped for a moment as her eye caught a glint of red falling from beneath the hammer, a red that was not blood. And then she gave a wordless cry as she realized her ankh was destroyed. Her hammer slumped to the ground, her strength greatly depleted.
Fairuza was panting raggedly, her hand still aflame with pain. Alys’ guard was down, but all Fairuza could think of was her destroyed hand, her weapon, now a mass of twisted flesh, blood, bone and claw, all in the wrong order. Anger swelled in her chest as she turned her attention on her weakened opponent, who stared back up at her, with that single dark-blue eye. Alys edged away as Fairuza slowly advanced. She’ll pay for this, a voice inside her murmured with quiet fury.
“Don’t…don’t think you’ve beaten me yet.” Alys spat, raising her hammer again, nowhere near as confident as before. Fairuza sank into a crouch, creeping further towards her. Then, without warning, she launched herself forward, right into the path of Alys’ hammer. She ducked under the weapon and slid, knocking the hammer out of Alys’ hand. She was certainly still quick, but without her ankh Alys was no match for Fairuza’s beastly strength. She evaded the claws that were still functional, gaining only a shallow slash across her stomach. She drew another knife and slashed again, but Fairuza leapt back, the blade barely flicking her cheek.
Then, sweeping up the chain that Alys had abandoned, Fairuza charged her, leaping forward and pinning her to the ground with her knees. Using her teeth as a second hand, Fairuza wound the chain twice around Alys’ already bleeding throat, and pulled as tightly as she could. Alys’ breaths grew steadily shallower, as she struggled underneath her own metal, her eyes widening. Finally she stopped, taking in what Fairuza was sure was her last breath. Alys looked up at her, bangs flung aside so both her eyes were visible. Then she smiled, smirking in the face of
death.
“Not…not bad.” She wheezed. She drew a final, shuddering breath, and then her eyes grew dark, her life fading from beneath Fairuza’s hands.
Fairuza loosened her grip on the woman that now lay dead, smiling, eyes staring eerily up at the ceiling as she lay in death’s cold embrace. She wasn’t sorry it had to come to this. The woman was a worthy opponent, nothing more. After all, the
bitch had smashed her hand, her…
Wait…why was there no pain anymore? Fairuza looked at her destroyed hand, and watched in wonder at what was happening: the shards of the crushed ankh had buried themselves in her flesh, and cheerfully knitted everything back into place.
She could only stare for a moment, and then looked back at her dead opponent.
Well, I guess that’s all the help you had left to offer.
Alys' Version
Alys stood in the dark, stone cell, waiting for the heavy wooden door in front of her to open. There was silence as she mechanically checked that her daggers and hammer were all in place, absent-mindedly fingering one of the metal chains hanging from her belt as she pondered the last couple of days.
After her fight with the Ebon Acolyte, she had walked from the forest to the castle, where one of the king’s advisors had come out to meet her and explain the next step of the tournament. He had then taken her up to the castle, where she had waited for the last round to begin.
While waiting, she realized that her previous battle had caused her to remember those things called emotions. Happiness, sadness, love, something other then the guilt and anger that had clung to her for years. Her ice-queen exterior had shattered, and she found herself wanting to experience these passions again.
The first time she did it was merely an accident. The servant bringing food had startled her into revealing her abnormal eye, but the glimpse that she caught of a normal person’s emotion was… addicting. Since then, the temptation for sampling another’s feelings was always there, in the back of her mind.
A creaking sound brought Alys out of her reverie. The door in front of her was slowly opening, a widening shaft of light illuminating her face. She stepped out of the small cell and into a large, circular arena. Towering walls with benches at the top surrounded the dirt floor on which Alys walked. A cluster of people sat in the center- servants, men she recognized as competitors themselves, and the king.
After a brief glance around, Alys focused on the far end of the arena, where another door was opening, revealing a slight woman dressed in a leather tunic and leggings. Alys watched her closely, noticing the fluid way she walked and the yellow gleam from her catlike eyes. The only color visible to her left eye was at the woman’s waist, probably where her manokiri was kept. So the woman was not associated with magic. Good, that made things easier.
There was silence as the two women watched each other warily from across the wide, open space, Alys twirling a dagger in her hand, the woman holding a javelin loosely, ready to throw.
A voice Alys recognized as the king’s own shattered the silence. “Fairuza and Alys…. Begin.”
There was a beat, then sudden flashes of movement as each hurled their respective weapons at each other. Alys leaped out of the way of the javelin, hearing it crack into the wall behind her as she hit the ground and rolled, jumping back to her feet with a fresh dagger in hand. She glanced up to find Fairuza running towards her with incredible speed, teeth bared and a hand poised, ready to strike. Alys just managed to duck, and the clawed hand passed over her head. She stabbed towards Fairuza’s stomach- only to be blocked by another claw.
The two sprang apart, panting slightly, eyeing each other warily. They began circling each other, each waiting for the other to strike. Every few seconds, Fairuza would lunge in for an attack- only to be met with a parrying dagger. A flurry of claws and blade would ensue until they separated again, each with a few more cuts or scratches then before.
It was only after Alys received a particularly bad gash on her arm that she realized that this style of fighting wasn’t getting her anywhere. This cat-like woman was much faster then she had anticipated, and the claws gave her an extra advantage for close-range combat.
They circled again briefly, Alys watching the woman closely, dagger loose in her grip. Finally that flash of fire passed through Fairuza’s eyes again and she lunged- but Alys was ready. In one swift movement, Alys dropped the dagger and grasped one of the metal ropes hanging from her belt, ripping it out from the leather ties. As she dodged the claws, she wrapped the strong, flexible metal around Fairuza’s neck and yanked, causing the startled woman to lose her balance. Before she could regain it, Alys had taken hold of the other end of the chain and pulled it tight, creating a kind of noose in which Fairuza was trapped. Using Fairuza’s small height as an advantage, Alys was able to lift the woman up by the chain around her neck until her feet were off the ground, strangling her slowly.
Alys tightened the chain around Fairuza’s neck, watching as the woman clawed at the chain desperately, eyes bulging as she gasped for breath. A single glance at those wild, cat-like eyes made Alys remember the fire that had burned in them during their battle. For a brief second, Alys was overcome with the desire to experience this passion herself. Without loosening her grip on the chain, Alys tilted her head so her bangs un-covered her hidden eye and looked into the dying woman’s yellow eyes-
And she was inside the free-woman’s mind. It was a mass of fire and bright colors, heats and chills.. Sadness, fear, and joy burned with a passion Alys had never felt. There was hate there as well, desire for something lost, and a burning ache for revenge-
A sharp pain in her normal eye brought Alys back to reality with a jolt. Pain seared across her face, and she dropped the ends of the chain with a cry, clasping her hand to her burning eye. Fairuza, claws red with Alys’ freshly drawn blood, collapsed to the floor, coughing and gasping for breath.
Blood trickled down Alys’ face as she pulled her hand away, revealing four deep scratches reaching from her brow-bone to her chin, tearing down the center of her normal eye. The world was only visible through her silver eye now… and all color was devoid from it. Alys grimaced from the pain. This was not the ideal way to fight, what with her dominant eye completely useless. Best to end it now.
Alys drew a dagger and approached the crouched, wheezing woman. She raised the dagger, ready to plunge it into Fairuza’s back-
And froze as Fairuza whirled around, a feral snarl etched across her face. Before Alys could react, Fairuza had tackled her, forcing Alys to her knees—claws out and flailing, ripping as much of Alys’ body as they could reach. Alys yelled in pain and flailed around wildly with her dagger. A shriek confirmed some sort of deep hit, and the beast-woman retreated, nursing a deep shoulder wound.
Scratches large and small covered Alys’ arms and face. She could feel the blood pouring from her body, leaving her weaker and weaker by the second. Her old wound from the Ebon Acolyte’s sword was throbbing, only adding to the pain that was threatening to overwhelm her completely. She looked down and saw her arms and legs shaking with weariness and a lack of blood flow. Maybe this is it, she thought wryly to herself.
A soft light pulsed from the ankh hanging from her neck. A bolt of energy rushed down her shaking arm, and the dagger flew from her hand with a frightening speed- to land hilt-deep in Fairuza’s chest.
Cat-like eyes widened, and the woman collapsed, blood trickling out of the corner of her mouth. Alys stood slowly, last dagger in hand. She stumbled over to the prone figure and raised her bloodied arm for the final blow.
“No.” A weak voice issued from Fairuza’s mouth.
Alys paused.
“Use the… manokiri...” Fairuza was gasping for breath. “I want… help you…”
Confused, Alys stared at the woman for a brief second before her magiked eye focused on the yellow one, glimpsing her mind once again-
And what she saw was a question - whether or not a loss would be searched for. There was a want, a need to live, find and fight - even if through someone else.
There was a beat as Alys returned to reality, then the corner of her mouth twitched upwards in a smile- a sign of a promise. As she watched, Fairuza’s eyes became less wild when she saw the smile, frantic yellow becoming more calm. Alys replaced the dagger in her belt, and instead drew the manokiri. It was the only colorful object in this new world of blacks and grays; an object filled and surrounded with twisting and merging colors. She gazed at its brilliance for a brief moment, then stabbed Fairuza through the heart.
Fairuza sighed as the blade pierced her, and her brilliant yellow eyes glazed over and became dull. As Alys watched, a blue light escaped from the dead woman’s mouth and sank into the manokiri’s blade, joining the other colors in their slow, whirling dance.
Alys bowed her head, then stood, swaying slightly, bloody manokiri grasped tightly in her hand. She turned her gaze to the crowd, searching until her lone eye found the old king seated on the stone throne. He was staring at her with his head resting on his hands. They gazed at each other, and then her red-tipped bangs fell over her eye once more and she turned away, collecting and resheathing all her daggers.
She glanced back at the prone body of the fierce and strong beast-woman, then strode out of the cold stone arena with a promise in her heart, hand clutching the manokiri at her waist.
And we have our fights! Who wins?
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sun Feb 07, 2010 8:12 pm Post subject: |
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Hey, so since I have no votes yet and there are three days left, I'm going to go ahead and postpone the deadline for the next fight a week.
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Crunchyfrog
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| Posted: Mon Feb 08, 2010 1:19 am Post subject: |
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| I went for Fairuza - I dunno, I felt closer to the character, with the prelude to the fight.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Mon Feb 22, 2010 5:52 pm Post subject: |
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So with a vote of three to one, we have Fairuza as our finalist!
Let's find out who her opponent will be!
Meryn
I was in a bedroom. It was a nice bedroom, sure, ornate bedspread and a fireplace and a window that looked out into… well. The sky now. But it wasn’t my bedroom, the one I had spent so many hungover mornings sleeping in, and that was the one I really wanted now.
I leaned back against the headboard, Fluffers- or the manokiri, I guess- in hand. For a while, a long while, I just sat there staring at it.
Then I reached out with my mind.
Fluffers?
Meryn. His “voice.” Smoother than mine. Colder. What do you want now? We have another fight tomorrow. So we do. And you will win. What is your need?
I hesitated. Look, I can’t let what happened last time happen again. We got lucky that it was Fairuza. Anybody else… Is the one we fight next a female? Well no, but- Then I fail to see the problem.
Damn it. He’d changed since he was a fluffball. Look, I don’t want you taking over my body. A cold laugh from his end. Do you really believe you can win without me?
A chill went down my spine. This… thing was just so different.
Maybe not. But sometimes you have to just do things the right way.
All this earns me is another laugh. Such a child. Such an aberration. Your species usually wants to survive, no matter the cost. But you…
Damn it. His condescension was starting to make me angry. Look, it doesn’t matter. It’s my body, my rules. If I don’t want to kill someone, then we don’t kill them. Giving control to you doesn’t mean I don’t have to take responsibility for the people you kill with my body. So just stay the hell out, got it?
It… he sighed. I’m sorry, Meryn. Old friend. Things have been… difficult. This new body has changed me. If that is what you wish, then that is what shall come to pass.
His sudden 180 was a surprise, to say the least. How exactly? My people… we are different from you humans. I was what you would call a child. A larval stage. When we grow up, we shed our physical form. I was not due for perhaps another hundred years. But I have transcended earlier than I should have, when I became part of this dagger. It has been difficult on me. I am effectively going through what your kind would call puberty at an accelerated rate. There are… different parts of me arguing. It has been difficult to hold on to me.
A silence descended, for a brief moment, in which I decided to not mention the voices in his head. Another question grabbed my attention. How old are you exactly? Some hesitation on his end. Older than you would like me to be, friend.
I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so I didn’t.
The next day, I was cast into the pit. Lowered to be more specific, but as I was dropped on a harness that was quickly pulled back up, I could not help but shake the feeling that I was some kind of sacrifice, thrown into the den of the beast.
Before me stood my opponent, scarred and armed to the teeth.
All I had was the Manokiri and the rest of my knives. Stupidly, I had left the sword back in that forest.
He drew his weapons. I drew mine. Admittedly, mine lost in comparison.
In his right hand, a wooden sword edged with gleaming obsidian. In the left a wide blade of bone.
And of course, I had the Manokiri and a knife.
Damnit I really wish I had brought some bigger hardware on this little jaunt. Or at least kept the Alena’s sword.
He flourished the swords, strutting back and forth as he did so, limbering up. I did a quick little pregame stretch of my own. I would have enough problems as it was without having to worry about cramping up.
He finished, and not wanting to be left behind, so did I.
“So what’s your name?” His grating voice was surprisingly conversational. With a few fingers on one of his hands, he began to unstrap the harness he wears, weighed down with what can only be labeled a veritable armory.
“I don’t see how it matters, since one of us will be dead in a bit. Whichever one of us that is, your knowing my name won’t matter, since I feel like we won’t be talking much afterward.”
He gave a chuckle. “Still, I’d like to know. I try to remember the names of men I kill.”
Here’s hoping he wouldn’t have to remember mine. Myself, I’d try to forget everything about this nightmare the instant I step off this floating rock.
“My name is Meryn Weir.”
He gave a slight incline of his head. “Vestis.” He finished unbuckling the last strap and dropped the swords with a clatter behind him.
“Just Vestis? Well at least when I kill you I won’t have too much trouble remembering your name.” Of course, he saw right through my bravado. He had swords and I had knives, and we both knew that he had the advantage in this equation.
He outright laughed at that one. Then he lunged at me, swords at the ready.
Well at least he wasn’t a girl. I threw the knife in my left hand, running to the right as I did so that he would have to break his charge to change course.
With a wooden thunk, the knife embeds itself into the wooden blade of his right hand sword, doing absolutely nothing except to knock it a little out of position. However, as he slowed down to change direction, it dropped a little more than it should have.
I seized the opportunity. Grabbing the small knife from my right wrist sheath, I flung it with a smooth movement. He jerked out of the way, but blood flew nevertheless. Only a small line of blood across his right bicep but still… First Blood.
From there it just went downhill. Totally ignoring both knives I had thrown at him, he came at me again, swords swinging in a pattern designed to keep me from getting close enough to touch him.
Driven back and back, I drew another knife, this one from my belt buckle. It was my second to last knife, not counting the manokiri.
A lucky swipe on his part sent it flying from my hand. A looping cut with the bone sword, I barely manage to deflect with a swing of the manokiri.
As I stumble back even more, I nearly trip over his abandoned harness.
Perhaps I was luckier than I suspected. Grabbing the nearest hilt, I drew it from its sheath. The first hint of worry in the entire fight appears on Vestis’s face.
Then the goddamn sword burst into goddamn flames. Not expecting this, I did what any other highly trained man with honed combat reflexes would, and threw the sword, fire and all, at my opponent. Swords, unlike my knives are not meant to be thrown. He sidestepped easily, a smirk on his face.
But some good did come out of things. As he sidestepped, his eyes followed the flaming brand as it went past him. For only the briefest second, but in that time I closed the gap. Having written me off already as an easy kill, his reaction time was slower than it should have been.
The manokiri found his right elbow, leaving a deep wound, knocking the wood-and-obsidian contraption from his hand in the process. I followed this with an elbow to his left wrist, knocking it, and the sword in his hand, away from his body. Then I plunged the manokiri into h-
His right hand grabbed my wrist, which should not have been possible. The elbow wound is one of the most painful in the human body, and should have put his entire right arm out of commission for at least a little while. So then I did something I am not expressly proud of, and kneed him in the family jewels. (Hey, you do what you need to in order to survive. You learn that in war.)
No reaction at all. In my moment of awe at what was either extreme numbness or extreme manliness, his left-hand sword came at my head, pointfirst. I ducked, shouldered him to the ground, trying to get the manokiri into him.
As he hit the ground, he dropped the sword, wind knocked out of him. I took the opportunity to try and free my knife hand, but his grip there was strong as ever. And my other hand was now too occupied to grab a knife from the sheath on my back since it was currently trying to stop his other hand from getting to my throat.
Flipping the manokiri around in my right hand, I cut at his right even as I rolled both of us over, trying to disorient him. But his grip remained iron, and his left hand managed to get a grip on my throat.
I could feel the last knife, in my back sheath, there, but I couldn’t use it because I was too busy lying on it. Rough stone on my back, my enemy above me, locked in hand to hand struggle, the situation didn’t look that good.
Especially after he slammed my head against the ground a couple times. Dazed momentarily, I loosened my grip on the manokiri, allowing him to throw it away from us.
Then both of his hands were at my throat. I tried a thumb in his eye, but he didn’t even scream, and his grip never loosened. Slowly, the breath was getting choked out of me. Then I noticed a flickering off to the side, feel a warmth from that general direction.
Half-conscious thought running through my head, I made a herculean effort and flipped us over, toward it.
He landed on the flaming sword. The smell of sizzling flesh wafted up towards me. But still nothing.
Goddamnit, did this guy feel ANYTHING?
With my right hand, I scrambled frantically, for my last knife, now freed from the stone floor. Finally, grasping it, gasping for breath, I slashed at the tendons in his left hand. Still no reaction, no pain in his eyes. But his grip loosened, and I managed to break free.
AIR.
I rolled away, cutting my leg on a sword as I roll away. Stung like a bitch. Luckily, the manokiri was right there, so I rolled to my feet and grabbed it, in what was a mostly smooth motion. Again armed with two knives, I faced him.
He laughed. With serious burns on his backs, one useless hand, one eye already swelling into a purple orb, he laughed.
Then, like a chill in my veins, I felt the paralytic. It coursed through my limbs, turning them to lead.
It took all my effort but I remained standing. I will not die lying down. If that is the only victory I will achieve, well…. It probably won’t matter when I’m dead. But I am nothing if not illogical.
Vestis picked up the flaming sword in his right hand, left hanging at his side.
“You fought well, Meryn Weir. For that, I will give you a quick death.”
The sword leaped for my throat.
ENOUGH
I felt a surge of power from the manokiri still held loosely from my hand. Vestis froze. Then he spoke. “I know you asked me not to interfere, Meryn, but I could not stand by and let you die. And you did only ask me not to possess your body.”
How?
“This man is… lacking. He has only the last threads of a soul left. Bolstered with your talent, I was able to take it over. Now let us end this.” He spoke more, but it was not to me. “You fought well, Vestis. For that, I will give you a quick death.”
Then that scarred hand plunged the flaming sword into Vestis’s heart.
A moment later, I heard the thump, as if something had fallen from the edge of the pit, and the manokiri was knocked from my hand.
I heard the voice of the King in my ear. “I said that there can only be one competitor. You have violated the rules of this combat, piggybacking on the power of your friend.”
I collapsed, my strength giving out. Above me, hazy as I drifted into unconsciousness, I heard a last few words.
“Take this wretch to the outer cells. Strip him of his weapons, and bring his manokiri to me. Only the true contestant will fight in the final battle.”
And now we have his opponent's version.
Vestis
“Finally a fair duel.” Vestis said to himself in the chamber he had been given. He looked down upon his blades with pride. They were not trophies. No. they were the tools and friends that had guided him so far. They had seen the worst the world had to offer, and survived; saved him countless times. But he would only use one.
“The man I am to fight, Meryn, he is an honest man, I think. So I will fight him with one sword.” He looked down at his swords, and thought. “Which one of the ten should I use?”
Vestis saw the biggest of the swords; the only unnamed, and remembered the giant, Zippen that he had taken it from. He remembered all the great beasts that had fallen to its might. It was plain but it was special, and had punctured the “impenetrable” shells of many terrors. But it had killed only a few men.
He looked back on Sorlin’s blade, a kopis. It was bloodstained and had allowed his old master to survive in the ravages of the Largian desert. He stared at the scratches and the nicks and felt it’s somehow smooth surface. He took a moment to remember Sorlin. He had lived cold life of isolation, but he had been content. Vestis wondered if he should ever have come to this island, instead of living like his former master. He decided that a sword that gave him regret would not give him strength.
Vestis unsheathed Zulfiquar, a twin pronged scimitar. It was fast and sharp, but flimsy compared to many of his other blades. It would need the support of another sword if he was to use it. He glanced again over all his swords and his eyes came to rest on Forced Mortality.
It was an ornate short sword that had been decorated by the Monks of Gurevich monastery. It had been forged to kill the immortal and the undead, by removing the magic that bound them to this world. It had allowed Vestis to save many forsaken and accursed folk. It had allowed him to avenge Lenore, at the cost of his soul.
Vestis picked up this blessed sword and the memories came back to him. He remembered the look on Lenore’s face as the demon sucked her soul away. She was bound by contract to the fiend, and her soul was his, but Vestis fought nonetheless. With this blade he fought the beast using all his might. He looked at the hilt, and at his hand, both scarred and battered. The demon’s breath had taken Vestis’s skin, and his touch had taken most of his soul. In the end, Vestis had the head of the thing that stole his love, but lost his emotion, and his ambition. With his nigh decrepit hand he gripped the sword tight. He would reclaim his ambition and his soul, all he had to do now was to defeat those others in Starstone, and he would do it with this sword.
“I said, what are your motives? What have you to fight for?” Vestis stood in a pit with the marbled stone walls of Starstone. He held Forced Mortality and stood vigil and proud. He wore his armor, but now he had no other swords with him.
The cloaked man that stood before him was wary and did not want to speak, with a knife and his manokiri drawn. They circled the room preparing for the first move. They stared into each other's eyes, blankly trying to read their slightest movements.
“What horrors have you seen? What have you endured of life?”
Perplexed, Meryn responded. “I have seen the horrors of war.”
“So do you fight for?”
Meryn squinted as though trying to see through Vestis’s words. He thought that they were some form of trickery.
“I’ll go first then. I fight to regain my soul.”
Meryn’s eyes widened and seemed to change shape, ever so slightly. “So you have no soul?” He said in a strange voice, in a higher tone than the one he had used before.
“Give me the courtesy of answering my question before I answer any of yours.” Vestis said, wary of this new curiosity.
Meryn’ shook his head, and his eyes returned to normal. “No, no! I can do this; he is just a man, just like the countless others I killed in the war. And look at him! His entire body is scarred, I’m sure he has killed countless innocent people. He isn’t like the others, he is just a man. I don’t need your help to take down a fiend such as him!” Meryn said in the voice he had before.
“What audacity? I’ve been both underestimated and misjudged in one soliloquy. And to think I came here for an honorable fight. Enough come at me!”
Meryn’s appeared to widen and narrow multiple times. It was as though he was caught in a trance. He was off guard.
Vestis dashed at him. Forced Mortality held in his left hand, he was ready to fight.
“Yes, yes, I understand.” Said Meryn, coming out of the trance in time to dodge the first swing. He came up with his knife, to be met by Vestis’s sword. Meryn swung around with the maokiri, but Vestis jumped back out of its reach.
Keeping hid momentum, Meryn spun around to whip out at Vestis with his other knife. Vestis bunted the attack off with Forced Mortality and then went in striking for the chest. Meryn quickly recovered himself, leaning back and drawing his knife back in to defend, along with bringing his manokiri to block.
Vestis forced his weight down upon Meryn’s blades, his hands both clutching the hilt of the holy sword. He pressed harder, waiting for the smaller man to collapse, bringing the weapon down Meryn’s chest.
But that did not happen. The force pushing against Vestis’s sword grew. The ornate patterns on the sword glowed with a yellow intensity. Vestis knew that meant magic, as he looked up to see the eyes of Meryn to be wider and more glazed. This new force over threw Vestis’s blades and Meryn’s knifes slashed his arms as he jumped away.
Vestis was perplexed by the happenings of the fight thus far. Meryn was strange to him; his eyes changed and so did he. Vestis decided hesitation would get him killed, and went for Meryn again.
Their blades clashed, with a strike lower than Vestis had swung. It was as though a ghost were moving it. Again he was thrown off balance by this ghost force. This time it left him wide open for attack.
Meryn stabbed downward with the manokiri, but, he tripped and it did not plunge into Vestis’s heart, but missed. Instead cutting through his pant it landed firmly between Vestis’s shin plate and his leg, without cutting him at all. Blatantly flabbergasted at his poor attempt, Meryn drew another manokiri to replace the one he just lost and darted away. Vestis Felt the enchanted metal against his shin, and thought himself lucky. The runes of Vestis’s sword glowed brighter now, as though there were some magic around him.
Meryn was now circling again, and Vestis followed, now that both knew a little bit more about their opponents. Vestis looked into his opponent’s eyes again. They were the way they were last night at the dinner hall. Vestis wondered what had moved his sword when he had swung before, and if it had something to do with Meryn’s eyes.
Meryn held his second manokiri for a moment, looking at it. With a deep breath he slowly moved his eyes from the blade to Vestis’s. He squinted a bit, focusing. He said aloud, “I can do it!” as Forced Mortality began to glow. His body lurched forward, as did the holy sword, knocking Vestis in the helmet. While he was stunned from the change of tide, Meryn ran up to him, knife in hand, aiming for the face. Vestis moved his sword up to block it, but it was struck down seemingly by Meryn’s gaze alone.
Vestis was hit, but he could not tell how bad, it was not in the eye, or the mouth, but the knife had made contact. Meryn was too overextended to prevent a light slash from the righteous sword.
This time Vestis retreated, and he put a hand on his head to feel the wound. It was deep, and into the side of his face, deep enough that it might scar his talking. He looked down to his blade to see it glow red, meaning that it had struck a magical being. If he was as lucky as the manokiri trip had been, than this meant Meryn’s ‘ghost’ would be gone, for at least the duration of the fight.
His eyes hadn’t changed that whole combat, Vestis realized. Hopefully, Forced Mortality wouldn’t let him do it again. The metal against his leg felt, for some reason warmer now. Vestis glanced down, nothing had changed visually.
Meryn stared intently at Vestis, as though a blind man trying to see, or someone facing death in pure denial. “Whatever you had done before, my sword has taken care of that. You will go down easily.” The soulless one said to the man in denial.
He dashed up to Meryn, with all the force of his entire being behind the consecrated weapon.
He had been here before. Vestis remembered his duels and his ambitions. Adrenalin driving him to near insanity and giving him complete control the sword, as another limb. It made him whole. He was whole: one in mind, one in body, and one in purpose. No, he had not been here before. Before he knew what he was doing, he knew why he fought, and he loved it. He had loved every moment of against everything He fought for life, fame, and all the spoils in-between. Here was none of that, here he had lost everything he had gained in all his great gambles. Here he did not love the adrenalin, or the stakes, or the pain. Here he was without Lenore, without his soul, without ambition.
His sword flew through the air, almost as fast as it once could have gone; almost as fast as it did beheading the demon. He hesitated for a split second as his eyes met Meyrn’s. they were scarred, and hardened, but not ready for death. They turned from the look of sheer denial to one of pure victory. “NOW” he yelled to no one.
The warm metal on Vestis leg, Meryn’s manokiri, feel as though it pumped something into Vestis’s leg, something he could not trace. His foot stopped dead and his arm swung around, to a miss. It was not a bad feeling, this feeling, it was somehow familiar to Vestis. It wasn’t painful but felt as though everything came into focus. It spread this strange feeling throughout his body, paralyzing him and giving him this feeling. It moved up into his arms and he felt the slashes he had received earlier. He felt them with pain. He cried out, feeling pain for the first time in ten years. His mouth drooled blood from the face’s earlier wound as he screamed. The feeling crept into his head, and he felt another mind.
He felt as though he lost all control of his body, it was being controlled by another soul. His mind felt tiny in comparison, he had so little control, but he felt his senses again. He felt everything, if they had been a light in his mind, he would go blind from the overload of sensory and emotion. He felt as though he was looking out of eyes that weren’t his own. And, for the time being, they weren’t.
Vestis saw Meryn’s eyes again, this time hesitant, holding up his dagger to Vestis’s chest. Through the scarred and worn out ears, Vestis heard himself say “What are you waiting for, Kill him now!” Fear, an emotion Vestis had not felt in a long while. He watched in agony as Meryn lined up the best strike, one that would go straight through a weak spot in his armor. The other consciousness inside him was in complete control, and he was powerless.
The knife pierced his flesh, and Meryn pushed it all the way in. Vestis could feel this other presence squirm as he did in the pain of wound. It was much worse than the other injuries, this could prove lethal, as was its intent. He felt control of his hand, the one holding his sword, and it tightened. He felt his other hand to. He could not move them that far but he could move them. He shifted his free hand to touch the blade, then slit his palm.
The focus, the pain, the reality of what had happened went away, he was removed from it all. He was not dying, he was not fearful, and he had control back.
The possession had ended.
The new memory of the feeling of pain consumed him. That this man had made him feel in such a way angered him. Vestis had dreamed of returning to his full senses with nice feelings, most certainly not pain. That this man would make him feel his death, in the fullest torture of adrenalin’s focus, was horrible. And the worst of all, Vestis would have died lying down, not even fighting. What had they all fought for, the people and beasts he had killed? To be slain by an honorable opponent. To lose his honor in death, was the worst offense this man, Meryn, could possibly have committed.
He grabbed the manoriki inside his armor, with that demon consciousness, ripped it out, and flung it across the room. With his right hand his gripped Forced Mortality. With a cold stare, he rose, meeting Meryn’s gaze, as Meryn still held the imbedded knife.
“ You, insignificant little man, would dare, try to rob me of my will to fight. I am Vestis. Owner of countless trophies, slayer of great beasts, and champion amongst the greatest of swordsmen.” Vestis grabbed Meryns hand, which still clutched the knife. “ You would have me lay down and die, to a simple, poorly crafted weapon as this.” He gripped Meryns hand tighter and forcefully removed the knife. “ and it is for this insult, you will die.”
Vestis moved with lighting speed, and stabbed his own manokiri into Meryn’s chest, again and again and again.after the third hit, his eyes seemed lifeless, and Vestis knew his soul was gone, but he kept going for a few more hits. He let go of the man’s arm, and let the limp body fall to the floor. It was over.
So who fights Fairuza in the final round? Vote now!
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Mon Mar 01, 2010 8:53 pm Post subject: |
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And the winner is decided! Meryn/Fluffers goes on to face Fairuza!
Our divided team-up has now been reunited! But one of them MUST die!
Find out who in two weeks! (Giving the authors some time for this one; it IS the final round, excluding the boss battle.)
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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Phantomfan
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| Posted: Sat Aug 07, 2010 9:01 pm Post subject: |
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Not to be mean or anything, but this has been a looooooong two weeks.
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I've been pulled back from oblivion to lurk about the City once more. Though the music of the night always beckons...
Here's some stuff I started writing a long time ago. Orb. Nexus.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Wed Aug 11, 2010 3:16 pm Post subject: |
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T_T I'm sorry. I'll see if the authors still remember anything about this.
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Masterweaver
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| Posted: Mon Aug 16, 2010 4:55 pm Post subject: |
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| Just caught up and am regretting not getting in sooner. You really should plan a sequel or something...
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Tue Aug 17, 2010 12:33 pm Post subject: |
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I AM actually planning a sequel.
Also, here we go! Final round fight! Winner of this goes up against the King.
EDIT:On a side note, looking back, the stories make more sense if you remember this: http://www.cityofif.com/forum/viewtopic.php?p=135943&highlight=#135943
It was a while back, so i thought i'd post a link to it, in case you wanted to refresh your memories.
Meryn
Yesterday I was complaining about a bedroom which, while not completely perfect, was gladly lacking in the departments of hard stone floors and of nonexistent walls. Now I missed it. But even more, I missed my nice normal home, a normal house with four walls and no thousand-foot drops.
The deep cells of Starstone defied the norms of deep cells. Most deep cells are deep in the bowels of the castles, dank and dirty and dark, where captives slowly wither away.
In Starstone, the cells were airy and spacious in the worst way possible. One wall of the cell was open to…
I shuddered and tried to scoot closer towards my inner wall. The outer wall was the sky. An endless expanse of it, with clouds spotted randomly across. Last night, the wind had blown against the castle, tendrils of vapory cloud filling the room with wet. It had been hell. But now, it wasn’t too bad. If I just closed my eyes, I could pretend I wasn’t squatting in an uncomfortable stony corner six feet away from a thousand feet of screaming death, but rather just squatting in an uncomfortable stony corner.
Unfortunately, with my eyes closed, there wasn’t much to do but think or sleep, and I’d fallen off my own bed at home too many times to feel comfortable sleeping so close to such a precipitous drop. So that left thinking, but naturally my current predicament weighed rather heavily on my mind.
I was stuck in this cell. It could be worse, I guess. I could be dead. I was at least still a contestant in the competition. Which meant that I’d have to face basically the only other sane person on the island in a fight to the death.
I knew I promised her that, if she died, I would find her tribe. It was a pretty easy promise, considering that I hadn’t expected to live past the next couple days. And that I didn’t expect to survive if we fought again. Surviving the last fight had been a surprise. But compared to this next fight, the last one would be a cakewalk. And without Fluffers.
Just like the last time Fairuza and I fought, I’d have trouble fighting a woman. But now the problem was deeper than that. We’d traveled through most of Sky Island together to get to this place. She was nice enough, if quiet, but with an intensity I couldn’t help but be jealous of. And she actually had a goal. She actually had a purpose. I couldn’t kill her. I couldn’t kill her dream, even if I had pledged to continue her journey. Her ghost would be in my head.
This is why I was never a good soldier. In a lot of other wars, country against country, I think I would have been fine. Killing a man I’ve never met. No problem. I hadn’t heard his hopes, his dreams. I didn’t know about his wife, or his two kids, or his niece who wanted to grow up to be a princess.
The Takan Wars were different. Men marching out to fight, boys really. Never having left their little villages in their entire lives, now marching out to fight in a war against lords they’d never heard of for lords they’d never meet. It was a bloody civil war, and a fluid one. One lord might throw his lot in with one duke for a single battle, but then fight against him for the next three. And some guys just got lost and some died and some ran, until you found yourself on a bloody battlefield a hundred miles from home fighting with strangers against strangers, and you learned to not talk with the men under another lord’s command or even under your lord’s command, because you never knew who would die or who you would have to kill. Unless you were an idiot. Their ghosts lived on in your head, long after you want them to end.
I’m a goddamn idiot. I had to kill men I had shared food with. I’d complained with them about the soldier’s lot. I’d gambled a bit, won some money, lost some back. Then I had to kill them. The first time, the other guy stopped himself from stabbing me, and I stopped myself from spitting him, and then the guy next to me stabbed him in the neck and moved on. I still remember his little niece, but I don’t remember his name.
I tried to forget that war, later. Got off the ship at the first town a hundred miles from anyone I know and anywhere I’d been. Made a new life.
And now it was happening again. Not war, but bloody murder. I’d heard her hopes and her dreams and her fears, as we talked in the dying light of the campfires, as we traveled to this goddamned rock. Only one of us would live, to search for Fairuza’s tribe.
For the life of me, I didn’t know who I wanted to win. The knight in rusted armor still raised his squeaky chivalrous voice, but shit, I didn’t want to die.
I finally fell asleep. I think falling from the ledge in my sleep would’ve been a better alternative than what would happen if I kept on through my darkness.
I was shaken awake roughly. Even before I was fully awake, I was pushed and shoved down the halls and up the stairs of Starstone. I didn’t realize until we were mostly there that we were going back to the pit. And the last fight.
What was I going to say to Fairuza? What could I say? Good luck? Oh yes, good luck trying to kill me. Goodbye? That was… too final.
Too final. Right. This was a fight to the death.
We reached the edge of the pit in time for me to see Fairuza being lowered down. There was only one harness now, probably to show that only one of us was getting out. Our eyes met and she nodded to me. And I nodded back. And that was it, I knew. When we went down there, there would be no farewell speeches. It was time to kill or be killed.
Her feet hit the bottom of the pit and the harness was pulled back up. Before it could be passed to me though, the King approached the pit. Beside me, he turned to those watching.
“And here, now, we come to the penultimate struggle. Only one of the two remaining contestants will survive the final battle. And that survivor will then try their mettle against mine, so we can determine, once and for all, who the Strongest truly is.”
It didn’t make sense to me to be giving this speech now. Shouldn’t he wait until I wasn’t standing right there, at the edge of the pit? It seemed to me that it would be easier to give this speech after I was lowered in, so that after his dramatic speech he could merely wave an arm and shout begin instead of having to wait for me to be lowered.
He turned to me, and I saw the Manokiri sheathed at his waist. Only then did I think to wonder where Fluffers was.
And then King Rochelnese unsheathed the Manokiri and stabbed me in the heart with one smooth motion, leaving the blade in my corpse as it tumbled backwards into the pit.
Kami’nelcrath si’Verimya felt himself forced from the Manokiri. Bonds of psionic power pushed him into a new vessel, even as the last soul was sucked into the spelled dagger. It was a familiar… No!
Don’t panic, don’t think, don’t mourn, just do. Grab the last unraveling tendrils of Meryn’s dying soul before they’re trapped completely and try and reweave them into some semblance of the true him. Ignore the fact that this container is falling into a twenty-foot pit. Ignore the fact that your only friend in the entire world just got stabbed in the chest. And the dagger is still there. Just concentrate on trying to save what’s left of everything that made him Meryn.
It wasn’t working. It wasn’t enough, not yet. It wasn’t as much weaving threads into a tapestry as wrestling snakes into a knot that you’d only seen from the outside. And half the threads were lost, and the others were biting to get free. But it was getting there.
Concentrate on the weaving. The floor smacked into the body. For the first time, Kami actually felt it with his own senses. Not through Meryn’s filter. It was his body now.
No, don’t think that. It was Meryn’s body. Kami was just borrowing it until he managed to fix Meryn. He could do this.
Lying on the floor now. Ignore the hard stone floor against your back. Just work on saving his soul.
Shaking. His hold on the strands loosened, the snakes bit and the tapestry unraveled. Kami grasped for them, but they slipped away, pulled into the dagger. The Manokiri!
He probed the strictures of the spell, but then the shaking intensified.
Fairuza had the body by the shoulders. She was… was she tearing up?
Kami slipped deeper into the body and brushed her hands away from his shoulder. She darted away, fangs bared. Kami felt, from her mind a mixture of shock and hope.
“Meryn?”
Close, but no. The shock and despair radiated in expanding waves.
He spoke with the unfamiliar flapping of meat. “This is Fluffers.” He winced internally at how natural that name sounded. So he’d gotten used to the name in his long stretch among humans. He was still Kami’nelcrath si’Verimya in his soul.
Even without the sudden maroon shadow across her emotions, he could see her reaction visibly, her back stiffening, the hair around her neck puffing out, teeth baring.
“Meryn told me about you. You were his friend, before you died. Then you changed into an emotionless murderer.”
“That’s not how it is-“
“I saw what you did to Vestis” she barged on, “and I saw what you tried to do to me. I won’t give you a chance to finish what you started now that Meryn isn’t there to stop you.”
At Meryn’s name a veritable wave of blue-dark keening washed through Kami. Not all of it was from Fairuza. When it cleared, though, she was solid grey-black, despair and anger and sadness fused into an unbreakable wall of determination.
One of them would have to die. Or maybe not. Not if he brought back someone she could trust. In the brief seconds before the fight truly started Kami hurled himself against the spellseals on the blade still in his chest, all that stood between him and Meryn reborn. His full strength, immature though it was, was still formidable.
Against the ancient spellweaves, it was like trying to kill an elephant with a toothpick. Possible, technically, but only with technique and a lot of time. He found a gate, a weak spot, but that only downsized the elephant to a largish water buffalo. And he didn’t have the time. He found the lock. Inscribed magically were three words.
For the Strongest
Then Fairuza attacked and there wasn’t time to do anything else but dodge. If he concentrated, bolstered as he was by what was left of Meryn’s own power, he could see where she wanted to attack before she actually did, but she was faster than he was, unused to the cumbersome weight of Meryn’s corpse. Long bloody lines collected on his chest and arms as she slashed. Slowly scarlet frustration built up, until she gave in to red thoughtless animal rage.
And then he couldn’t read her any more. There was no planning, no strategy, no real separation between thought and action. In the first four seconds her claws had found his neck, her teeth his wrist, then she whirled around him in a blitzkrieg of fur and claws and his left leg gave way, bloody and useless.
It hurt like hell. It was the worst pain he’d ever experienced, really the only pain he’d ever experienced.
Forget the pain. Ignore it. It’s not yours. It’s this body’s, this heavy weighty thing that isn’t yours, that you’re only borrowing. He focused himself, retreated into the core of himself, forcing his concentration into a razor core of determination, and unleashed the power of his mind on this creature.
Nothing.
For a briefest moment, he was shocked, then a claw whipping past his eye drew him back to reality. For all his power now, Kami was still limited. He couldn’t affect much beyond the blade, and now, by extension, the body.
Ignore the pain. It’s not yours.
But it hurt. It hurt so much.
Out of desperation, he reached out. As she slashed at him savagely, he changed a signal from her brain. A small change. Her right foot landed six inches and ten degrees off from what she expected.
She stumbled, claw whistling through the air, and in that second of weakness, he slammed into her. Off-balance, she fell under his kneeling assault and in the mess of flailing thrashing madness, his hands found her throat.
They hit the ground hard, the breath whooshing out of her. Then she exploded into flailing fur and claws. All he could do was hold on.
They thrashed across the floor, claws shredding at his flesh. Now, on her back, all four claws could be brought into play. Claws slashed at his legs. Her hands raked bloody furrows across his face and neck.
Kami closed his eyes and endured. Ignore everything. Concentrate on just squeezing.
He could feel fur on her neck. He could feel her pulse, beating gently against his fingers.
He was… was he tearing up?
Her pulse stopped. The clawing stopped. The pain didn’t.
Kami stood up. Bleeding from dozens of wounds, he drew the manokiri from Fairuza’s sheath and pointed it up at the King.
I’m going to kill you.
Fairuza
So it’s finally come to this.
Fairuza sat alone, precariously perched on the frigid tip of the highest spire of the castle she could find. The biting air of the clouds whispered and scratched around her, a thousand voices beckoning her to follow the stones she’d been throwing off the edge of the roof for the last hour, as they ripped through the air and plunged to the land below. She’d never seen stones like those that gathered here; they were smooth, cerulean, and made a strange whistling sound when thrown. At any other time, she might have taken a moment to marvel at them. But here, as the dark voice of battle pulled and clawed at the edges of her consciousness, they meant no more to her than the icy wind that swirled enticingly under her dangling feet.
Here Fairuza stood, at the end of a long road, one that would either spiral into a myriad of new paths, or be forever washed away with her blood. And here, she felt none of the warmth that had once encircled her and all that she loved. Nor did she feel the primal bloodlust that had taken her over in her battle with Alys. All that remained now, all that mattered, was survival. She hadn’t spoken to anyone since her night with Meryn. She hadn’t even watched his fight with the swordsman. It didn’t matter to her. Or perhaps she just couldn’t bear to see who had survived, who now had to die by her hand if she had any chance of living on.
She couldn’t say where this numbness was coming from, only that it was there, and that it would not leave her until her fate was decided. Until she knew whether she would live to again see the shores of Sky Island, she would remain a killer, intent on only one thing: victory.
Fairuza threw another stone from the spire, a growl slithering beneath her breath.
~
Here she was again, trapped like a rat in this dark accursed room, waiting to be thrown into the pit and to fight for her freedom. The two faces of Meryn and the swordsman Vestis spun around her mind’s eye. One of them had survived. One of them stood between her and her clan. One of them had to die. This was all she thought of. The image of Meryn’s tired yet hopeful face tugged feebly at her heart, but nothing more. She was past that; she was prepared to let whoever her enemy was fight for their life.
The doors opened, and the tiny room was flooded with light. The pit was brighter than she remembered. Fairuza winced and shut her eyes, but not before catching sight of a man’s shadow stepping into the light outside. She kept her eyes shut, a feeling she couldn’t name rising in her chest. Was it Meryn? No, it…
She stepped out of the shadows and slowly opened her eyes. There he stood in the center of the pit, bathed in light, regarding her with lifeless eyes.
Meryn. Her friend.
The strange feeling in her chest burned like wildfire, and refused to relent. Something was wrong. She took a cautious step to the side, eyes narrowed into slits, and the two began to circle each other. Meryn looked exactly as he had that night. Nothing seemed amiss. But everything about the way he looked at her was wrong. His eyes were dead, cold as the steel that hung from his waist. Ready to run her through. Her eyes narrowed further. This was not the warm, hesitant gaze of her friend. This man was not Meryn.
And this infuriated her.
“Strange,” Fairuza growled, “I was told I would be facing either Meryn or the swordsman.” Her face twisted into a snarl. “But you’re neither.”
“It is true.” The man said, still circling her warily. There was something disturbing about hearing Meryn’s voice tinged with such steel. “But I am an opponent nonetheless.”
Something clicked in Fairuza’s brain. “It’s you, isn’t it?” She said, “Fluffers.” She had heard of Meryn’s strange guardian, but had never spoken to him. And now she was preparing to face him.
He glared. “That is not my name,” he muttered with venom, “but yes.”
“I don’t care what your name is,” she hissed dangerously, “if you’re here, then where’s Meryn?” Fluffers broke their locked eye contact to look at the ground.
“It is complicated.” He said shortly. “But suffice it to say that he will not die by your hand today.”
“And what does that mean?” Fairuza barked, lowering herself into a crouch. She never got her answer. Her answer was the point of Meryn’s blade, leaping for her throat. She jerked away from the sword, her claws grazing Fluffers’ flank as he darted back. They broke apart for a split second, eyes locked, before Fairuza lunged, snarling, teeth fully bared. Fluffers drove the blade forward, just barely missing her as she spun out of its path and darted behind him, leaping heavily onto his back. His knees buckled but refused to give as Fairuza dug her claws into his shoulder. Her wrists locked and she held on for dear life as Fluffers thrashed to get her off, desperately trying to hold off the gnashing teeth that were attempting to rip his spinal cord from his neck. He swiftly drew his dagger and plunged it blindly behind him. Lightning shot up Fairuza’s arm as the knife buried itself in her flesh, blood erupting from the wound. She yelped in pain and dislodged her claws, stumbling onto her feet. She jumped back to gain distance as Fluffers whirled and lunged again, both blades in hand. This time she met him head-on, one hand closing around the wrist that held the sword, the other grabbing the dagger by the blade. She ignored the steel that began to slice her hand and held fast to both of Fluffers’ hands, forcing him to look her in the eye. One moment of his attention was all she wanted.
“You’re nothing but a cheap imposter,” she hissed furiously, “and this isn’t your body to use. So why do you insist on fighting me?” Fluffers gave a ragged laugh.
“You aren’t the only one to lose a friend today.” He spat bitterly. “I don’t care how Meryn once felt about you. If slaying you means having a chance to save him, then so be it.”
“So he is alive?” she said, her voice betraying surprise. “Where is he?” She tightened her grip angrily. “Tell me.”
Fluffers said nothing, only roared in effort as he wrenched away from her, taking several quick steps back. His eyes were two black voids, betraying not a single trace of the warmth that they once held.
“It doesn’t matter,” he spat, “this isn’t your fight.” In a movement barely visible to even Fairuza’s eyes, he whipped up his dagger and flung it at her. The weapon flashed through the air, giving her less than a second to jerk her head aside. As it whizzed past her head, Fairuza could swear she heard it slice through something. And yet, there was no pain. Regaining her stance, she rose to again meet his gaze.
“Ridiculous.” She snarled. “Why have you stolen Meryn’s body if you plan to save him?”
“This was not my choice,” Fluffers said, his voice dangerously low. As he spoke, Fairuza slowly crept backwards and picked up the knife he’d thrown. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “The king decided only the true champion was to continue—“
“So it’s your fault then!” Fairuza screeched, sprinting to close the distance between them. “Meryn would still be here if it weren’t for you!” Her guard completely down, Fairuza lunged wildly for him, knife in hand, only to be met with the hilt of the sword, buried in her stomach and knocking the wind out of her. Fairuza’s snarl was cut short by a gasp, and she began to crumple. Fluffers grabbed the back of her hair and wrenched her face upwards, their gazes colliding.
“Foolish girl.” He growled. “Lashing out like an animal, screaming about things you can’t even begin to understand.” He drew his face closer to hers. “You’re nothing but a child.”
“I am not—“
“Look!” Fluffers barked, turning aside his heavy coat. Fairuza’s eyes fell to his side, and she froze. There, protruding from the ribs beneath his arm, was the familiar hilt of a dagger. The manokiri. She looked back up at him in horror.
“What…?” she murmured. Before she could force out the rest, Fluffers shoved her away.
“Do you still want to kill me now?” he yelled. “I have only so much time left before I’m exactly where Meryn is. Inside this.” He motioned to the knife, which was buried far too deep into him not to be fatal. How had she not noticed it before?
“He’s…in there?” she breathed, the other dagger still hanging uselessly by her side. “Why?”
“Ask the king. He’s the one who did this to me. To us.” Fluffers shook his head in frustration. “But I won’t be stuck like this, and neither will Meryn. Rochelnese will answer for this.” His eyes pierced Fairuza. “And you aren’t going to stand in my way.”
Blade in hand, he made one final lunge at her, the intention to kill clear in his eyes. Without thinking, without even realizing what was about to happen, Fairuza drew her arm back and plunged the knife deep into Fluffers’ heart, as he fell onto his own blade. He stopped dead, a choked gasp escaping his throat. His breath ragged, he lifted his head to look her in the eye, his face somewhere between surprise and rage.
“You…you—“
“I’m sorry,” Fairuza murmured, her eyes blazing, “but you aren’t the only one with something to lose.” Slowly, almost carefully, she lowered him to the ground as his life began to fade, “Lucky for you, I want to save Meryn too. Now tell me…how can it be done?” Fluffers stared at her for several painful seconds, trying to judge her intention. Fairuza’s eyes burned with determination, refusing to look away. Finally, he gave a wheezing sigh.
“You…you must defeat the king and become master of the manokiri.” He spluttered, blood dribbling from his mouth with every word he spoke. “Only then can you restore both of our souls. But know this,” he grabbed her wrist with his last shred of strength, “the manokiri must not be removed from this body before then, or we are both lost forever.” He gazed up at Fairuza one final time, his expression unreadable. “You’ve taken my chance at redemption, Caryani. And now,” his grip on her wrist loosened, “now you must finish what’s been set into motion.” The words were barely out of his mouth before Fluffers drew a final, ragged breath, and his hand slid to the ground, eyes still trained on Fairuza as the life faded from them.
She stared at the body for what felt like forever. It wasn’t until she became aware of the shocked whispering above her that she remembered she wasn’t alone. The whole castle had seen what happened, and so, she assumed, had the king. She could almost feel his gaze, burning into her and the dead man that lay in her arms. She didn’t care what he was thinking at that very moment. All that was in her mind was Fluffers’ words, echoing in her ears like ungodly thunder. Now you must finish what’s been set into motion.
Regaining her senses, Fairuza began to stand up when something caught her eye: something dark red, lying near the edge of the pit. She stared dumbly at the thing. It took her a second to realize it was hair. Her hair. She felt for the back of her head and realized that her braid was gone. Fluffers had sliced it clean off when he’d thrown the knife at her.
At the moment, she was too numb to care.
~
Fairuza stood in front of her bedroom mirror, gazing at her reflection. She’d stolen a kitchen knife from one of the cooks, and had spent the last hour trying to even out her severed hair. At some point she gave up and set the knife down, just staring at her head. It still looked a mess; the hair was uneven and jagged, and the longest of it barely reached her jaw, where it did at all. Fairuza had never had reason to cut her hair; it was how her tribe differed themselves from the wretched Kiryona, with their war tattoos and shaved heads. Nearly the last twenty years of her life, gone in a second.
The aftermath of the fight had passed in a blur. King Rochelnese had announced her the winner, and politely asked her to rest for the final battle. But she’d seen the cold gleam in his eye, she saw the true meaning behind his cordial words.Rest up before I kill you.
Rochelnese. The very name sent a shiver of fury down her spine. Fluffers was right; he was to blame for all of this. And now Fairuza had more innocent blood on her hands, more to atone for. The king had to answer for his crimes, and she would be the one to make him. She owed it to Fluffers, to Meryn—
“Meryn.” She breathed the name with a shudder, almost a sob. A wave of dread crashed over her as it finally hit her. Meryn, her friend Meryn, was gone. Really gone. Never again would he smile at her, speak with her in the dying embers of daylight, listen as she recounted her life as a Caryani. It didn’t matter if his soul could still be saved. His human life was over.
Fairuza bowed her head, her face collapsing into her hand. She let the fat tears flow freely, rolling down her face like the warm rain she’d once felt in her village.
Rain that felt farther and farther away with each passing second.
And there we go. Who faces the King?
(I'm going to leave the poll up for a while since it's been a long break. Also, IF appears to be dead.)
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
Last edited by DeadManWalking on Thu Aug 19, 2010 9:42 am; edited 1 time in total
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Masterweaver
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| Posted: Tue Aug 17, 2010 3:49 pm Post subject: |
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| Call me soft, but I'm choosing the option where they both might survive. Even if one dies. Plus, the cat has a more compelling story.
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Crunchyfrog
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| Posted: Thu Sep 02, 2010 11:27 pm Post subject: |
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| Added my vote to the pot....
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DeadManWalking
Duke of the Mostly Dead
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| Posted: Thu Oct 21, 2010 6:10 pm Post subject: |
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I am a horrible horrible person who is constantly tardy.
Anyways, poll is Closed. Fairuza is the victor!
Because of some scheduling issues, I'm not going to have a boss fight (though one may turn up somewhere eventually.) Instead, I'm just going to end this tournament now.
And our noble writers were:
Alena and Gwydion: The White Blacksmith
Filchus Emry: Thunderbird
Lacrymose: Kalanna Rai
Vestis: jhonscrypt (Congrats to the newbie for getting that far too!)
Alys: Phantomfan
Meryn and Fluffers: Me
And the winner, Faruiza, was written by... BlackAmaranth! Congrats, your reward money is on its way! I forget how much, so lets just call it an even 500 fables?
Anyways, hope you all had fun!
Join in the next battle narrative, soon to be announced!
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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Thunderbird
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| Posted: Thu Oct 21, 2010 8:10 pm Post subject: |
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That was you Phan? Heh... I should have known from the commentary... lol! Well done! I'da sworn it was Whitey!
Oh, and I apologize for not ever getting back to finishing reading this Deady... the whole thing was quite fun.
_________________
CHAPTER 25: Near-Light Speed (NEW CHAPTER! (12/4/2011))
Zephyrrr! And...
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Crunchyfrog
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| Posted: Thu Oct 21, 2010 10:17 pm Post subject: |
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Aww, shame we don't get the last fight, but well done for co-ordinating Sky Island, especially through some very thin times.
200 fables are winging their way from the City of IF Treasury for completing!
Cheers
CF
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BlackAmaranth
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| Posted: Fri Oct 22, 2010 3:46 pm Post subject: |
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Tee-hee why thank you very much Deady~
I have to admit, this was pretty dang fun  So fun that I might just have to write an ending myself...just somehow doesn't seem right ending it there, after all that buildup y'know?
Soo, not promising anything, cause Lord knows I am such a lazy writer, but little Fairuza just might live to bite another day XD And of course I'll take a look at your next competition, should you decide to get it started
_________________
"Well, here I am...in the towers of an insane asylum...wearing a straitjacket...talking to myself..."
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Exmortis
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Location: Be always aware and keep one eye on the shadows... you may just find out...
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| Posted: Tue Feb 01, 2011 1:17 am Post subject: |
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I suppose that it is a bit to late to place an entry wouldn't it? Yeah... it probably is to late.
I must admit though, I am a bit disheartened, as I had the perfect character for this situation.
I don't suppose that you will be planning on doing something like this again anytime soon DeadManWalking?
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Innocence is ignorence.
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DeadManWalking
Duke of the Mostly Dead
Joined: 24 May 2006
Posts: 1005
Items
Legends
Fables
Strata-gems
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| Posted: Tue Feb 01, 2011 5:37 pm Post subject: |
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Sorry Exmortis. A little bit late. But I am planning on starting another, though I may switch genres if I can figure out how to make it work. Keep an eye out!
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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