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TormentedDragon -> RE: =EC= 2012 Finals Arena (8/31/2012 18:25:24)
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He was fading. It was a curious thing, to feel his own life slip away from him; to see it, even, in the pulse of the darkness that veiled the world. He coughed, and staggered from the cauldron to the sand, legs shaking in their struggle to keep him upright. Funny, that his body felt so weak, and yet he could hear his metal sing in ways he never had before; a chorus of iron and quicksilver, drowning out the frail taunts of friends and family. He grinned; he could not have asked for a better funeral dirge.
The chorus reached a crescendo, and the darkness lifted from his eyes. In the distance, the void that was the Dark Lord's pillar vanished, and from above he heard the endless, steadfast song that was Ol' Father. Strength poured into his limbs, a warmth that chased away the cold he had not felt until that moment. He blinked, and looked up, to see the pillar standing high above the arena sands. "Well," he said, running a hand over his scalp, "I guess that means I win."
Then the announcer rose from beneath the sands and confirmed it, and for the first time since entering the arena, Wintin frowned. "Did he just ... now that's no right." Before he could take a step, however, the downed Titan spoke, and he turned, blinking.
Dark's Chosen made a curious and oddly tragic sight. Formed as it was from necromantic sorcery and powered by the enslaved souls of the dead, he would not have thought to feel anything but revulsion. But the mind that ruled it, whether its master meant it or no, had been honorable, crafty, and relentless. The sight of it lying on the sand, iron discs embedded in its mithril armor and quicksilver lingering at the holes and mixing with the mana that leaked from its wounds, was striking. Yolin would have called it poignant, maybe. Or some other such nonsense.
"Ya weren't so bad yourself," he said, hooking his thumbs into his sash and giving a shallow bow. "Rest you well in Father's embrace, warrior, and don't worry none for your wee ones. We'll be solving that question."
He turned on his heel, and strode towards the waiting announcer, cauldron, spike, and hook following along like faithful dogs. Behind him, the discs slipped gently from the Titan's form, and joined the quicksilver as it streamed away from the fallen warrior. to hang about the tinsmith's head like a halo. "Oi!" he said, catching the pug-nosed announcer's attention, and gestured to the audience. "They can hear me, aye?" The man nodded, and Wintin turned, throwing out his arms and rising into the air. Horseshoes. Very versatile.
"So tell me, people of Bren and beyond," he bellowed, "have you been well entertained?" A roar of approval met his question, and he grinned in response. "Good, then! Wouldn't have wanted to go through all that and have it all have been boring! Now then," he said, turning to face the announcer, arms crossed in front of him, "seein' as I've won, there's a couple o' things to take care of, yeah?" The announcer frowned, and Wintin nodded. "Yes. Two things.
"The first," he growled, "is I'm no a monk. You hear me?" he yelled, sweeping his arm around at the audience. "I am Wintin, brother of Winbin, the tinsmith twins from Glastone! I am a metalworker! A smith by means of magic! I! Am! Not! A! Monk!" He flew forward, his face directly in the announcer's. "Do you understand?" The man nodded, once, and Wintin replied with a nod of his own, satisfied. "Good. Now then. There was this matter of a boon."
"You wish to claim it now?" said a voice from behind him, and he turned, grinning.
"Well, if it ain't Ol' Father's ass of a lackey!" he said, and squinted. The owner of the voice was there, certainly, but again it was just a shape, sort of humanish, but blurry and indistinct. It wasn't entirely clear where it began and the sand ended. He snoted. "And here I thought it were my poor ruined eyes back there, but no, you just look this way, eh?"
"Perhaps. But we have business."
Wintin nodded, and stepped back down to sand. "Aye, that we do. I would speak my boon, now."
The shape shifted, and he got the feeling of narrowed eyes being trained upon him. "Are you certain you would speak that boon? There is much you could do with this."
Wintin shrugged. "Aye, there surely is. And this is the thing I want."
"Explain."
He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "I'm … no so very good at that."
"Try anyway."
Wintin sighed, and nodded. "Alright. It's … well, first thing is it's no so selfless as all that. 'E wants his kids safe, right, and it's a last request even if he is already dead, but seein' as I put him back down I can't but honor it, right? Only I've no got much to go on, just to see a Drak about a gauntlet and then he'll know the names. So that's work, that is. And protectin' 'em, well, that's life, that is," he said, and threw his hands into the air. "But this here boon, see," and he tapped his temple, "well I ain't got anythin' I need Ol' Father's direct intervention for, right? War's over, been five years o' peace. Well and leave that be. This, though; this is me whole life. So this is me gettin' it back."
The shape shifted, and he could swear it had a smile. "Very well then, Champion. Gallaphile's children will be guarded from harm they did not earn, even and especially that of divine origin."
Wintin frowned. "This won't start a war, is it?"
He was rewarded with a snort. "Over something so petty?"
"Well and good, then."
Across the dust swept arena, Gallaphile smiled, consciousness fading from his armoured form. Cold numbness had stolen across the dark knight's stricken body, pain and energy becoming but memories. The roar of the crowds were barely audible to the undead warrior, a faint drone that he barely had attention for. Yet still the black titan felt weight seem to lift from his broad shoulders, as his terrors were banished by his former foe's request.
"Mine thanks friend," he said. "Words cannot express my gratitude at thy gift. Thou hast a kindness that surpasses thy wizardry."
Unable to turn his head, the Bremen nobleman heard, rather than saw, two familiar presences beside him. In this he was far from alone, for the two beings- one male, the other female- went unnoticed by all but the immortal gods.
"Verily, there is a sweet irony here, mine old bones. The dark lord hast been defeated once more, yet our children have won protection through thy deeds."
The voice was masculine, etched with a Bremenese accent. It was not the Dreadnight's sorcery formed voice, created through Euterpe's song. Nor was it the croaking words of the grave. Instead, the spirit spoke in Gallaphile's clear crisp tones of life.
"Thy battle skills mayst not have won the gods' tourney, but thy honour hast won their boon. If we are without honour, we are but shadows. But a shadow with honour can become so much more."
His vision fading, the veteran soldier closed his eyes, comforted by his spirit-self's words. He sensed warmth and light close at hand, advancing toward him. He heard felt strains of music, smelt a purity that took his breath away. But it was the second voice that made his uniquely formed soul rise in joy.
"Indeed dear. It's going to be strange with two of you around. But I'm sure I'll find a way to cope with you and Bones."
Cate?
And then for a second time, Gallaphile died.
The body of Dark's chosen slumped upon the arena floor, light vanishing from his eldritch eyes. Slowly, the sorceries that formed his mithril corpse unbound, until it became but black dust drifting out amongst the crimson sands. In time, there would be just a gauntlet of copper and blackened iron, to mark the final resting place of Gradius Gallaphile, Orc-slayer, Father, Granddad and husband.
With Gallaphile's death the world lurched, and Wintin blinked as the sounds of the arena returned in full force. When had they stopped? Come to think of it, he had heard nothing but the lackey, himself, and the final words of his opponent since said lackey showed. He shook his head; no matter. The indistinct and, now that he looked harder, very sandy shape of the lackey had turned its head skyward and thrown its arms wide. "The boon is chosen!" it boomed. "And it is granted! Hail Champion! Hail Wintin! Hail Earth!"
The crowd roared in answer, though it was hardly united in its response; he could hear both cheers and jeers, the latter likely from those who would have seen Dark win, or Earth put down. Wintin ignored them, and put a hand to his head, to feel at the simple band that had appeared there. "Well now," he said, with a grin. "Tin. And I got it for winning."
"Hey Champion!"
He stopped, at the edge of the arena's exit, and looked up to find the speaker; a young lad, not more than eight years of age, to be sure. "Aye?" he said.
"What was your boon?"
He frowned, brow furrowing. "Did ya not hear it?"
The boy shook his head. "We only heard the sandy man say it was granted. So what was it?"
The tinsmith grinned, and shook his head. "Sorry, lad, but if you could no hear it, then it weren't meant for your ears."
With a grin on his face, a ring on his head, a cauldron on his back, and a gauntlet at his belt, the Elemental Champion left the arena.
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