RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (Full Version)

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Necro-Knight -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (7/17/2013 0:36:01)

Rowan felt his nose break from the powerful force and pain immediately spike through his skull and neck. His armor held his neck in place so there was no threat of it breaking, though he definitely felt the force. The blood began to pour from his broken nose and the simple power behind the blow knocked the young Necro-Knight back, his feet failing him as he tumbled backward, stolen weapons falling from his grip. As he fell, time seemed to slow, but not from a magical spell or special trait. This was from sheer shock and a moment’s realization… He could honestly die in this arena, this man had no idea who he was or what his history was, but he wanted to kill him. His mind flashes to the image of his beloved family, his loving mother and wise father. As badly as he wanted to see them again, he wanted to prove that he was strong enough to survive without them and ultimately avenge their death. This championship gave him the opportunity to also bring them back, and as reality set back in, he made the decision… no one was going to stand in his way!

As he and the man fell, Rowan used the stinging pain to hone his focus instead of letting it daze him. Extending his arms and fighting the pain still, though he audibly cried out as he did so, a mere fraction of mana was used to coat his lower arms in a thick, black substance that dripped from his arms. At the ends of his hands, razor-edged claws had formed, proving almost sharper then the tip of his own sword. Knowing that this man’s armor was shadow-based simply from the design he’d seen before the match, Rowan swung his claws inward towards the only unarmored piece of Zephyr’s body. The man’s throat and neck. Since the width of the Shields would've prevented Rowan from attacking from the side, he instead stabbed his own arms forward with the claws at the end in a forward-uppercut motion. With the force of the man’s sudden burst forward, and the way his shield’s had been aimed upward, it’d given Rowan the way under the shields. His claws scooped upward and forward toward the man’s neck, hoping to cut and slice the life from his very veins.



unknown2215 -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (7/17/2013 18:17:42)

Zephyr felt his attack connect and heard a satisfying crunch sound, he had broken one of the Death Knight's bones, most likely his nose. He was falling down with the Death Knight, that was alright, he could take the opportunity to hold the younger man down and create a new sword to finish the job. He heard the Death Knight cry out when something went wrong, his Wind Senses were yelling at him, informing him that the Death Knight was a massive threat. Zephyr gritted his teeth, there wasn't any way he could stop his fall at this point, it was too late.

His Wind Senses were telling him that the main threat was coming from below, between the two of his shields. Looking down, he saw that the Death Knight's hands were now clawed, encased in the shadows. As the Death Knight swiped his arms up towards his neck, Zephyr let out a Burst from his back, sending him into the claws of the Death Knight.

Pain seared through Zephyr and he let out an involuntary grunt of pain as the claws pierced through his armor, it was unavoidable with the Burst he had used. It sent him flying right into the Death Knight's attack, but that had been the only way to stop the Darkness user from getting a fatal attack to his neck or throat. The swipe had pierced his armor despite the resistance to darkness it held, but the armor was not rendered completely useless. It had stopped the swiping attack that the Death Knight had performed, but not quickly enough. Zephyr as he could feel two of his ribs cracked or broken, he couldn't tell which it was until he got a better opportunity to look at it.

Taking in a short gasp of air, Zephyr pulled back both of his arms, now empty as he had dropped the two shields when his ribs were damaged. Zephyr forced himself to ignore the pain, he had been through worse before, he had to take the opportunity he had right now. He was currently being held up by the Death Knight's hands now, the clawed fingers were stuck within his body and armor, he could use this chance. Zephyr quickly lashed out with his left hand attempting to catch the Death Knight's neck and hold him to the ground while he raised his right arm, creating a sword in it's hand, reverse grip style.

Zephyr narrowed his eyes as he aimed at the Death Knight's head, using Burst to send his blade down upon the younger man's face at great speeds.



Aurauris -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (7/19/2013 0:15:35)

Like the low hiss of an unbidden first frost swept a sudden, unseasonly flurry of prickling ice and airborne slush towards the trio from through the fog.

Goosebumps erupted along the back of Phaera's neck to travel down along her spine; something was very, very off in the way the snow cloud rose and swallowed them up like a great, lumbering beast with nary a whisper or ripple in the air currents before them. Soon man, wolf, and cripple alike could barely catch the faintest glimpse of their companions for the density of falling ice particles. Grimacing in anticipation of the combat sure to come and ignoring the warrior's daft, muttered grumbling in relation to the unoriginality of such a spell, the monk settled her mind and set her staff upon the worn path with a soft thunk, river-blue eyes falling shut to the misty world around her.

Gradually the air around the base of her staff began to swirl outwards, soon etching a small sphere of clear vision between Phaera, Jackal, and Rolek. Giving a sharp exhale of focus, she reached outwards to pull tendrils of breeze from further back along from whence they had come, calmly whisking the spell of whirling frost towards its direction of origin. The air was very nearly clear around them once more, and yet the summoner still could not be seen. Jackal lifted his head to sniff at the air — ears perked, had he noticed something? — and a chilling thought lit suddenly in Phaera's mind like redbird upon a snow-capped branch.

Almost as if possessing the body of one much more stout and steady than her own, she skipped forward, planted her feet, and swung the old ashen stave in a smooth arc vertically before her.
Almost as if stemming directly from the nerves in her body, Phaera felt the air respond to her unspoken call, crackling with the sudden heat of increased pressure and solidifying in a wide, defensive stripe that curved from the ground a good ways ahead back up over their heads to protect from a diving assailant, even as a shrill cry confirmed the three's suspicions of unease.

Almost... Phaera had almost glanced back at her companions in time before two solid objects collided with her air-shield, sending confusion flitting across her consciousness and physical reverberations through her limbs with the force in the split second before light erupted in the corner of her vision, casting a bluish haze across most of her left eye's line of sight.

From the opposite eye, Jackal could be seen ducking beneath a heartily cursing Rolek, the vortex of ravid shadows that had covered most of the wolf's form in sturdy armor all but vanished with the sudden explosion of heat and brightness. Phaera felt control over her air-shield slipping away as the ringing in her ears increased, and with a barked curse of her own she relinquished their cover. Fear lightened her limp, allowed her to half-dash back towards her companions, noting through blurred vision the missing sections of Jackal's armor and Bronzeblood's drawn sword. Her heart kicked into overdrive now that the actual moment of Death's invitation loomed near.



Eukara Vox -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (7/19/2013 20:14:55)

Snjór watched, her fur standing on end as the fog she had so carefully created began to thin. Her ears flattened, feeling the magic unleashed to do this. The fog turned to wisps and rolled back towards her. Wind magic... Growling over her shoulder to warn Tharala, Snjór moved to stay within the thin veil of icy fog that hung back around the area she had intended to cast. I hate wind...Spoils everything and now I am forced to being much farther away from them than I intended.

Her eyes stayed on the three, huddled together. The big one, the one who the attack was really aimed at, had his sword drawn. Smart man... I like him, even if he is a tad touchy. The icy veil was too thin. Yes, it would work for her to a degree, but not as completely as she had hoped. Not like it had with her ástvi when they sparred. Sideways she drifted, keeping her eyes on at least one of them with each passing moment. Silent paws padded on the wooded floor as she moved opposite the group. Snjór looked back towards Tharala. Be careful, my friend.


“Really...” Rolek swore under his breath lightly. “Really. You’re going to use the fog magic.”

That... that fool thinks so low of me as to think I’d fall for the same trick twice?!

“Stupid, stupid...”

Rolek felt the breeze of the cripple’s magic moving around the small group. It was comforting for him that the fog was receding quite a bit. While not entirely gone, it would help him take advantage of his hyper awareness without running the risk of blinding himself as before.

Attack. This is an attack. Not an ambush, no...

Rolek sniffed a little, mildly irritated.

An assault. What if w-

Rolek’s thoughts shattered as two loud, sharp, intense explosions occurred just above his head. It reminded him almost of the sounds made by the Bronze Beast, although to a lesser degree. The bright light emitting from the explosions was brighter than before but his golden eyes were not in a hyper-dilated state, thus he did not feel the effects as much as he could have.

Vision blurring and ears ringing, Rolek pulled his gladius, Mothbrand, out from the strap on his hip.

“Not this time!”

Tuning his eyes to the light, he saw a shift of colors on an avian figure in the distance. You? Why would you benefit from this light? That’s where he stopped in his tracks. Something deadlier was responsible for this. Quickly, he scanned the surrounding area for any signs of movement.

A white outline on an even whiter background could be seen about ten meters away. The snow cat. Of course, the bright light provides you with a... sick sort of camouflage. Stepping away from the group, gladius drawn, Rolek prepared for combat.


Snjór watched the older one, her tail flicking slightly over the ground where it rested. His eyes watched, carefully. Yes, he was smart. She followed his gaze as he looked back towards the way she had come. Tharala was just visible. Part of her hoped he would think Tharala responsible, for then she could follow behind and surprise him when he decided to pursue her friend. Wouldn’t that be a treat...

But no, she watched his body language as he came to the realisation it wasn’t Tharala. Her ice blue eyes beheld every nuance of motion until his eyes began to seek her out. Yes... you are very smart. I will enjoy taking you down, old one. She knew the precise moment he saw her. His eyes smiled.

Reaching behind her, she drew both daggers, spinning the left so that she backhanded it. One for defense, one for offense. Her tail twitched more, her anticipation welling up inside of her.

Come and let us join in the fight. Honour your Guardian as I honour mine. A slight growl, directed at him, drifted softly upon the icy current.


Did that cat just... Rolek glared a little, almost humorously at his adversary. “I don’t suspect you speak English like the dog, huh? I’ve got a pet dog back home actually. He eats cats. I really, really hope you’re not just a mindless animal.”

“So, you stoop to the very same level as all your addle-brained kind with insults built from poorly constructed jokes.” Snjór’s eyes flashed, her canines bared slightly as her lips curled in a snarl. “I had hoped you would carry more intelligence than that, old one. Perhaps, you are not worthy of my time. I prefer to fight intelligent people, not dimwits.”

He glanced at the ground and then back at her, furrowing his brow slightly, a frown forming across his face. “Do not mistake my... ‘human-humor’ for disrespect, cat. I hold each and every foe in the highest regard. I can only hope you are as entertained and excited as myself by the prospect of this.” Rolek tapped the broad side of his sword softly. “What we are about to do here, as warriors, is the highest form of respect we can show for another being.”


Snjór spun the forehanded dagger once, then gripped it tightly. “Perhaps I had judged your intelligence much higher and didn’t expect such a joke from you. And yes, one I know well has taught me about this place, its customs and what the honours of being here entail. You will get nothing less than my best, and an honourable fight. I swear by my Guardian.”


“Village humor, what can I say.” Rolek lowered his sword by his leg in his usual, unconventional fighting stance. Standing tall, he smiled at the cat. “Honour. I like you, cat. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Rolek Bronzeblood, slayer of the Bronze Beast and hero of Fairview Village. It will be my honour to fight you, live or die.”


The introduction gave Snjór pause. The other... never introduced himself. She had never been asked who she was in the heat of a fight. What did one who was cursed and hated by her people say when introducing herself? She was at a loss for words. But a warmth welled up inside her, bearing the smiles of her companions. “I am Snjór Hlýju. Magic-born Kaltköttur, she who was once lost but now is found, who was cast out but now welcomed in.”


“In another life I will have gladly listened to your story. But now, we must fight. Steel yourself for combat, Snjór, for this is the dance of gods.” Rolek griped his blade with his free hand, and adjusted his fighting stance. It was time for battle.


Snjór bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement, then gripped her daggers, checking her hold. Battle... hand to hand, face to face. She inhaled deeply, Guardian, stand by me, guide my hand, show me the way. Her blue eyes looked into Rolek’s and she lunged to her right, pushing off her powerful legs, then sidesteps to her left. She feints a jab, as if she was going to stab him with the forehand dagger, only to spin clockwise and slash with the backhand dagger in her left hand, aiming for his side.


Rolek’s eyes rapidly trace each part of Snjór’s body. Right, left, not enough spin on that hand to be a real jab... it’s... Rolek jolted backwards barely a foot, just enough to dodge the incoming strike, and, grinning like a madman, made a two handed downward slash.


Disappointed that she didn’t land her hit, Snjór found Rolek’s sword coming down and dropped and rolled out of the way. She felt the air move around his blade as it swung dangerously close to her ear. Rolling over her shoulder, she felt a sting and shook it off as she came to rest on all fours. Her tail snapped, agitated.

Her skin shimmied as she resettled her nerves. That sword was going to be an issue. She looked up at Rolek, then moved, aiming her body at the man’s legs in an effort to topple him. If not, she was fully prepared to hit and roll, to get out of his way.


He smiled even wider as Snjór rolled out of range. Her skill in combat amazed Rolek. If I make it back, the boys will hear about this. They couldn’t lay a finger on her! He hadn’t had much time to think before her body was launched toward his legs. An unpredictable move, no doubt, and Rolek felt the ground swing away from under himself as he tumbled forward, landing with his face in the ground.

Gods, that hurts. A piece of wood had cut along his cheek on the way down. He mentally noted not to blame Snjór for that one, but also applauded her on-the-spot thinking in his thoughts. He continued smiling as he was before, and rolled forward onto his feet, turning to face Snjór. He stood, blade ready, unmoving.

Snjór felt the impact, slightly surprised that the move worked. She pushed through, more to avoid having the giant of a man fall on her. She heard him fall, face first onto the ground, as she cleared his landing. Digging in her claws, she came to a halt, dirt and debris flying from under her. She spun, tail whipping her around to help with her speed and balance. Snjór flexed her fingers, since running on all fours, with daggers, was a tad painful. Standing, she took her stance and looked at his smile. Anyone else would have seen that as a face of a fool, but she didn’t . She knew what it meant. He was having fun.


Rolek cracked his neck, still in a smiling fit of awe at her fighting prowess. He lunged at her with his sword, wielding it with his right hand, and flicked his wrist in such a way that the blade carved a crescent in mid-air. It was to adjust his aim and also to, hopefully, make his foe misjudge his target. He was not going for her stomach, but her throat.


Her opponent wasted no time in countering. She watched him, eyes lit by the energy that coursed through her as their battle continued. The thrill... He lunged and she dodged, not wanting any part of that blade near her body. But, he had her. She didn’t see his correction, the change in his aim until it was nearly too late. Trying to think straight, she instinctively spun her left dagger to the forehand position and raised both weapons, crossed, to meet the blade in the air.

The solid chime of his blade striking hers should have echoed almost musically... except it didn’t. She had used this move before against a sword bearer, and it had worked. Rolek’s sword... phased out of what she perceived as reality and worked its way through her daggers. Snjór tried not to panic as she saw a slight twitch, from Rolek. The blade began to transform into … solid electricity. Eyes wide, she chants rapidly “Blink of an eye, be my drive."

The sword passed through the daggers as Snjór’s spell kicked in. She moved, unbelievably fast, just in time to avoid the clean pass of the blade. With no time to catch her breath, she lashed out with her right hand, catching Rolek on the hand that brandished the sword.


Nobody blocks a strike from Mothbrand! Ha!

Rolek could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins as he twitched his body just slightly, activating the Mothbrand’s phasing effects. Electricity pulsed from his body into the blade as it took on the form of solidified electricity, phasing through Snjór’s raised daggers. It was fast. Too fast, even. This move would kill anyone.
Anyone.

In shock, Rolek watched as Snjór spoke clearly and quickly. “Blink of an eye, be my drive.”
With speed comparable even to his own Blink magic, the feline adversary retreated away from his blade, and slashed at his hand. He could do nothing but watch in horror as his hand bled crimson and the blade, Mothbrand, fell several feet off to the right.

“My... my blade.” Rolek’s cheerful, excited disposition took a rapid change as his eyes darkened, his pupils dilating until his irises were completely invisible. “Mothbrand does not lie in the dirt.”

His persona changed completely, and he tightened the cestus around his fist, staring at Snjór with the hatred of the Bronze Beast. He would kill her. He would break her. I will break you, Snjór, for you are my enemy. I will kill you, for you are my foe. No man... woman, stands before bronze blood in battle and lives.


Snjór’s ears flattened as she looked at Rolek. Gone was the smile, the joy in their fight. Her right shoulder... she looked at it and saw a fresh wound to accompany the old one. The blade must have hit her as she had moved. It hurt, much worse than the first. He had changed though, and this new Rolek would not be the adversary she desired. She saw the hatred, she knew that look.

She shrugged her shoulder to stretch the skin, she could not afford to concentrate on the pain. It would break her ability to hold her armour and speed spells. If this didn’t end soon, Snjór would be in trouble. Reinforcing her resolve, she gripped her blades and readied for him.


The world was black, only the cat in his vision. Kill. Kill the weak one. Kill she who would dare touch the last relic of the bronze blood.

In a fury, Rolek charged without thinking, much like a rhinoceros, at Snjór. He threw the first punch, a haymaker coming from the right.


Thank you, My Guardian. Snjór prays as she dodges the first punch. Such hatred drove that attack. If she had the time to contemplate, she would be upset. This was not the man who had just been fighting her. She wouldn’t believe it. He struck again, and again, and again, each time her speed spell enabling her to dodge the punches. Several came close to connecting, one of which passed through the finer fur on the side of her head.

It took all she had to stay cognizant of everything, his punches, her spells, their surroundings. Looking for an opening was hard, but she saw it coming. It was a small window of opportunity and she took it. She lunged forward as he seemed to recharge and plunged her left dagger into his abdomen. Snjór aimed for the small area that would assure him a recovery if he was able to get a healer. She hadn’t wanted it to end like this.


All Rolek felt was a sharp pain in his stomach area before he collapsed to his knees. His pupils were rapidly dilating and contracting, dilating and contracting with each beat of his heart.

“I-” he coughed, a fine red mist filling the air around him. “It... I, I did it again, didn’t I? The bronze...”

Again, he coughed painfully.

“I don’t have the time to explain now... Just know I apologize for that.” Rolek managed his familiar wide grin. “It was good while it lasted though... right?”


“I.. I tried to aim for a place that could be healed, Rolek. I didn’t want it to end like this.” Snjór looked at him. “It.. it was good, Rolek.”


“Dammit, Snjór...” Rolek did a half-grunt, half-laugh, blood running down his teeth. “I normally... wouldn’t want to live. But...”

How can I die, knowing that there are those like this that exist?

“Thank you for... picking a, clean? A clean location... ha. I do choose life. This was good. Tell ‘em I’ll be here. I’m not dead yet.”


Snjór nods. “I will, I promise.” She looked at her friend, who was already engaged in combat with the crippled mage. “Rolek... I must go. My friend...” She looked back and smiled. “Thank you for a well fought match. Now, I must go stand beside my friend.” Standing, she nodded respectfully to Rolek and ran to Tharala’s side.


Rolek kept smiling his bloody smile as he watched Snjór run over to the avian.
Win, Snjór Hlýju, Kaltköttur. Win the championship. My curse can wait... but you, you must win.

At this, he collapsed backward, staring into the sky as the black curtains of unconsciousness slowly closed in around his vision. The ringing in his ears came to a stop, and the world faded to black. Rolek would meet Snjór again someday. He had to.



Kellehendros -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (7/19/2013 20:46:33)

Something wasn't quite right. Tharala advanced towards the trio, even as Snjor's spell continued to billow and swell, and the skyfisher's ringers sailed through the air towards them. She reached a hand up, flipping down the specially treated lenses again to protect her eyes from the coming burst of light. Behind the smoky glass, her eyes widened as the cloud of icy mist stirred, belling out as if some force was pushing it outward from the middle. The bank of ice fog shifted uneasily, and then slowly began to roll back towards her and Snjor, thinning and whipping away.

It must have been some sort of wind magic. Tharala swallowed, hearing Snjor growl nearby, but the skyfisher continued forward, hearing the hard, sharp cracks of the ringers detonating in blooms of blinding light. Through the thinned veil of fog, she caught sight of their three opponents, the strange old man, the savage wolf creature, and the frail woman with the stave. It was her, the woman, standing there with her staff held out. She must have been responsible for the mist's dissipation.

There was little time for her to contemplate this strange, frail woman. The wolf creature had been sheathed in some dark armor. Had. He had also been peering upwards alertly, his ears perked forwards, focusing in on the direction from which Tharala and Snjor were approaching. Had. Unfortunately for the lupine creature, he had also been looking up and focusing his keen hearing in the direction of the incoming ringers. Had.

Now, well, now the wolf was in what appeared to be immense pain. The powerful, dazzling light from not just one, but two of the ringers seemed to bite into his armor like a rabid, living thing, tearing and chewing away at the wolf's shadowed plate. The light rippled across his sword and shield, flensing hunks of darkness from them until they collapsed upon their remaining weight and were scoured out of existence, though whether it was by the light's doing, or the wolf's loss of attention, was debatable. The wolf certainly had reason to be distracted, as the cacophonous bursts thundered into his sensitive ears, deafening him even as the light seared at his eyes and robbed him of coherent vision. He lifted his hands reflexively, hands going to his eyes, then his ears, and then back again, overwhelmed as his ears throbbed with protest and every rod and cone of his eyes screamed in seared agony. The wolf reeled backwards as if physically struck, the remaining bits of his shadow armor disintegrating and wisping away, his focus unable to hold under the pain of the sensory assault to which he had been afflicted.

And yet... And yet...

Tharala swallowed, her heart thundering in her chest as the massive wolf creature roared out his pain, managing to somehow orient himself on Tharala despite being both blinded and deafened. Oh sweet Lord and Lady, he can still smell me! The wolf took one step, and then another, his nostrils flaring as he drank in the scents of the Arena. The skyfisher took a step back, and then another. The creature was huge, there was no way, no way she could hope to defeat it. It had just taken two ringers. Two! And still, he moved forward, breaking into a loping, clumsy run that was no doubt far from his usual grace.

She backpedaled, as panic pounded in her chest and blurred her thoughts. She had to move, had to get away. Her wings, she could, no. Somehow, that single thought cut through the chaos and fear that rolled through her like a yellow ocean tide. Not that, not fly. Run, yes, she could run, but she could not fly. Tharala limped backwards on her awkward, taloned feet, unable to make much headway, but unable to tear her gaze from the raging wolf bearing forward, his eyes wild and sightless as he came on. The sight was hypnotic, holding her like a bird in the terrible gaze of a coiled snake.

And then the inevitable happened. The combination of hasty flight, awkward feet not meant for walking, inattention (though with the creature bearing down on her, one could forgive Tharala that much, perhaps), and an uneven ground of cobbled stones giving way to a more uneven ground of treacherous and tricky roots, conspired to bring Tharala down. The spur of her left foot caught beneath an arched root, and Tharala began to topple, giving a cry of dismay, her wings flaring out in a panicked attempt to arrest her fall, or at least control it. This was not, however, the open air, where her wings might have righted her, corrected her course, given her the ability to convert the fall into a graceful, swooping dive of recovery. No, here on the ground, unable to fly, they were mostly of use to cushion the impact, or so one might have thought. Rather, they simply got in the way, and hurt abominably when Tharala landed on them badly, causing another lance of pain to shoot its way up her abused right wing.

The wolf rolled forward, nostrils flaring as it homed in on her scent. Tharala stared, watching the beast come forward. She had failed. She had tried, but she had failed. He was going to kill her, and there was nothing she could do about it. The skyfisher felt a moment of despair so sharp she could taste it. Was this it? Was this all that she could do? Her people dying, and the best that she could give to them was to foolishly enter this tournament and die for some ethereal reward that she wasn’t even sure could be what she sought?

Her hands clenched into fists, and hope, brilliant as the first rays of dawn of the mountains that held her aerie up to the sky, flashed through her. One hand formed a fist, the other curled about warm, familiar wood. The spear, the spear! Some divine fate had smiled upon her. Tharala had been certain that as she fell the spear would have bounced away, and yet, somehow, it had toppled down next to her, with the blade even facing the onrushing wolf creature!

Hunting was natural for her. It was what she knew, the reason that she rose early each morning, and came back late in the evenings. Skyfishing was not, strictly speaking, like ground hunting. There were different techniques, different approaches to attacking and taking prey in the air than the ground. Yet, two rules were the same.

One: The most effective way to hunt was to turn a disadvantage into an advantage.

Two: Always exploit the disadvantages of your prey.

She shifted desperately, disadvantaged by the roots straining up from the ground that and tripped and brought her low. Tharala turned it to an advantage, setting the butt of the seven foot ash shaft into a particularly deep hole created by a root that had ripped its way out of the ground. She was disadvantaged by the absurd difference in height and weight that the wolf had over her. Tharala turned it to an advantage, scooting backwards and sloping the spear upwards to receive the onrushing beast, whose ferocious size and power would drive the spear in deep, far deeper than the skyfisher could. Her prey was disadvantaged by the ringers that had blinded his eyes and deafened his ears, leaving him to rely on his keen nose. Tharala exploited it, for he could never see the spear, angled just so, waiting to take him in the chest.

Maybe it was pain induced madness that drove him on, or rage that could only be slaked by blood taken in revenge for the sensory assault he had suffered. Tharala whimpered softly as the wolf, no, the man, barreled forwards, her voice a cracking wisp, like the remains of Snjor’s fog. “I’m so sorry...”

Perhaps he heard. Perhaps the ringing in his sensitive ears was clearing, or perhaps it abated just enough for a moment. In either event, it seemed to Tharala that the man’s sightless eyes widened slightly, and that he checked his pace imperceptibly.

It was too late, far too late.

The steel-headed hunting spear did its job. The point drove into the man’s chest, hammered home by the application of so much momentum, digging deep into the chest and tearing straight through flesh and bone, heart and lung. His eyes widened in shocked surprise, his mouth dropping open slightly as his chest slammed against the steel tines arching out on either side of the spearhead, six inches down. The tines caught against his ribs on either side of the wound, and so great was the man’s momentum, so heavy his impact, that the ashwood stave of the spear groaned and flexed in protest, arching slightly before pushing back.

Tharala rolled aside in reflex as soon as the man smashed into the spear, sure that she could hear his ribs pop and fracture from the tremendous impact. She rolled to one knee, wings flared open and up in an unconscious gesture of intimidation, only to stop. The skyfisher stared, lifting the lenses of her cap as the man gave a last, wheezing exhalation and stilled. He was... he was dead...

She clamped down hard on the urge to be sick. She had killed someone, killed them! A part of her mind gibbered, flinching away from the horror of the violent death, screaming denial like a small child who knows the game is up, but won’t admit guilt. Tharala shook, hard, the motion rattling through her body and rustling her wings. Dead... Oh Light be my witness, I didn’t want to kill anyone!

But she had. She rose, trembling, her hands going to her chest, where she slowly began to unwind the chain that had been wrapped there. The ten foot chain of slim, sturdy links unwound pass by pass, over her shoulder, under her wings, and around her hips. She hadn’t wanted to kill anyone, but she had. The skyfisher shunted the gibbering, wailing voice away, locking it down deep with that detached part of her that was still observing the Arena, still wishing to speak with the man who had created it.

Would the boon be worth this? Would anything be worth this, this stain on her hands and on her soul? Tharala snapped the chain tightly between her hands, holding the metal spike in her left hand with the coils draped over that arm, and the weighted end dangling from her right hand. Her golden eyes moved slowly from where Snjor (Her friend, oh Lord and Lady, how she wished she could just talk to her friend! Hold her and cry and cry... ) fought the older man, and onwards to the frail woman with the staff. The skyfisher left the spear behind. It would take time to extract the spear, trapped tight in bone and gristle, and to tell the truth, she wanted nothing to do with that spear at the moment.

Tharala took a step forward, and then another, and then she somehow, miraculously, managed to begin to walk. This... this was why she was here. It would have to be worth it. She had to go on. There was no time to think. Thinking would come later (and the detached part of her quailed at the notion), now she could only go on, and that meant the frail woman might have to die as well.



Necro-Knight -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (7/21/2013 21:59:30)

*Rowan felt a bittersweet moment of triumph as his claws sink deep into the young man’s armor, then chest. He’d WANTED to slice his neck, but as he heard bones break and felt flesh rend under his claws, he decided to not argue. The fight was going to end very soon and he was going to see it through. He was surprised that the man wasn't crying out in pain or even still conscious, but he wouldn't be for long. Suddenly, Rowan’s air is cut thin as the man wraps his fingers around his neck and squeezes! It was only with one hand, and Rowan’s throat ached. He then looked up and saw the man’s arm rear back as if he was holding something and his eyes widened…

He pulls one hand free of his armor and claws at the man’s hand, trying to free himself, but when a blade materializes in the Archers hands and vastly stabs in his direction, Rowan simply brings his shadow-covered arm to bear over his face and braces! The shadow and gauntlet covering his arm caught the blade rather than his face, and slipped off the curved surface, but not before digging through the metal and darkness, cutting his arm and digging into the Arena floor with simple force from the Burst.

Gritting his teeth in pain, Rowan opened his hand and turned his palm towards the man’s face as he transferred the shadows from his arms to his palm, forming a smaller explosive skull and unleashing it from his palm! At this close range, he’d feel the blast himself, but it wouldn't be flying straight towards his face, as it was Zephyr’s… As he loosed the spell, he dug his claws of his other hand deeper into the man’s chest, to prevent his escape…



unknown2215 -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (7/22/2013 11:58:39)

Zephyr caught hold of the Death Knight's neck, he clenched his hand around the neck and held the Death Knight's head against the ground as he created his blade. Suddenly, he felt one of the clawed hands removing itself from his chest, he couldn't feel anything, previous experience to such injuries and adrenaline blocked out the pain and allowed him to continue and use Burst to send the created blade downwards to the Death Knight's face.

His attack was too late, the Death Knight managed to block his blade with the shadow encased arm that had freed itself from his chest. The blade dug through both the shadow and the metal of his foe's gauntlets and managed to wound his enemy, but it wasn't crippling and his blade was deflected into the dirt, digging deeply into the soil.

His Wind Senses screamed at him, he looked to the source and saw that the Death Knight's palm was now aimed at his face, a skull formed of shadows lying in his palm, noticeably smaller than the previous ones. It's threat level was high, Zephyr understood immediately that the blast was meant for his head, the only unarmored part of his body.

He could not form a shield to block it, both of his hands were occupied and too far away. He could only rely on his magic then. Zephyr exhaled, releasing unnatural amounts of wind with the breath, he manipulated it and spun it around his head. Zephyr could feel his magical energy draining away, he had used Burst a little more than he had expected to, leaving him with less that desired amounts of magical energy, just less than half of his total reserves left.

Zephyr poured a quarter of his remaining magical energy into the wind revolving around his head, causing it to become denser, distortions in the air could be seen due to the speed of the wind. Being the descendant of a Wind Elemental, he had nothing to fear about a lack of oxygen, for a short period of time anyway, with how diluted his blood was.

The skull short from the Death Knight's palm and towards his face, he closed his eyes not in fear, but in order to better protect it from the blast. He could feel the skull pushing against his Wind Armor, the volatile energies of the skull clashing against his dense, miniature tornado. The skull exploded midway through the Wind Armor, the shadows forming the skull flying in every direction with great force.

Shadow broke through his Wind Armor and crashed against his face, it felt like Zephyr had jogged and slammed his face against a stone wall, his nose was most likely going to be broken by it. Zephyr didn't mind, it was better than taking the full force of the spell, it most likely would have had enough power to blast his entire head off his body if it had connected directly.

Zephyr clenched his hand around the Death Knight's neck with more strength than before, his right arm letting go of the blade and leaving it stabbed into the dirt. Zephyr pulled his arm back and aimed a devastating punch at the Death Knight's face, his left arm never losing grip on his foe's neck.



Ryu Viranesh -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (7/24/2013 0:00:47)

Suddenly, out of the blue, or whatever the dominant color was at the time, multi-coloured sprites appeared, hovering down at rapid speeds to choice contestants. The swarm wiggled and writhed onto them, seeking entrance into the contestants through their ears, mouths, nostrils, and making the fighters emit a glow most spectacular from their eyes, ears, mouths, and even noses...

Their bodies grew transparent, the strange lights taking over everything, making them impossible to see, the light (the contestants?) rose up slowly, finally exploding into a gazillion of little marvelous pieces.

The Lords had made their pick, their chosen champions would proceed to fight the Final Battle of the Tournament...



Eukara Vox -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (7/25/2013 23:37:09)

Snjór watched the play of colour streaking through the air of the arena. Guarded, she watched their erratic behaviour, watched as they became more purposeful. They entered her friend, illuminating her, giving the various brightly coloured feathers a glow. Slowly, she rose before Snjór’s eyes and then burst into a million tiny glows. Somewhere another individual did the same.

But the swarm didn’t come for her.

The realisation that she was to remain behind stung. She had tried so hard to make her Guardian happy, to please the Powerful One with her efforts. Had she not prayed for guidance? Had she not given herself wholly to her Guardian? Yet, she was deemed unfit to continue. She had failed.

Unfit.

Failure.

Unworthy.

Disgrace.

Snjór heard their voices again, their taunts. She had hoped to silence them, once and for all. But, she wouldn’t be able to now. She had proven them all right. She had revealed she really was what they believed. A curse, an anomaly that should be taken out.

Tharala lived and moved on. She would return home with pride. I am happy she moved on. She deserves to.

ástvi... A tear falls as she drops to her knees. I have failed you. Your confidence in me was misplaced. I am not worthy of you. Forgive me, please.

Looking up into the canopy of the trees, Snjór cried out to her Guardian. “Forgive me, Guardian. Forgive me for failing you. Forgive me for not being what you needed!”

She ceased her armour spell, no longer needing it. With her dagger, Snjór drew the blade across her arm, below the left shoulder. The blade cut deep into her flesh, crossing over the injury already done to her, and she bit her lip. The mark was diagonal, to the left. She pulled back, then applied the blade again, joining the top of this mark to the first, diagonally opposite.

The apex crossed over the original injury, the previous gash was like a road cutting across a mountain. Her white fur, now stained with her blood, looked ragged. The blood seeped slowly, but heavily.

Marked for life. Outcast, failure, disappointment.

She laid her daggers on the ground, admitting defeat, and withdrew from the tournament. She sat there, on her knees as tears fell. For the first time in years, she truly cried as her shame clothed her.



Necro-Knight -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (7/28/2013 0:34:01)

As he knew that the Archer had to have heard earlier, Rowan heard bones cracking and knew his spell had done damage, but some odd trick had protected him and saved his life… SOMETHING on Lore didn't want him to kill this man, and he was expelling too much energy attempting to do so! His eyes widen as another blow raced his way and he gritted his teeth in near rage. What did it take for this man to stop!? His non-shadow clawed hand darts off to the side to grip the sword that the Archer had dropped, and his clawed hand dug through armor and flesh alike as he pulled it free, trying to claw as much as possible before he caught Zephyr’s blow in his grip, and began to squeeze…

The razor-edged claws dig in deep, and Rowan’s strong grip coupled with the force suddenly stopping was bound to sprain something… At the contact of flesh to metal armored gauntlet, Rowan spun the sword in his grip and placed it to the man’s neck, point drawing a single droplet of blood.

“Now you listen here…” The young man’s voice is thick with effort, but mostly boiling frustration and anger… So quiet though, a soft fury, the worst kind. “Either you release my neck and walk away from this arena…or I separate your head from your shoulders as you try to kill me… Did you come here to earn a better life, ‘cause I can easily take away the one you have now…by me, Rowan Moonstone…”

Suddenly, over the man’s shoulder, bright orbs of light danced towards them and Rowan grew pale, thinking another contestant had taken their chance and attacked… Was he about to see his parents, lying in the dirt like a corpse? He closed his eyes, not waiting for the man’s reply as prepared for what he presumed was his end. What actually happened was NOT to be expected… He felt a warmth, almost healing and he rose! He saw another streak of light from another corner of the arena, wondering who else the Lords had chosen, but it didn’t matter! He was going to continue, he was going to win, to get his family back!



Eukara Vox -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (7/31/2013 23:37:18)

In light of what Ronin posted in the finals thread, I feel this is now pertinent.



Sounds from the Arena were faint, even in her very sensitive ears. But it mattered not. What mattered was what was now, what she had failed to do. Unable to cry tears anymore, she just sat with her head bowed. By now, her arm was soaked in her own blood, dyed the darker shade of maroon that was prominent in her people.

She felt weak, but she couldn’t tell if it was from emotional exhaustion or physical. Perhaps she should... should... she shook her head, trying to clear it.

Snjór...

Blinking slowly, Snjór looked around, trying to find the voice. There was none left to talk to her. She dismissed it and sighed.

Snjór... get up, child.

Again, Snjór heard the voice, but still didn’t know where it was coming from. Why?

Because, little one, I am not finished with you.

Snjór picked up her daggers and tried to set them in their place on her back. Her left arm didn’t respond well, and what she could get it to do, caused her immense pain. The mark... Eventually, daggers put away, she stood weakly.

Now, leave this place and do not look back. I will find you again, little one.

Snjór inhaled deeply. Putting one foot in front of the other, she made her way slowly towards the exit. The voice compelled her and she found that she had to obey.

As she neared the gateway that now served as her exit, she noticed a figure striding back and forth in a fretful pacing. It was one of the robed magi, those workers who blended into the background so effectively to run such a tournament. This one seemed a bit taller and lankier than most, but when he turned about and noticed her, he immediately distinguished himself as different from the others.

He displayed a flash of recognition, as if he had been waiting for her.

“Medic!” He turned about, hovering just outside the gates themselves. “Medic...? Oh, drat...drat it all.” Though shrouded by a hood, he turned back towards Snjór and gazed intently at her. “Come. Come along. Almost out and then we can help you...you are Snjór Hlýju, yes?” The man gestured urgently, his gaze flicking back and forth from her and some arbitrary line...one he was not allowed to cross.

What if... She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to think about the chance that her ástvi would not greet her ever again. She looked up upon hearing her name. It wasn’t the same voice as before, which confused her more. A hooded figure stood before her, gesturing. So tired... perhaps if she left she could sleep until eternity arrived. She moved, pushing forward until she cleared the gateway.

The instant she cleared the gateway, the robed man moved and pressed something hard and metallic into her left hand. “Here. Hold this and whatever you do, do not drop it. I am Tashir. A friend of Kieran’s.” Leaving that as explanation, he moved to her less injured right side, shifting beneath her arm to help support her. “You were in there so long...but nothing on the death registers. Most of the healers have wandered off to go watch the Finals by now. We need to get you to one of the Medicae tents.”

“I failed him.” She wrapped her fingers around the metallic object in her hands. It was vaguely familiar, but all she could think was that he was alive.

“You’ve lost alot of blood...Lords, how many cuts did you suffer in there? Nevermind...” Tashir attempted not to jostle her too much, stooping over to try and keep their height difference from making it more difficult on her gashed right leg. “He wanted me to make sure you got that. No time at all, were you another of the Finalists. But it was important that you had that regardless.”

“He... he is a finalist?” She opened her hand and looked at the object the magi had given her. It was Kieran’s medallion. She wrapped her fingers around it tightly.

“Yes, yes, one of the vaunted Chosen. I don’t think he treats it the same as many others, though, between you and I.” Tashir pauses and glances about. “Its not quite the same, finding my way about when the construction is all done.” He grimaced at the time it was taking just to get her somewhere to be treated for her wounds. “My apologies.”

“You should be with him, shouldn’t you?” Snjór looked around, to help find any place he could leave her so he could return to the Finalist Arena. “I am sorry that you are here and not watching him.”

“Hah. You would be funny if you weren’t on your way to bleeding out.” Shaking his head, he sets them back into motion. “Just because I am working as a journeyman for the complex doesn’t mean I have any desire to watch that brand of warped madness, thank you. Nor would my watching him be worth a fig for his chances.”

“At least he has a chance... I failed. He had confidence... in me, and I let him down.” Snjór stumbled slightly and apologised.

Tashir reached over with his free hand to help steady her after her stumble, waving off her apology given the obvious hindrances of injury. “Failed? You survived. Each year there are plenty of unfortunates who do not.”

“I failed to prove them wrong. I failed to...” She sighs, almost too tired and hurt to finish the thought. But he lived and that made her happy.

“If he thought you failed, why would he be asking me to risk censure and reduce myself to being an errand boy on the whim of a favor asked? Hah!” He shakes his head. “Thinking too much with the blood loss, not enough with whatever meaning that is supposed to carry.”

“This... means everything. He would only give it...” Snjór bit her lip, trying to hold back more crying. ...to tell me he loved me, that he was proud of me. “Is... is it too late to watch?”

A snort preceded his answer. “After you get treated by a healer? No, probably not too late, I think we would have heard an outcry all the way out here had they gotten to the first elimination. Just keep an ear out, and keep thinking on that trinket, in the meantime.” Ahead of them, a tent came into view with a few bustling healers in soft, pastel robes. “There, speaking of...”

Snjór looked up and saw the healer tent. “After... I will go in and watch him win.”



Eukara Vox -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (8/6/2013 18:03:43)

The Medicae tent was quiet. The lone healer that was still on duty moved like a ghost, rapidly running here for this medicine, moving there for a strip of gauze. It didn’t help that the snow leopard on the table wasn’t being very cooperative. And about that... what in the world had the female done to herself?

Shaking his head, the healer approached the table. He held several items he would need alongside his own magic. She looked terrible. Tashir, the one who brought her in had merely shaken his head before depositing her on the table and leaving.

“I need to clean the wounds. Looks to me like you have an injury from a blade on your right upper leg and ...whatever that mess is on your left arm. Is there anything else?”

Snjór looked at the surface of the healing table she sat on. Unless you can heal disappointment. Shaking her head, she indicated that was all. Whether it was loss of blood or something else, she felt her heart was just not beating within her anymore.

The healer knew that look. This one had come to the tournament with more than she should have on her shoulders. He silently cleansed the gash on her leg, and cursed that her very dense and long fur made the job hard by hand. Energy wasted or not, this wasn’t going to be done by manual labour, but by magic. Silently, he cast a spell of cleansing to remove the matted blood, dirt and debris from the injury and her fur.

She looked … well, pale, despite the already white complexion. But her eyes were dull, and that meant the blood loss was significant enough to make her sick. He left her on the table and went to fetch scraps of meat for her, assuming she was a carnivore.

Snjór took the platter of odds and ends and ate mechanically. Something inside her pushed her to eat. She felt the wound slowly begin to heal as the man who attended to her worked his magic. It was a sickening feeling, which would have surprised her, had she been completely mindful of her situation. The food would help. She knew it would.

She had to watch.

That’s what the one said... Tashir? He said Kieran still lived and was in the finals. She needed to go watch, be there for him. A strong hand gripped her good arm and held her to the table. She blinked and looked at the hand. It was soft, slender and shouldn’t have had the strength to hold her back. Yet it had.

She heard the words commanding her to stay. Any other day, that would not have been prudent. Her leg healed, the man now looked to her shoulder. She picked up on a tone of utter dismay and ...anger? The same sensation that she had felt on her leg, she felt on her shoulder. He was healing the mark! She fought to be released from his hold and she knew she cried out in dismay. He didn’t understand. It had to stay. If he healed it, it would ruin everything. The mark had to stay. It was just the way it was.

She argued with him, though what arguments she used were like fuzzy conversations one hears through thick glass. He was adamant, she was convicted. Eventually, as the food began to kick in and her thoughts cleared, she negotiated a truce. He would clean, medicate, and bandage it to prevent infection. She would leave his tent.

There was pain in the healing arts she allowed the healer to apply. The medication stung, the pressure of the bandages ached. But, the mark was whole. Several more minutes passed as she headed for the Finals Arena. She could tell more by sound than by sight. She stumbled into the Arena seats and tried desperately to walk with some semblance of dignity. She didn’t care about the stares she received when she insisted on squeezing past a dozen viewers to get to the sole seat left open close to the bottom. So what if the reptilian observer wanted a seat between him and the avian two seats over. He wanted space. She wanted to see her ástvi. The scaled one would live having to sit next to her.

Closeness was not an issue, not with Kieran down there. Already, she saw that some were gone. But, there was Tharala and Kieran, working together! That made her heart soar. She barely recognised the dark knight that they fought together, but he had been from the Fountain Arena. He... retreated and she watched one more disappear. She counted. There were six left. Five that stood between Kieran and victory. And one of those was Tharala.



Eukara Vox -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (8/18/2013 0:50:55)

She glanced over the remaining fighters. Water and Earth fought in one place while and Fire and Ice fought in another, and had it not been for her friend and ástvi, she would be more interested. But it was Kieran and Tharala that she was there to watch and no one else. Snjór watched them pause and speak to one another. The conversation was animated, and she was very curious as to what was being discussed. Maybe it was an alliance sought, so that they may both survive this tournament. That would make her spirit settle some.

And then, Kieran walked away, putting distance between himself and Tharala.

What... what? But you should work together?! She twitched in her seat, her tail, which was wrapped around her waist moved jerkily in her frustration. Kieran was moving towards the Fire and Ice fighters while Tharala stayed put. She watched him gather from the runes, her eyes catching the colouring. He intended to attack both, and had anyone been able to see her skin, they would have seen it ghostly pale.

She concentrated on the Fire and Ice fighters, for the first time. Both were decently sized men, though the bear took her breath away. He was enormous in her eyes and she worried. He was like her, a creature of the ice, the frozen, the world where death was cold and looming, where one moment you were alive and the next a corpse of frozen flesh. She had not shown Kieran the realities of ice... Alone, she would have cried, but here, surrounded, she couldn’t. She would not dishonour him.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Tharala moved. She glanced over, only to see her friend now approaching the other duel. First Kieran decided to take on two, then Tharala. The tournament had addled their minds, surely, for both to attack battles already in progress. As Tharala moved towards the Earth and Water competitors, a portal appeared and with a gesture the snow leopard knew well and balked at, the Waterborn disappeared. The Earth fighter stared at Tharala and her friend tossed a flashbang in the direction of the competitor. Snjór looked away, knowing full well what was about to happen and before covering her ears, heard the Ice Bear roar in triumph. She shivered near violently as the sound of his triumph reminded her of the great Ursu from home... the only predator she was fearful of.

Snjór watched Kieran stalk the two fighters with a determination she had never seen before. It was frightening. And then she saw the spell. It was beautiful, and yet a cyclone of death and destruction that descended upon the Fire and Ice champions. She watched in awe as it sliced up the competitors.

Flashes of light glanced off of metal on the other side of the arena, pulling Snjór attention away from Kieran. This was going to drive her to insanity, having to look back and forth and worry the entire time. The Earth champion was now throwing knives at Tharala. The big cat shivered, imagining the effect on her friend’s wings if a blade were to fall just right.

A roar from the crowd tore her eyes from Tharala, since such a reaction could only mean some sort of violence that satiated their desire for blood had been sated. She turned just in time to see the Fire fighter injured beyond measure at the hands of the Ice Bear. He retreated, then disappearing like the others. And then... the spell that had done such beautiful work on the Fire champion seemed to do little to his foe.

She growled loudly enough that the people around her stared at her, and one even attempted to move away from her. She realised that not only had she growled, but she had bared her teeth. There was no way one could heal so well in the midst of such a battle.



Eukara Vox -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (8/19/2013 20:22:08)

Snjór gripped the seat under her legs, her claws digging into the material as if it was a porous and flimsy substance. The bear just… continued to batter and bruise her ástvi. Over and over, his blows landed and she imagined how much pain he was in. He may not show it, but it was there. How proud and strong Kieran was! They battled fiercely for so long, yet she was enraptured at the exchange of strength and speed.

Her world silenced when she saw the blade the Ice Bear used cut so deeply into Kieran’s arm that she swore she saw bone. Snjór cursed her sight as her stomach churned. Not from the nausea many thin-skinned people would experience upon seeing so much raw muscle and blood, but from the knowledge that he had lost so much mobility in that arm. She whimpered slightly as her ears flattened against her head. Biting her lip was the only way to prevent her from crying out. Someone near her looked at her with sympathy, but she did not acknowledge it. As much as she wanted to cool the injury, numb the pain, that would ruin everything. She didn’t want to ruin this.

The flurry of movement on the other side of the arena drew her back to the two women. Tharala and the Earth Champion seemed to be evenly matched. Both agile air acrobats, both sharp witted and, in her eyes, equally strong. They traded moves and attacks, and for now, Tharala didn’t seem to be in as much trouble as Kieran despite the seemingly endless knife supply thrown at her. She just hoped her avian friend had built up her confidence from when they had first met. Snjór knew Tharala had it in her. But, the underlying fear was that Tharala and Kieran would end up having to fight each other.

Her attention centered back on Kieran and the Ice Bear. Before her eyes, the bear began to construct a wall of ice to keep Kieran at bay and she marveled at its beauty, yet simplicity. But, ice was as beautiful as it was deadly. A smile played on her lips as she watched Kieran turn the tables. The Ice Champion had expected something, and Kieran wasn’t complying. She watched him leap over the wall, his foot connecting with the Bear’s shoulder. The impact was perfect.

The Ice Bear spun and fell onto his own wall of icy spikes. Not a pretty way to go, but oddly enough, fitting. To die by one’s creation had a certain poetic justice to it. She watched him stand, still and solemn, as the foe slowly died. It was odd to watch, for this was a very foreign action to Snjór. She would have to ask him about it once this was over. Then, as if fatigue had taken him, he cleared enough ice away before sitting ungracefully onto the sand.

He knows only three remain now. He can catch his breath as the other two battle it out. Snjór, however, wavered. She had no idea what was going through his mind or what his next move was. She looked back at Tharala, just as her friend ripped her adversary with open claws, raking a beautiful injury across the shoulder. She was surprised that there was a severe lack of the rich red colour of blood. Disappointed, even. But the injury was obvious.

Now is when Snjór would have been useful. She watched Kieran tend to his wound and pick up ice chucks to cool and numb the injury. Prudent, yet, that should have been her job. Had I made it instead of the Ice Bear, I could have been the one to help in case of injury. She rolled her eyes, acknowledging the injury wouldn’t be there in the first place has she made her Guardian happier and judged competent to continue.

And then there were three, though two of them had yet to discover that. They fought on as Kieran rose to his feet, took the Ice Champion’s sword and proceeded to walk towards Tharala and her foe. She smiled. She probably would taken the sword also.

When his voice pierced the air upon arriving close to the pair, Snjór’s ears perked up. His voice, even in this arena, carried with such authority. He said but one word, “Enough”. What was he up to?



Eukara Vox -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (8/21/2013 0:33:43)

Whatever her ástvi had planned, apparently didn’t work, for neither female fighter paid him any heed. Snjór still had no idea what he wanted, unless it was to work out some kind of truce and decide the victor through negotiation. She grimaced. It would have avoided some unpleasantness.

Tharala and the earth champion continued to fight. Tharala’s sudden scream while Kieran stood there trying to get their attention startled her. This was no ordinary scream and one that brought Snjór to her feet. This was a scream of pain and panic. She concentrated on Tharala’s form, only to see her go to her knees and rapidly claws at her face. Though she couldn’t see what was wrong, she knew it was bad.

“Tharala!!!” She cried at the sight of her friend’s panic. She was hurt. Now both of the people she was close to were hurt badly. She screamed her frustration again, only to have someone try to yank her down. She growled, loudly, daring someone to touch her again. It wasn’t fair… she should be able to help, able to do something for both of them.

She watched as Tharala threw two more flashbangs and she turned away to avoid hurting her eyes. It was a gut reaction from her friend, and that worried her. Was Tharala doubting? Was she starting to lose faith? Was she that hurt? Kieran took cover and she was relieved he wouldn’t be harmed too much.

There was no way she could stand still. Too much was going on. Chaos, confusion, indecision, panic. It was too much and not enough at the same time.

And just when there wasn’t anything left to throw her mind into chaos, she watched, in disbelief, as Kieran began to run at Tharala. It wasn’t an ordinary run, but one fueled by his magic. A lump caught in her throat as he launched himself in the air. He was attacking Tharala.

She couldn’t watch. She couldn’t. Her only friend and her ástvi were fighting. Snjór moved to leave, pushing people out of the way as she retreated. She needed out. She needed out now. When she was free of the seating, she ran as fast as she could out of the arena.

Once out, she leaned against the wall and tried not to cry.



jerenda -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (8/23/2013 15:24:32)

Afterwards
Somebody caught her and carried her into a big white tent set up just outside the main gates. They set her down on a flat surface, then held her there until she remembered to cut the gravity pull. There were a lot of people moving around her, touching her and making weird gestures. Gabriel focused on a young man who seemed to be speaking to her. He had a nice face, and he held her still-functional right hand while the pain slowly dimmed. Or it could have been the bloodloss getting to her.

When she didn’t respond to his talking, he frowned and made a small gesture with his hand. There was a small pop and sound rushed back in. “There, that should do it. Like I was saying, don’t worry. You’re in good hands now. Now, what’s your name?”

Had everything always been so loud? She was having a hard time hearing him, despite the careful way he spoke. “G-Gabriel. Gabriel Diaz.”

“Excellent. And what’s your element, Gabriel Diaz?”

“Um, Earth. But… not anymore, I guess.” For a terrifying moment, she thought she might start crying. He rushed on.

“Last question, honey, promise. Are you human?”

“Uh. Sort of.” Her brow wrinkled as she struggled to think past the haze. “I’m - I’m an Angelborn. It’s like human? But, my blood...”

“It’s clear, right. But other than that it’s like normal blood?”

“I think so? I… I don’t know…”

He patted her hand gently. “Don’t worry about it, honey. We’ve got everything under control. Now, there are a few people here who want to see you. There’s a man named Reeve and a girl named Katherine. Do you want to see them?”

Gabriel blinked. Reeve? Reeve was here? She started to sit up, craning her neck to search for him. Before the medic caught her and pushed her gently back onto the cot, she caught a glimpse of a woman covered in white and black spotted fur curled into a little ball near the Arena wall. No Reeve.

“I’m sorry, honey, you’ve gotta lie still. We’ll get you fixed up in a jiffy, but you’ve gotta wait. Would you like me to get them?”

Gabriel forced herself to take a deep breath and relax. “Yeah. Could you?”

“Alright, now you just lie still and let my friends help you out. I’ll be back before you miss me.” He darted off, leaving Gabriel to focus determinedly on the ceiling and not on what all these people were doing to her. Sound is cool though. I like sound. I have a sneaking suspicion that’s not the wind sighing so sadly… but I don't have to deal with that. Sound is good.



Eukara Vox -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (8/26/2013 23:02:47)

It was like a buzzing sound at first. She shook her head, ears flicking as if pestered by an unseen creature. For just a moment, she was back in the mountains, running from the “normal” kids, hiding to catch her breath. The buzzing biters swarmed her ears… and then she was back in the corridors of the arena. It wasn’t the biters, it was the crowd within the arena.

They were rejoicing. Someone was the victor.

Snjór looked up, trying to discern what was going on. To the side was an obvious participant. She narrowed her eyes, trying to focus them, trying to see through her sorrow. It was the one whose blood was clear, the one that seemed to fly, but really hadn’t been. The feline could see the woman was in great pain and looked as if she was about to lose consciousness at any moment.

A part of her wanted to approach, but held back. What if the answers she sought broke her heart? What if what she wanted to know destroyed what balance there was, right now, in her world? Her eyes searched for any sign as to why the crowd was cheering. Not that she actually knew what to look for. Her eyes looked at anyone moving, to see if anyone spoke of the end. Snjór’s eyes ventured back towards the injured woman. She was avidly searching the crowd too, and for a brief moment, their sight aligned.

She was disappointed. But not, in herself, no. This was the disappointment of not seeing what she sought. Snjór understood that all too well. No, she would not approach the young woman. To do so would cause her to miss the person she was seeking. It was bad enough Snjór had to miss someone. She wouldn’t cause another to miss a loved one.

The buzzing began to take on a more definite cadence. The rhythm was set to three syllables, softer syllables.

Tharala. Tharala. Tharala.

Snjór inhaled sharply. Tharala’s name was shouted, roared, honoured. It was an overwhelming sound, but at the same time, one that drilled fear into her heart. If Tharala won… She looked around, eyes wide, ears up, as if to sense the smallest of familiar movements or quiet sounds. Where. Was. He?

The crowd roared louder and louder. Something huge was happening. Was the din of their amusement because she had won, or because of how she had won? Kieran had still yet to emerge from the place that the woman had.

Has, has Tharala killed Kieran? Surely she… If she knew who he was, surely he spoke to her when they met on the sands! Surely she knew what he was to her? Would her friend truly do that, to get her way and win? The crowd’s cheering became so deafening that Snjór began to lose hope. She couldn’t think. All she could hear, think, see, feel, was Tharala’s name chanted over and over and over.

Backing away from the wall, Snjór looked wildly about, trying to find a way out. A way to escape, to leave behind everything that had made her think things could be better, could be… beautiful. She couldn’t do this. Her sensitive ears were pounding, her head was aching and her heart was hanging by the thinnest of threads.

Out. Must get out.

After what felt like an eternity, Snjór found the way out. She ran, narrowly avoiding everyone. Out of the building she sprinted, not caring who saw her, or who she might run over. At the moment, the sight of a six foot tall feline running should be ample enough reason to clear a path. She ran to the only place she truly knew.

The Quicksilver Inn. The place where she had met her match. The place where she fell in love. And now, most likely, the place where she could mourn in peace.


*Actions by Gabriel are by permission*



Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (8/29/2013 12:43:10)


Kieran blinked softly; he had taken a step through the gateway and then had found himself...in a tunnel leading to the exterior of the arena. Ahead, in the brightness of the exit, there was the soft bustle of those disgruntled fans who had left early, not giving the remaining Finalists the respect they deserved. Perhaps some had left with the declaration of the Champion, but those would be few he suspected. Not enough time had passed since he himself had left the sands for those to trickle out. It was certainly a softer din of conversation compared to the building furor he had left behind.

In this shaded and somewhat peaceful environment, Kieran at last allowed his frailty to manifest. His weaknesses were not too vast, but some dizziness alongside combat fatigue was still critical. He leaned against the corridor wall and slumped down slowly with a sigh. Chala… It was not his injuries that dwelled in his head, it was the idea that he had disappointed someone close to him. Closer to his heart than his soul, where the great serpent’s shadow still lingered. Were it as simple as killing Tharala and Gabriel, there was no doubt that he could have done so. Yet it would not have been right, nor would it have solved more problems than it would have created.

Drip…drip… The softest of sounds, felt rather than heard, brought him back from his reverie. Blood dripping softly from the bandage, soaked beyond capacity. His fingers had gone totally numb. Grasping his wrist with his good arm he shifted it to lay in his lap, but that brought a lance of white-hot pain which faded far too fast for his comfort. Sitting there, he closed his eyes and rested the back of his head against the cool wall. The waiting would not take long.

“Hmananmmwina mummabin?” It was a blurred out mess of sound that had no meaning to Kieran, but he could guess. He shook his head softly before opening his eyes and glancing at a young man who worked for the arena. The man hardly looked up for much, perhaps just a courier rather than a full mage for construction or medical purposes. Still, he would do. “Mmmahmwmom?”

“I cannot hear. Battle Deaf. Stop talking and listen.” Kieran held up a hand to forestall further queries, and smiled gently up to the man in appreciation for being approached. He hoped the man would understand, despite the slight slur to his speech from fatigue. “Understand that I do not want to go to the medical tents. I need a messenger...no, make that two. Runners if need be, but ethereal summons would be better. Wind tunnel, Wind champion, so Zephyrs, yes? You understand?” It was like he was talking to a child, and at some level Kieran felt bad for trying to convey the message in the simplest form possible. The man readily understood, shaking his head affirmatively then gesturing for Kieran to pause for a second. He did not speak to Kieran, which brought a smile to the wounded Chosen’s lips, but rather began to speak under his breath.

As Kieran watched, the man began to conjure up a pair of least elementals, mere wisps that would not truly even be considered a proper Zephyr. It took the man a considerably long time for the effort, but Kieran watched with the patience of a man fatigued. The wisps barely had form, at least ones that could be seen by the naked eye. Once he had conjured them both, he made motions of handing one to Kieran, his lips moving soundlessly in a polite reaffirmation. “Here. Here.”

With a nod, Kieran thanked the man and carefully took one of the wisps into his good hand. He leaned over, fighting back a brief wave of nausea to do so. It was in the softest whisper that he spoke direction to the little elemental messenger. “Seek out Salissa, of the Oaken Branch and Shield. Bring her here, to heal and serve debts owed.” The messenger whirled within his palm, speeding up in an understanding borne through arcane comprehension, compelled through the spell. Lifting his palm upwards, it flit away with the soft brush of a breeze against his cheek.

Kieran took the second wisp more slowly, feeling apprehension mix with his weariness. This was a message he was far less looking forward to sending, not wishing to possibly interrupt a celebration with news of failure. Or worse, for the relationship between Snjór and Tharala was still somewhat nebulous to him. Fast friends made for interesting companions, but the way her innocence had led to their own bond becoming so deep, so quickly...it left him some doubts. It would sadden him intensely were he to undercut her joy in Tharala’s own victory. “Seek ye Snjór Hlýju. My chala. Bring her here, if she is willing, and make her aware that I am injured but in no danger of death.” None, at least, as long as Salissa arrives without too much delay. This wisp, too, blew away with the softness of a gentle breeze.

The man who had graciously conjured the elementals looked at Kieran with a wan smile. He gestured at Kieran’s injuries, then made a slightly insistent sound that he should rise and head to the medical tents for at least a change of his bandage. Kieran shook his head and leaned back against the wall again, closing his eyes as a grin of his own formed on his face. “No...no...here, stay awhile, and listen.” Then, with another sigh and focusing outside of his injuries, Kieran began to pass on a tidbit of his knowledge to another generation.



Eukara Vox -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (9/4/2013 22:39:36)

By the time Snjór arrived at the Inn, she was exhausted. The run had been good, in that it created a quiet void in her mind, a place where she couldn’t think or remember why she ran. But, it had been a bad idea, for she had not let the worst of her injuries, even though self-inflicted, be healed. The run had caused the bleeding to resume, the motion of her arms pumping as hard as she could rupturing whatever scabbing had grown over her scarification. When she slowed, it all came back to her in a wash of grief.

Yes, her friend had won. She was proud of Tharala. The avian had been so unsure, so tentative about the whole affair. Snjór had been quick to try and bolster her friend’s spirits, to instill something of confidence in her. You didn’t enter such a battle pensive and afraid. Yet, it nagged at her that it was possible that in winning, Tharala had to kill her ástvi.

The Quicksilver Inn loomed ahead. The faster she could get there the faster she could lose herself. Someone slipped out of the door and she snuck in. Head down, she moved quickly for the stairs. She heard Schultz vaguely, his voice muffled by her emotions and the din of the eating area. Two stairs at a time, she climbed, one destination in mind.

Snjór tried to open the door, but found that it was locked. Turning so that her back was against the door, she cried. Holding nothing back, she sobbed, her tears flowing freely. She couldn’t even get into their room to mourn in solitude. Slowly, Snjór slid down the wooden door until she was sitting on the floor, slumped over with her face in her hands.

Unlike a younger man, Schultz had to take the stairs one at a time to reach Snjór, and would never have caught her in a footrace. However, not only did he know where she was headed, he had been left with the key to that very room. His heavy footfalls came at the slow, regular beat of the arthritic and aged. As he crested the stairs, he called out softly. “Miss? You remember that you both had left the key with me, di---oh. Oh my. Miss, is something wrong?”

“I’ve lost everything.” Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “I’ve lost my chance to change things. I’ve lost my life. But most of all, I’ve lost him.”

“Then the tournament is over,” the elderly gentleman stated pensively. He stroked his chin with one hand while starting to pat down his pockets.

Snjór nodded. “Tharala, the light Chosen, is victor.” She shuddered thinking of the possibilities.

Schultz fished the key out of his pocket and handed it to Snjór. “Try not to take your loss too hard, will you?” His pensiveness bled into a mix of worry and concern. “Well, you both left this with me. Take your time, young one.” He frowned and turned to hobble back down the stairs.

“Thank you, sir,” she said softly and stood to unlock the door. Once unlocked, she entered and threw herself on the bed and wept.

* * * * *


The conjured wisp moved through the area, a gentle breeze following in its wake. It caught the attention of some, understanding that something of import was borne on those currents. Certainly, it had to do with the Tournament, for by now, most if not all the people of Bren knew it was over and a victor was announced. Here and there, voices raised in objection as bets were collected and redistributed to the few who had laid a bet in favour of the Light Champion. The Tournament had been a surprise for many, and a major loss for those who bet on the more predictable victor.

Yet, the wisp continued. It wasn’t for the men who held the betting, nor the people who were in charge of the aftermath. No, this wisp was seeking out someone much more insignificant than those who would draw more money out of the visitors and patrons of the event. Finally, it paused in front of the Quicksilver Inn. After a moment, it rose to the second floor and moved into the room Snjór was fitfully sleeping in. It hovered, as if watching.

Snjór had cried until she could no longer bear being awake. Her fatigue, her emotions, and her injuries all contributed to her eventual collapse into unconsciousness. Her dreams were teasing, painful reminders of the past few tumultuous days. Reminders of her almost perfect theft of Kieran’s coin purse which led to their meeting. The days of learning of each other and realising that he was something more than she could ever ask for.

She tossed and turned, unable to get any real respite from her current situation. But, the fatigue was so real, so deep. The wisp nudged her gently. She needed to be awake and alert to receive the message sent to her. It nudged her a second time, a bit more forcefully, something innate realising that this one needed more than a simple waking.

Crying out, Snjór woke with a start. Startled out of a dream by the riverside, a lovely dream of joy and closeness, she sat up and looked around. The wisp settled as if to look her in the eyes. She blinked, unsure of what was before her, and for several moments fearing fearing she looked upon the soul of her ástvi. Fresh tears sprung to her eyes.

And then, a coolness of comfort washed over her.

The wisp seemed to envelope her, relaying its message slowly so that she would catch every nuance of what Kieran wished for her to know. He lived… HE LIVED! She had not lost him. She was not alone. And… and, Tharala was not forced to kill him to win! Her heart soared with relief and joy. She tossed the twisted blanket off of her body and moved to her feet, only to sway slightly. She shook her head, pushing back the nausea and dizziness that her condition thrust upon her.

Her ástvi needed her, wanted her to find him. She found the key still in her hand, the imprint of its outline pressed into her palm. Exiting the room, the wisp dissipated, its job done. Snjór made her way down, her steadiness increasing with each step. When she passed by Schultz, she grabbed him, hugged him and joyously proclaimed that Kieran was alive, then disappeared out the door. His bewildered look slowly turned to a smile.

When her body was ready, she broke into a run, a smile on her face.



Eukara Vox -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (9/9/2013 21:58:16)

Snjór slowed as she approached the arena, a wave of emotion washing over her. Though she knew he lived and all was well, the shudder of despair still clung to her heart. He needed a healer. That meant her ástvi was indeed hurt, but to what extent Snjór was unsure.

As she wove around all the people who were exiting the arena, Snjór kept her eyes focused on Kieran and only Kieran’s form. It wouldn’t be that hard to find him this way, though it would also make her very susceptible to missing everything else going on around her. It was a hunting technique, and a successful one at that.

But, just as it was helpful in hunting, it was terrible at giving Snjór a wider perception of her surroundings. She slammed into another person and racked backwards, nearly falling. Had it not been for her tail, Grace would have been a mockery of a nickname.

Steadying herself, then growling at the interruption to her hunt, Snjór looked at the individual with whom she had collided. After a moment, she recognised the face. Salissa. The healer who had come at Kieran’s behest to heal her own badly healed injury from childhood. She looked frustrated, almost more annoyed really, and glanced over Snjór briefly before wrinkling her nose at the fresh wound upon the arm. “For once, couldn’t one of you competitors come out of this tournament hale and hearty?” Then Salissa’s expression softened slightly, “Ah, but I suppose that is contrary to the point. Where are you headed in such a hurry, friend feline?”

“Trying to find Kieran. I, I got a message that he was alive, and here, and wanted to see me and okay but hurt and I needed to get here fast and…” She spoke rapidly, trying to focus yet unable to knowing he was still not in front of her where she could see him.

Salissa cut her short of further babble by snapping the fingers of one hand in front of Snjór’s nose, though endearing it was the opposite of helpful. “Calm. Down.” She took a breath, nostrils flaring slightly before uttering an unladylike harrumph. “Right then. Finding him shouldn’t be too difficult, if he sent messengers to us both. Given the chanting, I suppose his ego was taken down a notch too...so, somewhere around the Grand Arena. Have you checked the area dedicated towards Wind and its followers yet?”

“Area dedicated to Wind?” She looked at Salissa, her eyes betraying her lack of knowledge. “I just got here.” She turns red, embarrassed suddenly before the healer. The smaller woman hardly notices, however, and points over to the Grand Arena itself.

“Look above the entranceways, friend feline. Above those meant for the crowd rests the symbology of the element that section will support. Mostly because that section will sit nearest that respective Pillar, really.”
Snjór looks up at the nearest door and saw a symbol. It looked to be Fire. “If this is Fire, then where would Wind be?” She wanted to be with him now.

The healer took a moment, eyes closed in thought in an attempt to remember the yearly layout, then shook her head in frustration again. “Fire...is next to Earth?” She glanced up, looking to both sides of the section devoted to Fire through the crowd for other symbols. “Yes, clockwise from Earth, see over there?” Again, she points, though at the angle the transition is hard to spot through the thickening crowd of spectators.

“So, how far does that make Wind from us? I didn’t pay attention to the pillars when I entered the arena. I just went in and looked for a seat as close as I could.” She bit her lip and looked at Salissa. “Are his injuries bad?”

With a shrug of her shoulders, Salissa takes Snjór’s hand. “I won’t know until I see him. Though I would imagine he wouldn’t be risking his life by waiting on me, now would he?” Standing on her toes, she struggles to see over the mass of the crowd. “Look, you are a huntress, yes? How about you practice your skills and weave us through these folk so we can get to him?”

Snjór looks at Salissa as she holds her hand. It was an odd feeling, but appreciated. She calmed, looking out over the crowd. She pulled Kieran’s face, then his body to the forefront of her mind. Once locked in, she nodded and allowed her instincts to take over. “I will get us through this crowd, much like navigating through a herd of spiralhorns.” She looked at Salissa briefly with a smile. “Just not as dangerous.” She turned back and began to make her way through the crowd.

Cautiously, yet with a hint of urgency, Snjór led Salissa through the crowd. Her instincts allowed her to see two steps ahead in most cases, allowing them to avoid collisions, migration pauses, jams, and two argument-turned-fights. Her height gave her an advantage also, as she was able to see over most of the crowd.

Then, without warning, she bolted from Salissa. The symbol for wind was ahead, but that wasn’t why she ran. She ran, because she saw her ástvi sitting against a wall, waiting for them. His eyes closed, he seemed to be speaking to someone kneeling opposite. Just as she was within 10 feet of him, she paused suddenly, sliding to a stop. Her tail twitched as she surveyed the scene.

She was apprehensive, cautious, fearful. The air smelled wrong. It smelled of a hunting ground gone bad. It smelled of a war camp full of pain. She wrinkled her nose, but nothing would be able to take that from her. She took a tentative step, her tail swishing over the ground in agitation.

She saw his injury and her throat tightened.

Another step forward, her eyes and ears alert. She continued to approach slowly, eventually crouching into a more feline stance, all four limbs under her. He was talking, but his eyes remained closed.

“K-Kieran?”



Eukara Vox -> RE: =EC 2013= Fountain Arena (9/19/2013 22:12:09)

He didn’t seem to notice, continuing in his soft-spoken manner to instruct the young mage keeping him company. The mage, however, noticed her approach readily and became extremely animated. At first, it looked like he was attempting several different gestures at once in order to communicate with Snjór before he remembered that he could speak and she would hear him, unlike his current ‘instructor’. After hitting himself in the head with the soft smack of his palm, he calls over to the feline. “Ah. He is deaf, battle-deaf! He cannot hear you.”

Snjór turned her blue eyes onto the mage. “Battle deaf? The flashbangs…” She looked back at Kieran, her facial expression one of pain. He continued, so the mage was right. He couldn’t hear her. She tried to swallow, but the tightness in her throat prevented it. “He… He looks so pale. His injury is terrible. Have you done anything, at all, to alleviate this?”

“Only what he would let me do. You received a summons, yes? You are not the healer, though? Those were my workings. Ah, but how much better could I be now! What wonders a few minutes have brought!” The mage brightened like the sun piercing a cloudy sky, then tapped Kieran’s knee gently. The fighter took it as a sign of acknowledgement, as he had several times over the lecture, to continue...up until the mage tapped again and again.

Kieran opened his eyes slowly. For a moment, he appeared to struggle slightly just to bring the world back into focus before he noticed the new arrival. He blinked several times, looking at Snjór. “Chala?”

Snjór crept closer, her body tense and near vibrating with the desire to hold him tightly and curl up against him. She kept her eyes on his, never looking anywhere else. If he couldn’t hear her, she was going to make sure that he saw her love for him and the relief that he was before her. Closer she advanced, until she was but inches from him, and then she nuzzled against his cheek, tears falling freely.

He reached up with his good hand, gently brushing away the trail of tears falling along her cheek with the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Relax, my chala, I will soon be hale and hearty once more. You’ll see. There was never a need for you to worry and fret so.” With that same hand, he pulled her into him, returning the nuzzle with a hug of soft strength and tender emotions.

There was a cough over by the tunnel’s exit, and Salissa strode in with a cross between a smile and a scowl on her face. “Now isn’t this sweet, mm? Quite the opposite of leaving me stuck between a Drakel and a Drow back there! Honestly, girl, you’d think it would be important to make sure I followed.” With a few stern motions of her hands alongside a brusque “Shoo!”, she gets the mage to move away and settles herself opposite of Kieran. “Now then, battle-deafness, and what else do we have here…”

“You are here, are you not?” Snjór growled very quietly, suddenly protective of Kieran. “He is pale, so very pale, which means he has lost a great amount of blood. I can only surmise, based on hunting, that he has been losing it for a while, as he continued to fight. His arm,” she hissed, “is a mess. The gouge in his right arm is to the bone. Is there anything else you need, Salissa?”

Salissa gave Snjór a moue of distaste, then returned her face to a mask of professionalism. “A touch less hostility might be nice. I don’t much like the blood trickling from his ear, either.” She gives the feline a momentary stare, then makes another series of shooing motions to give Kieran a bit of room for her to work with. Meanwhile, Kieran had closed his eyes again, steeling himself for further pain in his very near future. “Neither of you are all that solid to pay the Debt, either, but he’ll be stubborn and insist…”

Snjór narrowed her eyes at being shooed, much like a pet would be. She adjusted her position enough to let Salissa examine Kieran, but wouldn’t leave him or separate herself. “Then, split it between both of us. Surely, both of us together would be sufficient. Or, take a much from me as you can. Just… make him better!”

A scowl blossomed on Salissa’s face, and she sighed lightly while glaring at Snjór. “That is not how it works, if you’d stop the hysteria and think. Nothing is taken.” With a harrumph, the shorter lady rolled up her sleeves and brought her hands to either side of Kieran’s head. “Nothing is given. Just the price of Power when it comes to healing under the discipline I trained under. Now hush and let me work, you ferociously protective feline.” A soft glow collected around Salissa’s hands, faintly white and shot through with grey, as she began speaking in unintelligible whispers. Then she snapped both fingers right beside Kieran’s ears and the glow went out.

Snjór growled softly, but did as Salissa wanted her to. She watched carefully, partially intrigued by the use of magic and partially to make sure things went right. Losing Kieran was not an option and she had already had that scare wash over her. Never again.

There was the sudden sensation of rapidly building pressure in his ears, and Kieran hissed lightly as pain built from pinpricks into hot lances of agony. Then there was a pop, and the echo of snapped fingers beneath a soft growl as his hearing was restored to him. Lazily, he opened his eyes and grinned slightly. It was a relieved expression, even if the more worrisome wound had yet to be addressed. “Giving our healer a difficult time, my chala?”

“She shooed me, like some common pet!” Snjór looked him in the eyes, to make sure he got a whiff of her indignation. She glanced at Salissa briefly, before looking back on Kieran, her eyes softening greatly. “My ástvi, I thought I had lost you.”

“It will take more than this tournament to put me down for good, my chala, have faith. At least given the extensive preparations I underwent for it. Again.” Kieran snorts, then shakes his head and frowns. “I went too easy on her. It had its costs…” Then he looked past Snjór to regard Salissa with narrowed eyes. “Just enough to get me mobile and safe, if you would, Salissa. Enough that I can balance out and finish the rest later, after a small nap and a good meal perhaps.”

Snjór frowned, then nuzzles against his cheek. “I am just glad you are here, now.” Looking at Salissa, she sighed. “What does he mean? Just enough?”

Kieran tilted his head for a moment and regarded Snjór carefully. The last time he had not spoken the entire truth or had kept things under wraps, she had taken it badly anyway. Even if it had been all for her good. Taking a steadying breath, he began, “Chala, there are complications involved, and what with the other day I wouldn’t want to overtax ou-”

“What he really means is that he is just having me get him patched up so he won’t bleed out all over town and can move around just fine. That’s what he means, the pain in the arse.” Salissa smiled at Snjór with her eyes while otherwise scowling at Kieran. “Yeah, there’s complications, but no worse than what there were when dealing with your anatomy’s idiosyncrasies yesterday. The Ladies alone know how easy that is, but this man’s naught but a stubborn fool sometimes.”

Defensively, Kieran muttered beneath his breath. “Or I know more than I ever taught you…”

The healer’s scowl redoubled as she placed her hands on either side of the gash on Kieran’s right arm. “Shush, you. Assuming I haven’t learned anything since, either. The nerve, I tell you.”

Looking between the two during the exchange had Snjór’s head spinning. These two… acted like a bonded couple from her homeland. It was bizarre. “Where… where will you get the, um, the energy…” Was that what it was? She had so much to learn it wasn’t even funny.

“By doing less, she will need less Power, chala. This will hardly overtax her capability as a caster.” Kieran was stopped short, yet again, by a stern look from Salissa.

“Who is the Healer here, hmm? Easier while you were still deaf.” Salissa muttered softly, a soft glow suffusing the wound and bringing the blood loss to a sudden and complete halt. “Less to do by spellcraft, less a tax upon me, dearie.” She pulled out spool and needle, and threaded the latter with the deft motions of regular practice, then regarded the gash after cleaning away the blood with a clean rag procured from another pocket. “Further, there are physical means to lessen it still, both in Power and in the debt of pain. Tried and true physical means to draw the wound closed, for instance.” She glanced towards Snjór briefly before starting to knit the wound tight.

She watched closely, fascinated by the healing. Would she be able to learn such things? Was that something she was capable of, aside from the skills she already possessed? Snjór thought of home and how wonderful such skills would be to a people who consider war, battle and honour as something to hold high. But… it was magic, even if some physical means are used. She sighs softly, so as to not be a distraction. “I do know the more tangible and physical means, since my people are, for the lack of better terms, militia-minded warmongers. But healing through any magic is something I want to learn.”

The healer grunted softly with effort, pricking her own finger a time or two during her work given how thick the gash was. “Healing is as much art and science, and it can take an age or two to be some masterful healer across every nuance. Most of us settle for just enough for whatever, well, line of work we engage in. I perform what is basically glorified triage, so these types of wounds are the easiest for me to deal with, though I have learned a bit beyond what I need. As for learning, well…”

Kieran stayed silent as his wound was stitched shut, letting Salissa begin to address his chala’s question. She lost her momentum in the conversation as she needed to tug upon flesh and start contemplating knots, and he picked up the dialogue. “I can teach you, chala, as I taught Salissa at least some of her spellwork. It actually gladdens me that you want to learn such an Art, but unlike Salissa, I will likely teach you a different style that would better mesh with your own methods.” He grinned softly at her, then winced as his flesh was tugged together by Salissa. “Ah, and now for the part that will take a bit of debt...”

Snjór watched carefully, listening carefully to everything both said. She wanted to learn everything that her people refused to allow. There was so much here. But when Kieran mentioned debt, she stiffened. “How intense will this debt be?”

Kieran considers, tilting his head as Salissa digs out a small knife sharp enough to cut off the trailing threads. She defers to him for answering the question of intensity. “Not much, chala, because I won’t be fully healed. By choice, as it happens, as I know ways of circumventing the complications, but I need to be healthy enough to unbind myself. Less than what you have been through, if that bandage is any indication.”

“Oh, okay. So… so not like when I… needed help?”

The healer pipes up as she binds Kieran’s arm with a bit of cloth before beginning another series of minor spells. “No, not nearly so severe. Even were I healing the arm entirely, it is just that, a healing. For you, I had to unwind the wound back to its raw state and then heal it, so the debt required suffering through taking the stabbing again, in effect.” She tilts her head and considers which spells in what order. “Though what I’ve been trained to do doesn’t always work as thoroughly on him…”

Snjór smiled. “He has a mind of his own.” She looked at Kieran, her eyes clear with a hint of a spark. “Once you are healed enough, what will we do?”

“Well, firstly we should head back to the Quicksilver Inn and rest a bit. There is a slim chance that we may have dinner companions, and Schultz will still make a feast for having hosted someone of the final 3. Afterwards, I owe you secrets and healing, after Unbinding mysl--” His words are cut off in a hiss of pain as waves of pale magic roll around his arm and his wound. Salissa winks over at Snjór in thanks for distracting him, but the spellwork is far briefer than the other day’s efforts. “Ahem. After I Unbind myself.”

Snjór grinned, inadvertantly helping Salissa, but helping all the same. “Rest. I look forward to resting with you.”

With a clap of the hands, Salissa leans back and laughs softly. “Well as far as I am concerned, rest would be the best thing for you both. Unless you need a second opinion on your own wound, friend feline?”

Her eyes lowered and her body language changed from joyful relief to reserved. “What was necessary to be healed has been healed.”

“Alright then. I’d suggest you help him to the inn after resting another few moments, but one of you will ignore me. You both have a day of it, and I’ll just be on my way.” Salissa stands after pocketing the tools of her trade, then gives them both a slight bow before walking back out of the tunnel and into the crowd.

“One of us will ignore her? Assumptions?” She moved to her knees and smiled at Kieran. “Would you allow me to help you to the Inn, ástvi?”

With a grin of his own, Kieran starts to work back to his feet. “Not only will I allow you to, my chala, I would be honored for your aid.”

Sighing contentedly, Snjór helped Kieran to his feet, wrapped an arm around his waist and set off towards the inn. Her tail flicked randomly as they moved, and not once did she desire to look back.



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