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| − | * - Back to [[GoldenCat/EighthMovement|Eighth Movement]]
| + | #REDIRECT ADanceOfAngels |
| − | * - Back to [[GoldenCat/DanceOfAngels|A Dance of Angels]]
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| − | == Deceptive Pandemonium ==
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| − | The Pale Angel had beaten the first mercenary company in this tournament.
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| − | Others came, and where taken down just as swiftly.
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| − | Two nights and one day passedsince then, with many more opponents kissing the ground and taken in their fold. Many more beaten into submission. The bets rose every day, with the Angels as the complete favorites. The tickets for the tournament - new ones every day - rose in price to absurd ammounts.
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| − | And now the Pale Angel takes the field once again... flower petals and glitter filling the air about her... colored smoke set by the Guild making her entrance quite... gaudy....
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| − | To face her newest opponent.
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| − | '''Wren: ''' A shuffling gait carries the next challenger into the arena. From head to toe, his form is all but completely concealed under a rag-tag looking cloak. It is possibly the ugliest cloak ever devised, a patch work quilt of cloth and hide stitched together with little rhyme or reason. It kicked up rooster tails of dirt as it dragged along behind his slow, halting stride. Blind, his eyes are covered by a band of tooled leather, but however weaving and stumbling, he makes his was inexorably forward into the arena.
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| − | A cautiously curious hush falls over the audience, whispers traded back and forth. And then the first laugh begins. Alone and loud, it rings through the arena like a mad hermits shout echoing down a mountain, scornful of the world bellow. One after another though, more voices raise up to join it. A storm of giggling, snickering, and rumbling belly laughs. Jeers joined in quickly, lifting above the
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| − | "Wren, you crazy old drunk! Get the hell out of there!"<br>
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| − | "Going to stink her into submission, grandpa?"<br>
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| − | "He probably doesn't even know where he is! Hey! HEY! The booze is in the ''other'' direction Wren!"<bR>
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| − | "You're not going to get any hand-outs from that one, blind man!"<br>
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| − | "Maybe he's hoping he'll stumble into her chest!"
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| − | That last comment, made by a stupidly brave soul somewhere in the audience, brought out another round of laughter.
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| − | After what seems almost as an interminable journey from the door to the middle of the arena, he finally stops a few paces from Vorpal. Stones and offal began to pelt the ground around the tattered and worn figure, who paid it little mind even as a few lucky throws bounced rocks off his ugly cloak. One particularly well placed stone whipped through the darkened opening in the front of his cloak... and bounced off his chest with a metallic clang. The audience could not have heard it over their own sneering bemusement. Close as he was, Vorpal could not have missed it. Close enough now, Vorpal is slapped across the face by the scent of aged booze and tobacco wafting off the ragged figure standing before her.
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| − | "Hello." He greets her politely in a soft voice, one surprisingly young for a 'crazy old drunk.' In fact, he proves to be not particularly old at all. His hair is gray, but his features are only that of man his middle years. His lean face, visible to the Pale Angel alone from where he stands, is scarred, but from battle. Deep, decorative marks scorn his high cheeks and a trio cut deeply into his chin all of them painted gray and black with meticulous care to shading.
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| − | '''Selina de Windia: ''' "I am utterly underwhelmed by this." Says Selina with disgust from the balcony. "Iria isn't going to want '''that'''."
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| − | '''Vorpal: ''' Two days and more opponents to fight than she cares to remember. The gasps and cheering, the gazes fixating on her over the long hours, it has all become nothing but a low murmur in the background to her ears. Together with the mighty Dark Angel they have plowed through everything thrown at them, some without even blinking an eye, others with some minor difficulty. One cannot say it has been a very pleasant time for Vorpal. If anything, the longer these battles last, the more she is bathed by the endless cheering of the insatiable crowd, the more difficult it has become for her to remember that the opponents are not to be killed.
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| − | It raised its head somewhere when she had first met Kalevi after such a long time, and it never went away. That old lust for blood, thirstiness for the crimson fluid has been whispering in her ears, taunting, haunting, alluring... Sometimes, it has been difficult to hold her head cool.
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| − | Yes, oh so very difficult.
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| − | Vorpal glares at this newest challenger of hers, her gaze drawn to the band of leather where his eyes should be. Then, glancing up at the jeering audience, she lets out an amused sniff and shrugs her shouldes. "Hello. And you are?"
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| − | '''Wren: ''' Before he gave an answer, he, too, looked back and forth at the jeering crowd and his heavy cloak flumped as he shrugged back and smiled. "Can't you hear? I'm Wren. Town drunk. Or post drunk, I suppose. Not really a town here is it? And you are the ''Pale'' Angel, right? Not the Dark one?"
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| − | Another stone bounced off his back without apparently garnering his attention.
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| − | '''Vorpal: ''' "The Pale one, yes", Vorpal admits. "And you would fight ''me'', in specific, not the Dark one?"
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| − | '''Wren: ''' "Seems safest." he nods, his head only barely bobbing down in time to let a particularly jagged looking stone wiz past and skim the back of his hood. "You only killed one yet that I've heard about."
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| − | '''Vorpal: ''' "But I have hurt quite a few."
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| − | She makes a note of how the casual nod of his head allows him to avoid unpleasantly close contact with one of the stones.
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| − | That does it, then. The man is more than he lets others see.
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| − | "Enough talk", she says, suddenly, and lifts her sword. "Here is your chance to prove they -" She nods at the crowd, "are wrong. Seize it."
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| − |
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| − | '''Wren: ''' And Wren... smiles, caught and knowing it.
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| − | "I'm not particularly concerned about what they think of me, if you want to know the truth," he said. His footing shifted subtly, the motion almost entirely lost under the wretched grandeur of his cloak. "Bunch of whoremongers and slave traders. Cared so little of what they thought for so long, spent a couple of years at the bottom of a bottle for it. It was fun for a while, but then my liver kept shutting down..."
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| − | His unseen arms moved as well, rippling the cloak as he eased into a deceptively balanced and ready stance. It cracks the front of his cloak open and something gleams bright and silvery from between hem. "Now you, on the other hand, I'd care some to impress. I should warn you though; I am strong."
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| − | '''Vorpal: ''' "A warning, although you probably already know;" Vorpal smiles, mildly. "So am I."
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| − | Then her mien suddenly turns hard and stern. "Oh, for the ''bloody''..." she hisses as a missed glob of manure patters onto the ground between them.
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| − | She raises her gaze at the spectators and her voice with it: "''Enough ''with the stones and dung!"
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| − | '''Wren: ''' A few last rocks and bits of offal plunk down around them, but the hail storm that had been falling quickly trickles to a stop. As does the jeering laughter. After all they had seen her do, a stern order from the Pale Angel would have frightened this crowd into putting their underthings on their heads and clucking like chickens had she demanded it. But that probably would not be called for, as a new sort of murmur ran through the audience as they suddenly realized that the Pale Angel had taken up a battle stance. She really was going to fight the drunk! Bets were already being called for and faces leaned forward, eager for the bloodshed to follow.
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| − | Wren, for his part, only cocks his head to one side or another, then chuckles softly. "Wish I could have them that well trained. Well, ready?"
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| − | '''Vorpal: ''' Let them think she is angry at the possibility that some of that filth might actually land on her fine cloak.
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| − | Well, her ire is because of that. Half of it, anyways. As much it is about the sheer foolhardness of the entire crowd, for not being able to see through the oldest ruse in the book.
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| − | "It takes some work", she replies to the sudden lull in projectiles, then shifts her own feet slightly for a better balance... as much as she can without really showing it, at least. Keeping up with the image is important, but with warriors like this, you needed to watch out.
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| − | "The bashing begins whenever you like." Vorpal says it surprisingly matter-of-factly.
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| − |
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| − | '''Selina de Windia: ''' Her opinion of the man's skills had changed when she noticed how casually he dodged the rocks. She had seen Immaculates who did that.
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| − | But not her opinion of the man.
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| − | ''If you expect that trick to fool enough people, you aren't so clever afterall. ''
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| − | "Show him why people like him aren't Chosen." Selina says with a velveteen malevolence.
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| − | '''Vorpal: ''' Vorpal begins carefully. There's no telling what this man has up to his sleeve, so it's better to see what he has to offer.
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| − | Stopping the dung and stones is about the greatest allowance Vorpal gives to Wren. If he thinks to defeat her with his ''strength'', let him prove it the hard way.
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| − | Vorpal leaps forward, her sword flashing in an overhead arch and falling, flat-first, towards Wren's foot. She has, apparently, every intent to cripple the man right away.
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| − | ''Let's see what you can do, blind man. ''
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| − | '''Wren: ''' Otherwise unmoving, Wren tilts his head to the side as the black blade comes swinging down upon him. "Well, I guess that would be 'now' then, wouldn't it?"
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| − | And then he moved, his body spinning full circle. One corner of his ugly cloak skid across the ground, pinned there by an unseen foot, while the other flared up on the other side. Twirling around him, it whipped up the dust of the arena floor and threw it upwards it into a twisting cloud that spiraled around him. Grainy earth hissed over the Betrayer and puffed into Vorpal's eyes as Wren finished his turn with a half-hop back to carry him out of range of that brutal blade and leave Vorpal nothing but a cloud to strike.
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| − | *Crack!*
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| − | Wren darts away, but not fast enough. The expression on his face is more surprised than pained when Betrayer slaps into his leg and turns his graceful motion into a stumble for balance. And quick as he recovers, it's still clear even under his cloak that he's favoring the other leg.
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| − | "Well done." He concedes, giving her a respectful nod and smiling wanly. "Suppose that will teach me for listening to back-bar idiots chatting about how sluggish you seemed."
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| − | '''Vorpal: ''' Vorpal swings the sword to the side, the movement creating enough of a gust to throw most of the dirst Wren raised away from her. Would not do to get all dusty with her black clothing. No, not at all.
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| − | "It is in the ''timing'', not in the speed", Vorpal replies, not particularly pleased to be compared to a slug. "Now, if you please, do try to put up a fight. You are making me feel dirt and look bad, beating up a blind man like this."
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| − | '''Wren: ''' He gave her an odd look for a moment, laughed brightly. "Well, we can't have you feeling bad I suppose."
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| − | A shiver passed through the air around Wren. A deep thumping filled the air, like the pulse of tribal drums or the beat of a behemoths heart. The lingering cloud of dust around him suddenly scattered to all sides, cut away by a blast of unseen air. Shivering like a maddened mayfly, a gleaming symbol in blue cracked into the air before his brow. It was no caste mark, at least not one that Vorpal or even Selina had ever seen, but something that almost resembled a word. And there were more. One on each hand and foot, a sixth above his throat, and a seventh gleaming against his chest. There was a roar, one that no one in the arena save the Abyssal's seemed to hear, and then with one final thump, the pulsing beat fell silent.
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| − | Wren reached up for his brow with a white-gloved hand and grasped the leather strap across his eyes. He tugged, snapping it off, and calmly folded it away somewhere bellow his cloak. He smiled at Vorpal, watching her eye whirling blue eyes that could, most definitely, see. "Lets try this one more time. Maybe I won't disappoint you now."
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| − | '''Vorpal: ''' A small frown mars Vorpal's face. She takes a small step backwards, sweeping the sword back and ready into position. "And... you are, exactly?"
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| − | '''Wren: ''' "My turn."
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| − | The distance between them was not so great, but it may as well not have been there at all. Vorpal's cloak had not yet even finished settling around her before he was on her, a white-gloved fist held high in telegraphed blow that would have slapped into her jaw with a careening force...
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| − | ... had it ever landed. Between the space of breaths, he was standing right before her and then was not. In his place a cloud of dust spiked sharply upwards and a shadow was blotting out the sky. Above her head, Wren came falling out of the sun, finishing a summersault that brought the heel of his foot scything down towards the top of her head.
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| − |
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| − | '''Vorpal: ''' Vorpal blinks, stunned, when the fist flashes into her field of vision. The sight has barely registered in her brain when her hands are already raising the sword into a reflexive parry.
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| − | ''Wrong, wrong! ''
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| − | It is an instinct alone that makes her flip the ''Betrayer'' up instead of front. In a flicker of black light she has lifted the weapon like a board above her head. Instead of connecting with the top of the Pale Angel's skull, Wren finds himself landing onto a slab of soulsteel she holds aloft.
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| − | There is a shadow of a second's pause. In that moment of silence, they stand on the arena like a pair of circus acrobats, unmoving in their unlikely pose and waiting for the audience's approval.
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| − | Then the hand holding the hilt tenses and she shifts her other hand away from supporting the sword's flat. With a tremenduous yank she pulls the ''Betrayer'' from underneath Wren and whirls it around in a whooshing circle of pale fire. Her opponent is still in mid-air, hanging there seemingly frozen in time as she brings the flat of the sword towards his side with all her might...
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| − | Her anima bursts in white brilliancy around her as she executes her counter - this foe she plans not to take lightly.
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| − | '''Wren: ''' Her swiftness caught him again be surprise as she blocked his strike so effortlessly. But Wren's reflexes were fast and before Vorpal could yank the blade away he had already pushed the weight of his fall down upon the blade and sprung away again. What she intended as plummet turned into another leap, his legs swinging up above his head. He literally dove towards the ground and out of the path of Vorpals blade, his arms stretched down before him. His neck was craned back to meet her eye to eye with another respectful smile before the heavy cloak whipping around him seemed to consume him. The patch-work cloak was all that remained in view for the Pale Angel to strike...
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| − | '''Vorpal: ''' A single drop of sweat rolls down Vorpal's pale cheek. The audience does not see it, but it is definitely there, squeezed out from her skin by the effort she put into that blow.
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| − | And still the man is standing.
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| − | "From what I have seen", Vorpal begins. Her red gaze is hard, her jaw is set. "There is nothing like decent exercise to squeeze the liquour out from you."
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| − | '''Wren: ''' *Clunk!*
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| − | The blade whips into the fluttering coat and slaps into the man behind it. Thrown off like a raindrop in the wind, his body heaves away and twists through the air towards the arena wall where the cheering audience all but hangs over the edge. Before Wren can crash against it, his hands emerge from the fluttering cloak and plant into the face of the stone. Bending at the elbows to absorb the impact, his legs come up and tuck in, his whole body twisting around the axis of his shoulders so he drops feet first to the ground bellow.
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| − | There are imprints of palms in the wall above him.
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| − | "Well, this is a stark lesson in humility." He sighs painfully, breath labored and rough. He smiles at Vorpal, looking amused despite the pain. "Maybe next time I should give myself a few more years to dry out before I try something like this, hm?"
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| − | '''Vorpal: ''' Vorpal lowers her sword.
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| − | ''Just... what... in blazes? ''
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| − | Vorpal's determined mien falters for a moment and amazement shines through. This man is no Exalt - of that much she is certain. For a moment, however, she thought she felt his presence reach out at the very essence of her being, the way the presence of a wolf reaches out to the rabbit.
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| − | ''What in blazes was '''that'''? ''
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| − | Swiftly she catches a grip of herself, allowing her courage and pride to flood over the uncertainty. Strething her lips into a slanted smile, she gives out a little chuckle.
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| − | "Do you hear that?" she asks from her opponent, suddenly, and glances up at the audience.
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| − | Silence rests like a blanket over the arena. It is breathless, expectant sort of silence, just the type where tension grows and thrives and slowly winds up on itself, tighter and tigher, every closer towards the breaking point.
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| − | "No-one's laughing."
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| − | Vorpal whips up the ''Betrayer'' once again. She assumes a different kind of stance for this third pass, her sword raised to shoulder level and pointing horizontally to the left, her legs bent and ready to carry her in every direction. "No matter what happens in this pass, I believe you already got your point across. But promise me one thing." She pauses. When she next speaks, her voice is almost genial: : "Promise me that you will tell me later what exactly you are all about."
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| − | '''Selina de Windia: ''' Selina feels that. And she sees that display. Wonders what he is, feels the fury that something like him should dare to exist, but distantly. And her manner cools from what it was before, as it would when she was preparing to see death take place. It had happened that first strike at Parishioner, and it had happened in a moment before she let the beast loose at Spire, when she beheld the scale of the battle. And it had happened when Moon almost died. For brief flashes.
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| − | The right tip of her mouth perks up, in the faintest smirk, probably not even something she's aware of.
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| − | '''Wren: ''' Engulfed in the writhing flames, fire that did not crackle but softly groan, Wren watches her posture a moment and then shifts his own reflexively. Pivoting back on one foot and bending at the keen to rebalance himself to go on the offensive instead, shifting the position of his arms only to reverse which he held high and which braced itself low.
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| − | "I'll tell you what I know," he agreed, his face softening to something sad and even apologetic. He shrugged, a small, sorrowful little gesture humanly out of place with the man who burned with unnatural flame. "Though for all I know, anything I tell you won't even true."
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| − | He moved his legs and his fingers flexed. It was only the barest fraction of a motion, but someone was experienced as Vorpal could tell when someone was readying to attack. He brightened again, smiling that same grin of good humor. "But anyway, I said before; It's not them I care about impressing."
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| − | He was to her before the fire around him had even moved, streamers of blue-green flame trailing out behind him as they struggled to catch up. His shadow hadn't even settled over her before his heel came sweeping down upon her, the same turning kick he had tried to deliver before. But it did not even seem like that blow had fallen before he was striking at her from below, braced on his hands and thrusting upwards with both feet towards her chin. And then he twisting in the air in front of her, both legs swinging to slap the side of her head one after the other.
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| − | She could see him for an instant before the final blow came, already back on the other side of the arena where he had started, standing in the fire that had yet to even move, watching her from above a dust cloud that had only begun to rise. Then he was gone again, until a crack cut through the air and his whole body materialized in front of her. He slammed into her, propelling like an arrow from the sky in jumping kick that carried him feet first into her chest.
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| − | '''Vorpal: ''' Too many attacks to parry outright with the impenetrable force of her will, too quick to block through the ordinary means...
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| − | Vorpal would clench her teeth, if she had the time to do that. Out of other options, she goes for the oldest and most favored of her defenses. It is a gamble, for the earlier sensation of dread would hint that he could just as well reach past her tricks, but it is a chance that has to be taken.
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| − | With a hiss of flesh being torn into mist, she becomes a ghost. The pale light of her vaporous form takes on an eerie tint from his blue-green flame. She actually twitches when the first kick connects with her skull - her hair twists and bends with all the surreal sluggisness of seaweed suddenly stirred around by a pole. Her head seems to explode to mist under his boot.
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| − | His second attack comes from underneath, towards the chin. The upper part of her head has already been evaporated, but now the lower part - her neck, chin and jawline - follow in a billowing burst of mist.
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| − | The third strike seems like a bit of a waste, considering that she no longer has a head to hit, but Wren's legs do snap bits of her shoulders away with each sweep.
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| − | The fourth and the final attack - it goes right through her, her entire upper body exploding from his way like a waterwall, tendrils of white mist that was Vorpal deFay scattering in his wake like foam.
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| − | Only her feet remain, floating a few inches over the sand. Soon these, too, fall apart, unravelled perhaps by some aftershock of Wren's stunning flurry of hits.
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| − | Silence spreads across the arena, accompanied by a strange chill that was not there a moment ago.
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| − | "You know", comes a low voice from behind Wren. Without a warning, he becomes aware of a ''presence'' there, a dark shadow with a velvet black cloak standing her back against his'. "I was not supposed to use my trump card in these battles."
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| − | '''Chibi-Vorpy: ''' ((I'll smack the first one who begins to joke about Alucard. =_=))<br>
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| − | '''Chibi Selina (Hyrokkin): ''' (...''that'' is your '''trump card'''?)
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| − | '''Wren: ''' As he passes through Vorpal's insubstantial form and slides across the ground nearly to the opposite end of the arena, Wren's head snaps up and he stares at the fading mist with a look that is... perturbed. The unnatural flames begin to finally make their way back to him, cutting through the last traces of ghost-mist as they dart across the arena and collect around him again. Wren's eyes narrow, then grow wide as the voice comes over his shoulder.
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| − | The surprise is only momentary, but it is clearly there. He smiles again, though doesn't try to look back at her, his head falling in respectful admission that she had out maneuvered him.
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| − | "I'm honored I was cause for it." He answered frankly, following the words with a dry chuckle. "I've just about played all of mine. It's whoever plays their cards the best who wins though, right? Well, let's give the flesh peddlers what they came to see."
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| − | '''????: ''' Vorpal blurs into the insubstantial realm, nothing more than mist...
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| − | And as Wren touches her, his fists plunge into the mists...
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| − | And Vorpal feels something there. Something going through him and beyond...
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| − | And she appears behind him, still feeling it, many, many voices... sounding so far away, like wails... as she begins to return her body from mist... she hears it, deafening. The sound like a clock signaling the hours, but so mighty it seems to shake every bone of her body as if she was just water rippled by the impact. By the impact of the deafening turn of the clock.
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| − | And as that passes... and she just knows another is to come... her vision clears, and she is... not on the Arena anymore. She is surrounded by mist. Not simply mist.. misty. Misty emptiness. Something on the mists... something like a bland sky. Something like souls.... like scenes, like paintings, like holes in the world to completely incongruous moments flickering in and out of existence on the corner of her eyes. All is misty, gray, And she....
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| − | | |
| − | ... she stands in the middle of the emptiness, in a piece of broken black nowhere. She stands over a plataform, made by obsidian pointers of a vacant clock, however, there are five of them. Five bridges, leading nowhere, five arrows, pointing nowhere, breaking, eroding, ever-so-slowly at their once-sharp tips. And ticking, ticking the moments... and then it came again, the gong of the hour, shaking her whole body...
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| − | | |
| − | ... and she is back to the fully-colored real world.
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| − | '''Selina de Windia: ''' ''That lame trick again. ''
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| − | Selina shakes her head, lightly, then hops up onto the railing, and down into the arena. The smirk widens into a death head's grin as she slowly walks toward Vorpal's opponent. But no weapon sweeps out, nor point of Void or lightning show on fingertips.
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| − | | |
| − | "''I've decided! ''"
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| − | '''Vorpal: ''' "Aye, but you'd better be prepared for this, for --"
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| − | | |
| − | ''...the bell is tolling... ''
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| − | | |
| − | ''...time is passing. ''
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| − | ''Tick... tick... tick'', the gears of the clock go on. The pendulum swings back and forth, dissecting the stream of time, razor-sharp edge of soulsteel shaving away seconds with a surgeon's precision.
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| − | | |
| − | ''Tick... tick... ''' tick'''... '' Cruel, merciless, uncompromising, the clock goes on the way it has done from the beginning of time. Each second cut away falls screaming into Oblivion, never to be seen again. The pendulum works calmly, rythmically, with the full knowledge that time comes not from a bottomless spring. Sooner or later, it will run out.
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| − | ''Five pointers''
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| − | ''Five directions. ''
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| − | ''Five roads to nowhere. ''
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| − | Something twists in her heart then. It is a slow, sickening and terrifying realization. It hits her at the same time with the tolling of the hour, washing her head with pain, her soul with agony.
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| − | ''That is our fate. ''
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| − | And then, the world returns. There is no flash of light, no whooshing change of scenery. One moment, the world is ''away'' and then it is ''here'', shutting away the toll of the bell and the terrible ticking of the grears. Colors flood her senses once again, driving the pale monochrome from her eyes and into the deep recesses of her memory.
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| − | | |
| − | "...huh?" she blinks, absently, struggling to remember what Wren told her. "Oh, right. You'd better be prepared for this --" She is already grabbing her sword with both hands and raising it into a swing when the sight of the approaching Dark Angel makes her halt.
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| − | | |
| − | "What are you doing?"
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| − | | |
| − | '''Selina de Windia: ''' Selina doesn't respond, barely sparing any attention at all for her counterpart, gaze more intent upon Wren. She continues walking, building herself, ready to spring, more and more tightly coiled the closer she gets. No glow, no magic-alloyed steel, nothing. Just the grin.
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| − | | |
| − | '''Wren: ''' Wren was clearly wondering that himself, though voiced no question as the Dark Angel came forward. Vorpal's foe only watched, silent and uncertain, as the second deathknight approached. The wise would be more afraid of her than even Vorpal, and only the ''foolish'' would not fear her. This sudden intrusion on their battle, catching man and deathknight caught in tableau at the moment of Vorpal's victory, drew fresh beads of sweat to his brow and sent them rolling down his face. It was her silence, the silence and that fearful grin, that made it hardest to bare.
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| − | | |
| − | '''Vorpal: ''' Vorpal's eyes narrow. Shaken though she is with the sudden vision, she pushes the sensation away firmly, this sudden and frightening intrusion raising her irritation.
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| − | | |
| − | ''"What. Are. You. Doing." ''
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| − | | |
| − | '''Selina de Windia: ''' Her only answer to that is a sudden stillness, something that looks like heat shimmer distorting the air about her for a few seconds. Then her anima snaps into being, full force of wind and shadow shrouding her in furious energy, as well as tossing dirt and snow about her in the initial wave. She continues to walk, still grinning at him.
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| − | | |
| − | "'''You made me feel that. '''"
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| − | | |
| − | '''Vorpal: ''' ''Ah. That. ''
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| − | | |
| − | Vorpal takes this surprisingly calmly. It has to be said, she half-expected it. Resting her sword against her shoulder, she slowly moves to the side, out of the direct line between Wren and Selina. Observing the situation silently, she begins to circle around, behind the Dark Angel.
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| − | | |
| − | '''Wren: ''' Vorpal's departure from behind him left an avenue of escape. Wren seems to give it consideration with a flicker of his eye, but in the end doesn't take it. He sighs tiredly, still in obvious pain from the battering Vorpal had given him earlier, but straightens himself up as best he can. No one had expected him to even fight. No one could have possibly expected this turn of events, he least of all.
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| − | | |
| − | "I'd offer you an answer if I had one," he said to the Dark Angel apologetically, staring into the lions mouth with fear and trepidation, but not moving from the path of the dread thing that came towards him. It's less bravery than comprehension running, even if he made it, would likely only delay the inevitable.
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| − | | |
| − | '''Vorpal: ''' Now behind the Dark Angel, Vorpal acts quickly, silently and without hesitation. Taking a two-handed hold of the ''Betrayer'', she raises it and brings it down, flat-first, between Selina's dark wings, through the roiling wind and Void and firmly against the back of her beautiful head.
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| − | | |
| − | ''Bong. ''
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| − | | |
| − | '''Selina de Windia: ''' Selina is knocked forward by the heavy blow, grin fading to a blank expression, reflexively trying to steady herself as the consciousness goes out of her. The pupils seem to disappear from her eyes, limpness takes her limbs.
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| − | | |
| − | Then the lolling head jerks back up at Wren. Turquoise eyes with no pupil burn at the ground, the body steadying itself, a vast growl coming from her throat as the shadow clears from her anima and wind energy so pure it seems white takes it over, her hair blowing wildly about her. The now mindless Selina takes one halting step, then another, the rumbling snarl building to a furious cresendo as those empty windows to some nameless hate blaze at him.
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| − | | |
| − | Suddenly, it all goes out of her, like the shock is finally catching up with some part of her, and her anima fails. The monster topples forward to the ground, unconscious gaze staring out to one side.
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| − | | |
| − | '''Vorpal: ''' Vorpal stands in the same pose where her sudden swing left her, the sword hovering above the Dark Angel's still form, as if she'd be expecting her to leap back up any second now.
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| − | | |
| − | ''Now there was an anticlimax. ''
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| − | | |
| − | Another drop of sweat slowly rolls down her temple and vanishes into her hair.
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| − | | |
| − | "Sorry about that", she manages, softly.
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| − | | |
| − | '''Wren: ''' Faster and faster, his breath comes. His heart beats. The fear is in his eyes and when every nerve must be screaming for him to run, he only grows more still. Frozen in fear or simply resolved not to move, he stays where he is. The moaning flame around him twists and strokes the edges of Selina's raging anima, fighting it when he will not, but given ground with every step she takes.
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| − | | |
| − | But in the end, death never comes. The blow that the Pale Angel delivers to her companion is a mercy that he clearly doesn't expect. He watched, befuddled, as Selina stumbles and falls. His gaze stays on her for a long moment, before finally raising to the Pale Angel again. Fear is only slowly fading from his eyes and left behind is an almost sort of empty sadness. The fire around him drew back in on itself with a strange huffing sound, leaving only the symbols glowing on his form. And a moment later, they wavered and faded as well.
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| − | | |
| − | "I... I concede this fight, Pale Angel. Formally. The victory is yours, as it should be."
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| − | | |
| − | '''Vorpal: ''' "Then let us hope I don't regret winning this fight", the Pale Angel responds with a ragged sigh. Shifting her sword to one hand, she leans down to reach at the Dark Angel.
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| − | | |
| − | She grimaces as she touches Selina. There are still bits of the cold Void lingering on her skin, the way bits of frost cling to grass in the autumn morning. Only, all the forests of Creation would be dead and desolate paces indeed if morning frost was anything like what Vorpal feels against her hand.
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| − | | |
| − | She pushes through, frowning at the pain, and pulls the other Abyssal over her shoulder. "I have learned that when she goes this scary, she usually does not listen to reason much", she says, straightening herself back up with her load. "In any case, you'd better stay as far away from her as you can. For your own sake."
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| − | | |
| − | '''Wren: ''' He smiled, not quiet as brightly as before but at least touched with some of the humor in him, and nodded in acceptance of the advice. "You were kind enough to leave me able to walk under my own power, so I'll take good advantage of that and remove myself a good distance away."
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| − | | |
| − | Walking slowly and limping visibly on the leg she had early struck, before he left the arena he stopped to retrieve the patchwork cloak and drape it over his arms. He paused at the entry back into the slave pens and cast a look back at Vorpal. "I need to go dig up a cache outside the post, since I'm going to need to take care of a few debts now that my cover is blown. If you still want that talk, thats where I'll be."
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| − | | |
| − | And then he was away, limping off into the darkness beyond the doorway.
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| − | | |
| − | '''Vorpal: ''' "Don't be wandering too far", Vorpal replies, watching him go.
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| − | | |
| − | ''Your soul is mine now. ''
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| − | | |
| − | Then, as if remembering that they are not alone on the arena, she turns back towards the audience and bellows with a voice used to reaching over the din of battlefield:
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| − | | |
| − | "Due to some technical difficulties this tournament will be put on hold! Go and have a good meal! Drink a little and collect your bets! Speculate on future battles! We shall continue the banquet soon enough!"
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| − | | |
| − | Without another glance, she wheels around. The cloak flapping around her, the Dark Angel's feathers swaying back and forth, she strides away from the arena and towards the privacy of their quarters.
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| − | | |
| − | | |
| − | ----
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| − | * - Back to [[GoldenCat/EighthMovement|Eighth Movement]]
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| − | * - Back to [[GoldenCat/DanceOfAngels|A Dance of Angels]]
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