NationStates Jolt Archive

Boooom!

The thunder of the drum cut through the crisp, cool mountain air and rolled off of the plateau, out unto the Great Tumnorean Valley Chain.

Larca gazed out at the sky as she issued the time-honoured challenge to the warriors of the region; but this year was different. Foreigners would be allowed to compete in the Great Bladed Games for the first time in history - although foreign-born Nenyans had competed in the games since many centuries ago, no non-Nenyans-non-Tumnoreans had ever been allowed to compete. Human Iluvauromeni had been allowed to compete on occasion, but only the very best with the blades were allowed - and the veto system was harsh, and often very painful.

This year, however, Larca had won her argument with the other Conquests. The Conquests ruled the competition - they were expected to compete in but one event, and each had a different speciality. One became a Conquest at the whim of pre-existing Conquests - usually based on fighting ability and moral code adherance.

Larca followed the art of lissë-lynte primarily; it was an art of exultant swordplay, designed for the Bladed Exhibition contest.

There were usually four contests, in all. The Bladed Exhibition was for exhibitive fighting, although contestants were not allowed to choreograph prior to the fight. The art was in balancing your attack to your opponents defence, to heighten the visual enjoyment for the watchers; each contest lasted six minutes, and a series of judges - usually retired Gamesmen and women - would score the combatants on ability, attacking style, defensive style, and overall combat balance. The total score of both combatants decided who would progress to the next round.

The Short Blade Exhibition was a single-person event, consisting of a run through of a pre-choreographed 'run'. Exhibitions were judged on styling, rhythm, combat balance, and dexterity. The judges allocated points in a similar way to the Olympics, these days, as the old system had been too complex and difficult for viewers to understand. Larca certainly had not ever understood the old system - she also knew she had not been alone in that. The old system hadn't been that old - nor was the event that old; it had been introduced three hundred years ago, and was immensely popular amongst the anti-violent Tumnoreans.

Larca's favourite event - to view - however, was the simply named Shadow Duel. In this event, two competitors would fight using all of their abilities - telekinetic abilities if available were allowed, as were empathic and telepathic 'trickery'; direct use of mentalic ability to cause actual physical harm, however, are illegal and punishable by death in Tumnore, so they were not allowed. This year, the Shadow Duel would split into two events: those who wished to compete in the Shadow Duel event against Nenyan Shadow Duel masters would be allowed to compete, but on the express understanding that the masters - as usual - would not 'hold back' on their abilities.

But a seperate event, the Duel, would be a holds-barred version, which promised to be interesting. Particuarly telepathically and empathically talented individuals would be on hand to 'suppress' use of instinctive mentalic abilities; truly conscious abilities, discernable only by the most highly trained mental observer, would be punished by immediate disqualification.

Both events would be, metaphorically speaking, to the 'death'. In this case, 'death' would consist of having pain receptors stimulated electromagnetically, then being stunned by precision ultrasonic emittors seated in special columns built in the fighting arena, known as The Nest.

The other competition was actually not a bladed game, but had been included on and off over the years due to a simple argument: during combat, one individual may lose their weapon and have to fight barehanded against a bladed combatant. Therefore, in this contest, the combatants fight a bout - first strike wins - to decide who decides whether they or their opponent will fight with or without a sword in the first round. The first to win three contests - whether with or without their sword - wins. This contest is known simply as the Contest, and is usually the most visually interesting, as the contestants faced rigorous pre-Game testing by the Conquests.

This year, of the ten contestants in the Contest, four were foreigners. All, including the Tumnoreans and Iluvauromeni, had been exhaustively tested by the Conquests; they were required to beat each Conquest four times in one session without a blade to qualify to qualify, and then they were required to beat each Conquest three times without a blade to actually qualify for the event. However, that's where it got interesting: they were required to defeat the Conquests while the Conquests wielded not one, but two razor-sharp rapiers. Naturally, the provisional contestants were given personal Barrier devices for the testing - their first taste of the devices.

Larca smiled. She had enjoyed testing the foreigners; they had been faster, better than she had expected. They had tested her; it heartened her, for she had been afraid that they would prove little contest - especially the Humans. Humans were too heavy for truly rapid combat, in many cases, Larca suspected; at least, that was how they moved.

The Conquests had been required to offer training advice to all concerned beforehand, if requested to do so. As such, two weeks before the event was actually due to begin, the Conquests had gathered here at this place to begin the training for those who had chosen to come.

None had yet arrived; they were not allowed to arrive, for entrance to the area was not yet granted to them. They would wait at the boundary in their encampment this evening, after being flown in from the Settlement a few miles away.

There was only one Nenyan among that group, surprisingly: one Sulkat Esperallya ux-Rihad, the current Recognized Games Champion. Yet he had always been humble in his ability; few had yet managed to withstand him, yet he had refused a place amongst the Conquests, claiming he did not yet understand his art - arts, really - strongly enough to claim that title.

"One day," Larca recalled he had said, "I will accept the title. And then, no doubt, I shall be forced to give it up: for that day shall be the last day that I take breath, should it come at all - for I doubt I will never know enough to take such a title."

Some of the Conquests had taken exception to that, but Larca understood. Sulkat was not a man who could focus on one art; he studied seventeen in all, bladed and unbladed. He spoke thirty-seven languages that she knew of - not bad for someone who wasn't even a century old yet - and all of them thoroughly fluently. But then, lips and tongue are but other muscles, and an expert in using arm and leg and torso muscles ought to be able to use others as admirably, Larca believed.

She smiled faintly. All of them, indeed, she allowed herself to think. She was too proper to say such a thing: her chosen life as a Quiet One did not allow her to speak without need very often. Not because she was not allowed to - she chose not to. It was a way of life, as was her way of movement: limited to the needed, the required. The path of least resistance was always the path she moved along - although learning what she had learned had been difficult beyond belief, looking back.

She sighed quietly, sitting down upon the sweet green grass, her backside moistened by the morning dew. She didn't care. She would sit here all day, now, as tradition dictated. She did not know when the students were to arrive, but when they did, so would the other Conquests - at the exact same time, in fact. That was the tradition.

She resisted the urge to stretch - it wasn't required - and waited, still amidst the gentle breeze below a vivid mountain sky.

[OOC: If you wish to take part, post your character's arrival at the plateau.

What your character would know:-

The sun will be about three-quarters of the way across the sky when your character arrives, and there'll be about 45% cloud cover. They'll be brought in by methods unknown, as they'll be blindfolded - as is traditional - all the way from their rooms in the building allocated to them in the Settlement. The Settlement is a lovely place, charming in a small kind of way, with about two thousand people living there permanently (that anyone will admit to - there's a curious air about people as they speak about the population when asked: as if there's some great joke going on) - all of whom are Nenyan. The tech level in Tumnore appears to be very similar to that within ICEL, but many of the devices are far older, suggesting that the Tumnoreans reached their current technology level before the Iluvauromeni. Everything looks built to last, and the people claim that the oldest buildings have lasted fourteen thousand years - the claimed length of settlement.

The Conquests are Grand Lady Larca, Grand Master Otorno, Grand Lady Hwinya, and Master Neuro. Larca is quiet - she doesn't say much, although she seems to be amused much of the time. If asked (prior to this post, that is, meaning off-camera, meaning that it would already have been asked), she says that she is a Quiet One, a section of society that chooses only to speak and act when it is really required.

She would go on to explain that there is a caste-system of sorts in place in Tumnore; there are Quiet Ones, Eccentrics, Explorers, and the Mundane. She explains further that the Mundane do not consider the title to be insulting: it is what they wish to be. They tend to be farming folk or labourers of varying sorts, she states, adding that Quiet Ones are often writers and poets, as are Eccentrics (who also tend towards the sciences), and Explorers tend to... explore. They tend to be scientists or philosophers. She would also note that the Mundane have the highest proportion of telekinetic capability: one in ten million are Exceptionals. As the population of Tumnore is less than ten million, it doesn't seem likely that there are any Exceptionals in Tumnore at all, but she insists that that isn't the case - then falls silent, casting suspicion on the stated population level again.

The place where training takes place is bare when the characters arrive. It's just an incredibley flat piece of grassy ground surrounded by trees, about fifty thousand square feet in size. The grass is short, but not too short. It's also worth noting that the characters are at the top of a mountain. That's okay, though: we'll assume they've been in Tumnore for three weeks. All contestants would have been, to aclimatize. If your character can't, they can wear a mask supplied by the Tumnoreans (lemme know about that).

The Conquests will be waiting in a semi-circle directly in front of you: you won't actually be quite sure how your blindfolds have been removed when they come off, because nobody is standing near enough. All of the Conquests wear black trousers and black shirts with no items to indicate their rank, but they should be familiar from the grueling qualification 'games'.

Nobody has a pBd unless given one. Full stop.

If you want to get involved but you don't want a character training here because that wouldn't be IC for your character, then drop me a telegram and I'll kick off RP back at the building allocated for the foreigners staying in Tumnore for the Games.

If I left anything out (which I no doubt have) then please drop me a telegram to ask me anything further.

Last thing: please keep OOC stuff to a minimum. So, like, no completely OOC posts like this one, if you could. Thanks.]

(OOC: My, my, my, haven't -we- set the bar rather high. Most Excellent.)

Vendik Kagari blinked once upon the removal of the blindfold. He did not look about him, he did not need to.

He was a tall being, standing six feet, two inches. His body was hard, all wiry muscle and bone. His skin was tanned dark. When he spoke, he did so without opening his mouth to the extent that was normal.

For his was the way of the Desert.

His eyes and hair branded him Ascended. The silver coloration of both was the mark of that species of immortals and their half-blooded descendents.

The brand on the inner flesh of his left forearm marked him as well. Nine concentric circles.

You see, Vendik was Fhellant'im. He had been born and raised in that great walled city, deep in Northfell's southern desert. From birth, he had lived the Way of the Desert.

And on his eighteenth birthday, he had Danced with it.

The Fhellanti Combat Style was quite famous amongst Revenians. The Dance of the Desert dated back to the Ascended Empire. In the roughly five hundred thousand years since that Empire vanished into the dust, the Dance had remained.

Fhellantir had always been home to the Dance, and there had always been Fhellant'im to populate it. It was simply the way things were.

Vendik had danced at age eighteen, as an apprentice with one circle, and now, now he no longer counted his age. Yet, even now, he still Danced, though now it was a Sub-Master of Nine Circles.

There were, perhaps, six individuals whose Dance surpassed his own.

Vendik was dressed in the traditional manner of the Fhellant'im, a long hooded cloak over loose pants and shirt, belted at the waist with a length of black material. One could occasionally see a glimpse of the twin blades of the Fhellant'im.

He was decidedly handsome, his noble bearing was natural, innate. He was Champion-Apparent of House Kagari, the second son of the current Patriarch, as tradition dictated.

Quicksilver eyes carefully studied the so-called 'Conquests,' he committed faces to memory, and in those careful glances, he assessed both capability and potential.

His discerning eye picked out developed groups of muscles, and from those muscle groups, he could make a reasonable guess as to the preferred combat styles of these particular individuals, or, rather, he could, if he had been able to view the entirety of the body.

As it was, his study was limited to largely guesswork, and was, as such, completely pointless. It was, a practically reflexive action, and was, indeed, most meditative.

He made one solitary motion, then. His left hand reached up, to fasten his veil back into place.

He was Fhellant'im.
He Danced the Desert.


(Final OOC Notes: Yeesh, I hope I interpreted all that right. If you see any obvious mistakes, feel free to tell me.
-Rev)

(OOC: Tag. BTW Ma-Tek, this is LAO. Im usin this till i finish my RP (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=6917306#post6917306) of it being recovered.)

One day previous:
His face was strong and aquiline in nature, the mouth was fixed and rather cruel looking, the demeanor one of forced relaxation. The pale red eyes seemed to almost have a glow about them, components in a gaze so pieicing that to meet it was to feel as though fingernails were scraping across your soul. His garb was black with gold trim, ornate to the point of being pretentious. When he had first stepped through the portal created by his master to take him to this world he had been confident even arrogant, drunk on the power he wielded in his masters halls. When he had discovered that his masters power did not yet extend to this land he was rather distraught at how much of his power he had left behind, yet his mission was clear and his power and abilities still considerable.
He was a vampire, a vampire of the noblest of blood. Born 753 years prior in an empyrean paradise, he had chosen to become a vampire at the age of 25. With this power and his considerable guile he had united his kingdom in a bloody war that had lasted 300 years and raveged his land leaving it ripe for absorbtion into a force he would come to know as the Obsidian Throne. He had fought the Throne at first, fought it all the way back to the Obsidian Mountain, and there, on its slopes, with his forces dying around him, he had finally recognized and succumbed to its power. Now he was the greatest of the servants, the Servant of the Hall, slave and right hand to the Obsidian Throne. The task set before him by his master was simple: to travel to new lands, to observe thier defences, and to recruit the best into the darkness.
It was just after dawn when he stepped out of the portal, the sun glaring down out of the heavens made his head hurt slightly. The new land smelled fresh, he caressed the leaf of a tree, there was no corrupting force here to pervert the very vegetation with wicked intent, no malicious odor on the breeze. This land was almost like his own, so many years ago. This very grove of trees reminded him of the spot where his old mentor, Tso Hanh, had died, caught meditating by the forces of the throne. In a normal man the nostalgic feeling would have been so strong that any but an undead would have sighed, as it were, however, his vampirism made the Servant a perfect union of intellect and appetite, a superego and id without the medlesome middleman.
With a flick of his wrist he summoned his sword, it was jet black and glistened in the cool morning air. The summoning of this weapon was one of the few powers that daylight did not rob him of; given to him by his master, this sword could never leave him. He drew it gently across the tree he had caressed only moments before and watched as it quickly shrivled, blackened, and died as the corrupting force of the Throne flowed into it. “Just as the vampire, the evil undead, is rooted in the hallowed ground of the grave, so too will this blade root itself in any being, corrupting good and evil.” Those were the words that had echoed in his head when the sword appeared in his hand. It was a part of him now, just like the amulet that allowed him to take solace in his masters power so that he would not have to carry the earth of his homeland with him.
Satisfied that his blade worked the way that it should, he turned and began walking in the direction of the scent of sentient life...and death. “This just might be fun” he thought to himself and, for the first time in a long time, he grinned. He let out a short laugh and began humming a pleasant tune; a stranger who didn’t know him better might say that he almost had a spring in his step.

http://www.fantasyage.com/gallery/human/crown.html
(For a picture)(OOC: I'm using the Dracula model, so he can walk around during the day, he just loses most of his power.)

Sulkat had enjoyed returning to the land in which he had lived for several years. He had seen many faces he recognized, few he did not. He treasured this event to the depths of his spirit - for every year, he returned. It was his constant - nothing else in his life was thus.

He had no ties, no friends, no family, no lover; no dog, no cat, no sheep kept in a pen behind a small country cottage; he did not have a fixed abode, but switched properties frequently; he knew of many people, but knew very few.

Except the Conquests, and those competitors who came year after year after year.

This year, however, the competition's numbers had grown larger; it was expanding into an international event. No doubt in years to come there would be dozens of events, imported from foreign fighting styles and disciplines - but for now, at least, it was the same Games, more or less, that had been fought here for nearly fourteen thousand years. There were new people here, more new people than usual, attending for the competition.

He noted that one of the Conquests was new; Semir-randil had apparently given up that position, although it was rumoured that he would still compete - as yet, he had not arrived. The new Conquest was male, he noted, offering a simple greeting to the Nenyans unheard by any of the others present who are incapable of detecting such fine nuances of empathic broadcast/reception.

The new man was hot/red/ice/solid; he also had an odd, tangy metallic taste to his emotions. He was open, however, which was good. Otherwise he would have been showing exceptional rudeness - all the other Nenyans had opened their thoughts and emotions 'publically' to those who could recieve the weak, almost instinctive - but tempered through long, hard training - emanations.

A notable warrior that Sulkat knew was in attendance was the self-styled Delethor the Barbarian - a very high ranking member of Great House Dth'gar. He excelled in two events: the Contest and the Duel. He was a rarity among Humans - a Nenyan-Human halfbreed, which was technically illegal. However, when the mixes did occur, there was little in practice that the law could do - the slaughter of infants was illegal in the Commonality. Indeed, the very mention of the subject was taboo; Nenyan fertility difficulties had leant the Human population a higher priority on their own young, for the Iluvauromeni Humans seemed to understand the preciousness of life more.

Either that, or the Commonality was merely 'backwards' in comparison to other nations. Sulkat did not think this was so, but he was not so narrow-minded as to deny that other people were entitled to their opinions - no matter whether he felt they were lacking in enlightenment or not.

It occurred to him that the fact that his eyes were still shut, even though the blindfold had been removed, might have struck others as strange.

He was perhaps the best-known competition fighter from the Commonality, though; perhaps the foreigners wondered if his eyes had healed from that competition out on...

What had that Eruforsaken moon been called by the inhabitants?

Io? He wasn't sure if that was the right one, but it was somewhere out there.

He had won that competition, despite being half-blind. He had picked up other injuries along the way; he was littered with scars - he had enjoyed the experience, however. It made him aware that he was not dependant on technology to prevent his death in the Nest: without his pBd, he would survive.

He slowly opened his eyes, blinking for a moment against the glare. His eyes did not adapt to bright light so quickly as they had before the injury, but his surgeon insisted that the damage could be rectified with further treatments. Not for the first time, Sulkat wondered if this would cause him to fail in his defence of his title.

He wore his usual fighting gear: bright, white clothes underneath a long, free-moving jacket sealed with string to special loopholes down his back. The jacket, slashed into long shreds that hang down from the centre of his chest almost to his knees, was brightly coloured: red, blue, white, gold, mauve, and sky blue.

When he moves, the shredded material moves with him, and it appears to catch the light in an unusual way; it becomes clear to any who see the gear that it is designed to confuse the eye to the movements of the body beneath.

He wears nothing on his slender feet. However, he has an odd mark stitched onto his shoulder: if anyone present can read Nenyan, they would notice that it reads 'Champion Standing'.

He is as all the amber-eyed Nenyans are to some degree: graceful, tall, elegant, slender.

Except this Nenyan is clearly the exception to the species-rule: he is not entirely slender. His muscular build is a little more bulky than most of his species - at least those present and those commonly seen in association with the Commonality and, on very rare occasions, the Kingdom of Tumnore - and he has broad shoulders.

At least, they're broad for a Nenyan. These Nenyans don't look all that tough: they look like they'd break in half if you hit em hard enough.

But they are all dreadfully tall; the tallest of those present is Sulkat, who must stand slightly over seven feet.

And they all have slightly curved and ever-so-slightly gracefully pointed ears, which marks them for exactly what they are: close relatives - of some type - to the Elves which live quite near, just across the ICEL international border* in Menelmacar.

All of the Nenyans, including Sulkat, remain silent until those who have arrived take stock of their surroundings and of those who are present.

[OOC: Menelmacar is now in Tareldanore, but used to be in Lodoss. Hence, historically, ICEL has land and sea borders with Menelmacar (and a small land border with Chellis).]

Delethor greeted the removal of the blindfold with his customary grunt. He was not thinking very much, however, because he was not in a mood to think. He was looking forward to the sparring later in the day; nothing else mattered, for now.

Still, he missed his wife. And obviously, seeing as this was a rather 'tough' event, he just couldn't bring his cat, Sweetie.

He missed her.

Never before had the Servant been in so comprimsed a situation, standing out in the open, blindfolded, and in broad daylight. He could smell people all around him, but the daylight impeaded him from truly sensing their presence. In truth he found the danger, the challenge of trying to pinpoint all around him by just sound and smell, quite exhilarating. When the blindfold was finally removed his head snapped about, taking in the other competitors and all exits. This done he folded his arms, leaned back on his heels, and waited.

One Day Ago

The tree touched by the hand of the vampire, shrivelled to dust, had seeped into the forest floor as liquid. Once the dark, malevolent presence passes away from reach, a sapling springs up to replace it, growing almost at a rate visible to the naked eye - which explains the massive height of the local trees, some of which stand several hundred meters tall, towering alongside the mountainsides on the steepest slopes of the valleys around the plateau.

A moan ran through the trees in the area, and all of their leaves dimmed in colour, becoming a more sickly green; the weak sapling sprung up, reaching upwards towards the sky, growing to a height of several feet before slowing down.

Cracking sounds issue forth from its new, fresh bark, and its buttress roots harden into place, cracking the fragile earth around it.

A sigh runs through the forest, and twenty miles away, feeling the change in his flock, a Tumnorean woodsman scowls and makes his way towards this very spot.

* * *

[OOC: If we could just have two more persons present, we'd have the six I was hoping for initially including my own two competitors present. Woo. Then we can actually go into the training bit...]

The Servant glanced up at the sun, entertaing the wild hope that it might dip below the horizon before the other contestants arrived. He yawned, patience was an integral quality in a vampire, but there was no reason for him to remain totally silent and inert. Unsure of the local custom, he was reluctant to speak, so he turned and met the eyes of the local standing next to him, a man clad in a shimmering garb that seemed designed to trick the eyes. The Servant gave the man the slightest of bows, figuring that if a local man deigned to speak to him then he would be safe.

He stumbled along, blindfolded, being led to he knew not where by the people that had showed up to where it was he had awakened. Wherever that had been. An unknown room, an unknown place.

Nothing was familiar to him, the faces, the features, not even the language they were speaking, though it was clear they wanted him to come with them.

He had grabbed the only thing in the room he had recognized, and that was his belts, the belts given to him by the Protector Himself. Solid black leather, they bore the gleaming fire-jeweled star of the Protector, of the Steward, that signified him as one of the Protector’s Chosen ones.

But that had been many, many years before, though his appearance had changed little in that time, for his people aged slowly, had they indeed known of aging. But the Protector did not permit that to be so, though he did not actually know this at all.

There was much he did not know, but he was Chosen.

Mostly the Chosen served in the village below the Fortress, helping out with everyone else, growing food, raising children, merely living. But if they were ever needed, they would be ready to answer the Protector’s call.

He had trained them Himself, individually, and he was their Captain, their Leader, if it ever came to that. Each man among them had known that the Protector could have beaten them at any time, however thoroughly he wished.

Much time had past since that training, and had the People of the village measured time in the same way that those outside did, it would have been said to have been some millennia since the initial training had completed.

The only time in memory the Protector’s Chosen had been called into service was recently, to guard against a return of the lights, the fearful lights that brought death.

The belts were not his only garments, and indeed, he was cloaked in the oddest clothing he had ever seen, surely provided by whomever had brought him to wear it was he awakened. His skin shimmered in the light of the room when he had seen the ones who had come for him, but either they had not noticed, or had not cared.

But the belts were of greater importance, not just for the fact that the Protector had granted them to him, but because of what it was they held. He had noticed some items missing, only his bladed weapons remaining among the arms, though everything else seemed to be intact.

He had not cared, particularly that items were missing, for there was nothing he could do, but he would retain what else it was he had, until he knew more about the situation.

But it was important to figure out why he was here, since he had no way to figure out where here happened to be. And as far as he knew, only a few had the ability to put him here, perhaps only Eru and the Protector, as it was said that none else knew where indeed the Hidden Isle lay.

The lights had proved that wrong, but the Protector was seeking them out, and would settle the Isle’s debts with them.

But again, why was he here?

There was only one possible explanation. Long ago, at the completion of the training, he had asked the Protector if one time he might go on one of the Protector’s quests with him, for that had been one of many theories behind the Chosen. When the Protector had refused, he had dared one more question, might he one day leave the Hidden Isle for his own journey, his own experience.

The Protector had smiled, and had answered with a word he indeed recognized, despite the language in which the Protector spoke it, his own mighty, terrible language. That word was “Yes.”

But that had been so long ago. But there was no other explanation.

Anglindalë blinked in the harsh light as the blindfold was removed, and hoped he would not stain the honor of the Hidden Isle, the Protector, nor the Chosen of Lord Ainulindalion.

The Servant glanced up at the sun, entertaing the wild hope that it might dip below the horizon before the other contestants arrived. He yawned, patience was an integral quality in a vampire, but there was no reason for him to remain totally silent and inert. Unsure of the local custom, he was reluctant to speak, so he turned and met the eyes of the local standing next to him, a man clad in a shimmering garb that seemed designed to trick the eyes. The Servant gave the man the slightest of bows, figuring that if a local man deigned to speak to him then he would be safe.

The Conquests might as well be statues as the competitors desiring their tuition arrive, one by one.

Eventually, they move forwards, each Conquest touching one shoulder - except the elder, Grand Master Otorno who taps two: that of Sulkat Esperallya ux-Rihad, and of Anglindalë.

Otorno speaks. "Follow me," he says softly, and turns and walks to the North.

Larca touches the shoulder of the Desert Dancer; "Follow me," she says softly, and turns and walks to the South.

Neuro touches the shoulder of Delethor; "Follow me," he says softly, and turns and walks to the West.

Hwinya touches the shoulder of the vampyre; sadly, she says, "And we shall stay here, for none shall walk to the East at will."

Vendik noted the touch upon his shoulder, and padded off after Larca. His stride was long, though not perhaps as long as normal. For Vendik was Fhellant'im, and his natural stride was the ground-devouring Lope of that desert people.

Two quicksilver eyes stared out at the surrounding lands from the depths of his hood. Not a harsh land, this. Admittedly, the air was a tad thin due to the altitude, but it was nothing that Vendik couldn't handle.

However, despite a few faults, this land was such a far cry from the burning deserts and frigid wastes of Northfell as to seem to be an entirely different planet, which was no surprise, as it was, in fact, an entirely different planet.

No matter. The simple truth of it was that Northfell was a survivalist's planet, a planet that tested its people. It had produced some rather amazing individuals, at that.

The Ascended, it was presumed, had originated on Northfell. It had been their capital, that at least, was certain. Though for such a great empire, it had none of the sprawling cities of other civilizations. No, the Ascended Empire had not had reason or want to encompass the entire planet, they had instead, simply spread to yet more planets.

Nobody knew how many systems the Empire had controlled before, mysteriously, the entire bloody race simply vanished. Of course, the Halflings still survived.

Regardless, Vendik returned his attention to the present. The woman before him, the two blades at his side, and the Call of the Desert whispering in his ears...

In time.

Bump

Vendik noted the touch upon his shoulder, and padded off after Larca. His stride was long, though not perhaps as long as normal. For Vendik was Fhellant'im, and his natural stride was the ground-devouring Lope of that desert people.

Two quicksilver eyes stared out at the surrounding lands from the depths of his hood. Not a harsh land, this. Admittedly, the air was a tad thin due to the altitude, but it was nothing that Vendik couldn't handle.

However, despite a few faults, this land was such a far cry from the burning deserts and frigid wastes of Northfell as to seem to be an entirely different planet, which was no surprise, as it was, in fact, an entirely different planet.

No matter. The simple truth of it was that Northfell was a survivalist's planet, a planet that tested its people. It had produced some rather amazing individuals, at that.

The Ascended, it was presumed, had originated on Northfell. It had been their capital, that at least, was certain. Though for such a great empire, it had none of the sprawling cities of other civilizations. No, the Ascended Empire had not had reason or want to encompass the entire planet, they had instead, simply spread to yet more planets.

Nobody knew how many systems the Empire had controlled before, mysteriously, the entire bloody race simply vanished. Of course, the Halflings still survived.

Regardless, Vendik returned his attention to the present. The woman before him, the two blades at his side, and the Call of the Desert whispering in his ears...

In time.

Quietly, Larca smiles, and inclines her head. "We have several traditions to upkeep here, but we need not worry about those just yet - I'll give you the words and all. Tradition is important in the games, and I will be teaching you the traditions as well as doing whatever I may to improve your execution of the Art. One tradition, however, must be upheld now. Worry not; your answer can take any format you wish."

She pauses for a moment.

"I already know the answer to the question I ask, yet I seek confirmation. What event or events do you seek to triumph in, my student?"

Vendik ponders this for a few minutes, then spoke slowly, "As many as possible. My Reasoning: I have nothing to lose. Further, I have nothing to gain, other than experience. The greatest experience would require me to enter as many events as possible, no?"

He smiled then. His experiences in this place should be quite...interesting, indeed.

Vendik ponders this for a few minutes, then spoke slowly, "As many as possible. My Reasoning: I have nothing to lose. Further, I have nothing to gain, other than experience. The greatest experience would require me to enter as many events as possible, no?"

He smiled then. His experiences in this place should be quite...interesting, indeed.

She bows her head slightly with the response, "Very well."

She stands silent for several long moments before asking softly, "Which bladed weapon do you least favour?"

Vendik chewed on his lip thoughtfully. As he did so, his hands came up to push back the hood of his cloak, and unfasten his veil. He was a ruggedly handsome man, with an almost unhealthily low body fat percentage.

A quite-genuine dueling scar marred his left cheek. His eyes and hair bore the silver coloration almost universally present in those of Ascended blood. He continued his pondering.

Finally, the decision was made. "The bladed melee weapon, which I prefer least...would be...the paired Canthren."

He produced the weapons from Pancreator-knew-where. They were twin bladed knives, a grip set between a longer blade, maybe ten inches long, and a shorter blade, say, five inches long. To use them properly, was a difficult task. Very few individuals truely ever mastered the Canthren, Vendik Kagari was not one of them.

Vendik chewed on his lip thoughtfully. As he did so, his hands came up to push back the hood of his cloak, and unfasten his veil. He was a ruggedly handsome man, with an almost unhealthily low body fat percentage.

A quite-genuine dueling scar marred his left cheek. His eyes and hair bore the silver coloration almost universally present in those of Ascended blood. He continued his pondering.

Finally, the decision was made. "The bladed melee weapon, which I prefer least...would be...the paired Canthren."

He produced the weapons from Pancreator-knew-where. They were twin bladed knives, a grip set between a longer blade, maybe ten inches long, and a shorter blade, say, five inches long. To use them properly, was a difficult task. Very few individuals truely ever mastered the Canthren, Vendik Kagari was not one of them.

She tried not to stare at those eyes; silver eyes! Eru above, who would have thought it! The very sight of them made her weak at the knees; they were so unusual, so... so...

So damned sexy.

But she had greater discipline than to show her thoughts, of course. Outwardly, she simply offered a friendly smile - and tried not to devour him with her eyes. The scar gave him a distinguished, rugged look, she noted.

She tried not to feel distaste at the sight of the short blade, though; it had distasteful connotations to her, and to all of her kind, in fact. Short blades were the preferred weapon of the thief (not that there were many of those, these days) - but, she reflected, at least he wasn't good with them. Then she remembered that different cultures have different beliefs - something that isn't easy to remember instantly, after all - and felt more than a little ashamed at her prejudices.

"Similar to the blades used in the duelling system once used in ancient times by the Dth'gar Tribe of Ax-turath," she notes. "They used to use foil-and-dagger conflicts to resolve disputes... which is illegal now, of course. Naturally, that is a twinned weapon, which is different, but..."

She peered at the blades curiously, smiling more openly. "You wouldn't happen to have another pair handy, would you? - I'm afraid we have no equivalent, and I sincerely doubt that our longer blades would be very appropriate against such a weapon."

He calmly withdrew a second pair of Canthren from the same pouch. While Vendik might not have achieved mastery of the Canthren as a melee weapon, it was still one of the primary throwing weapons of the Fhellant'im. As such, he kept three pairs in that pouch.

He extended his hand, palm up, the twin Canthren resting thusupon. As he was doing this, he was mentally preparing himself for the upcoming ordeal. This did not show upon his face, the wry grin he wore remaining unchanged.

Ek-Tal-Grios, Shavri-nagrath sevnrak Ang. Canthren.
As Chaos Is, So must I be. Untouchable.

[OOC: I'll presume you handed it to her... lol]

IC:

She hefted the double-blade in her hand carefully, turning it this way and that, examining the balance. "Nice balance," she remarks, before moving through some simple and experimental balance-based stretches with the blade. She looks absolutely a figure of beauty as she moves; it's clear that her preferred art is strong on beauty of movement, just from the way she balances so gracefully. Each move is fluid, moving into the next, not a previous but a part of the entire music that her body weaves. It is, actually, almost spellbinding...

Presumably therein lies the danger.

"I can see why you would have some trouble with this," she admits after a few moments, "for it is not a simple matter to judge two differing distances at once. Still, it is similar to the ch'thein, in some ways; that is, the 'slicing ropes'. Essentially, the wielder uses two long cords, about five feet in length each. They're far too difficult to wield on the battlefield, but to watch an expert in their art is utterly stunning to behold."

Vendik smiled, and began to cycle the Canthren about, twitching his fingers in such a way that the two-bladed knives maintained a continuous rotation.

He disliked Canthren because he had not spent the amount of time training, and using, the weapons, as he had with others. He was actually quite proficient with the nasty little daggers. Proficient, aye, but not perfect.

He moved then, running through a rapid series of strikes, the paired daggers spinning about in his hands, as was the proper technique. They were only still at the moment of execution, the moment with which one would slide cold steel through the ribs of one's opponent, otherwise, they were in constant motion.

And then, all of a sudden, he caught the blades, firm in his hands, the longer blade running up the side of his forearm, the shorter one straight down. His arms moved to his sides.

"Balanced. Aye. You could say that."

Eru above, she thought. I almost wish he wasn't proficient. That's just too...

She caught herself; then again, she considered, this was not unusual for her. She often became aroused while teaching; it was a perk of the job. Not that it meant anything; she had not studied the movement of the body for no reason: she loved the way that a body could move with such grace, such ease of motion; to her, it was the most beautiful thing imaginable. The movement of a body in combat.

She continues to smile as she notes, "That certainly looked very good. The strikes seemed clean, effective. Rapid. Impressive."

She steps back a little, and runs through a routine of her own; slowly, first, improvising strikes and defensive postures from her experience with other weapons. She is clearly very astute with a weapon in her hand: she is a little clumsy, but that's to be expected, considering she has never held a weapon of this design before. She gets up a fairly good speed, and, although her weapon usage isn't perfect, the movement of her body is as near to it as one could expect to see. Again, she flows from one movement to the next, with barely any hesitation between movement and execution.

She halts with a defensive posture, wielding-arm drawn low, balance arm high, as if poised to move.

She relaxes into a standing position. "It is not an easy weapon to use," she remarks.

He inclined his head ever so slightly. "Aye. Of course, it is not -meant- to be a simple weapon. The Canthren were not designed as weapons of war, but as weapons of individual combat."

He shrugged ever so slightly, then, as if to indicate that it was her move.

Actually, there was no if about it...

Larca slips two, small, circular objects - they are not flat, but curved into a saucer-like shape - out of an unseen pocket, and somehow afixes one to her belt, brushing her thumb over its surface once. She tosses the other to Vendik, after running her thumb over the top of the object in the same odd manner.

"With the Wall we face no fear," she intones with the weight of tradition, and presses her thumb into the object, which depresses in the center. A small, faint blue sparkle tingles around her body for just a moment - in fact, it appears as if her very skin and clothes flashes blue, just for the barest hint of an instant.

Instantly, he discerned two things: Firstly, the little saucer-shaped object was a personal shielding device. Vendik knew the type, peripherally, anyways. Secondly, it would be better to ask for instructions than to experiment.

So, he began with the time honored practice, in Revenia, anyways, of improvisational acting.

He glanced at the object, then looked at Larca, raising one eyebrow in a decidedly inquisitive expression.

"And this is...?"

Larca laughs softly, her shoulders shaking with mirth; apparently, that's a funny question. The laughter subsides quickly. "I apologize, but that is indeed a question I've rarely heard. 'What', you ask. Usually, the question is 'what does this do?', from those who have not yet used the device.

"I cannot answer 'what' it is, for I do not rightly know. We call it a personal Barrier device, or a pBd, a smaller variant of the rare Barrier devices. We do not know how they work, or even why they work; only that they work."

She motions with one hand towards his hand. "You hold a piece of history; that item was created by hand well over fifteen thousand years ago, by my ancestors. They did not pass on the knowledge of how to make them, however. It is lost." She doesn't sound as if she's telling the whole truth - there's more to this than what is being said, but what that is is, obviously, impossible to tell.

"But as for what does it do... it blocks and prevents physical objects, such as a sword or a bullet, from impacting the body. It dissolves small projectiles with high kinetic energy values (such as a bullet), but merely redirects larger objects (such as a sword). There were once four great Barrier devices, but three are lost forever, and the other no longer functions. This very land was once protected by a Barrier, which prevented any from entering and any from leaving - but that Barrier, the first, then known as the Rainbow Wall, was destroyed.

"There is more to the device: when configured correctly, it will deliver pain to the wearer. During the Games themselves, the devices are set in such a way as to simulate the pain of a redirected strike. This is so that not all of the danger is removed - but we are not killed, either. We do not train with them set in such a way, for it distracts from the lesson."

He nodded. It was little enough surprise that he had been correct in one aspect, the 'equivalent pain' capability was, however, a pleasant surprise. He recalled stories of similar devices being used by the Ancient Ascended, but until now, he had dismissed those stories as just that, stories.

Now, his mind simply couldn't resist dwelling for a few moments upon those stories. Stories of noble warriors going to war with magical energy shields and swords of pure energy.

If the shields were in fact, possible...then perhaps the second...

He mentally shook himself, returning his thoughts to the present.

He studied the device for a moment. "I have learned many things over the course of my life, and one of them is that one does not make use of foreign technology without at least basic instruction. So, forgive me if I seem a little slow, but how does one utilize this device?"

Larca nods approvingly. "Indeed. It would be quite dangerous to attempt to 'prime' the device without understanding how to do so - it's designed that way, I think, but it's hard to be sure. My ancestors were a little odd in some ways..."

She laughs. "Listen to me. As if I am not odd. - But I digress. It is already primed; that is done with a careful movement of the thumb over the surface of it. You need only press it with your thumb whilst wearing it, and it will scan your bodymass - I know not how - and project the field to your exact dimensions. You may feel a very faint tingling, but only some people are aware of the sensation. - To deactivate it again, you press your thumb into it again, and then release."

She blushes, her mind spinning down different avenues for a moment. "Release your grip, I mean."

He nodded, then, and clipped the device to his swordbelt. Having thusly done so, he proceeded to press into it with his thumb. Presumably, a similar effect as to that observed earlier occured, if it did, he didn't particularly notice it.

He chewed on his lip thoughtfully for a few moments, then smiled slightly in Larca's direction...

He could guess what happened next...but that did not stop him from allowing her to make the first move.

"And now...?"

"Now," Larca smiled, "you may show me why it is that you believe you are good enough to compete in all of our Games, against the very best warriors in this land. - But be forewarned: we will stop frequently, so if you are at all unfit, it would be wise to save strength. Stopping and starting often can take it out of you far more quickly than a lengthy, nonstop sparring session."

She waits, the weapon held down low near her hip, her body otherwise still. The wind stirs her hair slightly, but despite the feel of its strength, it isn't a biting, chill wind, as one might expect at this altitude.

Come to think of it... nothing is quite as one might expect at this altitude.

OOC: *TAG*
Is this RP full?

Vendik smiled, then. Truth be told, of course, he was a Swordsman, first, last, and always. His weapons would always be the Vaj and Kej, the Fhellanti paired swords. The Warblade and Swordbreaker, as it were, in his case.

However, when one lived as long as Halfling Ascended did, which, being as they were immortals, was quite a long time...one couldn't help but branch out into other paths. So, of all the weapons he had ever used, the ones he held in his hands were the ones he was least skilled with.

But that did put him a few steps ahead of the woman opposite him, considering that the Chanthren were weapons that he did have -some- experience with, which was, presumably, more than one could say for poor Larca.

He inhaled then, finding his center. He felt his mind clear and settle into that familiar...mode. The exterior reflection of this, was the way his left foot slid back slightly, muscles tensing invisibly beneath his robes.

He brought his arms up, slowly, already, the paired Canthren had begun their rotation. But he did not move. Oh no. He was not yet ready. He had not yet begun to Dance.

You see, the Dance can be beautiful...but not with knives. No, never with knives. Knives are not defensive weapons. They exist for one purpose: Killing the over guy.

Vendik had been there. He had been there many times. When he wasn't wearing these robes, he was wearing a Civil Patrol uniform. Before that, he had worn battle armor.

So.

It would come as a surprise. One instant, he was standing there, breathing calmly, looking as if he was waiting for something, maybe. The next, It surfaced, and he was no longer standing there. Instead, he had crossed the distance between himself and Larca, stabbed at her right arm with his left knife, as he pivoted about...and thrust his right Canthren directly into the base of her spine.

Now, one must get an idea of exactly how -fast- he was. Vendik was Halfling Ascended. Meaning he was one half Ascended, one half something else. In his case, that was Revenian. Now, one of those races had evolved on Northfell, a Two Gee world. The other had existed on that planet for as long as anyone could remember (read as: over one million years.)

Thusly, saying that he was two-gee adapted was a bit of an understatement.

Secondly: He was fast for his race. Probably as fast for his race as any of the other competitors were for theirs, possibly more so. Combine that with the advantage of being on a planet with one half the gravity he was used to...

Well, you get the idea.

Now, mind you, this applies to sticking the other guy before he sticks you. Knives are not honorable weapons. They are not beautiful weapons. They are crude weapons...and Vendik with a knife, was a crude individual.

Yet Larca was not a teacher and a Master of her art - and several others - for nowt. She, too, found the gravity of this world light, for although her kind had been born here and had lived here alone until only the last few years, her kind have the bones of birds, and make light footfall wherever their elegant feet may tread.

That doesn't mean to say, however, that she stood a chance. She made a simple movement towards the first strike, angling her body just so; the gap narrows too much, making the strike an ineffective one that moves past her body rather than impacting the Barrier that protects it. Her arm moves across and down in an effort to draw her own weapon across the torso, but she halts the movement halfway, feeling the gentle tingle on her spine as her assailant's weapon impacted the Barrier there. A soft blue spark erupted as it made contact.

[sorry have to halt there - will finish this post tomorrow]

(OOC: Hrrum. I'll work on just what you have up so far.)

IC:

"Ah, I believe the term is 'Touch,' No?"

He reversed his blades, then, the longer blades pressed lightly to the sleeves of his robes. That barrier really was a wonderful thing, because the strike at her spine had been a killing blow. The blow directed at her left arm was a feint and a pivot point, nothing more.

And the (much) lighter gravity of this planet had its effect upon Vendik's strength, as well. (For comparison: Northfell: 2g. Jupiter: 2.53g) The blow would have undoubtedly resulted in paralysis in the best case, and death in most others.

Which would have been a waste of potential, which might as well have been a capital crime among the the Fhellant'im.

(And one of these days you're gonna have to tell me how 'bird-like, (presumably meaning 'Hollow,' bones, is a heavy g adaptation. Seems to me that on a heavy gee planet, the advantage would go to species with denser bones...could just be me...)

[OOC: Gn. That's the trouble with posting an uncompleted response: you don't remember you've not completed it when you use an egosearch to check which threads you need to respond in. Argh.]

Larca grins, slipping into a more relaxed stance, clearly having enjoyed the activity, brief though it was. "Indeed. - These are interesting weapons, but I'm not entirely sure they'd be legal for the competition. I'm not sure that both blades meet the minimum length requirements, for starters; we actually tend to consider shorter blades to be..."

She ponders the least insulting word, and finally comes up with the rather obvious, "...distasteful."

(Quite so.)

Vendik winked, then, returning the two little knives to their pouch. "Quite so. But then, I don't believe you stated 'tastefulness' as a requirement. Merely 'the weapon at which I was least capable in using,' or something along those lines. Shall we, instead, now, perhaps, use something a bit more...graceful?"

His right hand dropped to the paired blades at his left hip, tightening about the hilt of the larger blade. His primary or Vej sword, was an Ascended pattern Warblade. Four feet of blue-tinted Eldensteel with a foot or so of hilt and a large sapphire set in the pommel.

The secondary or Kej sword was, in his case, a swordbreaker. It was two feet long, with a heavily reinforced blade that jutted tines and serrations along its length. It too, was of that same blue-tinted Eldensteel.

Of course, none of this was at the moment obvious, as the blades were still sheathed..still obscured by his cloak...so forth.

She smiled, and moved a few paces to the right, kneeling gracefully to take an item from the floor; a sword-belt, with two scabbards; one patterned with what appear to be emeralds, the other plain. She affixes the belt, and slowly unsheathes the sword inside the more ornate scabbard with her right hand; a second sword, shorter, rests against her right thigh.

"Nólëhón," she declares, pausing as the light catches the blade and the surface shimmers blood-red. "She is seemingly aware of my movements, sometimes even before I am aware I intend to make them. Hence, she is named 'mood-lore'."

The blade is long but thin, and looks exceptionally light. Or this Tumnorean woman is much stronger than she looks - any of the above are possible.

[OOC: By the by, the bones may be hollow, but this is because of a higher dependance on cartilage than bone. Bones are merely to hold the structure together in the Nenyan anatomy, whereas the higher density of cartilage provides quicker mobility and thus greater 'strength'. Also, cartilage is more flexible and less dense than bone. As a result, most Nenyan martial arts focus on doing damage to the skeletal structure. That isn't common knowledge in the outside world, however, as medical information on the Nenyan species hasn't been made available to the world at large - except one brief, bizarre glimpse of a strand of Nenyan genetic material shown to a delegate from Drum Gods, to prove a point regarding the genetic superiority of the species.]

OOC: Gotcha. Makes sense.

IC:

Vendik's face was perfectly passive as he freed Tesrikalin from its sheath. It was a Warblade of the type used by Ascended Nobles since time immemorial. About three and a half feet of Eldensteel, with around a foot of hilt, a crossguard, and a single gem set in the pommel. In the case of Vendik's Tesrikalin, it was a fat chunk of purplish Morganite.

(Quick OOC Note: Eldensteel is the blue-tinted metal produced by the quite mysterious forges beneath the quite mysterious Castle Mortis. It's used only to make personal melee weapons, and is impossible to mass produce. If you hadn't guessed by now, it's just another type of unobtanium. Holds an edge extremely well, has other properties, none that will quite likely come into play within the course of this RP.)

His left moved then, freeing his swordbreaker from its sheath. This blade was shorter, maybe two feet of Eldensteel with an eight inch hilt and crossguard. It had a single cutting edge, with the reverse edge bearing a number of cruelly barbed teeth, meant to enable the catching, and the breaking, of an opponent's sword.

The blades weren't featherlight, but they were quite a bit less heavy than they looked. Of course, that was a null-factor with Vendik Kagari. He had had millenia of experience with the two weapons he held in his hands. (About twenty to be specific.)

He smiled his predatory smile and allowed his arms, and the blades they held, to hang loosely at his sides.

OOC: Nice! Revenia, Telegram.

She stood there unmotionless for some time, eyes firmly on her student for this time; she watched to see if he would move, flinch, flicker. Regardless of whether he does or not, after some time the corners of her lips curve upwards, and she all but touches the edge of her blade to her own forehead in salute.

"Let us begin," she softly says.

Vendik advanced at an almost ethereal pace, seeming to glide forward. Then, having crossed half-way to Larca's position, his legs uncoiled explosively and he shot upwards, forwards, and to the side. It was necessary for his plan of attack...

He was on her then, like a bull-terrier, his Warblade obviously outmassed her slender blade by a quite a bit, but he had longer reach...and he wielded the hand-and-a-half blade as if it was no more than a twig...

He was drawing her out. He wanted to draw her into a parry, something she would find necessary, unless she wanted his Warblade whistling down on her neck...which wouldn't happen - he'd pull the blow. He didn't want to find out if Eldensteel could penetrate the force barriers - it as far from impossible...

Anyways, he wanted to test her steel. Draw her into a parry, give her an opening for the riposte, catch it with his sword-breaker...

Basic maneuver, but perhaps not something she'd experienced yet...

Either way, he wasn't worried. Because he was a trained killer -- not a duelist. One of his favorite techniques was attacking the weapon of the other goon -- using his superior strength and the superior quality and toughness of his blade, not to mention the unique capabilities of his off-hand weapon...

You got the idea.

Yet no parry occurs. Her blade never even strives to defend, instead striving to strike wherever his efforts to force her to parry creates an opening; she evades his strikes, seemingly effortlessly. She is exceptionally nimble on her feet, but when she slips out of the reach of the blade hurtling to her throat, she barely seems to really move. It is the slickest of movements, of the sort used by a martial artist with many years of understanding behind them. And as her body bends, her feet shuffling rapidly but silently against the ground, she is grinning, out of reach.

Her own blade twists in her hand, so light that she can literally flick it around in her palm, and stabs inwards towards his extended leg, towards the exposed thigh point - equally lethal as a throat attack, in fact. Just a helluva lot slower.

That Warblade would have worried her, had she not trained to fight against men who were double her weight; finesse was her strongest point, and, like almost all of the Tumnorean martial arts - and their Nenyan descendants - the focus is not on redirection of energy, or even on the direct blocking of strikes; but rather on their evasion. A small part of her mind considered, for the barest hint of an instant, that her ancestors had had the threat of needing to fight Balrogs; no wonder the art of evading a blow had become so prevalent in the minds of the first Tumnoreans.

This lapse in concentration, however, ruins her attack; it is too slow, and her hand fails to 'blur' in the manner she had intended; she over-extends to compensate, leaving her entire right side seemingly wide open to a strike-

Not far from Larca and Vendik two newer arrivals, dressed in crisp many-coloured, many-slit 'competition gear', stood by. One, a tall Nenya with particuarly vivid, deep but wide and lined amber eyes smiles faintly as he salutes the other, a seemingly older Nenya. Both salute at the identical moment to the other, grinning widely.

The taller of the two, apparently younger but for the hidden depths in those bright eyes, half-jokingly taunts, "Think you can overcome, this time, Si?"

The other, somewhat infamous for aggressive behaviour during his time as Emperor, and now the Imperial Father, chuckles lightly. "I always overcome. Just not always in the way that is expected."

"True enough," Semir-randil conceded, lifting an eyebrow for a moment at that unusually 'deep' remark, before barking, "begin!"

Usually in armed combat, one sees a flurry of motion, efforts to land a strike followed by efforts to protect against that strike by the other party; but not so with these Nenyans and Tumnoreans. Indeed, this fight is a study in evasion rather than defence; there are no blocks, and the blades absolutely never meet. Nor are the blades visible, except when those adept hands hold still for a moment, teasing their opposite with flickers of wrist and sleight of blurred hands.

They fight artfully, too, whirling and gallavanting; the colours sent shimmering out from that many-slitted but elegant 'competition' gear is confusing to the eye if any single point is concentrated on, which is clearly the purpose behind the clothing. Deception is paramount, apparently; there are many feints involved in the combat, if one has a sharp enough eye to follow the blades: but every feint is, in fact, translated at the last to a legitimate strike, and so is in fact not a feint at all - unless one counts it a double feint.

The fighting could possibly be described as 'like water', for each attack and return movement and counter-strike takes the path of least resistance; time is not wasted, nor left fallow, for even those short pauses have purpose - wrists sometimes flick harshly, an elbow dropping, a blow aimed at the calf or the thigh; no part of the body is left unassailed.

Nor does either one appear to have the upper hand; it's unclear how long the two combatants will continue, but it is clear that Semir-randil is the smoother, the crisper fighting. He absolutely never fails to exploit an opening, although Si Ling rarely gives him an oppurtunity, and so far always manages to evade the hammer blow; yet Semir-randil's finesse is matched by the strength and fire of Si Ling.

And both grin and laugh wildly as they fight, relishing every succesful evasion; in fact, one might begin to suspect it was all merely choreographed, so succesful is each in evading the other...

Anglindalë followed as he was instructed, watching the two with amber eyes, his own black eyes betraying no emotion except curiosity. He found he was having little trouble breathing, his body rapidly adapting to the climate change. But then, he had lived at a high altitude all his extremely long life.

His belts around him, he walked as quietly as he could, which was indeed with near silence, following the other two to observe them. His brain had worked quickly in the moment when they had all been together, and he had realized certain things. This was obviously a contest of some sort, involving their skill with their blades, considering how each was armed and dressed. He smiled to himself, for he had been in contests with the other Chosen many times. And he had always won.

Nothing but the overwhelming silence of thunder pulsing through his veins ripped through his mind as his blade weaved and wangled, its point never wavering or exceeding proper range. Swifter and silent, feet step and swivel, clues exchanged and denied; it was nothing but a dance!

And few danced so daintily in step as Semir, swifter than most and lighter, seemingly, than air; but Si had the spring of wild youth in his step, and over and again his blade neared and met nowt. Still stamina is of count and worth, and Semir's avoidances could only get worse; but if in the end a blade created that blue spark, Semir remained confident it was his that would cause the electrostatic arc.

And -

Memory - remembering -

Other events such as these had passed, and Semir had had the mastery in many - but Si Ling had won three Games in his life, which, among mortals, was actually unbested. Better or best mattered not, for brilliant he was, and there were - for all the vaunted quality and skill of the Iluvauromeni fencer - none to match these two in all these lands. - Except, perhaps, Rialla - but she (one of two other students of Semir-randil beside Si Ling) had never deigned to enter any competitions.

Now flashing blades flicked in sometimes simple and often remarkable patterns, forming momentary lines of light in the whistling air; the speed of the combat perhaps most unusual - for as any swordsman knows, true combat can, between most persons, last only seconds. Yet here it is clear that a different-than-usual style involving only evasion and never the parry has evolved, and its sophistication - in these two fighters - is extreme. Every stroke of both blades is instantly met with a countering evasion, and, although the blades whirl faster than the untrained Human eye could hope to catch, those evasions appear to require infinitely less energy than the attacks do. It becomes increasingly clear that neither side has the upper hand, and to the observing mind it could only provoke the question: how could either side gain the mastery?

Yet it happens: Si Ling is driven back by a flurry of evaded strokes, Semir's sword arm bared by the swiftness of his movement - hard, muscular, solid and rippling with strength - and the battle appears almost over.

Now Si Ling holds, now striking coolly and calmly - and a soft blue spark alights almost the instant his leg moves to begin a sweeping swipe from his opponents hip to chest...

Semir salutes. "You almost had me."

"Almost," Si Ling replies with a grin. Neither pants or strives to bring air into their lungs; although they both look a little paler than the Nenyar norm...

(Mmrr...I -knew- I forgot something...blehk. Between the time in which I made my last post and now, the design of the warblade has undergone a drastic change. From yonder hyoooooge sword to...

a sword with a three foot blade, curving slightly outwards towards the point, then coming back in sharply to create a weighted cutting surface while still allowing for devestating thrusts. Single-edged, but the spine of the blade is sharpened about a third of the way up. Single fuller. Hilt is about ten inches of grip, sized to fit the wielder's hand, wrapped in wire then again in sharkskin. Standard crossguard, but a 'finger-ring' for the index finger is drawn out of the blade's tang. A reversed quillion is extended out and curves around to intersect the pommel, this serving to guard the hand from attacks. oft-times, this quillion is sharpened somewhat to allow for some rather nasty 'punching' attacks. The pommel is weighted as a counterbalance to the blade.

All-in-all, I think, a much better design than before. The other had its points, but I thought it up before I had much practical knowledge in the area. Yes, a heavyworlder could use a big sword on a low-gee planet. But they wouldn't want one on their own planet. Me=Moron. Revise as necessary. Anyways.)

Vendik had a number of thoughts and revelations as he executed his attack. One. He really shouldn't play so dumb.
Two. He was probably stronger and faster than Larca, but he also wasn't -used- to being stronger and faster than Larca.
Three. Larca had nothing on Dysaryn. But then, neither did Vendik.

And that was truth, just as the live steel in his hand was Truth. Dysaryn would have eaten Larca alive. But then...if a swordsman that could beat beat Dysaryn Stark existed, Vendik Kagari had yet to meet him. Or her.

Yet, the time for ponderings was over, and the time for not dying was now.

He did not bother with the opening, that was not his goal. He had already, foolishly, perhaps, committed his primary blade to a feint to the neck...which meant that he couldn't get it down to parry a strike to the thigh in time, likely 'nuff.

He couldn't bloody well disengage without some foolish antics, either...because that would leave him open to yet another strike, and the girl -was- fast. And changing a strike to the thigh to a thrust through the stomach was hardly that difficult...but...

It didn't matter anyways, because Mamma Kagari's little boy was Ambidextrous.

His sword-breaker came in quickly, the robust blade impacting with that beautiful slender elven sword...and Vendik's wrist twisted just so, and that brought those wicked teeth into play with a gentle 'cling.' His wrist flicked up at the proper angle, and the blades were locked. As long as Larca exerted force on her sword, regardless of the -direction- of that force, that blade was staying put.

It was a dangerous maneuver, to be sure, because it relied on being stronger than your opponent. Further, if used to engage your opponent's primary weapon with what was traditionally your -secondary- weapon, then you were counting on your non-dominant arm being stronger than you're opponents -dominant- arm. Making the maneuver somewhat less than useful when fighting one's equals.

But Vendik had never had a dominant arm, and though strength was not his defining aspect, he did possess it in some quantity. The simple truth of his being a body that was native to a world with twice the gravity of the one he now fought on was known to him, and he knew most of the tricks involving that difference...he had, in fact, fought on one-gee planets before.

But that had been in an actual battle, where one did not have the time for swordplay. This was different, and he was still learning just -how- different. He had, most likely, come in far to arrogant. His beliefs running dangerously close to 'I am Revenian, thus, I am superior.' He had, unfortunately, not noticed it at the time.

It was stupid of him, because he -knew- that it was false. That sort of 'Gravity Discrimination' would have been false, anyways. If being of a race that was native to a heavy-gee world, and had colonized mostly heavy-gee worlds made on superior, then Revenians would be second-place to Veliki.

Not that the Veliki were bad eggs or anything, merely that this was false. Sure, you take a Veliki and you take a Revenian, and the Veliki will probably be able to deadlift more than the Revenian. Didn't make them superior.

That, of course, was hardly the crux of his self-beration. The central point was thus: He had fallen victim to that most ancient of sins. That most deadly of killers. The anti-thesis to Way of the Fhellant'im.

Arrogance.

The metaphysical claptrap was irrelevant. The single cardinal sin of the Way was irrational belief in one's own superiority. The Way was ever-changing, and the cardinal pillar was adaptation. Vendik Kagari had -thought- that he had understood this...yet, in the end, he was only human. Revenian. Whatever.

Regardless, the standard follow-up to his action was to either use the opportunity to drive a strike home, or to attempt to disarm one's opponent...

Evasion was full and well, but it had its problems. Fhellant'im fought with two blades because they believed in options. Because the Way was not a way of limitation, and the Dance was hardly a form to limit its practitioners.

Of course, the Dance was also a form of combat developed by individuals who worshipped Chaos. It was also ancient beyond the full understanding of the word by mortal man.

And so, Vendik was awake, now. Truly awake and aware, and though he was not the strongest Revenian, nor the fastest, what he was was special all by itself. Vendik was always watching, always analyzing, always -adapting.- -That- was why he had nine rings on his left arm, -not- because he was Halfling-Ascended or Revenian, but because he was himself.

With that knowledge firmly in hand, he brought his Warblade back around to close-guard. That recovery complete, he would wrench his left hand arm around and down...testing....

The question was thus: what would break? Would it be Larca's Sword, Larca herself, Vendik's Swordbreaker (though such a thing had -never- occured before...,) or Vendik himself.

Vendik had his hunches, and this was far from the first time he had performed this maneuver. Not once had he broken another's blade. That attested to the quality of his opponent's blades, yes, but the end result was usually that either his opponent broke, or that Vendik himself was forced to disengage.

Therein rested the inherent weakness of this particular maneuver. If one's opponent was stronger than oneself, then that opponent was just as capable of disarming -you- as you were of him. So the question that Vendik was posing was thus: have I misjudged my most decidedly attractive female opponent?

Yes, he was toying with her. Yes, it was wrong of him. Yes, he was being childish, and quite frankly, No, he didn't give a damn.

He knew the reason...it was that protective barrier device. It took all the realism out of the fight...turned it from a fight to a game. Proper swordfighting was not a game... on the few occasions that Vendik had crossed blades with Dysaryn Stark, he had -known- that he could be injured, even killed...

It had always been fun, fighting the Warprince. One could simply let go and try anything that you wanted, no limitations. The goal was not to win, -that- was unlikely, to say the least, but rather to surprise the Warprince. Do something that he wouldn't expect. Show him a move that he hadn't seen before.

Altogether some of the best fun he had ever had.

Yet, the danger had been very real. Vendik was far from an danger junky, such people rarely lived as long as he dead...but what he was was a firm believer in the concept of "training as you fight."

Normally, he wouldn't be bothering with the sword-catching. Normally he wouldn't be testing. Normally he'd have had his Warblade up and against Larca's left carotid before she realized that her sword was no longer cutting through air.

But the barrier prevented that. There was no final submission, no need to call yield. It was (mental hiss, spit) Modern Fencing.

The kind done with face mask and the 'foil' made of real, honest-to-god tin foil. The kind where two "Swordsmen" stared at each other from behind walls of screen and waved their dinky wands at each other until one happened to wave a bit faster and hit the other one on the chest.

Sure, the devices were rather amazing indeed. Invaluable. For fencing.

That was, perhaps, Vendik's problem. The way of the sword seemed to be a sport among these people. To Vendik Kagari...it was not. He had felt the hot blood of a fresh kill dripping down Tesrikalin's blade and onto his fingers. He -knew- what it felt like to run a man through.

To remove that danger from play was to remove the point of using a -sword.- Might as well use a stick, as did children playing knights in the park.

But, this was not his country, and his ways were not their ways, and quite frankly, his personal philosophy could go stuff itself. He was a guest in this place, and as such, he would follow their traditions, just as he would expect Larca to follow -his- traditions, were the situations reversed.

Adaptation, was, after all, the only skill that mattered, in the end.

The blade is strong, but not invincible. Grains of metal slice off of the super-slender edge - as expected by the designer - leaving that part of the blade no less deadly, but a little less pretty.

Larca had descended into herself. She was not here; she was singing softly at sunset, amidst the trees, welcoming the stars into the sky. She had her arm around a tree, leaning into it, whispering to it in between the notes, hoping against hope for it to murmour or move in response. They never did, anymore. They were just trees.

But her conscious mind was not required for fighting. That was the unescapable truth. She who thought, died.

So she did not think. Not about the battle. If she had been thinking about it, she would have known that she did not possess the strength for a toe-to-toe struggle. But...

Her arm and the blade knew what to do; she did not, not consciously. How could she? The thinking required was far too fast - without her extra senses in play, at least (and she felt half-blind at that) - and too complex to ensure victory.

She did not fear death. Ever. As a result, this was no less dangerous than any fight that might be real. Her body would die, and she would feel sorry for those who would miss her, but she would be born into another. And her spirit would slumber in the Halls of Mandos until that occurred. It hardly mattered, death, when you were not under the Doom of Men.

Still, she feared the death of others. All of her kind did. It was their greatest strength and their greatest weakness, all at once. So she would almost never strike what would be a lethal blow, unless she was 'showing off'; some of her kind did - the Empress, for example, was known to be utterly savage with a blade, preferring to rip her opponents throats open (or at least make the motions thereof, as the Empress had supposedly never fought a real battle with a blade) rather than simply cow them - but she was not among them.

So she did the only thing in the world that was unexpected.

She dropped the sword.

She feigned her 'breaking', tumbling backwards slowly, her entire body open-

-her entire body coiled like a spring-

-as she twisted to one side, impossibley balanced on one ankle, as the other swiftly flew upwards. A blade extended from her shoe at the same instant, slipping upwards directly towards an exceedingly vulnerable spot on any humanoid male.

Assuming her blue barrier field does not sparkle, she balances there, absolutely still. Her body is open, but if she is struck now, the attacker will impale himself in the most unpleasant way. Stalemate at worst.

But the Games were like that; anyone who wielded only one blade might very well have another stowed on their person. There was nothing against it - so long as the blade was not a knife. And that blade was not a knife. It was a collapsing sword blade stowed neatly in her shoe.

It must be said that her posture is very smooth indeed; very elegant, considering she is standing on one leg. One arm is thrust back, chin thrust out, body angled to perfection, muscles hard and in stark relief - although they are clearly smaller than a Human's muscles would need to be to provide such absolute support.

She is also grinning. Rather widely.

[OOC: Of course, all of that happens pretty much fluidly. As soon as she leans back and the foot lifts, you have a stalemate. The competitors won't be so good, I assure you. Larca is considered one of the best at her art. And is a pretty wiley old bat, to boot.

The only person who would pull a maneuver like that in the Games is probably Semir - which is why he 'always' wins. Despite appearances, such underhandedness is pretty much the norm, the idea being that it teaches...Um. Realism.]

(OOC: Tricky. Of course, the Way is a practical style, and the traditional robes show that in many ways...like the reinforced CF weave built into the undergarments around the groin...)

Vendik smiled at this development...it answered a rather...large...question he had had. That being the place of trickery and cunning. It seemed appropriate, seeing as the emphasis on evasion would allow an adept swordsman to 'drive' his opponent...

And here was the disadvantage of fighting with two blades. It prevented on from having a hand free for grappling. Not that he was entirely certain grappling was even possible, considering the inclusion of those barriers...

But...he wasn't entirely sure it would have mattered. She was -fast.- Not in her movements, though that was certainly true...compared to her contemporaries...but rather, fast in her reaction times.

Yet, fast in a somewhat mechanical way. As if she was running fully on Alpha. Which wasn't surprising, but a bit...uhm...depressing. Vendik himself rarely operated on Alpha until he was actually committed to an attack....and yet...

The simplest...and the proper action...would have been to yield. Yet...

There was a lesson to be learned here. Something concerning the unexpected...

Yet, even as all this analyzation was taking place, Vendik was acting...

There were rote responses for this situation, but those were uninteresting...so...

Even as her leg was coming up, he was already in motion, his right foot would lead up off the ground, followed by his left as he jumped...then the right foot would sweep lazily to the side, forcing her leg out wide...

And his right arm, and the warblade it controlled, would flicker in on her torso, striking, out of reflex, not with the point...but with the flat of the blade.

And in that was, perhaps, the difference. The Nenyans relied on technology, the Revenians on the skill of the individuals...

Yet the maneuver had been good. Damn good. But it had not been unexpected...far from it, actually. Vendik Kagari bore nine circles in his left forearm. He'd been around.

Yet, even as his warblade was whistling towards her torso...he checked the blow, drew it back...down, down...to hit the ground, stopping himself.

He freed the blade with a jerk, and inclined his head.

"I'm sorry, I got ahead of myself there. I believe you had me dead to rights. I yield."

Well. They said Revenians were eccentric...

Two things, there.

One. She did have him dead to rights...if you discounted his, uhm, racial advantages.

Two. Those Warblades were built goddamn well. Goddamn well.

Larca had leaned back even further to outreach the blade - this was surely why there were no Nenyar or Tumnorean gymnasts competing in the Olympics - but had actually overreached, and fell square on her rump.

And when the Revenian yields-

She laughs.

Hard.

Bouncing back to her feet, grinning, she looks exceptionally happy. Her eyes...

It might be because they're amber, but they appear to actually glow with positive emotion; it's probably just the way it seems, of course - the secondary retinal tissue is (it is daytime) firmly covered by the primary sac.

"You had me," she gasps out between laughter, "but you yielded for politeness? My oh my oh my! Are you sure you're not Tumnorean, friend?"

Vendik paced backwards a few steps, then executed one of the elaborate bows currently in favor with the Revenian nobility...well, at least, the portion of it that cared about such things as bows.

Ridiculous, but Vendik was Kagari, and as such, he was expected to be able to deal with individuals of his station, and House Kagari was of about the safe level in power as the majority of those nobles who worried about such things as bows...

He rose from his bow, and as he was doing so, slid his swordbreaker into its sheath. He didn't particularly figure he'd be needing it for a while...and he most assuredly did want to work on his one-blade skills.

He thrust his blade into the dirt for a moment, which was all the time he needed to detach a leather-reinforced glove from his belt and pull it onto his left hand. He examined it for a moment, then nodded his satisfaction.

"Don't mind the glove. It is less of a weapon and more of a way to prevent me from cutting myself on my own sword. Forgive me if I'm a little bit less than trusting of your barrier devices...but old habits die hard."

He exhaled gently and freed his warblade from the ground, shaking the dirt free with short, exact motions.

"And as to your question...I wouldn't say it wasn't possible. I'm Halfling Ascended. That much is obvious from the eyes and hair. We...aren't big into genetics, except to correct harmful defects, and there are precious few of those these days. So, what the other half of me is..." and he shrugged. It was not something he worried himself about.

She laughs softly. "You could not possibly carry Tumnorean Blood, though; we would have felt your birth, unless it had occurred beyond the heliopause of this system; and even possibly beyond. It is not tested. - I mean my words in metaphor alone, though; it was exactly what my old Master would have done. - Yet the prestige of the Games sometimes suppresses thoughts of honour. It is not unknown."

Examining the blade, she scowls slightly. "That's an excellent blade, you have there. Few could master this old sword; it would not still be in such good shape otherwise. Still, nothing that I cannot fix."

Larca resisted the urge to clear her throat. Her blood was hot. Fiery in her veins. It was almost distracting, now that her life wasn't in simulated danger. She was so used to the pBd that she often forgot it was there, actually; despite her lack of fear of death, the adrenaline still flowed. Apparently, anyway, as her heart was pounding in her chest; she could hear it. Literally. Of course, she often heard her own heartbeat. It was comforting, somehow.

She did not wish to consider, however, why her blood was so particuarly fiery and heated today of all days. It was...inadvisable to consider.

So she merely tilted her head, hoping that the faint red tint to her skin was unnoticeable, and asked in a more subdued manner, "I presume you wish to practice with but one blade?"

She kicks with her foot slightly, and the blade there collapses back into place smoothly.

Otorno smiled faintly. "Sulkat knows the drill, I am aware, but you do not, young foreigner. I am Otorno, the only Conquest representing the Eccentric Caste. I, therefore, do not observe all traditions, but rather weave my own path through the tapestry.

"That is our path in battle, as well, for we find chaos is the only method which truly guarantees victory. To attain the heart of chaos without becoming chaos is to find the true order; but absolutely none who are lesser than the Maiar, surely, can manage such a feat; or none have.

"So it is that we fight in order to observe the order of chaos. To fight with the blade is the highest of those pursuits; we seek the unpredictable, we seek the control of the other, and higher than all, we seek clarity of spirit.

"Naturally, I do not come here to teach you all in but a day. But we will drill until tiredness comes, and then we will feast and drink and enjoy our pains; and discuss what we have learned."

Sulkat smiles faintly. He is a huge man, thick in body for one of his species. Very thick in the body for one of his species. He still manages to be elegant in form, but not in the manner of Otorno, who is tall, graceful, and lithe.

"Welcome, friend," Sulkat greets, very softly indeed. It might almost be shocking to hear such a large being speak so quietly. "I will be your partner in the drill, at times, and at others it shall be Conquest Otorno. He tends to speak at length," amusement is clear in Sulkat's voice, as it is in Otorno's, "but I have known him many years, and despite his longwinded nature, he is a pure pleasure to learn with. We have trained together before the Games for as long as I have competed, and I assure you, you will enjoy.

"But I do not recognize your - if you will excuse me - ethnicity, and I have not had the occasion to inquire until now, for I have, I admit, been a little timid in probing. From where do you come, Anglindalë, who has a name of such familiarity but whom I cannot place in origin?"

Vendik smiled wryly.

"I certainly did not mean to touch upon any sensitive subjects." He shrugged, "The normal statement would have been 'anything is possible.' I suppose I'm just...feeling more vigorous than usual. Must be the gravity."

He then turned his eyes to her sword.

"My apologies. I honestly did not expect that to happen. If such a thing happened on Northfell, I'd offer to re-forge the blade myself. As it did not, I suppose I will have to consign myself to requesting that you charge any expenses incurred in repairs or replacement to my name."

He nodded faintly...

"And as for the quality of my Swordbreaker...Northfell is known for producing good swords, good swordsmen, and little else."

He exhaled and brought his Warblade up slightly to the prior-exhibited close-guard.

"Yes. I suspect I won't be using my swordbreaker again...call it a handicap, if you like, but the real reason is that I want to try something out...so. Yes. I will be fighting with one blade. I do not presume to limit your own choices."

"It is no bother," Larca replied quietly, somewhat curious about what the expression 'expense' implied. She tilts her head. "What is expense? I've not heard the word in that sense, before, at least. Do you have to pay for what you use, at home? Here, we take what we need and no less. All live comfortably as a result."

Well. That was surprising. Or rather it wasn't. It just set off a whole lotta alarms within the mind of one Vendik Kagari.

"Err...yeah. Yeah, we do at that. Truthfully, I wish we didn't...but one thing we've learned over the years is that there are always bad eggs. Need is a subjective term...and I'm afraid that if we tried a system like the one you describe back home...suffice to say it wouldn't work. Our system is old...perhaps too old to change."

He shrugged...running his gloved left hand along the unsharpened part of his blade's spine. Served the same purpose as twiddling your thumbs or playing with a pen. Something to do with the hands.

Anglindalë smiled briefly, still slightly confused to be here, but at least they were speaking a language he could understand now. He personally had no idea that the rest of the world called this language one of the many forms of Elvish, but it was the language he and his people spoke, and had been taught by the Protector.

Their ears were different, but they all had the same color eyes, that piercing amber. Perhaps… that could be it. People of different places would have different eyes. It made sense, really, in a way, a different land, a different sun, a different color.

He listened to the words that were spoken, and nodded slightly. It sounded much as the instructions the Protector had given so very long ago. Training and partying. It would be a good time, no doubt. But the other one was speaking, now. Sulkat was the name given.

He spoke softly in his language, and smiled slightly, growing less nervous as more became clear to him. “I come from the Village outside the Fortress of the Protector, on an Island in the middle of the Ocean. I come from my Home.” He knew of no other words for his place of origin. “I might ask the same question of both of you, though, and one other. Where are we, for I do not know how I arrived, much less to where.”

Well. That was surprising. Or rather it wasn't. It just set off a whole lotta alarms within the mind of one Vendik Kagari.

"Err...yeah. Yeah, we do at that. Truthfully, I wish we didn't...but one thing we've learned over the years is that there are always bad eggs. Need is a subjective term...and I'm afraid that if we tried a system like the one you describe back home...suffice to say it wouldn't work. Our system is old...perhaps too old to change."

He shrugged...running his gloved left hand along the unsharpened part of his blade's spine. Served the same purpose as twiddling your thumbs or playing with a pen. Something to do with the hands.

"Ah," Larca states softly. The phrase 'bad eggs' is not entirely alien.

"We had...bad eggs...once. They left, and some of our best followed to keep them safe. Now they live seperately to us, but they learn slowly what ought to be and what not to be. We teach them what we can, give them what they require to survive if they do not already have it. They are often not aware of the influence. Occasionally, we call back favours."

Larca would not usually have supplied such information; but she had knowledge of the desires of the High King. And he was interested in certain foreign states.

And information often resulted in a return - whether immediately or later on. Thus what she said was required, and no more. She felt comfortable being sure of that.

She still felt flushed, though.

Slowly, she makes movements with sword and body. It's clearly a very mild loosening exercise; sweeping gestures, mostly, thus stretching. She is obviously too intensely 'into' the practice - although that is possibly not all that is influencing her.

* * *

Anglindalë smiled briefly, still slightly confused to be here, but at least they were speaking a language he could understand now. He personally had no idea that the rest of the world called this language one of the many forms of Elvish, but it was the language he and his people spoke, and had been taught by the Protector.

Their ears were different, but they all had the same color eyes, that piercing amber. Perhaps… that could be it. People of different places would have different eyes. It made sense, really, in a way, a different land, a different sun, a different color.

He listened to the words that were spoken, and nodded slightly. It sounded much as the instructions the Protector had given so very long ago. Training and partying. It would be a good time, no doubt. But the other one was speaking, now. Sulkat was the name given.

He spoke softly in his language, and smiled slightly, growing less nervous as more became clear to him. “I come from the Village outside the Fortress of the Protector, on an Island in the middle of the Ocean. I come from my Home.” He knew of no other words for his place of origin. “I might ask the same question of both of you, though, and one other. Where are we, for I do not know how I arrived, much less to where.”

Otorno had heard of such things before, although he had not witnessed them. "Ah," he let out softly, unsure.

Surely the Protector was Tulkas, his mind reassured. Then again, perhaps not. He was faintly suspicious; spies of Morgoth were dangerous. But something lead him to feel this was not one such; he lacked the...

Something.

Ortono had never encounted a spy of Morgoth, though, so he had no way to be sure.

Sulkat, on the other hand, is more bold. "You are in the Kingdom of the Hidden Land, standing upon the Great Mountain Which Was Hidden, at the Plateau of Fruitful Airs. We are a People known by many names; at the first the Kin was our name, simple and sharp; then we were the Sudden Gleaming-Eyed Shadow People, the Tumnoreans, the Nenyar, and it is said we have become, in part, the Sorrow-Flower which Ahyanë, first High King of our kind, did expect and foretell."

Well...

There's something to be said for being exact.

[OOC: All of the Quenya names were in English save Ahyanë, as, after all, the conversation is taking place in Quenya. Mostly in the form of Ancient Quenya, as opposed to the modern Nenyarized form (virtually the same, with many new words).]

The immortal human with the Elven name, Anglindalë, smiled slightly. He recognized the words, the names, of Sulkat’s speech from the tales of the Protector, from long before.

The Protector often told tales of the world, of other peoples, of his journeys and adventures, regaling the People with those fearsome stories of blood and death, of love and hate. The Nenyar had featured in those stories occasionally, much as many others did.

“You are the ones of the Air, who have featured many times in the Protector’s stories. He has great respect for you and your skills.” He was beginning to feel more comfortable around these people, but their appearance still bothered him, distracting him slightly, indefinably. Anglindalë smiled at them.

“So how do we begin?”

Sulkat resisted the urge to ask if this Protector had heard of the Proteus. He doubted that would be wise; questions would be asked. Perhaps...

Also, it would probably result in a Recall. Those were difficult to explain - a long absence for no reason, completely off-net for the entirety of the time...

He resisted the urge.

Otorno, on the other hand, was catching up mentally with events. His first thoughts, he realised, had been illogical. The Protector was just... something. He didn't know what. And he realised dimly that he did not particuarly care. It wasn't Morgoth, that was for sure. Morgoth would not have lavished praise in that manner. It wasn't his style - not egotistical enough.

Yet he held firm to one thing which did not and had not changed. Presumably, the Man was here for training as a prelude to the Games.

Then again-

Curiously, the Conquest asks with a tilt of his head to the left, "Do you know why you have been sent here?"

Anglindalë shrugged slightly. “I would imagine that it has to do with long ago, perhaps three thousand turnings of the seasons, maybe more. My memory of the exact time is a bit fuzzy, but it was when the Protector had completed the initial training of the Chosen.” His mind rushed back to the day, when their belts and weapons had been present to keep with them, in their homes.

Graduation day, in a since, in a land that had no schools.

“I asked the Protector, if one day, I might accompany him on of his adventures. He told me no. But unwilling to give up, I asked one more question of the Protector. I asked him if I might have my own adventure some day.” The human (really?) grinned at the memory.

“He said ‘yes’.” Looking from Sulkat to Otorno, the young appearing man smiled. “I can only assume that this is that adventure, for I have not had it since.”

Anglindalë shrugged slightly. “I would imagine that it has to do with long ago, perhaps three thousand turnings of the seasons, maybe more. My memory of the exact time is a bit fuzzy, but it was when the Protector had completed the initial training of the Chosen.” His mind rushed back to the day, when their belts and weapons had been present to keep with them, in their homes.

Graduation day, in a since, in a land that had no schools.

“I asked the Protector, if one day, I might accompany him on of his adventures. He told me no. But unwilling to give up, I asked one more question of the Protector. I asked him if I might have my own adventure some day.” The human (really?) grinned at the memory.

“He said ‘yes’.” Looking from Sulkat to Otorno, the young appearing man smiled. “I can only assume that this is that adventure, for I have not had it since.”

"This is indeed grand," Otorno declares, smiling and bowing his head, looking pleased indeed. "We had never before opened the competition to outsiders before this day, and yet here we have one who speaks as a cousin yet knows us not at all, arriving and speaking of adventure."

He rubs his hands together slowly, gleefully. Adventure!

"Yet," Sulkat voices softly, "let us not hope for too much adventure, Conquest."

Sulkat peers at the man suspiciously, although he does try to hide it; he does not entirely trust this story, even though the man has the look and feel of honesty. Rather - he does not trust the Conquest's assumptions.

[OOC: Since the contest did not create the interest I thought it might...

How dyou two feel about switching plots a little, and making this somewhat more...intriguing...than a mere competition? *eye gleam*]

Anglindalë smiled somewhat, still unsure of himself in the situation. The being Otorno seemed to have accepted the strange circumstances, much as Anglindalë himself did.

The one called Sulkat seemed to lack understanding of the situation. It was clear that neither of them had heard of the Protector before, which the Protector had emphasized was ideal.

He would be pleased with this information. But on to the matters of here and now. “So, how do we begin this adventure? For I have never before had one, and you gentlemen seem to be well versed in it.”

OOC: Your thread, your story, your rules. Whatever you want is fine by me. It means I’ll have to flesh out the character some more, but that is alright.

(OOC: I say...go for it. Doooooo eeeeeeeeet. Vendik 'ere isn't a bad character, wouldn't mind doing more with him than pretending I know how to use a sword. Either way, like Ainu said...your thread, your story, your call.)

Vendik's brought his hands slowly to his sides and made an odd motion with the left, then brought the right hand, the one holding his sword, up just the slightest amount. He flexed his left hand slightly, the tension of the leather was like an old friend...and a comforting one.

'n then he was moving. It was considerably more difficult than one would think to be able to begin a maneuever without advertising one's intent. It was also the mark of a serious individual warrior.

His warblade was kept low, his left hand was kept back but the muscles were loose, ready to move.

The goal of his attack was incredibly obvious -- he would somehow restrain her with his off hand, then drive his blade home. The method was less obvious, maybe he was shooting for a forced parry, maybe he simply wanted to get close enough.

Of course, the incredibly obvious was also the incredibly incorrect. Somewhat. He was quite capable of executing the advertised attack if the situation presented itself, but it was extremely unlikely that it would. So his intention was to set his shoulder at the last moment and check Larca.

The goal was to learn how a skilled Nenyan would react to physical impact. 'n for all that his weight was half what it normally was, his -mass- remained unchanged. 'n there was quite a bit of that.

Of course, the blade remained ready, just in case...

[OOC: Yay! Hope you enjoy; things might get a little...odd.]

IC:

One moment, Larca was there.

The next, she simply wasn't.

However, nor was the warblade.

Larca would have liked to have claimed responsibility for that one, but unfortunately it had nothing to do with her; Otorno, Sulkat, Vendik, Anglindalë and herself were all in an equal position.

Momentum instantly cancelled where needed in all four cases - and their weapons decidedly no longer present - the four find themselves in an altogether different place. A strange place, at that.

Sulkat, the giant of a Nenya ever the stoic, grunts. "I knew it," he murmours under his breath.

Otorno, for his part simply gasps - but his body falls immediately into a fighting stance, hands knifed and ready, legs loose.

Larca just gawks, although with the reaction time she's already displayed, one might say she's already in a fighting stance.

The world is now a white place; pure white. There are no other colours but simply the Light; and the Light, although tremendously bright, lacks the strength that sunlight does; it is bizarrely gentle to the eyes, despite the intensity.

The Nenyar, with their fanciful duelling apparel, glow like rainbows amongst the glory.

Slowly, at a distance indeterminable to the eye, a faint black smudge appears amongst the white. A shadow?

Whispers in the brightness rise to a volume only barely audible to all, no matter the capacity of their ears to hear; and just as soon as the whispering starts, it fades into nothingness again.

Yet there remains the sense that the sound continues; like the phantom touch of a hand many seconds after the contact against flesh ceases, the voices linger beyond the senses.

Sulkat clears his throat. "See you soon," he informs the group - and vanishes.

Vendik blinked. Then, about half-way through that blink...he swore. Revenians were paranoid about their weapons. Individuals who carried Warblades were...considerably more so. For example, more Vendik knew quite a few people who had sword racks above the headboard of their bed.

Vendik himself had a pair of hooks on the side of the bedframe designed to hold his blade.

So when his blade vanished, the psychological impact was similar to what it would be if all-of-a-sudden his right arm just blinked out of existence. Regardless, he recovered admirably.

Then he looks around...then his nostrils flare slightly as he sniffs the air...then he takes inventory...and...

Nothing. Not a damned thing. Hell, he didn't even have his lapel knife.

Highly unfortunate.

Vendik exhaled, reached up, and fixed his veil into place. Then he flexed his left hand, which one would hope was still wearing its glove...

"How odd."

Anglindalë hissed in surprise as the scenery changed about him. His first thought was that he was dead.

He had been dead, before, after all. Before the lights had come and shone everyone in the village what death was, he had been one of the few to see it, and to experience it.

The Chosen… that was how they had trained. Every duel had been to the death, with the Protector watching over them, and teaching them. Then when they died, they were brought back to learn from their mistakes.

And dead looked like this. Very much like this. But it did not feel this way, and there had never been anyone else there before.

So, as trained to do when surprised, he moved into a fighting stance, drawing the sword that was not there in the process, and froze.

Unlike the Nenyar, his clothing did not gleam. From the neck down, he vanished. Then Sulkat vanished as well, more completely than he, and he dropped his stance slightly, making himself visible again.

There was no one here that was a threat. But Sulkat… he knew something, obviously. There would be words if they saw each other again.

The one he did not recognize spoke words, which, unknowingly, he echoed in his own language.

The whispers cease.

The white light dims, vanishing at the same moment that a room snaps into existance; grey walls, grey ceiling, grey floor. There are chairs here - four of them - and what appears to be a fairly standardized screen built into the wall directly in front of the chairs.

There are no doors, but what at least appear to be windows are set into the walls to the left and right of the chairs.

There is a faint whiff of cinnamon in the air; and...something else.

The implication is clear: the chairs are to sit in.

Whether or not all take their seats - Larca and Otorno most certainly do, puzzled expressions on their faces, heads tilted off to the left as if listening intently - the viewscreen hums quietly, and an image appears.

Disappointingly, the face on the screen is a rather plain looking Human woman, perhaps fifty years old, with a smattering of grey hair amongst soft brown hair swept back casually.

She wears a black top with no distinguishing marks or blemishes. Cool blue eyes stare out of the screen; she is not smiling, but nor is she frowning.

"I trust that you all understand well enough. Welcome to Here. You will not be told where you are, I'm afraid, so it's pointless to ask. You are also not entirely being held against your will - although it's equally pointless to attempt to leave, as the conditions are not currently correct. It would be...unsafe.

"You need not pretend understand or ask questions. Your questions will be answered later. For now, I have questions for you. Especially you, Anglindalë."

The voice falls silent, the image calmly waiting.

Vendik prowled the perimeter of the small room, his senses straining at their boundaries...and failing miserably at the task set to them. That being to learn anything about this place that was not already immediately obvious.

His left hand spasmed, and he reached over with his right to rub the hand through the glove leather.

Then the screen flickered live and the woman addressed the assembled, and he grew even more annoyed. What was it, exactly, that gave people the right to dictate things like that?

Power. The basis of the matter was that, at the moment, Vendik Kagari was without power. Effectively neutralized as a do-er. A stimulator. An actor. Whatever. Regardless of the term...it annoyed him.

He was both a free man and a man used to freedom. He might commit himself to an action, yes, but he always knew deep down inside that if he wanted to, he could step back and do something entirely. He'd always had at least some control over a situation, he'd always had power.

Now he didn't. This made him...nervous. There was, indeed, some element of fear, but mostly it was merely strong annoyance. Combine that with the woman's arrogance...and Vendik was possessed of that stereotypical Revenian hatred of arrogance...and one could say that A. he wasn't happy, and B. He was looking for an individual to target this unhappiness on, and the woman had made herself convenient.

So.

He couldn't ask questions. He couldn't leave. She wanted to ask questions of other people who weren't him and were not associated with him. So one supposed that he was supposed to sit there and contemplate the universe, which would be proper and good, except that the universe at the moment consisted of a gray room with four chairs and a TV.

Note the problem.

So he rubbed his left hand, trying to calm his nerves...and failing quite miserably.

Unfortunate, indeed.

Anglindalë was surprised that he could understand the strange words that the woman spoke. But the moving picture unnerved him, and the sounds seemed to match with the movements of her lips, but the sounds themselves made no sense.

Unfortunately, the problem was that he could understand perfectly, as the words echoed in his own language in his head. He did not know why that was, or even how he could hear the woman, who was trapped in the wall, as far as he could tell.

But he was positive that is where the sounds were coming from. When she finished speaking, he managed to comprehend his own name, even in the sounds she made, much less in his own mind. He pondered what he could do, briefly, his eyes flicking over the room.

He determined there was nothing he could do, really, except answer her questions that she claimed to have. Nothing, that was, except, deception.

He ignored her, affecting not to understand as he sat down and turned to Otorno, who was the only one he felt truly comfortable around. Well, relatively.

“Where are we now?” he asked, his voice simulating calm effectively, and despite the urbane natural smoothness of the language in which he spoke, he still managed to sound like he was from the backwoods. Perhaps he really was as calm as he sounded and looked.

Probably, in fact. He had been a warrior for three thousand years, after all, even if he had never faced a live enemy, and he had all the confidence and stubbornness of the breed.

The woman laughs, softly, eyes sparkling with amusement. "The whisper of the wind," she says, softly, "may touch deep in the heart; but does the listener slumber?"

Again the laughter, gentle. It's clearly not an insulting sort of laughter - more comfortable. At ease.

Impishly, "Ask a silly question... - But I see one of you is uncomfortable. Ill at ease. More so than the others. Come, now, Revenian. Does the acorn hate the tree? Does the sapling hate the ancient, because it's rings are grander and more numerous? You are not what we are now, but perhaps some day you shall be. Patience is a virtue learnt best through dictation."

And as if to emphasize the point regarding age, she strides out of the television screen.

It's an odd effect. Firstly, she gets closer. Then there's a faint outline appearing below and above the viewer - and then she's there. She smiles, tilting her head. "You do not know who I am?

"I am the whisper in an ear unhearing; I am the light the candle hides. You will not understand now, but perhaps later; I suspect - But never mind that.

"You are here for a purpose beyond questions." She tilts her head. "Firstly, three questions, one of which I know the answer to, and the others partially at least: who are you? What do you feel? Where have you been? - Do not take them literally. Think, then speak what comes from the heart."

Cool eyes somehow manage to focus on four seperate people simultaneously.

There is something odd about the woman, beyond the fact she just walked out of a television screen, and the other growing number of odd things. She is somehow insubstantial. Or, rather, the opposite. Not like a primitive hologram, or a poor trimensional projection, but... something else. As if another form lurks beneath this one - a form rather larger, rather deeper rather than massive or larger.

* * *

The Tumnoreans, at least, are unfazed by any of this. Larca arches an eyebrow slightly...

Well, okay, Larca is unfazed. Otorno gapes.

Larca glances at him, and smiles faintly. She knew what was on his mind. He was wrong. Silently, with tiny flickers of emotion and images passed through the psionic bond, she indicates her suspicions.

Otorno starts slightly - but nods. "Indeed," he voices aloud. His eyes move to peer at the foreigner - Anglindalë, he recalled, naturally enough. "You do not know?" He sounds faintly surprised. "I fear I have no clue.And the Lady," he bows his head slightly, "does not seem inclined to tell us."

Vendik took a step back in spite of himself, and his right hand moved to where the grip of his warblade would have been...and then something seemed to click deep inside of him. Because he for all that he named himself Revenian...

The truth was in his eyes, of course. Silver. Ascended silver. And though Vendik Kagari was one of the least specimens of his race, quite as far from being heir to the great heritage of the Ascended...nothing could change the fact that Ascended blood flowed through his veins, as it did in the veins of almost every Revenian. These days, anyways.
---
Elsewhere. Far elsewhere. Specifically, the Bedchamber of the Lord Warprince, Citadel Celestian, Northfell, The Exalted Star Supremacy of Revenia

He opened his eyes. Not his physical eyes, but the metaphorical "eyes" of his second sight. Changersight. Whatever. Those.

He...he...he had not felt like this for a long time...a very, very long time. His concerns had been entirely to the mundane...and he had been allowed, for a time, to forget that he was something more than a mere swordsman who also happened to have a hand in running a nation.

So...so...so...the need to do something was becoming stronger, and so...he did.
---
Yet Elsewhere. Purgatory. Whatever.
Vendik Kagari's eyes opened. Which wasn't anything special...except his eyes were already open...weren't they?

That was...a bit too much. So. His eyes opened...and all they saw was white. White...white...white. White everywhere. Except...except...one tiny little black dot that appeared to be getting larger. And indeed it did...

Because it was getting closer, you see. 'n as it got closer, Vendik was able to discern that it was a humanoid figure. He couldn't say that it was a man, because the figure was all in black armor...very distinctive black armor. Gunslinger armor.

Imagine something along the lines of a knight of the round table walking up to you and saying hello, and you might have a slight idea as to what Vendik was going through right now.

The Gunslinger stopped a few feet away from Vendik and settled down somewhat, leaning slightly on the crimson-bladed sword that he carried...then he spoke.

"Don't worry, little Halfling. For though you may walk through the valley of the shadow of death, you shall fear no evil...for I am with you. I am with all of you...always. Forever. And crap.

Open your eyes, Halfling. Open your eyes and see."
---

Vendik blinked.

"What in the..."

Today had just gone from freaking wierd to...beyond freaking wierd. He shook his head like a punch-drunk fighter, and then...then he looked again.

And he smiled.

"Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstancee
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeoning of chance
My head is bloody, but unbow'd.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul."

Vendik stared up at nothing in particular, and his right hand went to his side, right where his warblade used to hang...and he turned to look at the...more-than-Lady.

His eyes flickered with a sort of soft silver radiance that was indicative of one thing and one thing only...

"No. Those three questions are relevant only to scientists. The question...the question is: 'why?'"

(OOC Note: Poem == Invictus by W.E. Henley...but you knew that, right?)

The Nenyar stared. That's about it. And then at each other - and then a collective of nods.

Silence rules them.

* * *

The 'more than lady' smiles warmly. "Fair point," she concedes, somewhat graciously. "But the why is useless without the what. - Still - perhaps it is rude to ask with no answers of my own.

"I am you. One and all. Elsehow, you might say. Beyond that, you do not need to know. Three of you are of more importance than two. And one of you is of more importance than all, I see."

It's distinctly tough to spot, but her eyes flicker towards Anglindalë for just an instant.

Anglindalë is rightly, very much confused. This is, after all, the second time in a single day he’s found himself in a new location, and it is beginning to be rather annoying.

He knew the Protector would come, if he cried out for him, for there was no where the Protector could not go, no where he could not be, for those under his protection. But he was a Chosen of the Protector, and this was his adventure.

He would not call unless the Protector was needed, and right now, it seemed… unlikely. After all, what harm could a woman in the wall do to him?

He spoke, finally, ignoring those around him. “You ask questions, but give no answers. You ask questions, and have no right to answers. You speak in riddles, and tell no lies. You are as him who guides and protects, aren’t you?”

He had not missed the flicker of the eyes. “You asked ‘who are you?’ I tell you that I am Chosen, Iron Song. You asked ‘what do you feel?’ I feel nothing, for I am nothing, as a leaf blown before the wind. I have no information on which to rest, and so I cannot resist. And there is no feeling without resistance. You asked ‘Where have you been?’ I have been no where, and everywhere, for my dreams give form to my reality when I am awake, and my reality gives form to my dreams with I sleep.”

Boldly, he took a step closer to her. “Your turn.”

"I am what I have been, but as with all things, I am not yet what I am."

A strange answer in a strange place. Slight flickerings of movement yield no visible answers - and all the Nenya are quite visible and accounted for. That rules their tricks out, then.

"Yet," curiousity glimmered in her eyes, peeling back the mask of cheerful pleasantness for an instant to reveal something far more curious, more intently watchful, "knowing what protects and guides? A riddle? We shall have to consider that." The smile returns, apparently genuinely - but her eyes turn to the Nenyar.

"You speak not," she observes, coldly. "Do you think yourselves above answering polite questions for your host? Or have your manners fallen further than even those in Der Angst would claim?"

* * *

More collective glances. A slight nod here, a flicker of a shoulder there, slight raising of eyebrows - subliminal, swift, the Nenyar converse in their way. A fuzzy mingling of emotion and tiny twitches of body language conveys a conversation rapidly - and all three nod in unison.

"Yes," they all say, although not in unison - rather, one speaks for the other two, having apparently... re-arrived at some point during the conversation. The huge Nenya warrior bows his head slightly to the non-Nenyar. "Perhaps it is so," Sulkat continued to their interrogator, "but what of your manners? Usually you at least call ahead."

A slow smile. "And what's with the mystery? Afraid they might see you for what you really are, you old fool? Speak plainly; they deserve at least that much... especially from you."

[OOC: Brief posts only this round, please. Regardless of how much your characters want to say, she - the hostess - would most definitely interrupt before too long. ;)]

Anglindalë listened to the woman’s words, and then the words of Sulkat. He knew too many questions about the Protector were uncalled for, and could not be answered – even if he actually had such answers.

Which he did not. He had already revealed pretty much everything he thought he knew. But the woman…

Her words, and the way the large man with amber eyes (was he the only one with normal color eyes around here?) addressed her, pointed to one thing.

“You’re not real.”