Champion of the Realm. [Closed]

[Nayt]

An instinct, yes. An instinct. It demanded his utmost attention, it called for him to pay attention to his backside, but to what extent? Was it a demand of his immediate attention, to turn and face the threat he felt coming from behind? Or was a better route to be taken? Instinct . . . it was a funny thing. It called for grown men to do crazy things. A man shoots his wife. A wife stabs her husband. A man rapes a woman. A mother shakes her newborn child. Everyone acted the madman on instinct. And indeed on instinct, Mairse reacted much differently than his opponent might have expected. He moved as if to turn around, but not entirely. He stopped at about mid-turn--a little less than that, in fact. He stopped there, and with a quick motion, jumped forward. Mairse was not as fast as his opponent, and however remarkable that was, it didn't quite work in his opponent's favor. It was just as Mairse jumped that the frontal attack came (or, rather, the attack at his right side), prompting Mairse to react accordingly. In mid leap, he slashed his blade out as quick as possible,

not quite to clash against his opponent's wooden sword, but to strike out at his opponent's collar.

Though, while his opponent was clearly faster than Mairse, the Champion of Dystopia had at least the adequate time required to evade the attack against him, and still manage to throw out an attack of his own in mid dodge.

Mairse would land ten feet from the Champion of the Undoer's last location, only to spin to face where he once stood again, perhaps expecting his opponent to still be there, or at least in the vicinity of it. The Champion of the Undoer was making his fair share of mistakes, perhaps--but so was Mairse. Then again, though, that was the problem for them. They who barely existed now, they never existed prior, right? They who barely existed now, who truly had no names to account for (Mairse's only being a means of creating ease), didn't have lives to back up their talents. They were bound to make mistakes. Several mistakes, in fact.

[Paroxysm]

If the Undoer’s champion had been able to express surprise, he’d have done so the second Mairse hadn’t played ball; the slash that was sent out towards the cloaked man’s collar had been enough to mess up whatever had been planned; however, that did not mean the fight was over.

Thwack.

A meaty sound came from the impact of Mairse’s blade and the shadow, who immediately launched himself backwards; however, this was not done instantaneously, no; he had used physical effort to escape any further attack from his opponent.

Afterward, there would be no surprise in the fact that the shadow merely stood his ground and stubbornly refused to make any sort of advance towards Mairse, his opponent and apparent rival in this arena. Although the shadow had taken some damage from the last attack, it was not shown outwardly; in fact, any sensation that may have been felt during or after the attack was either dismissed, or incredibly numb.

Several loud, distinctive pops and snaps could be heard from the Undoer’s champion, as he made a visible effort to fix his body. The man, now staggering forwards, rotated his shoulders and tensed the muscles of his chest.

After relieving himself of non-existent doubts towards the overall fitness of his body, the man swung his weapon, grasped in his right arm, up and down; no further action would be taken.

[Nayt]

Mairse stood still. His blade was still before him, held at a perfect parallel to the ground. He did not fold his left arm behind his back, however. Instead, he held his hand out as if to be prepared to hold his unique weapon with two hands if absolutely need be. His eyes leveled on his opponent, the shadow in the process of reparation, as he felt yet another thrumbing of energy within him, somewhere in his chest, pulsating with the rest of those gathered thrumbs. It felt dark. It felt bleak. He didn't feel comfortable with it.

In fact, it might well have been more of a burden than a useful tool. It seemed the more he allowed power to grow within him, the heavier his "heart" felt, whatever that may be, and the dimmer his thoughts became.

Existence. Noun. The state of being.

Being. Be. To be. To be, the weakest verb in the English language. But it wasn't here. Not right now. Now, to be was the strongest word Mairse could think of. How did he know it? How could he imagine what it was like to exist? No, he couldn't actually do that. To imagine what that was like was to have existed before. To have existed before was to have memories of that existence. To exist now required one to truly be. Were either of them in a state of being? Or were they just fighting, simply for fighting's sake? Were their lives fragments of that which once was, or were they simply imagined? Mairse shook off these thoughts.

Focus. Focus was important. Mairse had to focus on the task at hand. His opponent. He existed, too. His existence was a threat to Mairse's existence, and Mairse's existence was a threat to his. Mairse had to wonder if the shadow thought the same way as he.

No. There was no time to think about that. There was no time to think of that, nor the question of existence as a whole, nor the question of memory . . .

[Paroxysm]

The Champion quirked his head, he was still a distance away, he hadn’t moved, not even a step, but neither had his opponent, Mairse. It seemed the fight took an unscheduled break, an intermission.

Respectfully, Mairse’s opponent, the shadow, did not attack him, despite being lost in thoughts, perhaps a murmur of personality still remaining inside the man, or perhaps an echo of who he had once been … No, that was impossible. And yet, the man simply stood there, his weapon still held in his hand, clenched within a death-grip, a slight blurring around the blade, as though reality was twisting, and slithering around it. Surely, this was but an illusion.

Eyes that had once been empty and devoid of emotion, softened; a face without expression seemed sad, even if only slightly.

Maybe it was Mairse who had caused this or maybe, maybe it was whatever was causing it to Mairse, and it had simply latched onto the shadow, afflicting him like a blight or disease. Was that the case? Could that have been the case? No, that wasn’t right, either. Maybe this had all actually been brought about by the shadow and nothing else. It may have even only been his imagination … But, if it really was his imagination; then did that mean he was also thinking? And if that was true, then …

"....."

His lips moved and yet no sound seemed to come out, but his body seemed to relax; it was as though a great weight had just been lifted off of his shoulders.

No, no; this wasn’t right, either. This wasn’t …

The man’s eyes immediately narrowed, losing their softness, and instead they would harden with a silent ferocity. Whatever trick Mairse was trying to pull, the shadow would not fall prey to it.

Two steps were taken forwards and then the shadow stopped, again. This man who may or may not have just dubbed himself: .....; still did not attack.

[Nayt]

Sadness . . .

It was infectious, wasn't it? Mairse shouldn't have felt sad, should he? Alone, he shouldn't have. Without the Champion of the Undoer, he shouldn't have. In fact, he shouldn't have experienced sadness at all. Sadness was a feeling. How could something that didn't exist feel something? It had to be infectious. The Champion of the Undoer, for only the briefest of moments, had this sullen look about him. He was a shadow, but he looked, if only for that moment, sad. So, then, was it infectious? This shadow's mood?

No. That wasn't it.

No, something in Mairse's heart told him he should feel the same way. Something told him this wasn't just an infectious disease--that there was something he was missing, here.

Of lives erased,
and memories laid waste . . .

It felt like there was a darkness upon his heart, just tearing away at the bottom of it. And it was growing. Every moment Mairse did nothing--every moment he didn't attack, and instead remained stagnant, blocked, parried, or evaded the Champion's attacks, that darkness welling at the bottom of his heart simply continued to grow. By now, it was starting to feel painful, unbearable even . . .

[Paroxysm]

“Öôòø--”

The shadow placed the flat of his free hand’s palm to the left side of his head, specifically at his temple, where he seemed to be in pain, or exhibiting a particularly nasty case of confusion. Indeed, he swung his weapon about, flailing for a second; all of this had been random and unprovoked. He could not stop thinking, no; it was that he should not have been thinking in the first place and he knew it, but he should not have known it. That was the problem, and it was against the rules!

After the second or third slash of his weapon, reality seemed to tear and burn; the wood of the katana stretched, increasing in length, and instead of a wooden sword, he now held the shaft of what could have been a bo-staff or quarter staff, and despite this; it still felt incomplete; however, no further changes would occur--for now.

Deciding that Mairse was the source of his frustration and confusion, these new found feelings, these thoughts that unceasingly flooded his mind, with no sign of stopping anytime soon, the shadow; feeling a bit more secure with his new weapon, charged forwards and cleared the distance between himself and his opponent in an instant, both arms held at the end of the staff, and bringing it downwards upon the ground.

The attack would cause a rush of power to run atop the surface of the earth, it would be like a strong breeze, that furrowed clothing, and threatened to knock a person down, but no obvious damage would be done to the ground itself.

[Nayt]

His opponent had practically convulsed. He was experiencing the same things as Mairse, perhaps--and reacting much more violently than the inward thinking Mairse. He was lashing out at all around him, at nothing at all, and finally at Mairse himself. He could barely see it coming, but on instinct alone, he reacted.

Instinct . . . instinct, was it really instinct? No, no, instinct couldn't command that. Mairse reacted too quickly to something he wasn't remotely prepared for, and yet he'd come out unscathed. To define skill, instinct had to walk hand in hand with memory.

with the blade, the teeth,
the sullen decay,
the gun, and the needle,

Mairse's blade met his opponent's quarterstaff, held, then, with both of his hands. It was required, with the force of his opponent's attack, to defend with maximum force. Mairse's block would have been perfect, had confusion not spread itself across his face. What was this? Why had this happen before? Why-- what was wrong with his blade? Why did the power in his chest continue to grow? Why did his knees feel heavy? Why did his legs want to give out on him? Why was his blade, met with the Champion of the Undoer's wooden staff--why his the edge of his blade bleeding? Bleed black-- bleed shadows, drip darkness down the edge and trickle like oily refuse.

Memories. What were they? Why did he have them? Something that didn't exist now shouldn't have existed before. Something that barely existed now, something that was just Fate's imagination going wild, shouldn't have recalled anything or anyone or anytime, and yet . . .




This all seemed so familiar.

[Paroxysm]

Lips continued to mouth an inaudible word, a name that could not, for the life of the shadow, or lack there of; be banished from his mind. His throat felt dry and his weapon, heavy, but he brought it back towards his body and slid his dominant hand, his right hand, up the shaft, towards the middle, and his left hand was held below his right, but at half an arm’s length.

Having rearranged his grip, the shadow leapt back several feet, once again increasing the distance between himself, and his opponent, Mairse. He could have probably pushed forwards, he could have broken through Mairse’s guard, maybe, but he didn’t. He retreated momentarily, this; however, would be just a short respite. Whatever was going through the man’s head, it was not enjoyable, and may have even been the caused for the guerrilla tactics.

The lower end of the staff tapped lightly against the ground, it felt natural, it felt right, but with a second tap; the shadow took a single step forwards, where the wind would seem to pick up, his body rushing at a full sprint, dust and dirt kicking up in his wake.

The bottom half of the staff was swung low, aiming for Mairse’s legs; however, the strength of the attack would be negligible compared to the shadow’s earlier attacks, but it was meant to trip the man up, rather than do any physical damage. Noticeably, the top-half of the staff seemed to exhibit the same effects as the katana had previously; before it had changed into the staff.

For whatever reason, the shadow had decided that Mairse was the cause of all of this, that he was the source of all the man’s problems, despite the relatively cool nature that the fight had started off with, and the fact that both of them seemed slightly put off. Whatever the case, if Mairse died, then everything would go back to the way it should have been.

The rules have to be followed.

[Nayt]

When the Champion of the Undoer retreated, however temporary the retreat may have been, Mairse let his arms relax. Still, he held his rapier-like weapon with both of his hands, something which was actually horribly inefficient considering the weapon. The tip of the blade wanted to touch the ground, and Mairse had to work, briefly, to keep gravity from having its way. The slick, oily substance draining from a chip in the blade smoothed its way down the blade and let forth a single, slow droplet from the tip of the blade. A droplet of darkness, of thick black blood, touched upon the dirt below and plunged into it, shaking the surface like water, sending out the most subtle of waves through the ground-- or the water? It looked like the earth just the same, yet it moved, if only for that moment, as if it were nothing more than a watery illusion . . .

shocked by dismay,
buried six feet beneath
and in coffins encased.

Bleed black, bleed black--those two words rang throughout Mairse's mind with a horrible temperament. He felt like he should have known the phrase, "bleed black," yet it felt foreign, foreign like a disjointed and displaced memory, yet not quite as foreign to him as his own name . . .

Where did that name come from, anyways? There was another name on the tip of his tongue, one he wanted to vent right here and now, but for some reason . . . he just couldn't. There was name there. It was a name so far different from this one that suddenly felt so fake, yet so similar all the while--

Mairse's opponent dashed for another attack, however, interrupting these thoughts. With a slight blur in his eyes, he couldn't see the man that well, yet he acted all the same. The tip of his blade, close to the ground, moved just enough to clash right off of the long wooden staff of the Undoer's Champion. It would bleed black upon the opposing champion's weapon, a darkness bound to spread at a slow and lethargic pace, yet undaunted. With a blur of his vision and a weakness of his legs, Mairse stepped back immediately following. He acted, again, not on instinct, but out of prior knowledge. This was all causing a stabbing pain in his head. He wanted it to go away as much as his opponent did, yet at the same time, he also wished nothing more than to know its source . . .

[Paroxysm]

And yet again the shadow would retreat, realizing that his attempt to trip Mairse hadn’t quite worked the way he had intended, it also seemed that Mairse, despite being the man’s opponent, wasn’t prepared to fight just yet, this conflicted with the shadow instinctively wanting a fair, honorable fight, and wanting the buzzing of thoughts in his head to quit.

“Stop.”

Although the word was rough and stressed, this was perhaps the first time since the start of the match that one of the two fighters had spoken anything; after all, their fight had been entirely silent, the second they picked up their weapons, and before that; it had only been Mairse who had said so much as a word, his name, specifically. Regardless, while the word lacked authority; it was still a command.

As though to back up the word, the shadow assumed a fighting stance, his left foot was slid backwards, and his right mirrored it; sliding forwards, knees bent.

“ … “

The staff was lifted from the ground, his right hand slid further towards the forward end, and his left stayed roughly in the same place; it was leveled with his body, held sideways, rather than upwards, and pointed towards Mairse.

[Nayt]

Wait. Stop. Pause. Halt the fight. Halt what? What fight? Were they ever really fighting? Yes, but was it supposed to be like this? Right here and now? No. No, they never were. They couldn't have been. They didn't exist now. They couldn't have ever existed before. Mairse halted. He stepped back and let his sword-arm fall to his side, the tip of his blade now finally touching the ground. With the utmost lethargy, the oily blackness exuded by the blade trickled down its middle edge and beaded into the ground.

And of their souls erased,

"It's . . ." he began to speak.

Why? How? Speaking his name, earlier, had been done entirely without thinking about it. This time, Mairse was thinking about what he was saying, and he spoke. It was without thought, though. He didn't command himself to speak, and yet his lips parted, and with an almost unsteady voice, he spoke. It was confusing. Mairse furrowed his brow as he tried to discern reason from this, a task which was difficult, if not impossible, by virtue of the fact that he couldn't quite remember what the concept of reason ever was to begin with.

Or did he? This right here would have been reasonable under different circumstances, right? He and this other champion, fighting potentially to the death. If it would be reasonable under other circumstances, though, did that mean it was not currently reasonable?

It was the same back then, wasn't it?

We exist--
As Shadows under a gray lit sky

". . . deja vu . . ." Mairse continued to try and speak, and at last succeed in venturing into the realm of truth he so wished to impart, ". . . isn't it?"

[Paroxysm]

“Does … “

The shadow replied in a similar way as Mairse, his words weren’t quite broken, but there were brief pauses; regardless, they were still intelligible.

“ … It really matter?”

His head was throbbing, and his entire body felt exhausted, weak. He never felt weak, he didn’t know why, but that was what was on his mind; that he should never have been associated with weakness.

His forward foot inched further, the opposite dug into the earth, and his eyes seemed to soften once again; back to sadness, but it vanished just as quickly. The longer this drug on, the more he felt, probably similar to Mairse, but different, as well. There was just no describing it …

The air around the end of the staff that was pointed towards Mairse, ignited in an emerald flame, the color would seem to bleed into the wood, turning it from dark brown to green, but the flames themselves; they did not burn, they had no heat.

“I …”

[Nayt]

The tip of Mairse's blade found its way an inch within the soil--strange soil, soil that reacted as if it were water, not earth-- not the hilly earth of their environment, an environment altered like it had before, an environment in the open sun, and yet, there was no solace in the blue sky. It was empty. The sun-- it was empty. The cresting hill on each both warriors stood, a hollow mass. The small collection of houses in the distance, tucked between a thick forest, and spread out amongst growing farmland . . .

All hollow.

Mairse hadn't even paid the change even the most remote of attentions. His half shut eyes simply stared at the grass and the darkness that ran off his blade and poisoned the sea of green. Yes, this was all so familiar. Yes, this was deja vu. But just as the Champion of the Undoer asked--

Did it really matter?

"No . . ."

Mairse shook his head. He lifted his eyes from the earth, and again returning to a straight-faced stare, leveled his attention upon the shadow across from him.

". . . I suppose it does not."

And with these words, he lifted his blade. It bled black as it was raised parallel to the ground, two handed, out before Mairse's body. By that moment, the darkness had covered the entirety of the blade. Oily blackness persisted, now, in dripping lethargic oil upon the malleable earth below--

An accepting earth--

But an earth that, like the flow of the wind or streams of water, the pain of the cold or smothering heat, insisted upon forgetting them all the same . . .

[Paroxysm]

Although the earth’s change in nature should have perhaps been a red-flag for the shadow, he paid it no attention, It seemed contained, isolated to Mairse, but that was not quite why he had paid no attention to it; rather, it all seemed perfectly reasonable, and that it wasn’t out of the ordinary in the least; in fact, the same could be said for the bleeding effect on Mairse's weapon, too.

“ … Guess that is right.”

The Shadow's voice still seemed empty, but there was something behind it, something that caused the emerald flames to flare higher, as though his words had been fuel for the fire, and following that; they would begin to wrap around the staff, and around the man’s body, biting at the ground, licking at his clothing, but still they did not burn or singe anything.

“ … … … Dagan …”

The shadow announced the word abruptly, it sounded as though it were a name, and indeed it was; it was his name, specifically.

“ … Nice to … Meet you?”

The flood of thoughts in Dagan’s head had become far less aggravating, he actually felt a sense of calm now, but it had not yet been noticed. There was just something different now, and it seemed to surround the two fighters in much the same way as the annoyances before had, but what that was, Dagan would not have been able to say or even describe.

Finally, the forward end of the staff narrowed towards Mairse; it should have been obvious what kind of attack he had been planning, just by how he had positioned himself. Although his weapon was still a staff, he held it as though it were a spear, or lance. His next attack would be a lunge, a powerful thrust that would tear anything in its path asunder.

Maybe the rules didn't matter, either.

[Nayt]

"Mair--" he began to speak, but he cut himself off. No . . .

No, that wasn't his name.

"Jai," he replied instead.

Mairse-- no, Jai --did not speak on instinct this time. At first, he was going to--he was going to just let his body go through the motions, speak his name as if it really were Mairse, and continue on with the battle. But first, before the battle could begin again, he felt as if he should return his opponent's introduction. This was the odd part, though--the real odd part: the Champion of the Undoer's name was just as familiar as this hilled town.

"But I think . . ." he began as he lifted his blade, ". . . we've already met."

That, perhaps, was the end to their pleasantries. This conclusion was one of silence, as both men made their lunges at one another. With expert precision, they launched their attacks as two men that had just recently come to a state of self-awareness . . .

Dagan lunged forward, jabbing his emerald glazed quarterstaff at Jai's chest, while Jai himself struck his blade up, to clash against the flame glazed staff of Dagan's with his rapier, encased in darkness as it was. Emerald met onyx in a sudden rush of power, a blaze of might, as both flames of emerald and drops of darkness spread out from their respective weapons. Emerald infected his rapier, shadows infected his quarterstaff, emerald dropped to the ground, their feet, their legs-- shadow splattered up, expelling the contents of its darkness upon their torsos and bleeding forever up, assaulting the sky in inky irrelevance--

The sky.

The blue, blue sky, revoked, fed to the darkness.

The sun, eclipsed, devoured by shadows.

The land, fading, downed by despair.

The darkness of the blade infected all at once, bleeding into their bodies, the earth, and the sky, smothering and feeding the emerald flames all the same, and leaving only a single, solitary fire in the sky . . .

Grandinare in il Ladri.