Round 1: Necromancer (Sabriel) VS. Chronomancer (The Sandman) - Judge Alanoth

[Alanoth]

You have awoken in darkness, cool but not quite cold, and all around you seem to be walls, but you aren't quite sure what kind of walls. Placing your hands to the ground, you find you are on some kind of stone, perfectly placed together so that nothing but air can fit between each shaped stone brick. Leaning against a wall to stand further, you find more stone, but it seems to be slanted in a way, to where the walls on either side seem to meet at the top, not very tall mind you and preventing you from standing completely. Further inspection into the darkness, once your vision has adjusted, reveals a long hallway, both in front of you and behind you, and it's so dark that you can't make out what either path entails. As you move forward slowly, your hand against the wall, you realize that the bricks-though perfectly smooth-are worn enough for some kind of dust to be falling from them as your fingers brush against it. Powder? Dust? Dirt? It's not immediately apparent, but then out of no where, the entire hallway alights, and after you've had time to adjust, torches are place in even intervals all along the hallway, where none existed before. The hallway looks the same in both directions, with what appears to be a turn ahead. What is this place?...And what are those distant, muffled, scratching sounds?


After 2 posts, the GM/Judge will cause the area to change and shift in one post.

You have 5 posts per person and 72 hours to respond between each post.
By the proclamation of the Gods, influenced heavily by a party of adventuring heroes, Juicesir will go first

[Juicesir]

Sabriel, Round I - “Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PZKpSsvMRxU)
She could hear them.

Her night-black hair bobbed about the fringes of her face, partially veiling her eyes. It was unkempt, in need of a brush and comb. There was no rosy tinge to her creamy skin of milk; it was pale, and unnaturally so, in the light of the appearing torches. It shone as a sheet upon her, radiating the glow of the light in unearthly whiteness. Composing herself as she hunched over in the hallway, she wondered if it was merely her height that caused her discomfort, or if it was that the hall itself was too small.

Regardless, she could still hear them.

Behind the distant scratching and hiding between the rarified silence of this strange place, she could barely make them out. A thousand voices, uncomprehending in their chorus. Rattling like stars in the night, she observed them in their inharmonious murmurings. They gathered like the moon's reflection in a darkened lake; just out of reach.

She took a breath.

Sabriel was not used to this sort of confinement. Whatever else she lacked in knowing, this fact was certain to her. Moving her hand from the bell clipped at her waist, she knew its name as well as she had known hers. Ranna; it's purpose clear. The little bell was a small assurance, but the greater one lay in her scabbard.

Her hand rested on the pommel of it, its touch familiar to her as a parent's. This lithe thing at her side, slender as she, sat as a guardian ready to its purpose. She did not draw it out, did not look at the strange runes lain in its blade. She knew them as she somehow knew the look of her own face.

Whatever this was, and whoever she had been, she knew the purpose of her being here at least. It weighed in her heart as absolution, her known principle. The thing she sought now was balance, and a quieting of the voices.

Hand raised to the wall, she set to walking, searching to gain closeness with those voices. They were not as they were in her cell, not an overbearing thing pressing down upon her thoughts. These voices clung about something else, prisoners and slaves to its whim. Disturbing in their lack of cohesion, they called in pleading, begging as children for their beds and rest. Cautiously, she proceeded onward, searching for them as they were for her.

The stone she trod was rough, hewn but old it seemed. Parts of it crumbled at her touch as dust, but the composition was ever so slightly heavier. She did not wonder at its reason for being, only hers. Only the voices mattered now.

They came closer, ever closer with each step, plying her with pleas and seeming clearer with each step she took. Rustling with unease, they shifted closer and closer to her own mind, until finally she could see the source of their bleak grievances.

After coming through the hallway, she found him: a man, old and decrepit, a perfect match for this place they now found themselves in. He had hair strung about his jaw and chin like old, dead moss hanging from a barren tree. His robes seemed tattered and worn without sign of fray. Where her garments were armor - fine strips of leather used to protect - his were as vestments, almost holy in their mien.

All about him the voices clung like the heat of summer. Perspiring and expiring around him they swam, his presence an anchor to their misery and ill tidings. If she knew one thing about this man, it was this: the dead feared him as they never would her.

She was stopped, many paces away from him. While staring, she slowly reached her hand to her belt and withdrew the tiny bell from its clasp. Keeping her distance apart from his presence and her eyes firmly affixed upon his face, she spoke. "Hello," she said, not unkindly. She raised the bell slightly. "My name is Sabriel; what's yours?" Her voice shook every so slightly with the last word.

Then did Sabriel let Ranna sound. It was a muffled, sleepy peal that carried the sensation of a yawn, a sigh, a head falling forward, eyes heavy - a call to sleep. Her focus honed in on this moment; if there stood the true master of death before her, as she suspected, then this would bring his quiescence.

[Snotgirl]

The grains of time pushed the Sandman awake, as he became fully aware of each and every second that passed. His humble attire, consisting of nothing but a light yet worn robe that draped comfortably over his stooped shoulders, swept gently across the cool and moist stone floor. In his hand was his one only and only possession; a rather large sand clock. He held it limply, yet despite the awkward angle from which it stood from the floor, it heedlessly continued to pour sand into the bottom glass bulb.

It was resolute, unbound and unaffected by the dire straits around it. The Sandman did not share the same feeling. This prison, this abominable man made construction, frustrated him to no end. It wasn't simply the fact of being trapped, it went beyond the realms of mere physicality. It affected him deeply, nearing a spiritual level. The Sandman felt restricted, held back by his lack of memory.

He was fettered, chained down, with only the bare minimum of movement allowed. There was no way he acquiesced to such an existence. Yet he continued on from his cell, his every movement feeling constricted as he walked freely. Gripping his hourglass with an unnatural strength completely contrasting his appearance, he pressed onward.

Stepping into the hall, he was only further disillusioned with the very foundations laid by this structure: even the very walls pressed in on him. They mocked him, taunting him over his own powerlessness. The Sandman's weathered and worn face hardened, his pressed lips hidden by his snow white beard. The sand storm was only beginning to brew.

Hunching his shoulders, he began to trot forward. A quick glance about his surroundings revealed the near decrepit state. The craftsmanship was superb, yet the stones were crumbling in some places. It was old, almost timeless. It contained history that no one would ever know. Soon, its downfall would be imminent.

A form in the dark stopped him in his tracks. In one hand, it held a bell, on their side was the hilt of a sword. The Sandman could sympathize with the stone prison. An unfamiliar feeling of dread settled into the pit of his stomach as his gaze fell upon this woman, a near perfect embodiment of the pale Death. Her unkempt jet black hair and dark clothing blended almost perfectly in dark mouth of the hallway. Then she spoke.

"My name is Sabriel; what's yours?" Her voice, despite its strength, was spoken like a whisper. It pervaded his senses, lulling him into a false sense of security, silently followed by waves of drowsiness. He allowed it wash over him, even closing his eyes for a moment.

Suddenly, his internal instincts screamed at him. A feeling in the gut that wrenched at his heart. Snapping his eyes open, he realized it hadn't been her voice that dowsed him in sleepiness; it was the teal of that bell. It jingled softly, echoing off of the stone walls in a play tone that belied its malevolent nature.

A sense of power rippled through him. It was a familiar sensation, one that he knew he'd felt before. With his will alone he could stop that bell with a glance. It felt incomplete but the Sandman reveled in the feeling. The frustration from earlier dissipated, replaced by power.

"I am the Sandman." His voice was now self assured, a font of power. Raising his hand, his eyes flared with lightly burning gold as he expended himself on the bell. It stopped mid-clang. It was now cut off from the world, outside the stream of time. Nothing will affect it. At least, for a little bit. The oppressive drowsiness disappeared instantaneously.

He strode forward confidently, hands clasped behind his back, shoes plodding soft against stone ground. Another surge of power went through him and stepped forward, beyond the boundaries, into time. For him, everything only slowed down. To his opponent though, he'd nearly closed the distance between them in a flash.

Peering gravely at her, he looked cautiously at her sword, "Do you wish to fight me? Do not let my appearance fool you then. I've lived longer and experienced more in life than you will in a dozen lifetimes."

[Alanoth]

The scratching sounds, which always seemed to be distant and muffled before, are now very close by, no matter where you find yourself within this strange and terrible place. The next corner you round, and several restless mummies are there, groaning in anger at your presence and speaking incoherently as they shuffle towards you, arms outstretched. There are weapons on the walls, strange rusted and sand covered weapons where none existed before, but when you touch one it turns into sand itself in your hand. The mummies seem to literally be around every corner, making combat, let alone travel, close quartered and dangerous. They are impervious to any attempt made with magic to slay them, and so much as cutting off their heads does little to stop their slow advance. Should they grab hold of you, who knows what they might do...

[Juicesir]

Her bell had stopped!

With the dingy peal now silenced, and the old man now standing right before her, there was a moment where she nearly lost her composition. Then, the voices of the dead were all around her, their sand-rimmed moans permeating her mind and ears. Everything was escalating, everything coming to bear in this burdensome loathing that now surrounded her completely.

Yet verging on that panic, she remembered to breathe. One great drawing in of the gritty air, one pause between the words he spoke and the action she would take. It's all she needed.

While this man wielded the throes of time, it was she who commanded death. This she knew in the deepest parts of herself. The dust of the mummified corpses was ichor to her breath, strengthening her in her knowing that they would do her no harm. Death and what came after death was no great mystery to Sabriel; she held no fear of it.

"Do you wish to fight me? Do not let my appearance fool you then. I've lived longer and experienced more in life than you will in a dozen lifetimes."

Dark, umber eyes scanned the length of the Sandman, then briefly went about the room. The mummies were drawing in around them; the dead were coming and there was nothing she could do. She looked back at him, and took a small step forward. Spine straight, eyes level.

"Well you know what they say: all good things must come to an end."

With the surprising speed of her youth and the natural graceful fluidity which she possessed, she grabbed the Sandman quickly by the front of his robes. Pushing him away momentarily, she used this to initiate a whiplash motion to then pull him back. As he was pulled again to her, the full of his face was brought to meet the top of her forehead with sudden agility; she headbutted him.

After, she let him go and - holding tightly to the still noiseless Ranna - she ran. She ran straight for the shambling sandy corpses, then dived through their ranks with ease. Continuing her run, she cast a glance over her shoulder to see how the old man was recovering.

The dead were no hindrance to her; hopefully, they would be to the old man.

[Snotgirl]

The Sandman reeled back, his vision turning white as Sabriel's skull crashed into his. He hadn't expected such ferocity from this girl. That was his own fault for underestimating her, he supposed. Eyes still unfocused, he searched her fleeing form There! She was slipping in between the corpses, unhindered and unmolested the whole way. She'd cast a quick glance over her shoulder before blending into the crowd of rotting cadavers.

His weathered and old form slumping a bit, he only continued to survey the linen wrapped mummies. Their crusted and putrid flesh were poking out from beneath their bandages, giving off an equally equally disgusting odor. They formed a mass, a wall of flesh that was as impenetrable as it was unwavering in its advance. As they pushed and shoved each other in their attempts to claw at him, the Sandman watched as they stumbled into rusting weapons on they wall. They disintegrated into sand at their feet, the grains raining down upon their wrapped heads.

An opportunity, it seems. As much as the Sandman would love to take advantage of it, he knew deep down he couldn't. The ability he wanted to use was just out of reach, beyond the grasp of his mind. Once again, frustration welled through the Sandman.

The moans of the dead interrupted his reverie, as his attention was brought back to the situation at hand. The Sandman had no ability to cut through them. He didn't even have a proper weapon. Only his sand clock, which faithfully counted the seconds as they passed.

With that the Sandman whipped around, his worn robe swishing, and simply turned and walked away from the horde, and by extension, Sabriel. Nothing was forcing him to chase her down. Besides, he didn't have the energy. The mummies were keeping an even pace, yet they were marred by each other, as they were shoved down unceremoniously and trodden underfoot, or simply getting in each others way.

He headed back the way he came, eyes warily glancing at each dark corner, attempting to discern any more hidden adversaries. The groans fell behind, and he found himself wandering back to his cell. If Sabriel truly wanted a fight, she would have to come to him. The Sandman was far too weary to be chasing a girl who was decades younger than he was.

[Alanoth]

Suddenly, the walls begin to shake, and the mummies collapse as limp corpses, unmoving and inanimate. A voice inside your head whispers directions to you, which change as you move about, directing you towards...something. With or without hesitation to obey these instructions, the walls begin to close in on each other in each hallway that you enter, but not until you enter one and immediately after you do. Following the voice in your head, which is both familiar and strange, it leads you to a vast central chamber with stairs that lead a circular staircase to an opening in the ceiling, wherein high noon's sunlight is streaming in. The staircase starts in two places, on opposite sides of the room. They seem to meet at a landing halfway up of sandy colored stone, but then continue in opposite directions around the walls to the ceiling. Suddenly, sand begins pouring into the room at an alarmingly high rate from holes in the walls, filling the floor and rapidly rising to fill this forsaken place and take with it whomever is unfortunate enough to be left behind.

[Juicesir]

Watching the old man walk away, Sabriel took a moment around the corner to calm herself after her glance. Surprisingly, her head did not really hurt that badly from the butting; that was a relief. She stood against the wall, and began to take quick mental note of her situation when something distracted her.

Long, droopy peals began to ring. They dragged heavily across the eardrum, like exhausted feet to a bedside. Whatever magic the man had used to cause Ranna to stop was ended! Sabriel could not believe her ears as the slow, yawning chime of the bell called out once more. She focused upon it quickly to keep it's ringing steady, but could not help but let one thought through.

He's as weak as me.

This thought gave new purpose to her. Formerly, she had assumed the Sandman was more a test than an equal spar, that this grave old man was formidable in both his experience and power as he himself had alluded to. Now, with this bit of information, she realized that he either did not possess the strength to which she thought he might had or that he had gone easier on her than she assumed he would.

The latter would seem to be indicated by his walking away. She had intended for him to be caught flat-footed by her rash action, maybe incited to a proper duel, yet the way she saw him shuffle when she cast a glance back over her shoulder spoke more to a dreariness he possessed. Were he able to stop her - as he had so intimidated - then he would have done so. No, it seemed likelier now to her that this man as well was not in full command of his ability.

And likely his memory is missing as well.

A forgetful lord of time; she cherished this brief irony, but did not linger upon it. While steadying her mind and focusing on the tolling Ranna, yet another soft sound came from the room she had just exited. It was a light reverberation, a thin, wavering series of dry and airy thumps. She almost went to look around the corner, but paused; perhaps the old man had lured her into a false sense of security? She was not going to underestimate what power he may or may not possess.

Sneaking a peak, she saw the bandaged piles of ash and bone upon the floor. The risen dead were now fallen. Was it the bell? Was it Ranna? This could not be, no. She knew the slumbering tones could not affect others so quickly, regardless of their livelihood.

Suddenly, the voice came.

It was not as the one in cell had been, but similar. It had an eerie, otherworldly quality. It was as a compulsion that she heeded it's directions, and with steady hand and heart, she and Ranna went through the passages as they began to close.

As she proceeded, she could not help but feel that this place - and whoever its curator might be - was more her antagonist than the old man. The Sandman was as she was: a prisoner of some sort, likely, and a wayward soul. From where? She could not know. She did not know her own past. It was this place, and this voice, that were her truest competitors.

Finally, she reached the room. This great, hollow column of a pit felt as reverent a place as any to her. The light shining from its entrance at the top of the staircase breathed hope into her. She briefly mused what sort of people had built such a place as this, what sort of respect their dead were shown by it. As she entered, the ringing Ranna still plying her cries, she saw the Sandman enter opposite to her.

The sand poured in quickly, catching her off guard. His doing? The voice did not match that of the Sandman's. Was he truly more powerful than she? She did not wander down that mental path, though. She knew what she must do.

Slowly and with great determination, she leveled her gaze at the Sandman standing across from her. Only for a moment. Then, with a turn, she proceeded up the steps opposite him. Briskly, she stepped higher and higher up it, with small and precious Ranna still singing the sleeping song. The echoes of slumber fit smoothly with shifting of the falling sand grains. It was as if their soothing sounds were always meant to be together, just as it seemed the Sandman and she had always been destined meet. Destined to do this dance.

Climbing the staircase, she awaited his next move.

[Snotgirl]

Music. We got hypnotized or something, right? (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L4OSayGiPdI)
__________________________________________________ __________________

Ting.

A lonely bell resounded throughout the complex, singing its song of loneliness, bringing in waves of drowsiness. Placing a weathered hand against the equally weathered stone, the Sandman leaned heavily against it as his head began to swim. Thoughts of blankets, soft as clouds and silk, pervaded his mind and refused to leave. The feathers of a pillow danced before his eyes, tantalizing him with thoughts of sleep and comfort. Yet the bell continued to hammer its point home, drifting along like the wings of a butterfly, slowly and surely bringing--

No.

The single thought game him strength, filling his body to the brim with determination. Clenching his fist, he forcefully pushed himself away from the stone, kicking up what seemed like centuries of dust. The Sandman forced his drooping eyes open, despite the incessant calls from the bell. The girl did indeed have power. Talent, even.

The bell must be stopped.

This singular thought helped to focus the Sandman, giving him and purpose, and lessening the impact of the bell. He turned towards the passage he had just come from, towards the mummies and his prey: Sabriel. This time he did no intend to merely test her, as he had before. Underestimating someone who had the explicit purpose of fighting was not wise, was not something a being like he did.

With these thoughts in mind, he began to shuffle forward. Yet he was stopped once again. Another's voice invaded his mind, whispering breathlessly in his ear. There was no malevolence to the voice, yet benevolence was not present either. It was a messenger, one that called him elsewhere.

He followed its directions, caution fueling his movements, as he was led to a cavernous central chamber. Reverberations echoed on the inside of the walls, leaving the Sandman only with lingering doubts and musings. A quick glance around the vast room revealed two staircases. Craning his neck, he followed the pat of the staircases, until they met at a central point, filled with the light of the dancing moon.

Heavy drops thumped in front of him, and his opponent, Sabriel, revealed herself. She accompanied by the peals of that wretched bell, with the effects only growing stronger with proximity. At the same time, a grinding sound could be heard from the walls, which was followed by heaves of sand being turned out at an incredible pace. Individual grains landed upon his garments.

Opportunity.

The word snaked it way into his mind and around the life of Sabriel, who proceeded to climb the stairs, staring daggers at him. Already the sand was starting to build up around his ankles, a credit to the sheer speed of the gradually filling room. But now, what lied beyond the boundary was his. He could feel it.

With a little force of will, the sand began to rise. From a perspective on high, it seemed like the chamber was being filled. Yet the Sandman rose with it, his position changing none for the worse as the gout of sand began to seemingly exponentially increase. Higher and higher it went, with far more speed, until the Sandman was keeping an even pace with Sabriel, perched atop the sand instead of drowning in it.

The sand had become a living creature, bound to the will of the Sandman. For now, it was docile. But in a moment it would roar like a beast, thrashing at the world around it.

"Silencing the bell won't be enough. It seems I must extinguish your life as well."

With a twitch of his finger, sand snaked its way up the stairs, crawling after the girl. It coursed after her, with the intent of snatching and drowning her.

[Juicesir]

As the snaking sound of sand slipped up behind her as a stalker, she knew there was nothing for her to do. Her course had been determined for her the moment that Ranna had started sounding again. She would ring the song of the Sleep-bringer until she could ring no longer.

Each footfall upon the worn staircase beat a staccato in the shifting dirge that the grains and the bell now mournfully sang out. There was a hiss, now powerful, that came after the Sandman spoke; she did not look back. Steadfastly, she continued with her gait, and kept on with her ringing. There, in some deep part of her, she knew that every new step brought her that much closer to her ending.

There was nothing she could do but ring the bell.

In her heart of hearts, she knew a simple fact: to bear the burden of death was to know it may take you as well. She did not know if this would be her last breath drawn or her last step taken, but it must be cherished all the same, for the great dance of existence spun ever onward, even after the light of living had faded. This was known to her, and it strangely comforted her as she began to be enveloped by the Sandman's onslaught.

Focus.

Hand held high with the still ringing Ranna, she put one foot in front of the other.

Keep calm.

Coarse grains impeded her movements, and her progress slowed as she began to be swallowed.

Breathe.

The light from above seemed to be very far away now. She had nearly reached where the two staircases joined before her feet were so bogged down that she could not lift them. The sand was writhing quickly around her, sealing her in its hold, stretching up the length of her legs. There was a peace to it; death often mirrored a sort of birth, it seemed. While her movement stiffened, and her pace slowed to a halt, it was not necessarily unpleasant: the sands were soft, and the sifting noise still mixed pleasantly with Ranna.

Ranna... the poor little thing. Sabriel held the bell up as long as she could, high above the swarming tide of tan now engulfing. She had not resisted the grasp of this gathered dune, even though she had heard his words and known his assault would be upon her. Her focus must not be broken. The slithering sounds helped to calm her fluttering heart and racing mind.

Hope.

It was all she had now. The little bell ringing, pleading upon the old man's ears to join with slumber. She begged it to bring the Sandman with her, it was her only recourse. She knew not where she was, and she knew not what twisted purpose could have brought her and the old man to such a place, but if she was to be buried, then she would dig another grave.

I will not go quietly.

And as the little bell kept ringing, and as the grains crowded and filled the corners of Sabriel's eyes and nose and ears, she prayed to whatever gods may be that he was not immune to Ranna's lullaby. Nearly totally enclosed, she felt the whole world around her drowned out in sand. Yet still to the last, she held to hope. That hope... and the little bell too.

[Kris]

Persona has decided to forfeit this duel.

Juicesir continues to the next round.