Round 1: Revenant (Sylvanas) VS. Witcher (Ciri)- Judge Kris

[Kris]

You are finding yourselves in a greand church empty of men. It is three floors high with stairs and fancy looking glasses and expensive statues and painting.

Many of the halls are lead into by big arch doors or arch door frames and candles are everywhere.

For the sake of appearance I've added some images for you to absorb the scenery.

http://purpleroofs.com/gay-travel-blog/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/ravenna-church4.jpg

http://purpleroofs.com/gay-travel-blog/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/ravenna-church3.jpg

http://www.biu.ac.il/hu/mu/min-ad02/RImage7.jpg

You two will have 4 posts per person and then you will wait for a post from me before you can continue.

Each of you will have 72 hours to respond between each post.

The first to post will be Vaidia.

[Vaidia]

Fragments.

They were like crushed glass, oh-so-fine but the lightest touch produced blood. Pain. But it was not like she knew those things anymore.

Memory.

That is what they offered her. A promise prefaced with a name. Her own. And from that, she knew herself more. Knew that she was more than a force of destruction, that she was once alive. She was.

They promised her more. So long as she fought.

Those words awoke greed in her, a hunger she knew that had not been felt for many years, though her mind did not—could not—recall anything before this moment. It was like gazing through a blinded window, knowing that something existed beyond that glass but unable to see anything but the faintest rim of light around it.

Light.

How long had it been since she’d known such a thing? How much longer since she craved it? The very thought of that brought a phantasm of pain to her—one that she knew well. The will of her dark god was ironclad. It seemed to want was not meant to be in her nature, but with this forgetting came many new (and perhaps old) things. The pain increased, one not of body but of mind, washing out the greed she felt until there was naught but the impulse to fight. To destroy. The force within her was content.

She had no name.

The first round had begun. No longer was she contained within the darkened chamber, but within the most peculiar of arenas. Great stone walls towered over and above her, giving a sense of immensity despite the closed in space. On some parts of the wall, there were gold gilded and vibrantly colored paintings depicting various tales, which she had little care for. Light spilled down from the windows above, some of it catching a crystal chandelier which casted fragmented rainbows on the walls and floor beneath it. Various pews were lined up on the ground, ornately carved and finished with a rich varnish. There was a dank stillness to the air, like a breath that was held too long and the sanctity of the softest whisper.

A church. Austere craftings of rich men to indoctrinate the poor with false wonder.

She stood at the end of the center aisle. Rows and rows of orderly pews continued in front of her, ending at the altar in the front. An altar which she approached with slow steps, the heavy sounds of her footfalls echoing crassly in the hallowed halls. As she passed the benches, the varnish on them seemed to fade and wane, luster lost as if beset by a sudden plague of many years. Her breath came out in a fog, one that seemed to sizzle in the air, as if the very place defied her.

The force within her seemed to cackle at this notion. Such paltry stones were but a pissed upon collection of fallible mortar and lukewarm prayers. A church’s power came from its people, and there was nothing but broken ghosts and fading memories in these hallowed halls. Whatever foe was to be fought would gain no advantage in this negligible shack. Not against their might. Or so it was assumed.

Her procession down the aisle was a mockery of all things. Her tarnished metal armor a parody of the knight that would normally serve such a place. Her blade-- Frostmourne (http://3dyuriki.com/img/articles/wrath-of-the-lich-king/sword-Frostmourne-large.jpg) was born bare and ready to strike, held with ease in her hand, frost creeping along the blade on its own volition. The light above cast her shadow onto the ground, a menacing silhouette that seemed so dark that it might be a hole in the ground to fall through. She paused halfway down the aisle, inclining her head up ever so slightly to look up at this light, filtered in by the glass.

It was so far away.

[SherbetTurtle]

A young woman stood in the furthest left corner of the church. a name popped into her head, Witcher. Her heart beat fast and her hand unconsciously moved up to her face, running along the scar that ran over her right eye, hoping it would bring back memories of the past. She looked down at her clothes, soft and travel worn. A brown leather bag hung from her belt, she looked inside, nothing. Her eyes darted down to the sheath on her belt where a beautiful silver dagger lay, for a second her eyes rested there, but then they moved to the even larger blade slung over her shoulder in a brown leather belt. She picked it up and ran her hand down the blunt part of the blade. "Witch silver..." She whispered. She twisted her hand, spinning around as she got used to the blade. It felt so light, so easy, so normal, as if it had been her best friend for eternity.

She stood up and stepped out of the corner, her heart beating hard and a feel of great power flowing through her veins. No. A feeling of sorcery. She surveyed her surroundings as she walked into the isle, it was a Church, so beautiful and pristine. So holy,and yet now a place of battle. Was it right? She decided she'd consider the question later, but for now she looked ahead, eyeing her opponent. Still spinning her sword round, she came to a halt in the isle. The creature was dark, both in colour and in heart. Already she felt the power from the creature, weakening everyone and everything. She bowed slowly. "Welcome creature of darkness." She said in a soft, low voice.

[Vaidia]

The presence of another was both heard and felt. It was impossible to move silently within this church, so empty it the slightest pin drop could be magnified into the most intimate of sounds, and the mark of a brilliant architect to have acoustics so superb. Even without this, she would be able to sense what must be her opponent, feel the presence move within her field of corruption as it latched onto the new life form. Things of life could never exist near her, all falling to ruin under her influence. Even stone would crumble, given enough time.

Yet she remained still, fixated upon the sight of the light above her. There was something in her mind she was trying to remember, something she knew she had recently discovered. Her mind reached for it, pushing against the bonds within like a blind man stumbling for water. She recalled the need to fight, beyond the normal machinations of destruction. But why? She pushed a bit further, before feeling pain again. Those who sought flame often only found themselves burned.

That pain drove away all but the urge to fight, a menacing desire that turned her too look now at her foe. It was a mortal human girl, clad in nothing but the pathetic dressings of flesh and blood. A young face not unmarred, marking it as some sort of warrior, wearing supple clothing of fine make that was, like its face, worn by travels. A small little thing that did not much appear a threat by body alone, as there were too many failings that a human body brought.

It was the sword that caught her eye more than anything, a fine thing of flashing silver that seemed to catch and hold the light of the church. An illusion, perhaps, or a harbinger of this small and puny child's ability. Even though she had no other desire than to be rid of this pesky creature, she was not one to be rash and foolish. The force within her would never allow for such a useful tool as her to be wasted on cavalier decisions.

The opponent stopped its approach, ceasing the soft and cautious footsteps, bowing in the way of an honorable foe. It spoke in hushed tone, giving her welcome to this reverential grounds. Perhaps this child was nothing more than a host to these grounds, like the shadow bodies that ran this fight. It mattered not, for she was more than just simple shadow. She was a tool of darkness-- a darkness that could not suffer the light no matter its form, shining or defined by it.

The Revenant's form towered over the girl, with a sword that seemed nearly half its length. No light reflected from her blade. Up close, the air of corruption would be especially intoxicating like a wine made of decay and nightmares. Something that would drive a lesser creature away in instinctual flight, but would only serve to weaken the more foolhardy. The foe was too far away to strike suddenly, a fault of such metal bearings as they weighed her down as much as they were a boon against normal enemy strikes. So she made her approach. Slowly. Heavy iron footfalls echoing like the thunder of an incoming storm.

Close to the opponent, she stopped, looming intensity breaking over the mortal. Perhaps then it would flee, make this battle into a chase. Her marsh light like eyes looked down upon the girl, two glints of ice blue light amongst the dark iron, but there was no warmth there. No humanity. Intelligence, perhaps. It was a wonder she postured herself as anything but a monster.

The Revenant lowered her blade. It seemed she was also about to give her foe a mark of respect. A bow, or some other chivalrous action that these righteous types fell into doing. But that motion quickly changed intent, the mighty girth of Frostmourne swinging up into a mighty cleave that intended to disembowel the human from the right hip to the left shoulder, enough strength behind the attack to easily bat aside any paltry defenses the opponent could put up.

[SherbetTurtle]

As she watched the creature begin to bow, Witcher smiled a little, so the creature did have a soul after all! And yet, that meant that she must battle with a creature that has a soul. Thankfully, she was blessed by the creature truly having no soul, and this she found out when the bow became a swift swipe at the hip. She leaped back but it was to late, the blow which was meant to chop her in half instead, luckily, only left a deep cut, still it was enough to slow her down and weaken her greatly. She fell to the floor, gasping in pain as she tried to tighten her t-shirt around her womb as she fell.

On the floor, after one again regathering her wits, she was fueled for attack, plans and tactics streaming through her mind. She searched her belt for potions, but found nothing. The pain, eating away at her, made her weak, to weak to cast a spell, and until she had regained enough strength she could not cast a spell lest she die. The blade. She reached for the blade which had dropped from her hand and fell a few centimeters away. She grabbed it and thrust upwards, her anger and pain fueling her every thought and motion, aiming for the torso of the creature.

[Vaidia]

There was an untold beauty in the making of death. It was a nimble art requiring the finesse of a master, painted in hues of ichor and orchestrated by screams and gasps of pain. What was she but the muse to deliver such art? A maestro bound by a grand puppeteer, conducting the grimmest orchestras; a sculptor chiseling unworked material into the most charmingly grotesque sculpture.

The small thing seemed to fall for her initial ploy. Patterns existed amongst those with honor, ones that could be learned and exploited. She was no stranger to mind games. The play and give that went with the savant mind of death’s architect. She herself was caught in the perpetual tumbling of those dark whims and fancies, strung in the tightest bindings of thought. She had long since learned to accept such a fate, every inch of her own motion reprimanded in a burning mental brand, reminding her: she was nothing but a tool to be wielded by wills as man wielded blades, the conductor’s baton and the painter’s brush.

And yet, still, she was.

And she had a name.

The blade connected with the flesh of the girl, though not the fatal swipe that was her intent. By her reckoning, it was nothing more than a grazing blow, though glorious crimson ink and blood still spilled onto the canvas of stone floor. It was a mark that this child was not a complete fool to react so swiftly, but even so small an injury could be fatal in time. Frostmourne was her instrument to be played, and its voice was one of suffering. Even so small a wound could feel like a red hot barb inching through the skin—an imparted gift of the torment she always felt.

For a moment, the foe remained upon the ground, rolling and writhing like the remembered dancing throes of a broken ballet dancer, demented by futility. Hands scrabbled in expecting motions, but to no avail. It seemed she was not the only plagued by the failings of memory, self knowings and powers swept away and locked up by the wills of these game makers and their amusements. Did this child even know what it was subjected to? The reason that it had to fight? ...Why did she fight?

A flash of silver light, as a weapon was drawn in retaliation. It seemed a fight was at hand at last. In the few moments of the foe’s scrabbling, it seemed to have found its sword, grabbing it before thrusting it out like she was casting some fatal life line.

Though her motions were slow, she was still able to block that one attack, using gravity as much as her own strength to swat the thrust aside in downward cleave, trapping the blades together against the ground. White sparks emerged from the contact of the two blades: hers inimical to all things of life while the girl’s seemed to be the same toward all that was unnatural—and yet, they would cut flesh all the same.

How fragile this thing was. A stray thought came through the quagmire of pain. Had she once been the same?

The thought was enough to make her pause and, in pausing, step away from the girl. The blades released contact from each other, relieving the buzzing contact they seemed to have with one another. And then, she remained still, peering down at the girl in a stillness of death’s silent reprieve, a patient obelisk waiting for the next name for it to take. Frostmourne remained down, the very tip of the blade resting upon the floor, which seemed to whither and crumble instantaneously. She had taken countless lives without moment's pause, resigned to reaping the palates of her dark gods desires. But, had she once also been the victim? Had that fiery gaze, and bled when cut?

The force within her remained subdued for a moment, or perhaps waiting for the next strike of inspiration to act. It mattered little. Her corruption had already sunk into the girl more than enough to make any attempt of retaliation futile. Or, so she would assume. It would be best to end this fight soon. To know for certain rather than live in fantasy of what she once was. Think herself that she once lived a life of good to repent for the dark art she wrought now. For a moment...

[SherbetTurtle]

Slowly, pressing hard against her wound she stood up, eyeing up the creature and deciding her next move. It was slow, but not to slow to deflect her sword. She could try again, but she felt the magic in her decreasing and new that, if she didn't act soon, the use of her magic would be worthless. Being around this creature, with her equipment so ready for battle, made her feel weak, as if everything was fading, slowly dying under the influence of this creature. She took a step away so the creature couldn't reach her, wary that it could easily stick out it's own sword at any moment. She smiled softly, "Creature, do you have a name?" She asked, she hoped not, for a name meant it was alive, that it could talk and think for itself. Witcher did have her morals and those kept her back a little.

She reached out, felt the magic pumping through her, and as she reached she started to circle around the creature, quick enough for her not to get caught by it. Her left hand moved quickly, making sure to make no fault or the spell would not work, index and middle finger pressed together as she slowly made the symbol of fire, hoping it would devour this demon with no soul.

[Vaidia]

Two figures stood in the aisle of the church, columns like silent sentinels around them. Light streamed in from above them, grand windows allowing for the sun of whatever existence was beyond the stone walls. Yet, as the battle progressed between the two, the light seemed to fade. Slowly, frost began to form on the glass above; at first, only the thinnest layers no thicker than an insects wing, fractal veins patterned within the ice. But it seemed with each of the Revenant's breaths it grew thicker. Around them, candles slowly began to extinguish, tiny flickering lives starved of vital function.

Two figures stood in the aisle of the church, death waiting in the air.

There was something odd about the foe, enough to make her pause. Like the sensation of a hand upon lightly resting on her shoulder, but she knew there to be nothing there. A faint inclination that seemed to ward off the darkness within her, allowing her to simply observe as the girl. Trying to discover... no... remember what it was this girl was. A memory... something that was now doubly taken and warded from her, by darkness and these game makers alike.

The foe had risen now, hand pressed against the wound of her making, a futile congregation of flesh that she did think a threat, but she was fixated on all the same. "Creature, do you have a name?" The girl asked, her voice a pure struck tone or warmth, but one that seemed to be as fading as the light within these stone walls.

A question of her name. Letters drifting in her mind like dust caught in the light, creating swirling forms that formed into syllables, and then into words. Or, moreso, one word. A form she recognized, even what it truly was eluded her. She tried to make sense of it all, before such frivolous fantasies were torn from her mind again, a needle of pain threading her back into complacency, black ink spilled and cloaking those letters which she sought. She simply need to fight, carry out the dark art. No questions, as the worlds greatest muse was anonymous.

The girl still seemed able to move, despite her wounds, slowly beginning to circle around her despite the benches that surrounded them. Benches that were but a shade of their previous form, all varnish now lost and the nearest seeming to begin to wrought. Corruption was a brilliant and twisted sculptor, marring to make beauty as a butcher did to it quarry. But, it was not those matters she was concerned with. No, it was those letters, those sounds which would beckon her as a being rather than a simple force of destruction. She began to turn slowly, to follow the girls path, but it was not quick enough.

Fire and pain. But, this one was fresh. External. She latched onto the pain like a focusing lens, using it to break away that treacherous thread, turn the cloying ink into dust. No, she would not be ruled so easily, not be a thing wielded rather a force of her own. The foe had attacked her with fire, but it had freed her all the same. She remembered what must be done, and why. For she was--

"My name is Slyvanas!" She shouted fiercely, her voice both many and one at the same time, like the converging of echos. It rang through the empty church, followed by an icy breeze that extinguished the rest of the candles. And, as she shouted, she also struck out with her blade in an almighty thrust, charging through the flame even as it continued to burn her. Free her. She could feel the remaining fleshy sinews within that arm begin to wither under the power of the magic and fire, and then slowly began to fail as the connecting power was weakened. Had the flame attack been at full strength, perhaps she would have been stopped completely. Yet her strike continued through, still powerful and deadly to behold, even if there would not be one to follow after it. At least, not with her right arm.

Within her self, Slyvanas could feel the manic darkness recede, kept at bay by her knowing, the spoken word of her name like a levee stopping an incoming tide. She did know for how long this freedom would last, but she would do whatever was needed to remain alive in being. And, with that desire came something else. A fire of her own, burning deep within.

Anger.

The Dark Gods that constrained her would pay.

[SherbetTurtle]

Witcher stepped back quickly, unhinged by the bleeding from her arm. This foe, greater then any she had ever faced was defeating her. Her magic was slowly fading, she had to cool down before she moved again. Her blade, once a strong majestic symbol of power and fear was fading, rusting away with every minute she stood in this creatures presence. The lack of air, suffocating her as it slowly left this dismal place, made her shiver, freezing as all heat and life was slowly taken by this creature.

Her sword was to heavy lift now, and another attack may mean the end of the merciless Witcher. She stepped back, fast into the shadows, breathing heavily as she watched the creature move around slowly. The lights were out, an attack in the dark could work, another spell could work... But she could not recall any. She reached down to her belt for a potion, nothing. She groaned in frustration. Through the dark she could see the figure and she watched keenly as she assessed it's every move, her brain working fast coming up with strategy after strategy.

The fire coursing through her veins had ceased, the cuts on her body served only as reminders of how the creature had hurt her. The darkness seemed to welcome her and she drew out her dagger, letting it dance through her hands as she figured out how to sneak up on the creature. "Sylvanas!" She shouted, mockingly, "Such a pretty name!" She laughed lightly, "'Tis a pity you shan't live to find a man who loves you for it!"

[Kris]

The air is becoming stiff with a hint of a heavy sensation of unexplained oblivion.

A smoke screen spreads into the room. At first it's such a weak gust that you easily dismiss it as a spreading dust, but you soon learn it is not the case.

http://blog.uvm.edu/aivakhiv/files/2014/02/SloMoSmokeScreen07-5930.jpg

Whatever that is spreading into the room is far more thick and malicious, as if it has a will of its own. The doors and windows are locked at that moment, trapping you both in one small chamber. You only now seem to realize that the expression upon the statues around you is that of pain.

Your movement is becoming much more clumsy and slow.

Realization sink in, but only to those that would care enough to understand. This fog will trap you into a stone.

{Fight well, you two have one post each, in which both of you will be effected by the changing condition}

[Vaidia]

In knowing came many things. The heady high that Slyvanas felt when first recalled her name was wearing thin, bringing an awareness to herself that was alien and strange. So often she was merely an observer in her own body, a phantasmic observer of her foul acts as much a proprietor of them. Every moment of her existence was done in the presence of her gods, be it through their more direct interference or the twisted influence they cast upon her mind like a sickly pallor. But now, she no longer felt that venom like presence that ran through her like blood did in something mortal. It was frightening. It was exhilarating. And yet, she felt weakened.

The fire attack from her foe had done its damage, enough to where, if the light was better, scorch marks would be seen upon the already soot like armor. The force of flesh and magic there weakened-- more significantly than she first assumed so that the weighty girth of Frostmourne no longer felt its feather weight in her hand. The pain there was still fresh and vibrant, jumping out at her like glinting reflections with the smallest motions. It was a sensation to revel in for the clarity it brought as much as she would detest it for what it signified. A wound in battle often led to downfall in battles fierce and fair later, no matter how great or mundane they were.

Her foe had vanished after her retaliating strike, one that seemed to have made a connection, though the girl did not betray her pain by shout or scream. The grand hall of the church was cloistered in darkness now, a veil that seemed to settle upon the place with considerable weight. Normal darkness was never her adversary, unnatural eyes able to see in the dark, she knowing the shadows to be her mansion and prison alike. But this seemed to be something more cloying, like a forbidding curtain being woven from the dark. She could not see her foe.

"Sylvanas! Such a pretty name! 'Tis a pity you shan't live to find a man who loves you for it!"

The jibe was called out by her foe, vocal barbs made where physical ones could not be dealt. And, as cruel as the intent of the words were, there seemed no sweeter sound to her ears than the sound of her name ringing through the grand chamber. It was reaffirmation of her being, that the words she spoke and felt had not been another cruelly concocted phantasm. As far as being insulted, she had a feeling she had been called many worse things in the past, and likely the dark force within her was the sole mouthpiece to respond to such remarks.

Sylvanas paused as she scanned the dark, trying to pin point where the foe was, if it chose to attack again. "Is it..." her voice would rasp out like crushed glass, the faint sound now curiously muffled. As were her all of her senses, it seemed-- something she originally pinned to her new self awareness but slowly began to realize it to be more sinister. It was as if the air around her was that of a grave, pressing against awareness and physical form alike with a foreboding and dangerous weight. The veil of darkness was more than just that, but a spreading fog of unnatural origin. It seemed Game Makers were unsatisfied with this fight, and sought to bury them here.

It could be a freedom, to be taken by whatever force that worked here. Imprisoned forever within this not-so-holy establishment. She would have her own mind, perhaps forever. And she would have the small light this place offered whenever the curse was not afoot. A tempting option, but one of a recreant who had no purpose to fulfill as she did. There was vengeance to brought not by spite, but blade and action. No, here would not be her end.

She felt the dark force within her shift, a gloating chuckle to her fate.

She was not going to fail so soon.

"Come out, mortal," Slyvanas spoke as she began to move forward. The pressing void seemed to cling to each motion, turning her already slow motions into ones lumbering as the corpse she was meant to be. "Our battle draws to an end. One of us must perish for the other to survive. We come to our final blows--" she hefted the blade to her other, uninjured arm, "--Let us end this."

The plan she had in mind would be a fools by any other force than her, and with the one she now faced it could be said the same. She would the the foe make its strike, and seem ready to guard against it, but at the last moment she would drop her defenses and let the blow hit her to some degree (granted it was not one to remove limb or head). She would strike after that, taking advantage of their closeness and likely the girl's shock, doing whatever fatal damage she could. Granted that the foe did not react fast enough, and she was no so encumbered by this new force that her attack was too slow.

Slyvana prepared herself. There was no more light.

The end was near.

[SherbetTurtle]

Witcher smiled, such poetry from such a beast, perhaps at one point in her past it would have made her reconsider her occupation, but at this moment in time it only served to rekindle the fire that was slowly being put out by the mysterious fog. It choked her, suffocated her, she coughed getting rid of dust in her lungs and felt glad, for a moment, of this new foe the game makers had added. This fog, turning her into stone, would eventually turn her wounds into stone, of course it would be all of her turning to stone, but the thought of her weakness being beaten, even in the coldest of ways gave her strength. She stood up, moving slow like a machine as she was surrounded by the fog even more. "Creature! I suppose the game makers are becoming bored of our fight, 'tis a pity you never had the chance to please them!" She called out as she swerved through the benches as quickly as she could and silently so she was stood in a fighting stands merely steps behind the creature.

Her mighty weapons of power and honour were being weakened by the darkness and destroyed by the stone of the fog. Her life blood, pumping through her veins, pumped slower. Her thoughts, once great like the ideas of past warriors and magicians, were steady and unprecise. She slid her once beautiful silver dagger into it's sheaf, her final blow would be given by her most mighty warrior and her best friend. Her Witcher sword, now greying and dull, but still shining at it's heart, stood proud in the darkness, not giving in until the last. She quickly thrust the sword towards the Revenant's back, hoping her aim was correct and she was moving fast enough. If the sword entered it would almost certainly be the end of the creature of darkness and the Witcher would feel complete, a miss could mean certain disaster and if she were two slow it could be the end of her.

[Kris]

It was a good fight, and I'm glad I got to be the judge of this battle!!

But there can only be one winner, so let's go over the scores :)

Vaidia

Writing Style: 8
-Ideas 2
-Flow 3
-Conventions 3.

Effectiveness of Combat: 8
-Character Consistency 3
-Ingenuity 3
-Interaction 2

Control of the Field: 6
-Environmental Awareness 2
-Strategic Awareness 2
-Control of the Fight 2

Total: 22




SherbetTurtle

Writing Style: 5
-Ideas 1
-Flow 2
-Conventions 2

Effectiveness of Combat: 5
-Character Consistency 1
-Ingenuity 2
-Interaction 2

Control of the Field: 5
-Environmental Awareness 1
-Strategic Awareness 2
-Control of the Fight 2

Total: 15



The winner is Vaidia!!!