Round 2: Scavenger (Pharod) VS. Necromancer (Sabriel) - Judge dakkagor

[dakkagor]

https://strychningallery.files.wordpress.com/2011/01/rabbits-bone-hour-glass.jpg

"Oh. Hmm. No, that doesn't work either. And I'm pretty sure THATS been done before'

Dakkagor scratched at his chin, musing on the task he had been set. Well, volunteered for. A bit silly, in retrospect, considering how busy he was! Time, it always came down to time. Time was against him, time was running out, time was up. . .

The idea flashed across his brain like a flash of summer lightning. TIME. Simple, elegant, and poetic. For what battle didn't involve an element of being against the clock, of fighting against time itself? A battle, in the end, you always lost.

He found the perfect arena. A beautiful custom hourglass that captured the essence of his point. His fighters where placed in the bottom chamber, shrunk down enough so that the glass vessel, filling with black sand, was the size of a church hall. He placed the hourglass on his desk, and watched the two fighters take in their surroundings.

"Welcome fighters! Today one of you will live, and one of you will die! Time is against you, and the sands wait for no man. Defeat your opponent, if you can, and you will progress to the next round. good luck to you both!"

The sand started to pour down from the top chamber, and Dakkagor watched as the warriors moved into action. This would be a fight to remember. . .

After three posts each, I will make a post describing a change to the arena.
You have 72 hours to post, and 5 turns each.

On the flip of a Euro from my desk, Pharod (Wattz) has the first post.

[Wattz]

Before the Battle

There is an item that can set you free, Pharod…

These were the last words that came to mind before the Scavenger was once again tossed into a cell. The words came to them—Pharod—as if from the depths of oblivion. An item to set them free. So cryptic, so vague, yet it was enough to bring suffocating curiosity to Pharod’s chest. Somewhere in this hell, that precious jewel of escape awaited their sticky fingers. But what could this item possibly be?

I am tired, the Scavenger thought. So very… very tired.

The Scavenger thought of their first opponent: the Shapeshifter obscured by darkness. Somehow, Pharod had managed to escape the threat of the Shapeshifter’s pure strength. What was it she had said before the sand engulfed her? Something about a truce. Pharod had to laugh.

Even after all that work, after risking their life, Pharod had only one chance to find something useful, something that would keep them alive through the next round. And what did the Scavenger manage to find? Not a holy sword, not the ability to control time…

… a Murloc.

“Ribbit.” The creature stared stupidly with massive eyes that took up most of its face. Red spines stuck up from a hunched back. It blinked at Pharod, and Pharod blinked back. Sitting and waiting for the next battle to begin, Pharod had taken to watching the little creature’s chest expand with each compulsive croak. Pharod sat with their head in their hand, imagining the opposing warrior laughing at the sight of a frog on the battle field. Pharod could hear their eventual freedom leak away with each ribbit.

“Ribbit.” Drool fell from its wicked teeth.

“Stop looking at me.”

”Ribbit.” Pharod desperately wished he had found a sword instead… or perhaps a potion.

”Ribbit.”

“Shut up.”

”Rrrriiibbit.”

“Shut up. Shut. Up. SHUT UP!”

Pharod grabbed the Murloc by the neck and squeezed out its last ribbet. There was only a momentary satisfaction of its eyes popping out of its head before it disappeared without warning.

But the Murloc was still there. Pharod could feel it in their chest, in their very being. The Murloc would wait in limbo until called by its new master. Watching. Waiting.

Ribbitting.


Return to Sand

The Scavenger awoke. They were separated from the world outside by towering walls of glass. Suspended above them was an oppressive gray mass that made the Scavenger weary of looking upward. Even the pillars of bone stretching up to the sky were not as abjectly horrifying as the indescribable mass casting a shadow on the bare battlefield. But more important was the opponent standing right before Pharod’s eyes.

She had dark, messy hair and skin like a moonstone. The look in her eyes belied her youth, revealing the strength that carried her. Sturdy leather garb boasted a preparedness that the Scavenger could not emulate. Pharod thought of their own body, a mass of bones and dry skin with empty eyes hidden away in a ratted cloak. Their fingers twinged with jealousy, imagining wrapping each finger around her throat just as they had done to the Murloc.

“Oh, but you’re a gem… a pearl!” Pharod worked up a large wad of mucus and hocked it to the ground at her feet.

Then came the bodiless voice, sending a wave of chills through Pharod’s veins.

"Welcome fighters! Today one of you will live, and one of you will die! Time is against you, and the sands wait for no man. Defeat your opponent, if you can, and you will progress to the next round. Good luck to you both!"

At last the curious mass above released itself from its glass prison, trickling down in a steady stream. Sand? Sand? Pharod wanted to scream and curse the chipper voice that dared to summon yet another pit of sand. At least this time… I can see, Pharod thought as the sand began to pool around their ankles.

“Such a nuisance… but don’t worry, my sweet. You will have your freedom just as soon as Pharod will have theirs.” The Scavenger hummed a little tune as they reached back into their sack and pulled out a rope with a rusty hook on the end. They wound the bare end around their left wrist and grasped the hook-end with their right, letting it dangling like a cruel pendulum.

It would have to do.

[Juicesir]

Sabriel, First Intermission - "The visions are fragmented..." (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qSc-clmoT4I)
An endless, star-void night encompassed her. The coarse, warm tomb of sand she had been buried in was vanished. All existence seemed as lost to her as her memory.

Yet still she thought.

Suspended there in that rayless realm, Sabriel knew that what she beheld was not death's domain. This was something else. Something far more sinister.


"Sabriel. You must go on, Sabriel. Without me."

The man's face that came to her was as familiar as the sun, but she could not give it a name. The sincerity of his aching fell upon her like rain on a muddied field, so heavy was its sadness. She wished she could stay there with him, wished she was not about to go back to wherever it was that she was lost in.

Yet the echo of his words faded quickly, and the visage of his face was lost with it. She was alone, more so than before. And now she needed to go on living again.

Sabriel, Round II - "...and a dark cloud spreads like spilt ink across the pages of possible futures." (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eKHAX1K4sKQ)

Sand. Why'd it have to be sand?

Shoulders squared and jaw firmly set, she surveyed her surroundings and the happenings of them without the turn of her head. Her eyes quickly drank in the situation. Many questions now rang in her head, but she did not have time for them. There was another here.

Two, in point of fact. Three, if you counted whoever the disembodied voice belonged to. She did not have time to think who that might be, choosing instead to observe the two before her.

The first was a large... frog? It was a strange thing to behold, and there was a dullness behind its look. Slimy and with little red red fins or spikes upon its green back, it looked on in abject idiocy. Its partner did not look much better.

Shrouded in a ragged cloak almost as decrepit as itself, the combatant looked as a wicker chair given life and clothing. Its appendages were as straw in a scarecrow, its eyes dying coals in the twilight of its absent head. With skin the consistency of aged parchment, it was a wonder the creature was able to conjure enough spittle to hock such a glob at her feet.

She didn't move her eyes to see if it hit her. Her face betrayed no emotion. She simply stared the thing dead in its seemingly lifeless face.

"Such a nuisance… but don’t worry, my sweet. You will have your freedom just as soon as Pharod will have theirs."

As it began to pull something from its pouch, she reached for her belt, feeling for her little friend Ranna. But as she reached, she stopped, for something else metallic laid there. She glanced down, and drew in a tiny gasp of surprise.

She knew their names as well as hers, though they had been forgotten til that moment: Mosrael and Kibeth! The Waker and the Walker, returned to her! For the first time in the limited recollection of her life, she felt joy. That hope - the one she had so clung to (http://role-player.net/forum/showthread.php?t=72327&p=2489588&viewfull=1#post2489588) in what seemed her final moment - was alive in full spring, filling her with a brightening joy that gave her strength.

When her gaze returned to the creatures across from her, she saw it held a sort of rope dart in its clutch. The frog-beast still looked onward, idle and dumb, as the humming of that strange stick-like being now loomed menacingly across from her.

This was an issue.

The creature had the hooked rope, and she had her sword. And while there was no doubt of her own dexterity, she was never again going to underestimate that of another. The Sandman had proven what a folly that was.

Nervousness did not overtake her, anxiousness did not blot her thoughts. That thing had a companion; she needed one too. Again she glanced around, looking. What sort of dead could be found in the belly of an hourglass? What corpse could be risen in such a place? She looked inside, but all there was was her, the two dolts across from her, and the ever falling sand.

Think.

The floor was wood. The walls were glass. Above her rained the sand.

Think outside.

She looked outside the glass at the room surrounding their timely cage. It seemed to be a study of sorts, and their hourglass was placed upon a desk. No help there. They seemed to be shrunken in comparison. Was there anything this small that could be brought back? Anything that lingered in the falling sand that might be raised?

Think outside the box.

Then she saw it. It was already unearthed, there was no need for Mosrael's song! Why had she not thought of this before? She'd seen it in her first observance of the area, plain as day.

A smirk broadened across her face as she quickly drew Kibeth. It was larger than Ranna and Mosrael both, and she held it in a curious two-handed grip. Kibeth quivered, seeming almost to want to twitch free of her grasp, but her grip was firm. She swung it quickly, back and forth, round and round, side to side. The sounds, all from this one simple silver bell, were each different from one another, but they made a little marching tune, a dancing song, a parade.

The tune rang out, bouncing off the glass and sand, reverberating along the structure of the hourglass itself. Jauntily, the march of the tolling could be heard throughout the arena and without. The whole structure seemed to suddenly come alive, primarily because parts of it actually had.

Some of the bones that held the hourglass shook, jerking with the same freeing motion that Kibeth had in Sabriel's hands. A single skull up near the neck of the glass seemed to chatter as well. Not all of them sprang to life, however. That suited her just fine. A mania had overtaken her, a recklessness now indulged, and she kept the bell briskly ringing, kept the march ever stepping.

Creaking and rocking the very hourglass itself, a few of the bones that held the arena awakened to her call. The wooden floor rolled as if it were in an earthquake, and the falling sand sprayed around like an ocean wave against a boulder. Her smirk was a wide-faced grin, now and she spoke with mocking derision.

"Funny thing about the dead!" she called over the din, her laughter a punctuation. "They are still dead no matter their size! They answer the call just the same." Those final words dripped with her manic malice, her wild peels of laughter joining the jarring chorus. As parts of the columns of bones now wrenched themselves away and fell to her command, Sabriel stared directly at the stick-man, her laughter clear and shrieking.

[Wattz]

Here she stood, a conductor of the dead. She held the large, bright bell with both hands and commanded a jaunty march from its depths. Commanded? No, this seemed more akin to a partnership, as if she worked with the bell to produce the death march. Pharod wasn’t sure if they were more envious of the breadth of her possibility or the clean shine of the bell’s silver. What other such companions did she have tucked away?

It happened. The arena slowly came to life. The pillars of weathered bones wavered with each bounding toll, beckoned to dance by the Necromancer. The expression on the skulls seemed to oscillate between menacing grins and manic smiles. Even worse… was the Necromancer’s smile. She mocked the Scavenger with a smile akin to the very skulls that kept the two combatants.

"Funny thing about the dead! They are still dead no matter their size! They answer the call just the same.”

As she continued her mad laughter, the sand shifted in waves, threatening to toss the Scavenger about. Just as a particular wave of sand almost crashed over Pharod, they eyed the disrupted, rolling floorboards. Such splintering gaps would be terrible things to waste. The Scavenger swung the heavy hook in their hands to the floor, letting it catch beneath one of the boards. They braced themselves against the wave with the rope and the hook tucked hard against the board. The sand fell heavy around Pharod, just about knocking them to the ground. There was a loud splintering sound, and for a moment the Scavenger was afraid the hook would come flying up, but luckily they were anchored to the spot. The Scavenger emerged from the mound of sand that had built up around them in one piece.

Just to Pharod’s left, the Murloc companion joined the building ruckus, adding agitated croaks to the peel of laughter and the creak of bones. Pharod thought the creature would tear itself apart trying to figure out what to do. It seemed as if the creature felt it had nothing better to do unless commanded, whether verbally or not.

“The bell, you idiot!” Pharod’s scream was akin to pebbles hitting glass. “Get the damn bell!”

The Murloc obeyed. Its bulging red eyes nearly popped out of its skull as fear gave way to rage. It hopped at the Necromancer, aiming to latch its sharp teeth onto the hands rocking the bell back and forth.

[Juicesir]

Screams from the hooded figure ricocheted off into the madness of the surrounding mayhem. Bones peeled themselves from the hourglass and began to move to one side of the hourglass. As the world rocked about them, the beast leapt towards Sabriel, it's froggy menace now coming to bear against her in full.

This complicated matters somewhat.

Her focus was now divided between ringing the bell, keeping her footing, and watching the approaching beast. Chaos, while useful, had its limits. Her laughter subsided, and she assessed the situation.

The greatest threat was not that of the frog. Not even the hooded figure was possessed of much minacity. No, the real issue was losing control. Once the dead were woken, they were as children. With their memories and former self lost, the pain of life would place it's fullness upon them again, driving them to madness. Their cries - even now - could be heard by her; confused, angry, and wild.

Only Kibeth's song could calm them.

She rang the bell again. Ever closer did the frog come. The osseous pillars now stood tall, aligning themselves carefully next to one another. As the rocking momentarily subsided, she timed it perfectly so that just as the frog thing got within reach, she leapt away‏.

Using her incredible her speed, she pulled her hands quickly close to her, and launched herself into a jump backwards. Just then, as her feet left the ground, the bones - having finally lined up - slammed against the side of the hourglass.

The ground crashed quickly into her back, knocking the wind from her. Pain wracked her, yet still she clung dearly to her silver friend. Simultaneously, the momentum of it launched her again, this time into the air. As the hourglass tipped slowly over, she hoped the momentum would also be enough to knock the frog and the figure off of their own footings.

[Wattz]

Indeed, Pharod was knocked down. The entire arena jerked, tilting the sand to one side. The Scavenger held onto the rope with all their might, but it slipped from their grasp, burning their leathery palms in the process. They went flying towards the Necromancer’s side. The Scavenger thought they would continue to tumble until buried in a tomb of sand, but instead they thumped against what felt like a wet wall.

The Murloc. It, too, had fallen down, lying on its front with its red spines coated in sand. The Scavenger shuddered to think about what would have happened if they had landed on one of the spines instead of at its side. The Murloc croaked pathetically. The Scavenger’s palms throbbed from rope burn, though they clung to the Murloc with all their might. Even worse, their cloak was once again dusted in merciless sand.

When I get out of this alive, Pharod thought, I will find these sand-loving gods and...

The Necromancer was just about to come back down from being launched in the air for the second time.

This time, it was as if the Murloc had heard the Scavenger’s thoughts. The frog continued to pursue its opponent, though it was still prone on the ground. It reached forward with all its might, aiming to grab her foot as she came back down again.

[Juicesir]

There was a brief moment, that felt not unlike when the Chronomancer had used his powers on her, where Sabriel found herself fully aware of her surroundings and at the same time slowed within them. Right before her back slammed to the ground, right between the breath she drew and the breathlessness she would have, she felt like she fully took in the world around her. All was supreme in clarity, seeming quite strange to her, before all went black in her vision.

She wasn't out for long. Stars crept into her blurred sight soon after hitting the ground. At least, she hoped it was soon after. Running a mental check over her faculties and soundness of body, it seemed that - aside from gasping and having the wind knocked from her - she was otherwise fine.

Kibeth was still clutched, but the peals of its processive tones were faded. She knew what that meant: that the dancing bones outside their cell of an arena were no longer hers to control. The momentary silence, the ceasing of the march, had loosed them.

This isn't like me.

She had been swept up in the full breadth of being alive. The fact was that she didn't trust how she had escaped the Chronomancer. The was no reason to it, no explanation. It had seemed so certain that there would have been no way for her to live through that. Yet here in this new place she had been deposited.

Jubilation did not cover how she had felt.

Now it had cost her: the dry columns of bone were no longer under her thrall. The thin stick of a figure and its bulbous pet still remained. The lack of her experience, her youth, suddenly seemed like such an issue. What had she accomplished here, really?

Sudden pain, shooting up her leg, interrupted her thoughts. A pressing of teeth and a wetness engulfed her foot. Pushing herself quickly up on her elbows, she saw the red spines of it before she saw its face and what it was doing. It had her by the foot, the frog-beast. The thin stick of a figure was not far away either.

She didn't think, she just acted. Acted with a sure determination brought about by some forgotten training. With Kibeth held fast in her left hand, she drew her blade with her right, and in the same motion of drawing she brought it quickly slashing down towards the frog's face.

Air whistled by the blade with the speed of its movement. She intended to see the beast bleed, intended to feel that satisfying squelch of its skin split. She intended to have another corpse for her to command.

[dakkagor]

A voice shakes the glass as a shadow blocks out the light, throwing the arena into darkness. Around you, the sand has continued to rise, getting close to filling the arena.

"It looks like you two are running out of time. How about an extension?"

A hand descends from somewhere above, and with a 'tut' at the broken parts of the frame, grabs the glass. The arena shakes, moves upwards, then, horribly, begins to tip over onto its side.

"Or maybe I just want to shake things up a little?"

The hour glass completes its one hundred and eighty degree rotation, and the arena has been flipped upside down. Now, the sand pours away into the chamber below, sucking anything standing too close to the center with it.

"Not long until gravity finishes this fight for you. Lets see who fight to the top, and who will sink to the bottom!"

The Hourglass hits the desk again with a terrible thud, and with terrifying swiftness, the sand begins to drain away. . .

[Wattz]

As the Murloc grasped the Necromancer’s foot with its teeth, the Scavenger could almost taste the metallic tang of blood in their own mouth. It was as if the two had formed a bond. Bits and pieces of raw hunger dotted the Scavenger’s mind. The Scavenger found themself savoring it, wanting more, wanting buckets of the stuff poured down their throat. It was a fleeting thought, but one that entertained Pharod greatly. And in this moment, there was hope. Hope that the Scavenger could destroy the Necromancer. Hope that as long as the Murloc could defend them, everything would be okay—

—The Necromancer’s sword rendered the Murloc’s flesh with ease. A gash of red split the green, and with a thundering ribbet punctuated by a pathetic squeak, the Murloc dropped dead without hesitation.

But the Scavenger could still feel its presence in their chest. The bond had been built, and no matter how many times the creature died it would continue to be at Pharod’s disposal. All the Scavenger would need was a little time. Though panic had begun to set in, the Scavenger would get by, just as they always did.

Just then, the voice returned. That infernal, thundering voice. A lump rose in Pharod’s skinny throat.

"It looks like you two are running out of time. How about an extension?”

The arena shook. The hourglass tipped. The Scavenger widened their stance. Glory, no.

“Or maybe I just want to shake things up a little?"

The hourglass began its flip. As the sand tumbled about, the Scavenger tumbled with it. The body of their companion was tossed about like a ragdoll filled with rotting brains. Just as the hourglass landed, the Scavenger landed with an unforgiving thump, knocking the wind right out of their chest.

"Not long until gravity finishes this fight for you. Let’s see who will fight to the top, and who will sink to the bottom!"

Their grip began to slip. The center was now a vortex to a very, very long drop. The Scavenger scrounged about in their sack, looking for one item in particular. Ah, yes, the pickaxe. Feeling themself being dragged down to the center, they swung the pickaxe up with all their might, crashing it down into the glass. It wasn’t enough to break the glass, but it was enough to at least give them something to cling to. Their chest rose and fell with difficulty, having landed on the glass with such force. Dangling above their death like this reminded Pharod of the Shapeshifter. Somehow, someway, they had been spared. Now, all Pharod could do was what they did best: survive.

[Juicesir]

Blood burst from the creature's skull. Sanguinary spurts of its amphibious brain spilled out around the blade as it dug in. No triumph accompanied her blow, no feeling. She was in control again, and this was how it simply had to be.

The death was comfortable to her. The light draining from the beast's eyes awakened a familiar sensation, the one she had beheld in that rayless realm where the man had spoken to her. A balm to her bereavement of her self-hood, to be sure. Allowing a sigh to slip from her lips, she placed Kibeth back on her waist. Reaching down, she began to remove the now slack jaw of the frog from her foot with one hand, her blade still drawn in the other.

Then the voice came, and the world spun over upon itself. Where the familiarity of death had engendered calm in her, the familiarity of sand was only a disturbance to her mind. Flying about and landing in the now gathering vacuum of its coarse, downward spiral, she privately cursed a great many things.

A curse for the sand which dogged her constantly wherever she seemed to go.

A curse for the hand which flipped her cage over in torment and spiteful self-gratification.

A curse for whatever other unseen eyes now may be watching her struggles in shared entertainment.

And a curse for whatever other invisible captors had placed her in this unending purgatory she now endured.

She cast these unheard curses upon the world surrounding as she plummeted down into the mire of the sands again. Despite her improbable survival against the Chronomancer, despite her showing here against the beast and its master, it seemed her destiny was to be swallowed by the ground-up earth; a greater irony of death could not be found for one who raised the lifeless from their dusts. As she and the still grasped beast swirled swiftly to the center, she heard through the gritty maelstrom the sound of metal on glass. Seeking its source, she saw the hooded figure clinging to a pickaxe with its thin grip, the tool implanted in the hourglass.

While it was a small hope the hooded figure now held, it was more than she herself possessed. She knew her blade would find no purchase against the glass, certainly not as the figure's pickaxe had. The grains pulled at her again, rosy around her wounded leg. Sucking her ever downward, she had little choice but surrender.

She drew her first friend - dear Ranna, little Ranna - and set its silver ringing. The little bell tolled wearily, its recognizable lullaby now mixing with the sand as it once had. Again, the irony of her similar situation was not lost upon her. The rubbing granules were as an ocean's sigh against the beach, and Ranna's song easily mixed with the slipping symphony there inside the enlarged timepiece.

Time and sand. Always the two. She was over it, however. If this was to be fated, let it be so for the both of them. She would not allow the figure's survival.

As she descended towards the center of the vortex, she smiled a coy grin at her opponent. It was a grin ringed with melancholy, tinged with a sadness that was barely perceptible. "If I go down," she called lightly between the notes of tiredness now creeping through the hourglass, "I'm taking you with me."

[Wattz]

"If I go down, I'm taking you with me."

The exhaustion hit first.

The Scavenger’s lids began to sink comfortably. Too comfortably. The thought of giving in, of letting sleep take them, was more than appealing. After all, what could a little nap hurt while a vortex of sand was threatening to take you down into its depths?

Their grip on the pickaxe slipped.

No!

They would not give in. They had come too far, had endured too much. There was always a way to escape. There was always a way out.

The Scavenger reached inside themself, thinking only of the Murloc. They thought of its slimy green skin, its overbearing back spines, its rancid breath, its needle-sharp teeth.

”Ribbet.”

Yes. There it was. The Scavenger looked over to see their companion summoned right by their side. Somehow, even after death, the stupid creature had a way of coming back again. The Scavenger’s grip slipped even more, and without a second thought they let go—

--But the Murloc held on tight to the back of the Scavenger’s coat. Its frog fingers were just sticky enough to hold onto the glass, now exposed as the sand fell through the vortex. Its bulbous red eyes blinked at the Scavenger, blank with devotion. The Scavenger knew its fingers were slipping ever slightly, but this would hopefully delay the inevitable. Perhaps if the Necromancer fell before they did, the spiteful gods would show some mercy.

Still, the Scavenger felt very… very… tired.

[Juicesir]

There are certain things that cannot be undone. Actions are not as knots in a rope; you cannot un-kiss or un-punch. Our actions are as stones skipped out to sea, rippling about the water's rim, only to be swallowed by an ocean of time. Despite all regret and repair, the efforts of undoing never take back what was done.

Once crossed, a threshold cannot be uncrossed.

Sabriel knew this. She knew it as sure as she knew the calls of the bells before they sounded. It was as evident to her as her name had been, as sure as the ease with which she could fight. Ingrained in her was a person lost, and in spite of all that she had been put through, she had fought to gain it back.

As she slid further down and her waist was mired in the swirling dune of the hourglass' inner sands, she kept Ranna singing. The sudden disappearance of the frog's corpse at her side had momentarily unnerved her, but it had not broken her concentration. It only warranted a shifting of her gaze, a quick and sharp glance to where it had been to where it now was.

There, strewn against the glass, was the stick-figure and its spiny pet. While the pair of them had seemed strange at first, she had grown accustomed to their ill-fitting partnership. She thought again of the old man, the Chronomancer, as the rush of things slowly pulled her back. Where he had seemed full confidant of himself and his past nature, this creature - this clinging thing before her now - was as a scavenger.

Its rope, its robes, its ribbiting beast were all secondhand. It was a beggar's life to live, and she felt a true pity for the poor devil as it clung to its wakefulness and its pickaxe. But it was a taker, with nothing to claim of its own. All of its garb and manner spoke to an individual who lived between the means of others. It was a desperate crow, and she was a brightening hawk.

This would not save her from the maw of the hourglass' neck, however. Time was her foe, and it could not be beaten. She had committed to her course, passed through that liminal moment, with the scavenger having gone though its own as well. They had no other options.

The bones and skulls could be seen through the curved glass, their jumping dance now easing with the peals of Ranna. The bell in her hand tolled with each swing of her delicate wrist, the sword hanging limply in her other as she used it like a walking stick against the tide of falling dunes. The scavenger hung on the pickaxe as would a coat on a hook, the beast latched on just beside it.

And for a moment, this was all that was.

She did not fear what would happen to her. As she was drawn ever towards the center of the vortex and as the tug against her legs became harder to resist, her heart beat calm and steady. Whoever Sabriel had been, she was barely that girl now, barely a shadow of a memory. To lose a piece of a piece was not to lose much at all.

She smiled. If she died here, if her body came crashing down and her eyes no longer opened, she at least knew she would have that face of the man to greet her after. If this was to be how her life's ink spilled, then the story would at least have been told partway.

That was enough for her. She did not know if she was the only one, if this great thing was being staged for only her, or if she and the scavenger were but players in a larger play. There was only one thing left to be done, one final attempt to make her presence unforgettable.

Her feet slipped the moment after she threw it. As her back hit the lowest dip in the vortex and the sands cupped her, she watched her blade cut a clean line through the air. It added a sweet whistle to Ranna's slumbering song, and as the sand began to engulf her again, she prayed to whatever gods might be that sword found its mark.

That the scavenger might be stricken dead along with her. Or that it might be knocked from its hold to join her. Just that it itself would be wounded.

The blade spun with the pointed ease of a dancer, with the swift and precise arcing that she herself had shown in her own motions this day. She smiled, as grains again tumbled over her face and eyes. Another threshold crossed.

[dakkagor]

Shadow passed over the hourglass, and time slowed to a treacle. The master of this realm had returned. The sand halted its march, and the sword paused middair.

"Hmm. Interesting. You both fought hard. You both deserve to advance But only one of you fought well enough to continue. There can only be one."

+++++

Marking - Wattz

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

Effectiveness of Combat: 7
-Character Consistency 3
-Ingenuity 2
-Interaction 2

Control of the Field: 6
-Environmental Awareness 3
-Strategic Awareness 2
-Control of the Fight 1

Total: 21

Marking - Juicesir

Writing Style: 7
-Ideas 3
-Flow 2
-Conventions 2

Effectiveness of Combat: 7
-Character Consistency 2
-Ingenuity 3
-Interaction 2

Control of the Field: 9
-Environmental Awareness 3
-Strategic Awareness 3
-Control of the Fight 3

Total: 23

Dakkagors comments: As a battle this was very enjoyable to read as it developed, and you both really got into your style. Each character had a strong, individual voice. I would have liked to see a bit more banter/interaction from each of you, but that was a minor niggle. As you can see in most categories you where evenly matched, apart from who was actually winning the fight. In that category, Juicesir was leading the dance, and Wattz could only respond, despite having the first post. The strength of Juicesirs tactical choices, combined with his excellent use of a difficult arena to build good posts, means the Necromancer shall continue to the next round, while the Scavenger will not continue. I hope you enjoyed this years rumble Wattz, and maybe I'll see you in the arena next year.


JUICESIR WINS.

[Juicesir]

Time slowed just as Sabriel fell, causing the sudden vertigo she experienced to be drawn out in an almost unbearable way. As the shadow's voice boomed, she felt as if the whole world were falling away from her and she would never get it back. The waiting was unbearable, aching to be finished.

Then time restored, and she slipped through the neck of the hourglass along with the torrent of the sands.

Down did she fall, the grains like rain beside her. She thought of a great many things in those last few moments. Her little bells, the imminent ground, her now lost sword. Most of all she thought of the fatherly face, so comforting in its station and mien. This thought - this last thought - was all she clung to as the hourglass' bottom rushed fiercely to meet her.

I'll see you soon, I hope...

And then... she hit.

There was no blackness, not as there had been last time after the fight with the Chonomancer. There was no unconscious void swallowing her presence. The soft pile of sand was as a cushion and had acted as a net of sorts to her landing. It still nearly knocked all breath out of her, but the fact she had air to breath at all seemed a good sign.

She was not dead.

Sabriel laid there, blank in her expression. In and out the air flowed through her lungs, gently hushing past her lips as if the secret of her living could not be told to anyone else. It was a pleasant respite, and her mind eased at its anxious helplessness so recently experienced.

Despite how comfortable she was with death, despite how thoroughly she embraced its absolution, she had not been truly ready to have it for herself. This encounter with the thin figure was not final, she could feel it. Yet, laying half sunk into the pile of sand, she allowed herself to be peaceable and a small smile of contentment to crawl onto her face.

The first sign that something was off was the sudden wetness of the sand that fell on her. The second was the slight whoosh that interrupted the normal flow of the grains through the hourglass. She had just enough time left to open her eyes and roll away before a body fell right where she had been laying. Sand erupted as a geyser, and she could not help but let a small shriek escape her.

The sword was clean through, sticking out of the back. Her heart raced as she stepped to her feet, fearful of how close she had just come to eliminating herself. With a calming breath, she approached the figure now itself sunk partway into the dune.

Again, a wash of pity overcame her. The same she had felt as she watched the figure clinging. It didn't deserve this fate.

None of us do.

The next short while was spent retrieving her sword. It slunk out of the lifeless scavenger with ease. She did not need to do the job of burying herself; the sands of the hourglass obliged. And so, sitting a short ways away from the new formed tomb, she thought to herself of what had been, and what could possibly be left to come.