Round 3: Archer (Gel'talot) VS. Necromancer (Sabriel) - Judge x Kiki x

[Kiki]

http://www.abc.net.au/reslib/201309/r1168052_14805209.jpg

You don't quite wake, so much as appear.

Wherever you had come from before, it matters not - only that you are here, now.

The skies are deathly quiet, dark, the gentle far-off crackling of fire the only noise filling your ears. Every puff of wind blows arid, hot smoke into your face. Black smoke. Do not breathe too hard - it beckons you to sleep - the innocent wind is laced with monoxide.

You stand wearily in a field, encircled by an inferno. By this time, you have fought so hard - you are tired. Directly across from you, there is another such person - your opponent, barring your movement in this place. You know you have gotten here through skill as does your opponent. But now, how far will that take you?

Between you, there is but a tiny walkway, a glowing red corridor of dry barren grass allowing your safe passage from the scorching, licking flames. It is only wide enough for one, and the gap is slowly being closed by the blaze.

To allow your own safe passage and out of this blaze, you must fight.


(After each combatant makes two (2) posts, the GM will make a post on any changing conditions.)
(You have 5 posts per person and 72 hours to respond between each post. By the flip of a coin, the warrior will go first.)


By the flip of a coin, the first to post is the Archer.

[~N~]

Watch those flames get higher and higher... (https://youtu.be/f3LgtDaHLFo?t=35m45s) (listen while you read -- you'll be glad you did)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The burning glow of the crackling flames lit up the hellscape. Poisonous fumes blew over Gel'talot's skin, spit forth from a hissing frenzy of tongues licking the air with insatiable hunger.


Was this Hell?

His strength was wrung from him. The fumes suffocated him as he inhaled; tightening their smoky noose around his throat and lungs like a black, coiling serpent.


Was this Purgatory?

Little green claws went for his throat and mouth instinctively while sizzling tears dried upon his eyes. Squinting. Shielding. Burning.

Still it crept into his nostrils and mouth, lacing his tongue with its poison like melting plastic.


Wheeze.

It's going to kill me.

With shaking little claws and struggling breath, Gel'talot desperately tore off a strip from his robes. Wrapping it around his nose and mouth and tying it tight in two knots behind his head in a double layer, he breathed in again.

Tasting it.


The black saliva of their kiss left behind in his mouth.

The rags couldn't keep the smoke completely out, nor would they make it easier to breathe...


Wheeze.

But these fumes wouldn't do him in...


Wheeze.

~What is this that stands before me?~

...before his opponent did. An icy shot raced down his spine, rattling his body with a shiver. It was only now that the goblin archer could make out the shadowy figure; slender, dark, and taller than himself. The heat from the inferno made the menacing shape shimmer in its orange glow, but Gel'talot could make it out well enough.


~Figure in black which points at me~

The crackling flames crept closer, their tongues seeking a taste of charred skin. Stepping back slowly, his heart pounding, Gel'talot couldn't remember how he got here. Couldn't remember...


~Turn round quick, and start to run...~

Glancing behind him and seeing no escape, he clenched his jaw and faced the figure. Trapped and nowhere to go. His heartrate jacked.

"Fuck!"

Flames surrounded them both, crackling and hissing in their demonic dance. His little claws trembled with his frenzied pulse. Snarling as much in fear as frustration, Gel'talot crouched into a wide stance, no higher than the flames themselves.


~Found out I'm the chosen one.... oh no...~

Sweat beaded from his skin, faring no better than tears in this dizzying heat. With his heart pounding in his ears, he slowly drew three arrows by sheer instinct.

Fight or die, damn you. You must fight or die. It's the same as it ever was. Only one way out. Only one way through.

Laying them carefully on the bow between his claws, he nestled them attentively upon the string and drew it slowly, partially back.

Death and deliverance at his fingertips. Same as it ever was. The string tightened as his claws drew it back, inch by inch. If it was death they wanted...

Then the orb on his bow glowed softly to life, stealing his attention from the shadows and fire.

Whispering to him.

She's bound by these flames as well, it said.

Caged and trapped.

Like you!

The dancing images reflected from the polished, blackened orb appeared as silent spectators, gathered from the lower planes to behold this arena.

Mad with frenzied excitement. Mad with desire for entertainment.


~Big, black shape with eyes of fire~

Give them what they want.

Swift and sure, give them death.

Crackling and hissing, the flames danced their deadly dance in the orb's surface.


~Telling people their desire~

Gel'talot found clarity in those whispers. In the mesmerizing images leaping into the night, arching, tasting the billowing smoky sky...

Claws tightened round, securing the arrows.

Raising his bow...


~Satan's sitting there, he's smiling~

Bringing the figure into his sights...

Less than twenty meters away...

Muscles tense, tightened...


~Watches those flames get higher and higher~

Wanting them both charred, blackened, and consumed by the end.

Three sleek arrows to begin. Three sleek arrows to end.

Three silent sharp points glimmering by the fire.

Ready to bathe in blood. Ready to spill it sizzling into the flames.

Rising higher to the left.

Rising higher to the right.

Nowhere to run.

And nothing but smoke and air between us. He licked his teeth and lashed his nerves to the sinews around them.

Fine then. His arrows would decide this outcome.

"Dodge this." Three furies loosed, whistling through the billowing smoke on their deadly journey, piercing darkness and making trails in the fumes.

[Juicesir]

Sabriel, Round II - "Time and death sleep side by side." (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v2TBjwoUYxQ)
Sabriel's sleeping eye was seeing. Visions of a phantom and the screams of others at its presence wracked her. It was dream-like, and the exhilaration of memories placed parts of her mind back that had been so forcefully taken. As she slept, she could feel the weight of life's exhaustion present from her battles, yet it was with the return of these parts of herself that she gained spiritual renewal.

One part, however, was greatest. It warmed her, held her close as it returned to its place in her knowing. One word remained as she was drawn ever slowly back to the light of waking:


"Father..."

The dream dispersed, and she opened her eyes.


The world was awake with hungry fire.

It danced along the brush ridge, coiled its fingers around the long grass. It leapt with light feat to try and grasp the leaves of a small tree, like a cat trying to catch a bird. Sabriel could feel the heat of it wash over her even where she stood, and she became wearily aware of how close her black robe clung, how sweat was quickly bleeding into its fabric. Her oiled leathers shined in flame's reflection as the smoke perfumed her with its haze.

A small thought filled her with a momentary hilarity, a chuckle threatening to be loosed.

"At least it wasn't sand."

Bright columns of the blaze shot skyward, hands grasping at the far off fire of the night that they could never reach. She observed the crackle of it all, the deep breath of air so consumed with combustion. Fire of this sort always had a low thrum to it, a hum as it slowly ate away at its radiant feast. It suffused the area with its rancor, the acrimonious stench of dying omnipresent.

She did not permit a cough. Even as her eyes welled with small teary beads, she kept her silent observance of this place. The particulates of the smoke itched as tiny grains in her eyes; she found the sensation annoyingly familiar. Blinking hard, she forced herself to stay mindful and observant, the cool of her demeanor as a shield against her situation.

That is when she heard another's wheezing.

It was a pathetic thing to look at. Green skin shone in starkness to the red surrounding, its foul little figure haloed by the wild fire. It was more grotesque than the frog-beast had been, and the sight of it vaguely repulsed her. Hunched and choked with fire, she felt no pity for it in her heart.

More than wanting to be done with the endlessness of combats, more than wanting her memories returned, she found herself wanting the creature gone. Gone as the scrounger, gone as the timekeeper. Gone for absolute good.

The two noticed one another simultaneously. The goblin drew itself up to full height, which was not saying much seeing that it stood shorter than even Sabriel. Putrid little eyes gleamed across from her as the goblin's furtiveness seemed to heighten. She could practically hear its fear, hear it as clearly as the low murmur of death which clung to this place.

You could feel the tension between them build, build like a woodpile ready to be lit. A hundred more fires such as this could be started from their tensity. Sabriel became suddenly cognizant that she was clenching her fists; she let her fingers loosen.

While she had been respectfully in awe of the Chronomancer and determinedly apprehensive of the Scavenger and its pet, here - as the goblin drew its bow - she found she had nothing but a dismissive contempt for her opponent. This thing across from her had none of the command of presence as the old man had. It was lower than the parasite that the scavenger had been.

A quick puff of air, a sniff of derision. No muscle of hers twitched as it knocked not one, not two, but three arrows to its bow. A small orb set in the bow brought a new light to the mix.

Yet still she stood, just as she always had been. Poised and stark against the firelight. Her black hair matched the darkness of the smoke, her skin looked white as a desert day. She stood defiant, readied.

"Dodge this."

One.


Two.



Three.




Three deathly greetings.

Flying.


Cutting.



Swift.




Heading for their mark.

Bending her legs, she fell backwards, tendons aching with the effort. Her graceful agility lent her the swiftness of arrows as she moved down and away. Beads of sweat had the skin pulled out from under them, their imperceptible glimmer hanging over Sabriel's now descending form. The motion was planned and reflexive, and her back crashed against the ground in the narrow blink of an eye's time. All of it so sudden, all of it accomplished between the punctuated end of the goblin's cliched imperative and the twang of its bowstring. It would almost have seemed as if she had been actually struck with how quickly she fell.

Yet she had misjudged just how short the goblin stood, and just how quickly the messengers could fly.

A long sliver of pain slipped across her knees, the last part of her to have been drawn down in the fall. A sharp cry might have escaped her, had the breath not been punched from her lungs by the ground. The fire's chuckling was all that could be heard along with her temporary stillness. After a moment, it was replaced with Sabriel's gasping coughs.

Lifting herself on her elbows, she surveyed her hurts. Her knees did not seem as poor off as she had though; small comfort to the thin crimson that trickled barely through her clothes. Lithely, she gathered herself to her feet, drawing Mosrael from its place.

Mosrael. The Waker. The second bell. The one she had not used yet. Its silvered curves swayed with the motions of the licking flames of the arena. With it grasped in her right hand, the deathly murmurs of this place became clear as the sight of the goblin across from her.

The whispers around the goblin's bow were meager; it had not killed as a proper weapon should, and what deaths had been were now only nostalgia. Even the fire's rustling did not speak of many lives taken or great calamities had. It was a wild thing, natural.

Through this, though, another voice crept to her nercomancer's ears. It was distracting like the pain in her knees, an annoyance. From the roots of the tiny tree it mumbled restlessly, eager to be heard. It had slept here before the fire, curled in the bed of ground that others had tucked it into.

Perfect.

She started ringing.

Mosrael's tune was a saw. It was the ruthless pull of a musician's slow bowing against strings, the biting back and forth of a blade running through a tree. To and fro, to and fro. She felt her own vitality in its sway.

"You think a bow gives you precision," her voice was harsh with smoke, the air of her young voice grating against the sooty vapors. "That your arrows give you strength, that your weapon gives you mastery of over all death."

To and fro, to and fro. Mosrael rang and rang.

Near the roots of the tree, the earth was rough in upheaval. First a writhing of the dirt, then small bursts of it upwards. Finally, it rumbled with eruption, drawing some hidden thing from its earthen folds. Mosrael's song ran roughshod with the unearthing, the thunder of the fire adding to the muffled menace.

"You are no master."

To


and


fro.

"You are a thief of things you cannot hope to grasp."

To


and


fro.

Bones bubbled to the surface of the terrain, spilling from the broken crust of earth between the tree. The corpse was dragged from its grave, thin sinews and fungus curdled to its ivory. It settled on the surface, a quiet servant in repose. Mosrael ceased her song, and Sabriel began to place her back on her bandoleer. Her hand lingered there, her fingers idly sliding over to where Kibeth was.

A slow smile was drawn over her face like arrows across a bowstring.

"I will show you true mastery."

[~N~]

Hush now. Slow your heart. Just... accept it. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CB3Gv4oZdWo) (any links after this aren't necessary to click unless you want reference clues)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You are no master."

"You are a thief of things you cannot hope to grasp."

"I will show you true mastery."

Slumping with a sigh, his breathing shallow, the goblin heard her words and felt his heart sink deep with bitterness. She seemed untouchable; neither fire, nor smoke, nor arrows could bring her down. Gel'talot bowed his head, his throat tightening with the weight of these realizations, constricting 'round him like a noose.

Swallowing hard, his scrawny chest barely expanding with each breath, tears blurring his vision before slipping hotly down his cheeks to bury themselves in the parched soil. His bow lowered, hung by his side listlessly as he stared at the ground beneath his feet; dry, dead grasses waiting for their chance to burn, brushing lightly, whispering death in the poisonous wind.

So glad to see you well, he thought, eyes burning with these acrid fumes. Turning just enough to see the flickering shadows and fiery tongues reddening the corners of his vision. Gel'talot dragged his right foot, then his left, then his right, through dry blades, condemned brethren.

A slow march, accompanied by an east wind (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VI7CLpWJ5lQ).

One foot... in front... of the other. The buzzing of her damned bell singing his journey into darkness. One foot slowly dragging o'er this shuddering earth, furrowing a path to shadows in time with ruptures, contractions, convulsions into shuddering post-mortem birth: bones from a burning mother's womb, rising to the surface.

Ripped without permission from eternal sleep to serve a passionless mistress. Just another slave delivered in a backyard c-section (http://www.mayoclinic.org/tests-procedures/c-section/basics/definition/prc-20014571) in Hell by one who had no respect for anything beyond herself. Born into chains, blackened by fire, to match this master's heart. Silent, shadowy chains slipped, dripped softly down his wrist like trickling blood in brackish eclipsed moonlight...


...weighing down...

...curling round...

...coiling, wound...

...without a sound...

But I'm more than just a little curious,
How you're planning to go about
Making your amends...




...to the dead.

Gel'talot glanced back at the shadowy mistress, performing her abominable ritual. Free, standing, ringing her damned bell. He felt his heart tighten, harden, eyes darting to the bones newly freed and back, as he trudged on to the wall of blazing fire...


To the dead.

The heat and light of the flames grew hotter as the goblin trudged towards them, like a hypocrite in a lead cloak slowly circling 'round this Inferno (http://www.bartleby.com/20/123.html), closer with each step to the flickering tongues of fire licking wildly for a taste.

And why shouldn't they? He held out the little green claws of his left hand, wrapped, blackened, in leaden chains, slowly extending them to the hungry flames, feeling their incandescent life, burning rage, hungry, slavering, consuming oxygen, life, with wild, reckless abandon. He could feel them roasting his flesh, awakening his numbed senses with searing pain, reminding him of what it was to be alive.

Recall the deeds as if
They're all someone else's
Atrocious stories
Now you stand reborn before us all
So glad to see you well

Sparking memories of living, stealing, thieving from those who thought themselves his master. Beady eyes slid back to the willowy shadow.

And not to pull your halo down
Around your neck and tug you to the ground
But I'm more than just a little curious,
How you're planning to go about
Making your amends...




...to the dead.

This time... this time he would give and take. This time he would remind her of what it felt like with these fucking flames...


To the dead.

Claws clenching in searing pain...

With your halo slipping down

Feet planted in the walkway's space...

Your halo slipping

Sharp teeth clenched and grimacing...

Your halo slipping down

Beady eyes alight with rage...

Your halo slipping down

Chains of black intent menacing...

Your halo slipping down

Chains of strangling memories...

Your halo slipping down

Chains burning to remind you...

Your halo slipping down

Chains to bring you to your knees...

Your halo slipping down

Chains to sear and bind you...

Your halo slipping down

To Life's agony and anguish all over again.

Your halo slipping down to choke you now

Silently soaring through the smoky air, invisible in the night sky, as one more shadow leaping from the flames, the black searing chains descended upon Sabriel and her bells...

[Juicesir]

Sabriel's words and actions did not have the desired effect upon the archer she'd hoped for. Rather than being frightened or put off guard, or even made hatefully angry and incensed, the goblin seemed dejected. As the foe slumped its shoulders and hung its head, Sabriel could feel her brow work into an expression of saddened curiosity.

Her heart still beat cold and pitiless for the creature, but now she found herself feeling - more than anything else - apprehensive and questioning of why he was so affected. Her mind was brought to the nature of their duel, to the possible reasoning for it. For a moment, she went back to that thinking place of hers as the goblin trudged along.

For the first time she considered the possibility that she was not the only one being tested in all of this. While certainly there had been others she faced, she had always thought of them as challenges for her, not necessarily equals who were also looking to survive. Whatever this endless purgatory of fighting meant, the voice in the study of the hourglass had made it clear that this was all more than mere torment and most importantly that she was not the sole focus of it.

This could account for the goblin's behavior. It slunk over to the fire's edge, to where the pathway was, and she stiffened at its behavior. Something was off.

Carefully, her hand moved from the handle of Kibeth to the grip of her blade. Her ashen fingers brightly lingered like a fond mother upon each of the handles. They traced a light trail between the middle bell and the sword's hilt.

She glanced at where the bones had been unearthed, where the feet of the tree had been partially uprooted from their stance. Even from this distance, she saw it was a small amount of carrion laying white against the dirt. Much smaller than she'd been expecting. Still, it hummed in its disturbance all the same.

She turned her attention back to the goblin, back to her hand on her hilt. She could call on the dead thing to awaken it if need arose, but she was taut and readied again, her mind sharpened to a task. Her plan had changed.

She had been brash, and made one slight miscalculation in all of this. It concerned her approach to the fight and it was the same assumption most young people made, which was to think that they were the center of attention. She thought herself not only tested, but the only one tested. It stood plain to her now that this olive-skinned adversary was not put here just to be pitted against her.

He had won. He had survived just as she had, and pleased watchful unseen eyes just as she had done. His curried favor brought him to meet her here. His depression made sense then; he had not offed her as easily as he had done his other opponents.

But the voices are so soft...

Sabriel had little time to consider the dissonance between the fact of the goblin's presence here and how quiet the voices of death surrounding his bow were, for the sight she saw made her own flesh boil with goosebumps. The goblin had jutted its hand straight into the fire. The smoldering smell of skin seemed to steep their scorching expanse instantaneously. Waves of revulsion rushed over her again as her hand tightly gripped the sword handle. Drawn partway out, its black runes peaked over the scabbard's edge like curious children.

Through the smoke which bit at her sight and the smells which assaulted her nose, she could sense another thing being heated. She saw the red brightness of it grow, smelled the warmth of its minerals; chains, wrapped around the goblin's arm. Where had they come from? Was this creature possessing of some sorcery? Was he some sort of chain conjurer?

A small window of time opened for her to consider these things, and closed the moment the goblin turned and hurled the black chains from its grasp. They arced high against blackened twilight, disappearing against the backdrop. This did not deter her from knowing the trajectory. It was evident who the target was.

In one smooth motion, she tucked the blade back to its scabbard's fold and lunged into a leftward roll. The air sang about her robes as she tumbled away. Sharp pain cut into her knees and shins, causing her landing to be sloppy and splayed as opposed to easy and elegant.

Rising to her feet, the dull thump of metal upon earth sounded like a knock at the devil's door. It had been nearer to her than she had estimated. The ache in her back and lungs weighed heavily, but no second's respite could be had; if this ill fiend was casting shackles to bind her, then she would return them in kind.

Without any hesitation she carried on the momentum from the leap and stand, drawing out the sword fully. It shined in the agitation of the clearing for a moment before she stabbed it downwards with expert precision between the links of the still hot chain. Spinning herself clockwise, she lifted her sword with both hands firmly, the burning chain sliding down over the circular runes to the point where it was too thick to progress further. Twisting, jerking, she whipped the blade about and finished with a flick, the chain reversing and launching itself off the end in a whirl towards its conjurer.

The chain had not weighed as much as she had thought, and the action of it all had been as second nature to her. This, however, did not stop her knees from buckling. She plunged the sword into the earth, steadying herself. Shakes ran along all her muscles, but it did not matter. Watching the chain spinning rapidly back to where the goblin stood, a grim look darkened her already severe expression.

[Kiki]

Because I couldn't help myself (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=It7107ELQvY).

---

*GM POST*

http://www.personal.psu.edu/afr3/blogs/SIOW/fire%20tornado.jpg

Whatever poised action you are in, it is immediately halted. A rumbling sort of feeling, gentle, the earth's rocking amongst the flames. An easy glance up would warn you of the continued natural threat ahead - as though the parched fiery landscape you stand on were not harrowing enough - a fire devil, a fire twister - is barreling towards you. It is large in circumference - whipping up rocks, the blazing grasses, the blackened air only getting thicker and heavier. The core of the fire twister is what's aflame, the air a rotating invisible swirl around it. It cannot be extinguished, merely avoided. It is burning everything in its path and will cut straight through your arena and potentially, you.

[~N~]

For you, Sabriel. ~Love, Gel'talot (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcOxhH8N3Bo)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gel'talot watched the necromancer take a nasty spill in her attempt to dodge the chains, with a degree of pity for the willowy creature, her black hair spilling down around her pale face.

(Turn around)

But like a true necro-dancer, she rolled right into a spin...


...standing tall again like a well-trained Russian ballerina.

(Turn around)

Spinning round and round, she drew that silvery blade out, gave it a twist and a twirl, lifting those blackened chains up and giving them an graceful, feathery whirl.

(Turn around)

With her heart and soul, she sent them up into the air and back around again, loosing them back at him like a devoted lover blowing a kiss across the long, black, burning distance.

(Turn around)

It was enough to bring a tear to his beady goblin eyes. But in that moment, the whole earth moved, shifting into a rumbling rhythm with a rising passion of dust and flames...

(Turn around, bright eyes)

...spinning high into the air on fiery wings of burning inspiration....

http://oi57.tinypic.com/15gxh6b.jpg

(Turn around, bright eyes)

Throwing dazzling light and brilliance across the entire battle like a concert stage...

http://oi60.tinypic.com/2dtayza.jpg

(Turn around)

Casting off heat and scorching flourishes with each rising revolution, each illustrious spin, the fire dancer twisted higher and higher into the enveloping night...

(Turn around)

Freed from her shackles on the earth, like the necro-dancer before her, she stretched up into the heavens to touch with grasping fingers the chorus of stars...

(Turn around)

Her sheer, shapely beauty on full display against the shadowy backdrop of the infernal darkness that silhouetted her luminous, spiraling form;

(Turn around)

A fire goddess, stirring up the earth with her footsteps, kicking up the ashes, and igniting sparks and flames in chaotic harmony across the stage...

(Turn around, bright eyes)

Casting her choreography into the night...

(Turn around, bright eyes)

And against that bright display he saw it:

http://oi60.tinypic.com/313nimw.jpg

A black web of sunspots across her dress, the shadowy chains, flung back at him by the darker dancer of the two. Between the both of them, the goblin could only fall back in blind reaction.

But the dance would not let him flee, and the burning steel of the blackened chains only tangled up his bow and limbs, holding on to him tight.

That they would be holding on forever! And struggle as he might, his heart raced with his anxious thoughts, this can't be right! The chains, the trap, had gone all wrong, and now he was wrapped up in their searing embrace to the end of the line; a shadow of chains (his own chains!) twisted upon him until the end of the time!

(Until the end of time!)

Gel'talot frantically struggled, little fingers working, wrestling in the dark, while the raging fire dancer razed the earth, kicking up rocks and igniting the winds with her thunderous sparks. Crying out, desperately tugging, violently pulling, and only tangling himself further in his fright, he raged against the unfairness of it all, for he had come too far for this to end tonight! He screeched out his goblin frustration with all of his might!

http://oi62.tinypic.com/k49eec.jpg

For the second time in this fight, Gel'talot's heart sank into despair, wrapped in hopelessness. All of his plans and ambitions were crumbling, twisted up, and falling apart, and he felt there was nothing he could do.

A total eclipse of the heart


Once upon a time there was light in my life
But now there's only love in the dark
Nothing I can say
A total eclipse of the heart

A feverish lightness washed through Gel'talot, as though he had ascended above these chains, seeing his little green claws feverishly working them off, his body twisting and kicking like a hysteric animal in their embrace. Suspended before the twister swirling in her slow dance, she mesmerized him like a cobra, glittering with her splendor, scorching the sky with her nails. Casting off her ribbons of fire, she sang to him, restarting his heart with her swaying song of liberation. His veins pumped magma now, his courage ignited with a spark. With a renewed vigor, he tore through the shadows of his shackles, and feeling the exhilaration of freedom set him aflame, he veritably launched himself back to his feet, gripping his bow with burning intent once more, feeling the incensed wildfire raging in his wretched little form. This fight was far from over.

(Turn around, bright eyes)

He brought his right hand, trembling, back...

(Turn around, bright eyes)

... and savagely tore a strip of his robes from his arm.

With the fire dancer's voice in his ears, Gel'talot only had eyes for the necro-dancer. His footsteps carried him slowly backwards, through the fires that framed his sight. By their wavering choir, he could see her clear and bright, one shadow against the luminescence of this stage. Tearing off another strip from his legs, he knew this fight would not last the night, nor would it last forever; he would keep her in his sights until both she and the fires died together.

Shadows and fire danced together furiously, slowly circling the necro-dancer in a suffocating embrace, while Gel'talot--eyes dancing with the madness of the flames--looked on, just beyond the circle, just beyond the fire's kiss. Tearing off a third strip of clothing from his other arm with burning malice, he drew three arrows forth and wrapped the strips tight behind their points.

Hands shaking with fierce intensity, he stepped so close to the fires that he could feel them hiss with each drop of sweat that fed their need. Possessed by fierce determination, he plunged his arrows into the flames, lighting frenzied sparks around them, feeding them her power. Catching flame, crackling bright, they joined the maenadic (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maenad) dance with their own flickering lights. Raising them up with a mad toothy smile glimmering behind his mask, Gel'talot thought,


I'm going to start my own fires tonight!

Bringing the arrows back from the flames alight, he drew them back to the bowstring in line with the sights.

But whereas his hands were once steady, now they were trembling, gripping bow and string too hard. And in that moment he felt her voice go quiet, leaving him alone in the dark.

Once more he steadied his focus, slowly drawing his nerves back into line. Once more, he drew his burning arrows back, and raised them to the mark.




All the world disappeared,


caught between shifting light and dark,


his heartbeat slowed,


breathing stopped


Time freezing in one chilling moment


The flames held their breath


and Gel'talot aimed for Sabriel's heart.

[Juicesir]

Sabriel had no chance to enjoy the sight of the verminous villain struggling in its own chains, for the howling of devilish fire had risen as a wolf upon the field. A whirl of tinged crimson erupted skyward, suckling against the fuel of the earth and air. Eddied winds whipped about at its heart, the heated breeze climbing and erecting itself into a pillar of obscene destructive potential.

She ran.

The air thickened with every stride. Clawing at the back of her throat with each inhalation, it was as if the angry smoke-stained breaths were jealous of being stolen from the twister. They wished to be enkindled, and each scratch and cough was a violent protest against their taker. Yet she had fires of her own to feed, and a voice yet to join the chorus of this fray.

So she placed each foot lightly and precisely, pushed past the burning in her lungs and eyes. Vision veiled by virulent vapors, knees nearly giving out beneath her, Sabriel continued her sprint across the battlefield. Through tiny teardrops letting fly from the corners of her eyes, she shot a glance at the goblin's direction.

He was out of the bindings and - quite literally - tearing off his clothes. One lean little strip, then two, then three; that could not bode well for her. However, she placed her attention back upon her own course.

Every footfall was a glancing kiss upon the dirt, lifting her into the run and propelling her for the tree. The closer it came, the longer each kiss was lain. Each step grew heavier, less graceful, until finally she reach the increasingly deciduous tree.

The fire had licked clean one side of the branches and trunk, the leaves dry and crumpled while the bark lay ebonized with the fire's voracious polishing. Standing next to it, the tree was much smaller than it had seemed at a distance. Her height was not far from equal with where the leaves rounded into a top, and the trunk itself was barely more than a sapling's width.

There also sat the upturned ground, the pile of bones drawn from their sepulchral submersion. Upon a brief inspection, the eight white bones and skull resting brightly on the ground looked to be feline in nature. Something stirred in Sabriel at that notion, at the thought of cats. Though she could not quite place what felt so familiar, she beheld a strange longing for some unknown companionship.

As she fiddled with a clasp at her waist and pushed the longing from her mind, she once more quickly turned her observation to her quarry. The goblin was carrying three arrows and again headed for the clearing's edge. It set about its business with an impassioned new determination.

For a very brief span, she thought she could not return to the place of focus she needed to be. Her shins stung where she stood and the back of her head was likely bruised. In all honestly it could have been worse, but she was not at her peak, not at her finest. Still she introspected, hunting for the engrossing intensity she needed to set Ranna ringing.

A happy recollection was what she needed now. Something to give her heart the wings of hope and cleanse her muddied thoughts. She rummaged faster through what few memories she had. Nothing from recent times could be used, and her past was barely a wisp. Then, she caught it.

The face of her father, urging and achingly kind, sprang forth in her mind's eye. Not the sweat pouring off of her nor the smell of the bellowing blaze could distract her from that supreme happiness, the joy she felt at knowing that that specific memory was real. It ran through her and eliminated all consciousness of her plight and pain, while her breaths steadied to a stumbling calm. She entered into a mental serenity entirely detached from the woes of the world around her.

This was past the force of will most used to concentrate. It superseded diligence and danced by perseverance. This clarity was a being unto itself, a meditation on her own sureness of existence and on the reclaimed part of her she held.

She smiled.

She didn't hesitate in her next motion; the entirety of her phrenic concert was honed in on this one duty she needed to perform. Ranna's drawing was less effort to her in this state than a blink; it was unconscious. It simply happened. Such was the purity of her mind that her actions were automatic. The driving comfort of her father grew within her heart to a splendorous fire that rivaled that of all her surroundings.

When the ring of the bell began could not be precisely known. Sweet and low, it slipped between the sound of the goblin's clothed arrows catching fire. It crept out from around the whirl's wailing. It was not sudden as Mosrael's had been, but with a greater presence, as if the world had forgotten it was supposed to be hearing it and then was gently reminded.

One long toll as the archer drew his bow. Her eyes were focused, staring serenely at the creature's action. Beneath the whispering disintegration of the grasses and brush, the somnolent tone of Ranna sang forth. Sabriel let the Sleep-Bringer bring, and awaited what she surely knew would come.

[~N~]

(A nod to Koti~ for his multiple song selections. Let us begin with this (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=etAIpkdhU9Q).)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The tolling of the bell reached his ears and stayed his hand for but a moment longer: his adversary was conjuring some new spell. The goblin's precision with his bow was not simply a matter of vision, but his eyes--sharp as arrows--fell about the wavering, heat-saturated scene surrounding Sabriel...

... and found nothing new. Still the bell rang out. Between the crackling crowd of withering flames and the tumult of the hellish cyclone heading towards them, Gel'talot could discern nothing beyond them, save whispering darkness. Hypnotically dancing around his drawn arrows, their fires swayed with readiness. His focus crystallized, freezing Time to a long march.

Gel'talot felt the burning chill of sanguine clarity race through his veins like two drugs; one up, one down. His heart hammered upon his searing nerves until they were numb to pain, while the icy solution of saline apprehension kept his veins from bursting. In a secret space between the two, he felt the tolling of the bell...

Barely there, a weak pulse, fluttering with the pitter-patter of light-hearted death. Gel'talot swallowed, feeling the tight dryness of his swollen throat pressing in like two sandpaper pieces, grinding tightly against each other. It threatened to tie off his breath like a noose and send him plummeting into a deep, permanent sleep. Gritting his sharp, pointy teeth, he reclaimed his fiery purpose with a vengeance and locked the angel of sleep right in his sights.

His initial volley at the beginning of combat was a warning shot; a broadside meant to put his opponent on her toes. They did not completely miss--his feathered heralds of death--signing their mark in crimson across Sabriel's knees. But a scratch!

(and turn now to this (https://youtu.be/Fd9ohpDDCRU?t=30s))

A scratch. A scratch. The beginning of the end for Hamlet, Achilles, Baldr, and flamboyant Mercutio. Green lips pulled back menacingly and upon their savage gleaming surface, Death itself smiled at Sabriel through the flames. Impervious to the insidious plots, the brutal attacks, the slings and arrows of misfortune--even their own despair--still they fell.

Unseen, yet right before them Death stood, threatening nothing: Laertes, unable to best Hamlet with a blade; Paris, standing always in Hector's shadow; Hod, a blind man in a corner; Romeo, a lover and a friend. Death brought mighty Heracles low with a woman's touch. Those brave souls who defied all odds, courted and danced feverishly with Death on so many occasions while others died around them.

But for one scratch, and they might have lived. Death abides, waits, ever so patiently, as a shadow in the flurry of Life's frenzied activity. Moving more quietly than a whisper, it slithers its silent way through our spirited vitality and strikes so suddenly that the poison is in our veins before we feel the bite. How like Love.

The deep breath before the plunge. That bright moment we all know, when a loved one revives, seems fresher than she has in weeks! Vibrant with the sun upon her cheeks, eyes clear, full of life once more. For one joyous moment, her vitals are back, her vision clear, and she is the one we all know. We think, at last! She's recovering! She might pull through after all!

And it feels right this time...

Rich rays of golden daylight pierce the veil of storm clouds, bringing soothing serenity and illuminating our green earth once more; rolling softly along grasses like waves of flowers, delivering warmth and life from the shroud. Gel'talot could see those summer days reflected in the serenity of her eyes, taking her away from all this darkness, death, and destruction. She was in heaven's embrace now, bathed in the luminescence of memory, drinking once more the trickling sweet waters of clarity. She rang her bell with the effortless grace of one who rises above the dismal field of battle to sing her song with pristine choirs of angels.

Says it feels right this time...

Yes, she had recaptured the glow in her heart, and burned with renewed purpose.

Turned it 'round and found the right line
Good day to be alive, sir!
Good day to be alive, she said.....

The breathless calm before the roiling, savage storm.

Then it comes to be that the soothing light at the end of your tunnel,
is just a freight train coming your way...

The clouds rolled in, thunder ripping up the warm blanket of her serenity for the blistering chill of reality. The moment's delay done, three flaming arrows loosed into the suffocating night.

Then it comes to be that the soothing light at the end of your tunnel,
is just a freight train coming your way...

This time they would not miss. This time, she would be smothered in reeling darkness. This time, he had the focus to shatter hers to pieces. Once more, she would feel Death's fiery vengeance, incinerating her precious serenity and reducing it to falling ashes.

"No escape now, witch! No heavenly peace for you--I give you only vengeance and misery!" Gel'talot shouted at her, rage igniting his words. A peal of savage thunder tore through skies as three fiery arrows sparked and blazed their path through the billowing fumes, shaking the earth once more with the hellish tempo of a dance far deeper and more powerful than any recollection Sabriel could conjure.

"You are in Hell. There is no escape. No one left to save you. No hope thrives where Death reigns!" The goblin spoke as one possessed by the Furies, mad with a courage born of despair and hopelessness; the wild, desperate gnashing of an animal that fights because it knows it's going to die. His voice carried over the howling winds like the horsemen of Revelations, buffeting Sabriel with ironclad conviction that made promises out of threats.

Then it comes to be that the soothing light at the end of your tunnel,
is just a freight train coming your way...

"Here your bells, your bones, your blade are nothing," he spat viciously, his right hand slipping back through the darkness like quicksilver. His voice became as shadowy Death itself: "Here, you are nothing." Gel'talot viciously tore off another strip of his blackened sleeves, and reached deftly back, plucking another arrow from his quiver. Wrapping it with deadly intent, he held it out to the fires until its appetite for destruction blazed forth. Raising it slowly up in the swirling chaos with all the poise Sabriel herself had displayed, fires of killer instinct burning bright in his eyes, the goblin archer nocked and drew the arrow back.

His bow rose up like a serpent's hood, and the burning point of this fourth messenger of Death slid into place, ready to issue forth like dragon's fire. Four horsemen rode out to herald the coming of the Apocalypse. No less than four would ride out in this nightmare, and see Sabriel writhing in flames she would never be able to extinguish, not with a thousand memories to wrap herself in.

"Just one more soul for the fire!" he seethed through laser-focused eyes, loosing the fourth flaming fury into night, winging its way to deliver pain, anguish, and misery to the pale wretch beyond the flames.

[Juicesir]

Sabriel was removed. Stark intensity kept her upright against the wash of heat, her back sweaty against the tree. She was transcendent, and the whole world grew far away from her.

In fact, the colors in the center of her sight began to change. Reds blushed deeper, yellows seared to a whiteness. A great circle in the midst of her field of vision bloomed, and there captivated in the center of it all was a slowly distorting splotch of green where she had been fixated upon her foe.

Was she fading from this world fully? But no, that thought did not actually cross her mind's threshold. There was no space for other considerations, for anything but the gentle sway of the bell she clutched hard. Its din was drawn out as a yawn. Such was her absolute single-mindedness that the blindness she now experienced seemed natural, and it blossomed further, blotting the arena from both her eyes and her mind.

Ash choked her breathing still, so labored in its automation of respiration. The whole of her body ached, and the blood on her knees began to cake as it baked in the breath of the fire. Yet her hand barely shook as Ranna tolled again. These mortal pangs were beyond her sense of being, passed from her presence of mind. There, enraptured in the folds of her divine happiness, she could feel no agony.

Three comets brightened quickly, three bursts of light where she had seen the goblin stand. She knew what they were: envoys of death. Their proclamation, however, was silent. Absent. Pitifully lacking.

A single passage crept to her mind. She knew not where it came from, only that it came. Its foreign presence was drawn from some deep place, equal to her placidity. It's existence did not disturb her meditation, but enforce it.


I will not fear.

Three fingers of wood and iron jabbed against her torso. Three shafts poked against the hardened leather strips laying against her thick robes. They broke as raindrops upon the iced pond of her mind; three dulled splashes that left no ripple.

"No escape now, witch!"

Her body shuddered against the tree with the triple blow, head lolling forward from the impact.


Fear is the mind-killer.

"No heavenly peace for you--I give you only vengeance and misery!"

Darkness rained in the whites of her eyes. Crackle of bone and burning could be heard in equal harmony. Her legs shook.


I will face my fear.

"You are in Hell. There is no escape."

Slowly her head lifted again, the cackle of the creature's voice sitting sharply upon the rush of dust and fire. Her eyes stared, unseeing, at where the voice emanated from.


I will let it pass through me.

"No one left to save you. No hope thrives where Death reigns!"

Pain surged where the arrows nested in her bosom, an unheated burn that was drenched in numbness almost immediately. It dissipated like morning's breath, like fog at sun's glance.


Where the fear has gone...

"Here your bells, your bones, your blade are nothing!"

A stern grip held fast, as a slumbering song lurched. The sway of her right hand's motion almost faltered, almost stilled.


...there shall be nothing.

"Here, you are nothing."

Yet still the slumbering song sang on.


Only I will remain.

"Which makes me... still more than you." Though each syllable was smoky and stuttering, though it took two breaths to say, the words still emerged from Sabriel's lips. Her unconscious mind cast the retort with less effort than was needed to lift a finger. In the great spinning maelstrom of these fiery fields, her reply carried clearly with the intent of her tone.

It spoke disdain. It spoke uncaring. It spoke unworthiness. And in that far veiled place her thoughts still clung to, behind her eyes which could no longer see, the ferocity of her concentration kept the sleep bringer bringing.

"Just one more soul for the fire!" shouted the archer.

"Pity mine won't be joining you," growled the necromancer.

Her murmur barely ceased before the fourth strike slammed against her. Lower this time, its bite on her thigh. Adrenaline pulsed through, quickening in her veins, rushing and pressing her away from the shock of it all. She was stolen away from its anguishing attack.

For a moment, there might have been a pause in Ranna's ring. Almost barely. Or perhaps the twisting column of fire was whirling too loudly. Or maybe the goblin's cackles nearly drowned it out for a second. Regardless, instinct reigned, and Sabriel's tiny white hand kept the bell ringing on and soon its voice was the last thing she heard.

All the world was faded. Bare blackness raced against her vision, and from its abyssal consumption emerged a face. That face such as hers, pale but kindly. That face, so familiar and fatherly. It spoke no words; there was no need. It merely shook back and forth, almost in disbelief, amusement playing around its lips and slipping around the crinkles of its eyes.


Not yet.

Bark tight against her spine. Feet planted, head slumped, left hand clutched to the thin trunk. Her right one gave its slow, strained movement to set the Sleep-Bringer's sonorous echoes sounding.

Throughout the clearing, its song lay heavily upon all things. In her ears, the fire's roar became a lower rumble. Unburnt leaves clinging to the small canopy above her calmed. Ranna brought its lullaby to bear in full force.

It was like surfacing from far below a swollen ocean wave, the breath shimmering back into Sabriel's lungs. Even the fourth arrow had not deterred her determination. She had allowed herself to confront its misery and move onwards.

For she was not lowly as the goblin archer. It's nature was bestial; it recoiled from death by pretending it controlled it, just as she had said at the beginning of their fight. It sought to flee, to preserve, and to run away from it.

But she was a person of a higher stature. She had gone through and out the other side. For there was no pain for one such as she, one for whom death was a friend.

Achingly, the song of sleep grabbed hold of the earth and its fires. With slow deliberation, each touch of its tongue to the body of the bell spelled a promise of dream for any ear who heard it. It sauntered between the searing night, blunted the shouts of thunder and the gnashing of the inferno. Bidding each eye to another kind of darkness, it carried on.

And while the blood began to trickle out from her leathers, and her chin lolled again to her chest, the steady hand of righteousness which clutched her small argenteous ally kept its resounding motion. The bell rang on.

[~N~]

And it spins around... (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=esBHOtIenjQ)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The endless sonorous lullaby tolling from the bell sent Gel'talot's vision sliding ever so slowly sideways, slipping subtly free from the clasps of cruel reality into a swaying serenade of slippery flames, hypnotically dancing around swirls of suffocating fumes. His equilibrium started to drift, disconnecting from the ground that seemed now... so. far. away. The bell was still ringing, but how? mused the whispers in his feverish little mind, floating languidly amidst the burning blaze and bobbing this way and that in a drunken haze.

Whirling around, was he whirling around? The whole world spilled over on a tilt and spun (round and round!) like a languid merry-go-round. Flames and fire, twister and shadows, a somnolent savage choir--squeezing his queasy stomach into sickening knots. Slurring his speech, he thought half-words, slumped into sizzling incoherence...

...hissing upon the ground. Something... something... little claws, trembling, reaching for a thought...

Reaching for something... sharp, cutting...

She's got her eyes open wide

Painfully impossible swallows accompanied the jagged razor feeling of an arrow's sweet edge cutting much too deep, dizzy feverish blood drops slowly slipping free, leaking out in swirling, rushing rivulets of boiling memories. Pitch black faded imaginary phantoms oozed up from these searing cuts too close to hear, lancing his mind with a serene melody, shivering into (de)composition this agony, anguish and heat...

...too close to breathe.

I've got an angel in the lobby...

The slow turning metal scraping over blackened flesh and bone so very, very close to the fire. Breathing flames. Singing and tolling and ringing the same. Cover your ears! it whispers. Cover... the same... cover... the pain... Whispers cutting, biting into the flesh, bleeding into shapes, intentions slipping off into some sawing razor's edge... to cut it open and end this game.

Slice, slice, jab, scratch, slice. Shrieks of pain shattering his sides, sizzling drops feeding the fight...

She's got her Christian prescriptures

... to keep going. Slicing and sawing...

...and death has crawled in her ear

Screams echoing so. far. away. they seem! Drops of blood and flesh chunks to feed the hungry ground.

Freed. Slipping down over his face, soaking his makeshift mask, dripping to his lips...

...while bloody chunks fell, littering the soil at his knees. Sawing, cutting, to make the singing stop.

...and it spins around...

Bloody tears soaked the ears in his claws, swaying with a rhythm he couldn't unhear.

...and we all lay down...

Swaying, swinging, sliding so much further now...

... so much further away from his ear in his claws, the taste of blood saturating his mouth with stickiness. Swallowing, so much... harder... now.

The world slipped by again, the tornado raging and rending everything in its way, winds taking every breath he had, laboring under the weight of a wheezing sleep.

...and it spins around...

Tumbling to the side, spilling like so much blood down his face upon the field that blazed before him...

...and we all lay down...

Eyes burning red, sizzling blackened tears streaking his miserable little features while weak lungs wheezed for ragged breath.

Keep spinning, it whispered. His little claws, trembling, clutching, pulling...

... so much effort to the distant sound of tearing, the twister ripping up the grains against his consciousness. Tearing, tearing, further away from the fields of this dream...

And wrapping him up in the coma of death, to slip back into the undiscovered blackness of memories and dreams, slip from the shell of a mortal coiling...

Wrapping it round and round... Fates' string so close to the arrow's sting...

To lie beside him now... in the sleep of death.

A dreadful light, dancing in the distance, reach for it.

Stretch into the fire. Catches, burns, higher, and... rise.


Struggling wretched little form, to his knees, reeling back...


... whirling, slowly...


... wheezing, breathe...


... dragging, dizzy, back around...


... into dry grasses whispering...


... shadowy stars spinning 'round...


... so high above, long arcing streaks...


... drifting sparks falling, igniting...


... whirling and lighting, slowly...


... changing winds into fire....


... pitching forward amidst a circling pyre...


... surrounding a sleeping little archer...





... in the field.

[Juicesir]

It was a moment, long and full, before she heard the pattering sound that signaled the Archer's quiescence. Screaming and shrieking, he had not gone quietly to slumber. Madness and pain had gripped his final consciousness, and Sabriel brought Ranna to rest once she had heard his own peacefulness settle.

Sight blurrily stretched outward once more into her eyes like petals greeting the dawn, and at the same time Sabriel became suddenly aware of the full toll of the fight. Serenity cracked like a mirror against the ground, the fatigued fragments tearing itself away in a hurry. That great joy of her father was fled, and Sabriel was now made cognizant of just how few years she had spent upon the earth.

Looking down, four wooden shafts stood as stalks protruding from her. Their wood was almost gray, but light stretches of a former yellow lay under their sheen. Bits of ember and ash clung to the cloth on their tips; it seemed that the wrapping along with her robes and leathers had prevented them from piercing her too mortally. No fire had taken hold either, for the arrows had not been dipped in any pitch it seemed.

Her leg, however, was a different matter.

Smoldering and with a hole surrounding its lodging, it cut deeply into her upper left thigh. Bright brooks of blood ran rivulets down her leg, the black cloth of her robes and pants soaking it up as a shore. Even standing still it sang a song of aching, but she decided to test it all the same.

As she placed the foot tentatively forward and returned Ranna to her belt, the whole of her mental fortitude collapsed fully along with the leg. Catching herself by her hands, new scuffs clawed at her while exhaustion dragged a bleary daze across her thoughts. She let out a shivering sigh, in spite of all the warmth, and got wearily again to her feet.

Limping heavily forward and with occasional stumbles, she distracted herself by surveying the damage on the field. At the beginning of the fight, the grass and ground had still only been partly consumed - a half eaten meal - but the darkness of death had torn off the edges of the clearing. The tree she had been leaning against was now even further engulfed, and the ground looked perturbed not only where she had drawn the small corpse up but also where steps had been placed. She could even see the trail of her sprint from one end of the clearing to the other, the grass rustled where her feet had kissed it. The whole of the area was tightened to the fire's grip, and she gazed upwards in stupefied awe of the twister now pressing against the threshold of the battlefield.

Her gaze passed over the scene with all the uncomprehending wonder of a child. Her unsteady gait was reminiscent of someone who desperately needed a bed or to have perhaps imbibed less drink. Her progress was like a torn flag in a windstorm, and each step she laid carefully was a price taken on her constitution.

Ever the twister grew closer. Ever did she stumble. Mind reeling and running in forty two different directions, Sabriel ignored the buzz of it as well as the shooting pain in her thigh, and kept moving in the direction of where the little green body lay.

It was uglier up close. The eyes underneath the curtains of its lids bulged in alien fashion, its skin and claws nothing like she had ever seen. Crimson was its crown, the stumps of its ears pouring red onto its putrid skin and well-worn clothing.

A torrent of hatred overcame her, an emotion unconnected with the goblin or her own plight. Drawn again to thinking of the unseeing powers which had placed them both here, she felt nothing but the deepest and truest contempt for them. What had they to gain from pitting such creatures here against one another? Surely there must be others, struggling along as she had. Surely the scavenger and old man had proven that much. This couldn't be her own hell, not as the archer had claimed. It was his as well.

The passage of time from her first fight in the sandy catacombs, to that in the enlarged hourglass with the frog beast, to here in the flaming field felt a great deal longer than it should have been. This wasn't how time was supposed to be. This wasn't the toll it was supposed to take. How long had she been at this, had the others? How long would she be set to it still? She shook her head.

"Time to rest," she spoke to the little green sleeper.

The draw of the blade was instinctual, second nature. Dark eyes focused on the sleeping and broken form of her foe while the maw of gluttonous fire roaring behind. She held the sword with both hands, high above her head. Orange gleamed off the runes etched along its fuller, running from the tip to the cross-guard. They watched like eyes.

Strength fleeting from her and balance uneven, her sword wobbled with the effort of holding it above. The goblin's neck laid bare before her, it's body fetal and its chest rising and falling. As waves of exhaustion threatened to overcome, she focused - perhaps for her last time - and carefully honed in on the archer's neck.

She did not know whether her blade would strike true. She did not know whether her grip would slip in the downward arch and she herself would collapse. There were a great many things which, in that final moment, she could not guess at: the goblin's name, her full past, how she would escape from this place. Yet she carried on all the same, just as she had been.

And the blade descended.

[Kiki]

** GM POST **

Each opponent has reached their five-post limit. The battle is over and the scores will be tallied up soon. Please check back for an update.

[Kiki]

** GM POST **



Marking - ~ N~

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

Effectiveness of Combat: 8
-Character Consistency 4
-Ingenuity 2
-Interaction 2

Control of the Field: 7
-Environmental Awareness 3
-Strategic Awareness 2
-Control of the Fight 2

Total: 23

Marking - Juicesir

Writing Style: 9
-Ideas 4
-Flow 3
-Conventions 2

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

Control of the Field: 8
-Environmental Awareness 3
-Strategic Awareness 2
-Control of the Fight 3

Total: 25

Beginning note: From what I had read and derived, both combatants had solid character development and understanding of abilities, flow of the story with GM guidance, and conventions with battle interactions.

However, I will not lie. This battle? Confusing as hell.

While I encourage players to get through their battles with clear detailing, I felt myself getting caught up in all the small minute details that you both were attempting to convey. Posts felt long and drawn out and distracted at times. I know it is round three, and by this point as much as your characters are tired, you are too. Taking that into account, I will not be lenient about battle choices, tactics and efforts.

Please, understand that my critique of this is, in fact, harsh – I recognize that – but as you are two very strong writers and it being the third round, I must nit-pick and rip apart the battle I witnessed and read, or I’ll never be able to pick a winner.

Before I continue, I still want to ensure that I am impressed with the ingenuity and beautiful writing of both of you. Do not mistake my criticisms as personal.

The determining factors in my scoring, because you both did so well on the above listed, relied on the control of the fight that you engaged in, and length of post and detailing.

Juicesir's Total Score: 25
Note: I was very happy to see the integration of both current battle arena composed with past given biological information about Sabriel. In her way, Sabriel has been appropriately developed with her character through your efforts. The characters (the players) were worked on by the judges before the Rumble was even to begin, and to see that, their pasts and histories honored, is pleasing.

I was able to clearly understand what was happening inwardly for your character, with the thinking process and battle rationale. I very much appreciated the attention paid to the surrounding and changing environment; it helped to display your ability to change and adapt your character and its already existing abilities to the arena.

The unsavory parts: At times it seemed as though the confines of the arena were pushed against. I like my arenas to be vague on purpose so that my players can be expansive in their creation of how to interact. However, for things like – the cat skeleton under the tree. While inventive and still within the confines of the arena itself, it still feels like it was bordering on being too convenient – too easy. Now, I realize that you did take advantage of your own set of skills, and used the arena effectively in this way, but my critique here is (I guess) that it should have been a bit more imaginative. It just felt like even for a vague arena, this was being taken advantage of.

However, overall, I felt you had the upper hand in the direction of the battle. Wounded, and blinded, Sabriel felt to me to be leading the dance.

~N~'s Total Score: 23
Note: I was happy to see how much you, and your character, wanted to win, to be focused, and determined. I could feel that determination within the writing. It felt invigorating to read it. I thought you were very good at adapting quickly to both the arena with effortless abandon and with the unpredictable moves of your opponent. All of the attacks used were calculated and well-played in response to your opponent.

The unsavory parts: While the integration of music was clever, it felt really distracting at times. Doing it perhaps once or twice might have worked, but it carried on longer and felt that gaps in story and battle were just being filtered with some imaginary soundtrack. I tried to follow the thinking and the music, but it detracted from skill within the arena – it didn’t describe what the player was thinking, or even feeling at times. That inner-work is so important – for a character to have motivations. That felt lost amongst all of the song lyrics and interludes. It was not necessary – too much fluff. It detracted from everything else, as eloquent and lovely as all the references were. I was disappointed at how much of the space could have been used for battle instead.

However, I appreciated all of the efforts taken to keep close to representing Gel’talot as close as the biography, skills and abilities were given to you. I never felt as though you strayed from representing him well, and in character while taken full advantage of all of the attacks/skills available. I though the use of the orb power to blind Sabriel was genius and well-used.


The winner is ~Juicesir~.

This is the longest critique I've written in a while, gents. Know that none of this was easy for me to write or to decide. You tested me as a judge, and I am humbled to have been able to serve as such.

I congratulate both you for your efforts and ability to write within the context of a changing environment and strong abilities of both in the art of Battle RPing! C:

[Kris]

Appeal stage 1:


The battle is now on the appeal process which means two judges will post their input on the battle.

The winner will be decided according to the scoring of all 3 judges (the new 2 judging and the original first judging )


I will be the first judge and my scores are as followed:

(The socres are 1= Bad ; 2= Average ; 3= Good).

N:

Writing Style: 9/9
-Ideas 3
-Flow 3
-Conventions 3

Effectiveness of Combat: 8/9
-Character Consistency 3
-Ingenuity 2
-Interaction 3

Control of the Field: 8/9
-Environmental Awareness 3
-Strategic Awareness 3
-Control of the Fight 2

Total: 25

N, You brought out the goblin in a very amusing way. I think the ideas and thinking brought into this were very detailed and well thought. The posts were rich but Some actions were repetitive and the total draw of the battle was against you at the end. I do think it lies on the interaction given from both sides and you followed it in a very honest way.

Juice:

Writing Style: 8/9
-Ideas 3
-Flow 2
-Conventions 3

Effectiveness of Combat: 7/9
-Character Consistency 3
-Ingenuity 2
-Interaction 2

Control of the Field: 8/9
-Environmental Awareness 2
-Strategic Awareness 3
-Control of the Fight 3

Total: 23

Juice. I love your writing, but in few posts you were a bit vague which made me give you a lower socre on the "flow". I love the way you plan, I love the way you see the field, I love the way you set your moves and I think you were very honest to the role of Sabriel but I also feel that you ignored the surroundings a bit in some places and that few attacks which were landed at you, should have been mentioned, or at least affecting the way she moved.


Winner: N


*The first stage of the appeal process ends. An additional judge will come forth and add his/her input*

[Kicks]

Appeal Stage 2

Quite honestly, I judged this battle very harshly. As it is round three I expected a lot to be given by both contestants. That being said, I judged it by the following criteria in the most strictest of measures. I would like to applaud both contestants for their efforts.

N:

Writing Style: 7/9
-Ideas 3
-Flow 1
-Conventions 2

Effectiveness of Combat: 5/9
-Character Consistency 2
-Ingenuity 2
-Interaction 1

Control of the Field: 7/9
-Environmental Awareness 3
-Strategic Awareness 2
-Control of the Fight 2

Total: 19

While you were very aware of your environment and described it in detail, I was put off by how hard it was to understand your posts. The unneeded breaks, the repetitive displays, and unnecessary attention to certain details really made it difficult for me to understand what was happening in your posts.

From the very beginning the control of the fight belonged to Juice. You gave some incredible rebuttals to the fight itself, but you lacked in ability to "dance" with the opposing character in a battle that could have been glorious.

Along with that, I felt your character lacked certain elements that could have been brought out better like personality. You made your character think, but what was great in thinking was what was lacking in feeling. For this battle I wanted to feel exactly what was happening inside your character's head.


Juice:

Writing Style: 9/9
-Ideas 3
-Flow 3
-Conventions 3

Effectiveness of Combat: 8/9
-Character Consistency 3
-Ingenuity 3
-Interaction 2

Control of the Field: 8/9
-Environmental Awareness 2
-Strategic Awareness 3
-Control of the Fight 3

Total: 25

To start with, the flow of your writing was what impressed me most. I was able to completely understand what was happening. What you brought forth in the battle was amazing, regarding your ideas. I could see clearly what was happening and what your character planned next. Your writing all together was spectacular. For that, I gave you a perfect score in those areas.

However, the interaction between your character and the opposing character was lacking in certain elements. Sometimes, the interaction was brushed aside and replaced with your strategic awareness.

While you displayed Sabriel well, your attention to the environment wasn't promoted. What you lacked in the environmental awareness, you made up for with your character and the control of the fight.

All in all, your writing was very easy for me to understand. And while you were weak in some areas, you made up for it with character and your awareness to strategy and the control of the fight.

Winner: Juice

[Juicesir]

Sabriel, Round II Epilogue - "What do you come for? What did you expect to find? What do you live for? What did you expect to find?" (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EZdFE-nnyyQ)

Through the air the sword slowly fell, a long crash waiting to meet with a distant shore. Ever descending, ever rending the air around it. Heat glistened along the mirror of its metal, shimmering like a question.

Should I?

Mercy mewled at her heart, pulling the strings of it in pleading. While her title was necromancer, her charge was not to create new dead but to care for those already passed. She was caretaker of the damned, not one to condemn.

Hesitation and exhaustion nearly overcame her. Pity fueled her expression, and for a moment she thought it would win out. Her eyes almost brimming with tears, she saw where the little creature lay in the path of her weapon's thirst.

Was it her place to send it from this world? Could she not just pass it by? The blade almost strayed...














...but no mercy would be had.

It fell.

It broke.

It burst.

Sabriel brought it down again, and again, and again. Iron gnashing against the archer's sleeping flesh, she tore the goblin from its mortal vestiges. Her anger was only matched by the brilliance of the twister, by the deadening catalyst of the hungry firestorm surrounding.

She broke the wretch into pieces, slamming her sword through bone and blood over and over. It didn't deserve life. If she was to be in this purgament, this terrible show of battle, she would ascend past what hold her captors had given her to become their equals. And there, in the path of all her devastation, she would smite them in a felling song.

It did not matter who stood in her path. It did not matter how many twists of time and arrow she must undergo: she would reign supreme. She would become torment, and make of herself as fire.

Gradually, her arms tired, and her breathing labored. She used the blade to sheer off the arrow shafts sticking out of her before cleaning and sheathing it again. Tossing the pieces of her former foe to the hungry fire gave her a melancholy satisfaction. The blaze had been so patient; it deserved a treat for its time. It licked up the remains of the green thing with glee.

Again she stumbled to the tree, but this time with Kibeth in her hands. The Walker's march was bright and cheery against the howl of the murderous maelstrom. The bones of the cat shuffled together at the feet of the tree, the tree itself now somewhat skeletal at the fire's touch. The bony feline shivered, and then lithely jumped to Sabriel's shoulders to where it nuzzled against Sabriel's cheek. What a strange comfort they had found in this place.

It did not matter that she and the archer had both been placed here, that they both were victim to the same cruel game. The archer deserved death. She had been too cautious for too long, allowing her hand to stay when it should have struck. No more.

"C'mon, little one," she said, petting the spine of the undead kitten, "let's get out of here."

The smell of flesh pervaded the clearing fully now, piles of bright ash the only testament to where she had flung the corpse of her foe. And as Sabriel walked down the narrow path with her friend on her shoulder, the hesitation hit upon her again. It was that supreme sense of unknowing she had had when she brought the blade above her head.

She did not know where this path lead. She did not know for how long her risen companion would stay with her. But she knew she was alive.

And that was all that mattered.