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

[Kiki]

Spoiler:  

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... (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."

---

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. (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.

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 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, 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.

---

*GM POST*

Spoiler:  

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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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....



(Turn around, bright eyes)

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



(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:



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!



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 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.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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)

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.