Rion vs Alvaron

[Rion]

Rules
T1 Rules
No Godmodding
No Metagaming
Power Level: Will be agreed with the opponent
Setting: Forest


Anyone?

[Alvaron]

I claim your challenge with The Butcher, oh yeah. You picked the wrong setting Rion ;)

[Rion]

[It's time to D-D-D-DDDDDDuel!]

Competition. The memories of the most amiable contests and most bitter rivalries lay scattered across the history that men create. For ages has the very nature of such combat been debated fervently among scholars and common folk alike. Man's inherent nature. The human condition. Are we from birth endowed with such bellicose tendencies? In such matters of philosophical discussion, man seeks reason, and he most often discovers this reason in faith. Faith presents the human condition with a logic to which they can attribute man's nature, and conflict remains as the sole interconnecting piece to which all faiths can attribute.

The incomparable sensation of a frigid dawn after a night's rainfall licked at every sinew and fibre of a solitary figure pacing quietly through woodland. His trials had taken him thus far and the lingering feeling of yet another encounter futilely teased his thoughts with a playful enthusiasm. Each engagement, each battle no matter what the outcome struck a bit more time from his life. Vivacity, such a precious thing, only comes in limited supply for one of his nature, a mere man. His respiration was gentle, soothing almost as he dared not disturb dawn's awakening from slumber.

As he stepped through the egress of that woodland into a field flushed jade dimly illuminated by the vanishing sallow orb of night, a vivid amethyst skyline painted across the horizon as if crafted before his very gaze, blurring into a lackluster orange that dared peek its head so early. Cloudless it was, giving sight of the night's last dying stars before they faded into the obscurity of daytime. The figure closed his eyes and languidly exhaled, pacifying those bellicose tendencies yearning for another victory. Lips muttered soft utterances inwardly, gentle breezes swaying the alabaster shirt bound about the body from the torso up. Finally. Serenity.

Something, perhaps otherwordly, perhaps a mere fabrication, communicated with the soul which rendered the mind alert, even in his state of perfect peace and nirvana. As lashes firmly clutched closed his gaze from the world, both arms began motions almost automatic in nature, so common they were, involuntary. The gracious movement of the arms channeled the Lin, and Gan that flowed through his 8 Hua points. His mind sight opened to view the powers of the world, the hua of this mystical place.

He couldn't help but count the heartbeats. It was just a natural thing, something involuntary at this point. The beats were the count in which his Hua throbbed against his chest violently. It was time.

"Bujingai..."

[Alvaron]

(( As discussed, the field of battle and my character in question have been changed for the fight.))

The Forked Path

In his mind he lay dreaming, of crossroads made of the light and dark - of conflicting battles ever fought and never ending. He whom wished upon the stars and in turn was both blessed and cursed, for not all gods are gracious in their hosts and halls. It was upon one such moment that clashing powers rose and raged against the walls of his form, by his blood and his steel. By his flesh and his bone, by the pinnacle of his form and elegance of his thought.

He would never be alone.

For in his mind, Alvaron's mind, he was assailed by thoughts and sensations, whispers and concepts both foreign and similar in kind. He who of noble nature not quite whole and ever seeking of some finality might find it here upon the killing field, for as a warrior, a knight of many paths. Combat was his ultimatum to life and was one form of which all of him would agree upon.

His eyes opened upon the glade to which he was in, the ground damp and sodden beneath his plated feet from the dew drops from the canopy above, drip drip was the monotone sound of droplets striking the ground as they drooped from the broad headed leaves of the oak trees and those oak trees in turn groaned silently against the breeze. That same breeze which gently buffered his own face, soothing him and his spirit for what was to come.

He would never be alone.

Despite his lack of above human ability, with magic beyond him as a person and other methods out of reach. Alvaron acutely knew of another's presence, perhaps it was the many years upon the field of battle - like a overwhelming sense of danger and foreboding - or that of life experience by the side. Regardless, his hands clenched and unclenched as he readied himself for the rigours to come.

Wrenching his blade from the ground, the large obsidian blade began to thrum in his gauntleted grip and the all too familiar sensation of the weapon began to wash over him - whispers, cascading upon his mind like a sickening, waterfall of blood and death. The legendary sword, that of the gods, of countless tales and whispers, all too few knew its real purpose. Its real power. Its curse.

Readying himself, the cacophony of screams of countless souls began, like a spectral orchestra of the damned it filled the clearing of trees, calling to the enemy as did he.

"In the name of the Pantheon and by the sword I wield, I am Alvaron Ward and if you seek battle then I shall meet you in this killing field."