Take Up Your Cross [Zorolo]

[Silver]

The slow, steadying thumping of boots on stone echoed down the long, spacious corridor. Unlike many, this one was both well-lit and stunningly immaculate. Every inch of the stone walls, stone floor, and stone ceiling seemed to have been carved from a single, immense chunk of the same rock. All of it was hewn with precision, not so smooth that it felt synthetic under the brush of my fingers but not so rough that it felt abrasive as I dragged them in my walk. The blue-gray walls were lit thoroughly by imbedded lights that cast down beams of soft yellow-white light. If all the corridors of this combat school were as comfortable to me as this, I probably would have stayed a great deal longer. The dull coolness of the stone, the impression of a mine shaft or underground tunnel, felt good and, above all else, so profoundly right.

Of course, the only reason I noticed was because I was on a combination sugar high, caffeine high, and sensory high. The sugar high was from my visit to earth, where some of the locals had treated me to a food they called marshmallows, pure white sugar made by pumping air into some sort of syrupy concoction. The caffeine high was from visiting a cafeteria-picnic area, where they had been serving an apple broth mixed with some kind of herb that I was reasonably certain would kill a mouse if the poor thing tried more than just a nibble. The awareness high stemmed from the same reason I was walking down this particular corridor in the Dome. I was unarmed. I had no weapon. It was not rare for it to happen, but it was the first time I had been forced to be without weapons for more than five or six days at a time. It had been almost two weeks, in my own time, since I had handled a blade.

The awareness high made everything seem more of what it already was. The echoes of my boots were more obvious than they would have been, the cleanliness of the hall more impressive, the stone more fitting, the sense of touch under my fingertips more overflowing, the small impact of my feet more jarring. Even the lights seemed more vivid, even the temperature more noticeable. It was a strange feeling. It was as if every nerve in my body had been exposed to daylight for the first time, as if warmth that had never suffused beneath my skin had suddenly overwhelmed me, as if my heart had been dead and was now beating in a perfect rhythm. Everything was more real. Everything was more interesting. Everything caught my attention, held my attention, caressed my senses like a lover.

I hated it.

Every second I walked, I walked faster. The armory was in this direction, and I had no intention of being deterred from my course. I had been too long without a weapon, and this feeling inside me was far too ... unfamiliar. I wanted to be done with it. One of the wizened old warriors I had mentioned it to told me that it was happiness, freedom, peace—he had told me it was good that I felt this way, that it was healthy. If it was healthy to feel this way, I was more than happy to be submerged in a constant lack of health. My fingers left the wall as my strides lengthened, my feet falling with thumps louder and more firm the closer I came to my objective. By the time I had reached the door, I was all but jogging, and both fists were clenching and unclenching to relieve the tingling sensation running through them. They wanted a blade to hold, just as much as any other part of me.

When I reached the door, my hand paused before the handle. What if he was right? If I was just now feeling happiness, it would mean I had never felt it before. Was my life really that ... pitiful? What about freedom and peace? I had been free my entire life, or so I thought, even if my life was almost entirely dependent upon constant wars, personal or otherwise. I was throwing myself in them, always. It was simply the way it had been for me. My hand shook, dropped. If he was right, it meant that something as simple as losing, as going without a weapon, had opened me to a world I had never seen before. Was putting aside combat really that important to happiness? to freedom? to peace? Politicians waged war without weapons, destroyed peace. I had seen married men who were as dismal and angry as anyone, yet they never carried weapons, never participated in combat with their spouses. Freedom ... I had always believed that without a weapon, no man or woman or child could ever have been free. Was I wrong?

A frown worked across my face. Did I really need a sword at all?

[Zorolo]

"Blessed are the strong, for they shall conquer!"

These were the words he spoke to me as he lunged his smallsword suddenly and flicked my left wrist quickly, deflecting the tip of his sword with my rapier and taking a step back. Monroe was always saying things like that. He said that they meant something to him. I never once thought to ask what, since it was pretty clear. It was a sign of his most well held belief that the strong shall live and the weak would die. Still, he was learning slowly that the weak needed defending, not conquering. It was just taking a while.

"Zorlo, you okay? You're just standing there," he told me as I looked at him, and then at his sword, the tip of which was pressing against my chest.

"Yeah, sorry," I told him as I rubbed the back of my head and took a step back. Today, Monroe and I had decided to get some exercise fencing. However, to make things interesting, we were both using titanium versions of our normal weapons. We began stepping around each other in a circle, one of us lunging forward to strike every so often, or lashing with their blade towards the side of the arm, but neither of us had too high a level of seriousness, so our blades never drew any blood. Or, at least, not that I noticed. I was rather distracted this day, oddly enough.

As Monroe and I fenced rather heatedly, despite my otherwise else placed focus, I thought not about the flick in my wrist as I slashed my sword, or how I was standing in relation to my lunges, but more about a person I had met. It had been one month, but the occurrence had been one of those you don't forget. Instead of focusing on my foot placement, I thought about that man that had entered into my room and left as the only other person with powers that could be like mine. I couldn't blame him for leaving in anger, after all, no person wants to be told that they are dangerous to themselves.

My left arm was fully extended, arm straight and my blade at an forty-five degree angle towards the ground, a stance that no olympic fencer would take, I assure you, but I felt it best for movement, since it made offense and defense rather easy, actually. Despite that, no fencer from future eras not of my own would say it was full of weakness, yet still, Monroe had yet to hit me. This I knew.

Suddenly, loud steps seemed to be approaching as I ceased my movement, and the man who had been rebuilt in a time different from mine stopped as well. Apparently, I wasn't the only one that had heard those steps. They had stopped in front of the door and I smiled; my compatriot, however, frowned. It seemed he was more interested in who had interrupted us. I, however, knew quite well. Mayhap he had come to tell me he had finally succeeded in what I had sent him to do?

[Silver]

The door opened slowly, silently, efficient and clean like everything I had seen in this structure over the course of my explorations. It swung to a stop as I stepped in and looked around, taking a deep breath as I looked over the weaponry. Bladed weapons, long-hafted spears and lances, axes, pikes, blunt staves and maces, and the more subtle weapons such as knives and throwing stars—all of them were represented completely and thoroughly, right alongside rocket launchers, assault rifles, and pistols. I allowed myself a smile as I closed the door behind me. Weaponry was simply the way I lived my life. As pleasant as it would be to simply live without fighting, it was my life and it was what I knew how to do. Stopping would be like tearing away ten years of my lie and tossing it into the wind, and the reasoning would be no more substantial than a whim and a hope.

My eyes set on the man while my feet were still in the complicated process of turning me around, the green hair setting my concentration of balance and causing me to stumble. It could not have been the mass of irrational anger I felt just looking at him that made me stumble. I was far more controlled than that; tripping on anger was above me. I managed to look down my nose at him from across the room—no mean feet—and turned away with careful deliberation. Whatever he was doing there, I felt a sudden compulsion to go over to him, grab him by the neck, and toss him through a few walls. It was a nice thought. I had seen enough to know that it would probably not go beyond a nice thought anytime in the near or distant future. It was my control and emotional maturity that kept me from trying to make it a reality.

Instead of looking back to the weapons, a choice that probably would have been both intelligent and logical, I found my gaze settling on the man next to the green-haired freak. The companion was, amazingly, pulling off a look that made him seem almost normal. He was in the Dome, my first clue that he was anything but normal, and next to Freak (yes, I changed his name for no reason other than stubborn distaste) which instantly made him untrustworthy and, in a strange and indistinct way, somewhat threatening. That they looked like I had interrupted them in the middle of a sparring match was interesting, but I narrowed my eyes only enough to make sure my feelings were clear. When I looked away, it was back to the weaponry of the Dome.

I may have mumbled something about the, "Stupid green-haired freak of nature—" who was "—in my way too much of the time—" and who was "—ridiculous."

My fingers clenched on the hilt of a small knife, a throwing knife, and I looked up long enough to contemplate which part of his neck would be the best place to aim for; I looked down with a smile on my face and strapped the holster for a trio of the weapons onto my left hip. Who says I never smile around people I hate? One of the combat knives caught my attention, since it looked like it would compliment his right temple perfectly. It was about the right length to go all the way in and stay there without much effort. I strapped it to my right shin and smiled a bit more. The major weapons were next. Rather than be rude, which would have been completely unlike me, I decided to great Zorlo on my way to the weapons.

"Kill anyone lately, Freak?" I called.

[Zorolo]

It was an interesting turn of events that Kichaa, of all people, walked into this room. He was looking at some rather interesting knives, but I wasn't overly interested in that as Monroe looked at me and sheathed his swords, indicating, in essence, to know about Kichaa. I had forgotten that Monroe had never seen this man before. The only other person who had the potential to be an Aura Master. One of the few people that, despite his great disdain it seemed he held for me, I found to be a fascinating person.

"His name is Kichaa," I said lowly as to prevent him from noticing the fact I spoke, although I somehow knew he'd at least her mumbling. "He's the only other person who has the potential to be an Aura Master. He, himself, seems to be an Adept of Aura. He's strong, focused, and intent." I laughed slightly as he went through knives with interest, not really with any great interest.

Monroe chuckled as he gripped the handle of his smallsword and cast a glance towards me with a slight smile. "What do you say I test this guy? He doesn't seem any better than a normal person to me," my associate, but not someone who would knowingly call me friend, stated to me. "Anyway, I've been itching for a real fight for a while anyway."

I shook my head and spun my sword over, resting its tip against the floor and responded, "I don't think that would work. He has no interest in you, nor any desire to fight you. Anyway, the fact he has a goal similar to the one you harbor, methinks you'd only make an enemy of an enemy of mine."

Monroe laughed as he looked at me and then at Kichaa. He knew well the laws of the Enemy of my Enemy, and held them to some level. He didn't hold them to a religious or ethical or moral level or anything like that, but more of an unspoken rule. A rule that anyone with an enemy tended towards. Especially an enemy they couldn't beat. "Good point," the bounty hunter spoke as he crossed his arms and watched as Kichaa neared.

As he neared me, the swordsman, Kichaa, spoke to me. "Kill anyone lately, Freak?" he asked with some level of something I didn't feel the need to figure out to what it was. Monroe smirked at the comment and I merely smiled at Kichaa.

"Not at all. Killing people isn't something I do. It's a rather unethical thing to do to others. By killing someone, you end their potential. You should know about potential," I told him with a smile, but no malicious nor evil intent behind my words.

Monroe chuckled and looked at Kichaa. With a quick step backwards, the bounty hunter was standing on one of the rafters, smiling as he looked down at us. "You two look like you've got something to settle, so have at it. I'll be observing," he called down to us, firmly smiling as he did so.

"I think he's right. You want to try out those weapons, don't you? Why not find yourself a sword, since you seem to be missing the one you had. So, what say you find one that works best in the best manner possible. A little duel with me," I stated with a smile as I spun my sword around my index finger and stepped back, pointing the tip of the sword at Kichaa. "So pick your weapon!"

[Silver]

I turned to face him and looked at the point of his sword with the casual disdain people would typically reserve for a telemarketer or one of those people who pass out pamphlets at the mall. All the same I found myself grinning internally at him. He had a lot of spunk, for someone I had been close to killing twice already, and his buddy was doing nothing to encourage him to keep him out of it. That meant a non-interference match that, if I was lucky, would involve a good amount of kicking him around and rolling him on the floor. Something itched at the corner of my mouth, making it twitch involuntarily in something that was definitely not a smile. My hand played with the hilt of the throwing knives as a watched him, and I felt a genuine smile at my lips.

"A duel, huh?" I muttered, stepping over to one of the armory walls. My grip slipped into a slim rapier and pulled it off the rack, scabbard and all. "Alright. No rules."

By the time I turned, my left hand had already flicked one of the throwing knives at him, quick as you please. Most of the time, it would be useless for anything short of a distraction. Your average human being cannot even comprehend how difficult it is to just toss knives and wound someone with it, not even taking account having a good enough aim to hit something that would maim or kill. Your average human being cannot wield a longsword one-handed, run a five minute mile, or slay dragons, either. When I throw a knife, it is damn well going to wound someone ninety-nine percent of the time, maim someone eighty percent of the time, and kill at least fifty percent of the time. That is because, plain and simple, I have practice. I have killed with them before.

"Go," I said, belatedly, already walking forward with a casual disregard for proper fencing steps or even appropriate form. I had taken lessons on the art before, and had a few times I had used it in a ... practical application circumstance ... but I had never gone to the lengths to look stupid and girly while I did either. Most people needed those kinds of fall-backs. I just didn't.

My arms are long. At six foot five, I am not a short guy, and I am not a small guy either. My reach was probably about a fourth again what Zorlo had, and in fencing that makes enough of a difference that I could take advantage of it. I stepped into range first, I could attack first, and if I was smart about it I could keep him out of range. Essentially, I could take him down without ever getting touched by cold steel. The blade whistled cutely as I thrust forward in a rusty, functional lunge towards my target. If nothing else, I could at least start by playing with his insipid little wimp swords.

[Zorolo]

If I had been an average human; if I had been less than I was; if I had stopped paying attention; all of the ifs answered themselves in an instant. The knife hit the ground with a clang as the blade in my hand swatted it sideways and immediately rose, tip first, towards Kichaa's direction. He was strong, and skilled with a blade, so his first move would have been a bit harder to defend had I not seen it coming. I slid slightly to the side as the blade cut against the padded shirt I was wearing, a green version of the fencing attire from Monroe's time, and rested the flat of my blade against his neck.

His lunge had been a bit rushed, and a tad sloppy, but all in all, his movements were right. The one thing I had learned during my training is everything had a drawback. Long length, namely in the arm, made it easier after one evades to counterattack. In my case, however, I leapt back and resumed my stance with my blade low. I wouldn't to see how he would handle my style of blade before I tested just no holds bar this was.

Monroe was watching, and analyzing, and looking for any weakness in my form or skills. He would be, if nothing else, mistaken, when he got done. My weapons were in this room, somewhere I recalled placing them, hidden from sight, in case I found myself needing them. Against Monroe, that chance was little to none, and now, it was only slightly higher. I stepped back again, this time back jumping a bit, kicking my left heel against the toes of my right foot, and smiling as I landed.

My sword whirred slightly as it cut the air and moved towards Kichaa. I'd give him a taste of my lunge, and see how he handled fighting like this. I doubted it would last long, but it would be fun.

[Silver]

Not smart, getting me angry, but showing me up with a sword was probably about the dumbest thing he had ever done that I had yet seen. I felt myself react to his lung immediately, stepping forward and slapping my own rapier across his wrist hard enough to make his grip twitch. The first step brought me close enough to grab his arm at the wrist, twist, and pull just enough to set him off balance. We were maybe a foot away from each other when I brought my sword back across his chest, not even sharply enough to tug at the cute little uniform he was wearing, and drew my arm back until the point was literally against his upper chest, less than a full inch from the soft flesh underneath his clothing.

"Sucks to be you," I gritted.

The point of my sword dug through his padded green fencing outfit and bit into his skin. I leaned on it a bit, out of spite, and twisted it from sheer meanness before I stepped back and pushed his sword hand away.

It was a tactic I had learned over time. Getting close to someone with a sword typically has quite a few more bad results for them than it does for someone who knows what they want to do that close. People who are somewhat like me, the atypical swordsman type, have a tendency towards incompetence at any combat closer than three feet away from them. Before a year ago, I had never bothered to come closer than that for anything other than a killing strike, and even then I had tried to stay pretty far away. Two feet, with swords, was infighting. I had just given him his first lesson, and I could only hope it hurt like a bastard.

I tugged the sword away and took a step back long enough to flick the blood from the steel weapon. I noted, absently, that his looked titanium. That was irritating. He even picked the better sword than I did. My mouth twisted down in a frown as I moved forward again, tossing my wrist in tiny cuts and slices towards his middle and upper torso. The flat of his blade had made him a great deal more wary, but otherwise I was still ready to kick him around. He would probably let me, too, unless it got to the point that I tried to kill him.

[Zorolo]

That had hurt... almost... kinda. It was always hard to judge pain, since my pain receptors had been so battered throughout the years. Still, the body knew when it was hurt, and right now, I felt a few twinges as I gripped my sword tightly. I looked at the blade of his sword and examined the small cracks from striking mine. I took the time to note a minor fact: his blade was made of steel. In essence, I could have broken it with my bare hand, if I had so desired.

Still, that didn't really matter. I spit on my right thumb and brushed it over the wound, more for dramatic effect than anything, and let aura wash over the wound, closing it up. The problem with stab wounds and other things is that they only work if they kill on contact. And even then, I wasn't completely certain they'd stop me dead. Har, har. Bad pun, but still, it was a rather interesting concept. That whole idea of actually being dead. One would never imagine how difficult being dead is when it is hard for someone to die.

Then again, I couldn't say I couldn't die, because that'd remove mortality, which I clearly know myself to be, I just didn't, and don't, expect to meet death on a battlefield. I, for some odd reason, foresee myself wasting away in the years until my body is not but dust. Pretty lame way to die, if you ask me. Anyway, that had nothing to do with what was going on. I had to focus if I wanted to not have that happen again.

It occurred to me in the seconds after my wound had healed that, in fact, he had done exactly opposed to what I would have expected. He had moved to force me into closer range combat. I did, in fact, find that interesting, however, I believed it was quite time to show off my stuff. A little bit of intelligent combat would be fun. Now then, came the fun part.

I reeled my arm back, obviously leaving myself open, but for this measure, it would work, and quickly moved forward, tossing my sword with lightning speed towards Kichaa. The blade whizzed through the air towards him at a good speed, but there was no mayhap it if or if not it would hit. He quickly sidestepped the attack, but by then, I was already on the counter offensive. The sword acted merely as a decoy.

I skidded to a stop with one hand and both feet on the ground from a spin and quickly thrust my foot into Kichaa's chest, sending him up slightly , and back a few feet, although he landed before his body struck one of the racks, and quickly I rolled and stole my sword from the icy ground that it sat upon. I moved quickly, keeping my body low and moving from left to right in a skulking movement, almost like a hunter stalking its prey and moving in for the attack.

I don't recall quite when, but I had seen this style somewhere, and felt a bit of a need to copy it. I moved forward quickly and lashed my sword out in a speedy slash. The swordsman responded in a good movement and raised his blade to defend, however the steel of his blade cracked and shattered as mine, with the force of momentum, combined with a hint of aura, allowed me to nigh effortlessly slash through the weapon. Mayhap I had made this fight a bit too uneven in playing at that moment, but I had my edge, and I took it, literally, towards the warrior. I slashed my sword a second time, horizontally, towards him. I wanted to see his response.

[Silver]

"Enough of that," I muttered.

My arm lurched upwards, the jagged tooth of my broken rapier coming up with it and catching his fully functional weapon at the right angle between my blade and its guard. I bent my hand and the screech of metal flowed through the air, my weapon shifting so that the flat of my thin sword was against the blade of his, and thrust immediately downwards. My hand moved towards his, passed it, and latched onto his wrist.

As soon as my grip closed on his, I was reminded instantly that he was ridiculously empowered by his aura to be stronger, faster, more agile, and infinitely more enduring than I could ever have been by natural means. The faint smile that tinged my lips, though, was not one that indicated an acceptance of an inevitable defeat. The spreading, wolfish grin was certainly not meant to convey an air of impending defeat. If, by chance, he failed to note my expression, the crushing grip of my hands and the sturdy stance I had taken probably gave away my intention to not give him a flat, boring victory. There were reasons, lots of reasons, but the main one was pure contrariness. A close second was stubborn anger. Bringing up the rear of the top three was the knowledge that skill almost always trumped raw power.

The fourth reason was probably the most evil reason of all, but it was probably also the one that would see me to either a victory or a tie: when contrariness, anger, and skill cannot defeat raw power coupled with mild ability, trickery will win the day. The wolfish grin and the tightening grip had nothing to do with each other. They way I planted my feet had nothing to do with either of them. When I leaned forward slightly, it was not so that I could have more strength with which I could toss him into a very hard, very unforgiving stone wall. Granted, it would have been quite satisfying, but that was beside the point. The point was that I was tricking him, and he was too naive and too inexperienced to realize that, even when I had a pretty good hold on him and had a great way to deal damage and give me leeway to regain a weapon, underhanded tricks had not been cut out of the equation.

As a matter of fact, they were tons better, because they had become something more surprising than they ever could have been in the thick of an actual confrontation. If someone had been observing from the sidelines, like that strange man in the rafters, they would undoubtedly say that the green-haired freak had left me absolutely no openings. Even holding his wrist, I was still not the one with the advantage. He had a sword, he was stronger, he was faster ... if there were any physical advantages to be had, he had them. Mentally speaking, he was also clearly winning the confrontation. He had broken my sword—a big demoralization, to most swordsmen—and I had ‘narrowly' escaped certain defeat when I used the forté of my broken rapier to defend.

Good thing I wasn't playing fair, otherwise the mental aspect really would have been in his favor.

I smacked him over the head with the basket hilt of my broken rapier. For good measure, spite, and ridiculous self-indulgence, I did it a few more times, just as quickly and with every bit of strength I could pound his way. I didn't feel the slightest bit guilty. Heck, it felt good.

[Zorolo]

Well, if nothing else, Kichaa had all the tenacity in the world and the drive to use it. Still, there were two things he seemed to have forgotten: one, the hand guard of a rapier is generally more ornamental than anything, meaning it is made of a more brittle metal; second, getting as close a Kichaa was had a tendency of always being dangerous. Although he had my sword hand, I was disinterested in his hold and prepared to break it, however, I'd have to go about that in a necessary and proper manner. In other words, I should do it in a way where his dignity is retained.

I always enjoyed these plans. Mayhap because it was that kind of threat that always held the absolute certainty of being harmed, for both people. I smiled as he continued to batter me and I smiled as his blows continued and I readied to break his grip and strike back. He had forgotten that I still had one free hand and I quickly grabbed the hand that he had been battering me with and I smiled as I head butted him. I think the shock of the fact I had just struck him earned me my chance to counter attack.

Quickly, I thrust my shoulder into the swordsman's chest and pushed upwards, throwing him over my shoulder and onto his back. Quickly, I placed my foot on his chest and dislodged my sword hand and jumped back, smiling at Kichaa. Mayhap it was the fact that I had just taken a large number of blows to my head, or mayhap it was the fact I had just gotten to try something I had never done before. Still, I found the rush I had exhilarating, and then... it was over. Those kinds of things I never much enjoyed if they lasted longer than a few moments.

I spun my sword around thoughtlessly and stabbed the tip into the ground. I smiled as I walked backwards, keeping my eyes on Kichaa and using one eye to look at the weapons. I quickly grabbed a broadsword and hefted it up. The blade shined brilliantly as I looked at it and gave the blade a few test swings with my one arm. The blade whirred quickly as I gave it a few more slashes and looked at Kichaa. "Let's try another kind of weapon. What do you think?" I asked with my normal smile as I watched Kichaa.

[Silver]

My first combat instructor taught me an invaluable lesson when I was little more than thirteen years old.

The "story behind it" is that I had gotten into a fight with a bigger, stronger thirteen-year-old, a soldier's son, and thrashed him almost into unconsciousness. The combat instructor heard about it and, true to past precedents that had left me unable to move for days at a time, he had put the heat of volcanic eruptions with the flare of his temper. In simple, straightforward wordage, he made it clear that unless I could beat him in a fight, I was going to end up every bit as painfully beaten as my opponent had been once I was through with him. It was no empty threat. I lost. Before I had finished telling him I would fight, he had already started hitting me, and I never did recover my balance enough to overcome his momentum.

That the instructor had been my father, and that I had ended up bruised in just about every part of my body, and that I had broken two bones by the time it was over, made the lesson no less worth my time. If you are in an unbalanced fight, one so unbalanced that the opponent might as well get a mop and start cleaning you off the for ahead of time, fairness is neither to be expected of or given to your opponent. Freak McGreen was no exception to the rule. He had to have been a few times faster than me, he was definitely a lot better acclimated to taking damage, and he had to have been a match for be in strength. Since he commanded a store of power that made him the rough equivalent of a small army of force, he qualified as an enemy who supremely outmatched me.

I was on him, literally, before he had drawn another breath.

Eyes on me or not, no one has the reflexes to react quite right to six and a half feet and two hundred pounds of wildly ferocious, sprinting warrior. His guard with the broadsword was slow and far clumsier than it would have been or could have been with a rapier—microscopically so, but more than slower and clumsier enough that I could use the delay. I hit his stomach at a sprint, hard, and took grim satisfaction in hearing his sword slap uselessly against the padded floor. A full body tackle at the waist has the exceptional ability to nullify speed and reflexes just about altogether; I kept going before he could react, pushing him forward until his back became solidly acquainted with a rack of halberds.

Well, gosh, that must have hurt. Bummer.

If I felt bad for him, my sympathy must have registered as gleeful abandon, because my body went into overdrive on him. I once dropped a real brute of a bare-fist boxer in a little under fifteen seconds, so when I say I beat the snot out of my green-haired little freak of an opponent, it means I was thrashing him with my fists, elbows, and knees with enough speed and consistency that he was getting hit once or twice a second, if not more. And the only way I hit is "hard."

[Zorolo]

They say there are times in a person's life they need to step back and reflect on what happened. And by stepping back and reflecting, I mean leaving my body to watch it get pummeled for a few moments. It's not hard, keeping a clear enough mind to have your spirit leave your body, even for a moment, while being beaten, but for the past... fifteen or so seconds, I had been watching my body take blow after blow. All I can say is I finally understood just how resistant my body was.

Each punch connected, either leaving a bruise or, occasionally, breaking the skin. However, by the time the fist hit the same place or near the same area, the wound had all but vanished. It is different, knowing your limits and knowing what pain can be suffered. I had always assumed that deep within the subconscious, total control over your body's faculties and autonomous actions existed. I still don't know if that's true or not, but I did know that my body could recognize clear and immediate danger on its own.

I floated back into my body, the astral projection returning to its form, and the formerly dull color that my eyes had taken vanished. I, myself, couldn't see this happen, but the slight hint of shock... or annoyance, that crossed Kichaa's face said it all. He pulled his fist as far back as he could, readying his next strike, but this time, I was fully conscious of what would happen. I couldn't allow myself to bet too bloodied up, t'would mean I need to clean up the blood afterwards.

My palm blocked the fist, the ground shaking at the amount of absorbed force, and curled my fingers around his fist, pushing it back. I, in what could be considered an extremely foolish move, counter attacked in the same manner he had attacked, and he caught my fist this time. The only key difference was I noticed his arm that had caught my fist recoil back against the force. In retrospect, this wasn't all that good of a situation, but still, breaking it was easy.

I pushed my body upwards slightly, pushing Kichaa backwards a bit. He seemed intent on keeping me pinned, but the problem with that is that my goal wasn't to push him backwards off of me, but instead... Well, as soon as I managed to move him a bit, I pulled my head back and swung, clashing skulls with him with all of the force I could muster. Shaken, although not deterred, he and I released our grips and I rolled backwards, sliding into a three point slide and grabbing my sword with my empty hand as I passed it.

I took a moment to look at my reflection on the side of the polished broad sword and took it firmly in both hands as I looked at Kichaa. "Care for another round?" I asked, mayhap smiling and sounding a bit too cheery, but it was hard to fight. This had been a lot of fun thus far.

[Silver]

The bones in my neck snapped, crackled, and popped as I rotated them carefully, keeping my eyes on the annoying fencer. Much as it irked me, I realized that it was almost pointless to keep fighting him. I was wasting energy and he was playing. If it were a real fight, one or both of us would have been dead by now. If it were sparring, we would have been learning something. If it had been fun, I would have been smiling. Overall, it was nothing. It was just a brief respite from doubt, a tiny reminder of just why I carried a sword. My eyes scanned him briefly, evaluating all the ways I could have killed him, and I let out a sigh that he would probably misinterpret to mean something akin to resignation.

I was just tired. I was tired of him, and I was especially tired of being treated like nothing but a brainless warrior. My mouth compressed in a firm line as I realized just what was happening; the dwindling end of my sugar and caffeine high had become a particle of energy, and my body was crashing. If I had been my normal self, I probably would have killed him. The hyperactivity must have induced something similar to euphoria, because it never occurred to me that I could have simply murdered him instead of a friendly sparring match.

"No, I don't think so," I answered. "I think you should leave, Freak."

[Zorolo]

"I don't think I will," I told him, smiling as I placed the sword I had grabbed back on the rack. "After all, I was here first. You interrupted my training, you see, not quite the other way around. You came here looking for a weapon, so why not try some out until you find one that you like? How does that sound?" I asked as one eye scanned over the weapon rack, my other remaining on Kichaa. I wasn't quite sure what he was up to, but I made sure that I wouldn't wind up being cleaved into parts while I wasn't looking. That would have been troublesome, since I still had goals to achieve.

[Silver]

Magic is not generic. A person cannot expect to say a magic word, wave a hand, and expect a rabbit to fall out of a random hat. At the same time, magic can be generic in a non-generic way. There can be certain words, certain phrases, that elicit a specific response, a magical response. Names are some of those words. A person, when they hear their own name pronounced the way they and the people know them would pronounce it, responds on more than an intellectual level. They know that whoever just said that name is talking to or about them, specifically. Sometimes phrases have specific magical power; when a Catholic priest says a prayer to make regular old water into holy water, the water gains a faith-based magical ‘charge' of sorts, because the priest believed what he was saying had strength and meaning.

Telling someone you love them has a hell of a lot of power.

I did not love Zorlo. I knew enough about magic, though, about what he could do and what I technically could not, to know there were ways I could hurt him ... and then there were ways I could hurt him. Sure, I could spend the next decade of my life inventing a series of tools and creating a series of events that would put him under my direct control so that I could torture his sanity into an acorn-sized fetal ball. It might even be fun. I could do it. Hell, I wanted to do it. The gleefully sadistic parts of me were bouncing at the very thought. The thought of crushing his kidneys between my fingers was actually relished by some part of me. The colder, more rational parts of my not-so-nice side, though, they knew that hurting him physically was really not enough.

Calmly, coolly, I turned and looked at my ... friend ... and I smiled at him. Resignation washed over me as I realized at last exactly why he annoyed me so much. It was his impenetrable joy. He was so happy. I knew why. The cruel, sick little part of me smiled, made my resigned smile all the more sincere. Bounce. Bounce.

"How is Selene?"

[Zorolo]

"How is Selene."

It was, all in all, a cheap trick. Something that a person tried when they were desperate to make another person snapped. Then, and only then, did you bring up such matters as lovers or well being to someone who, at that moment, was your enemy. Even if it was cruel, unusual and a little bit sad from Kichaa, I felt nothing more than a need to oblige him. The reason being, as I figured it, an honest answer would be more annoying to him than me taking any offense or getting defensive.

"She's just fine," I responded, keeping my smile as I kicked up a sword from the rack and caught it in my hand. I spun the Chinese style long sword around and rested the length of the blade against the back of my arm with my left arm at my sword, the top of the sword poking out from behind my arm. "She's been keeping busy, gardening and cleaning and being merry. After all, it isn't every day you find a wanderer walking around and engage them in a discussion."

I knew he hated me. I knew he loathed me with every part of his being. I knew that if he could, he would seek my absolute demise without blinking. However, to bring about someone's death, you must first be stronger than they are. Being more clever only works when a person notably less intelligent than you are.

For example, if this were Zachary, or even possibly Monroe, any insult to their or their lady's honor would send them into a violent and angry rage. In Monroe's case, it would lead to the absolute destruction of who or whatever said it. In Zachary's case, if it got to a bad enough point, an entire area and innocent people could get caught in the middle. Then again, that was the product of unchecked rage: insanity.

I, however, am not one such person to get mindlessly angry and lose sight of what I'm doing. If Kichaa sought to incite anger, he'd have to try a lot harder than this. Even if he succeeded, he wouldn't live long enough to celebrate it, for when last I went mad, the thing that felt my wrath didn't make it so far. Or wouldn't have, if it weren't Johnny Bones. Still, that was another thought. One that had nothing to do with this battle.

I bent my left arm across my chest and rested the blade of my new found sword against my forearm. When I attacked, this would change, but this was a good starting stance, I recalled someone telling me. A good enough stance, anyway, to cleave off an arm or a leg if someone were reckless. However, Kichaa was anything but reckless. That's what made fighting him fun.