Champion of the Realm. [Closed]

[Paroxysm]

Thundering sounds of armed combat were no odd attribute to the coliseum, many mortals and many immortals had fought tooth and nail for a chance at both blood and glory, recognition wealth, and so on. There were many things to be had in personal combat, which was one of the biggest draws to risking one’s life in such things, after all. But none of those reasons plagued the mind of the face-less man who stood nonchalantly in the middle of the arena, no; he had come for another reason. His master, a being whose very name would be enough to bring many nations to their knees, had taken a particular interest in this realm, as he had many before it, and it was mostly gained through idle boredom and chance-of-luck. He had breached Dystopia’s dimensional boarders and witnessed many who could claim to be a warrior, many who could be acknowledged as mighty, and in this he saw that there could possibly be those who would stand against him--those who would not bow before him. To these, he would undo them, but only should they prove unworthy. This, this was why the faceless man had come here, he has been tasked with finding a Champion of Dystopia who would face a Champion of The Undoer in personal combat. The stakes? Life or death of the champion’s loved ones and of course this was done equally, both sides would face a very similar fate.

The Champion of this realm would have to have very specific qualities, however. There was no sense in bringing forth someone who could not feel the pressure of failure, who did not care if he lived, or did not have loved ones. No, someone full of righteousness and self-sacrifice would have to be called forth. Someone very knightly, someone very much a hero. These were the qualities that the faceless man would be looking for, as he shifted through time and space, reaching out and grabbing those who interested them, and tossing aside those who did not. All of this would be done with the utmost care, time, and patience. No mistakes were to be had. He would find the champion and he would bring that person forth, the knowledge of what was to happen if they failed already known to them, but another explanation would be given shortly before the actual fight started.

Regardless, the arena itself was already sufficient in most ways, not all, but most. The ground was covered in loose sand, material used to soak up blood, but below the sand and dried blood was finely crafted marble tiles, after all; one could not gain glory in arenas made from half-assed architecture. Everything needed to be perfect, and if it wasn’t perfect when the entity, this faceless man, arrived, well, then he would simply have to make it perfect. A task that was well within his power, he had control over all things, regardless of what they were, he was a God of Gods, and it was painfully obvious that he knew it.

The faceless man, whose features could not be described, only conceptualized, reached out an arm, his hands clawing at the very fabric of reality, a visible wrinkle in space appearing just at his fingernails, and trailing downwards--as though space bled within his grip. The arena’s boundaries would be extended, increased in size, both length and width. It was made circular, rather than rectangular, and the crowd’s seats were done away with entirely. There would be no watchers for this fight, other than the two men who had arranged it, The Undoer, and his servant. Only one of which would be visible, of course.

Other than those changes, he would also create columns around the arena’s stage, extending infinitely into the sky, and used as a focus for his next trick--closing off the rest of the world from the coliseum. This would be his final change to the arena, unless he thought of something else during the actual match, perhaps he would simply throw in some random effects for the hell of it, to see how the fighters dealt with it, he had to make it as entertaining as possible, otherwise he, himself, could be punished.

In the middle of the stage, two weapons would appear, the first would be Ax’kron the BloodEdge, a badly named weapon belonging to the Undoer, nobody knows how it actually got the name, or why, but dramatization played a part in it. Regardless, this weapon would be very similar to the faceless one, in so much that it could not be described, but it appeared in concept--the weapon would change based on the person wielding it. Beside this weapon, a little off to the side would be a similar one, one with the same effect, but slightly different as well. This weapon would be one from a Dystopian legend and what it would be depended on its champion; obviously this would prove to be a very ineffective weapon if the champion did not know very many legends. His loss, really.

" And in the blue corner ... ,"

A gargle of a voice echoed throughout the coliseum.

[Nayt]

A search through space and time, through memories of what were and what could be, through histories both written and lost to time--a search for a warrior, a warrior on which the fate of a world could rest, whose virtues set a precedent for knights and likes of honorable and valiant men throughout history and forever into the future, so long as literature spoke of their deeds.

For its will, no such person existed. Even the most famous of knights, in reality, raped and pillaged the towns of his enemies. The most famous of Samurai lead women and children to the slaughter, and the only genuine hero of Dystopia was plagued with a long history of violence and manipulation. In all of history, of what was and what could be, there was truly only one being who took the world's fate solely upon His shoulders, a being with the whole world to live for, and every reason to defend it--if only to mold it Himself.

That was not the being the Faceless One sought.

And so, it was a matter of imagination--to craft a being from thin air, solely upon the basis of Him. A being who shared the same values, believes, and drives, but without the power to make them real. That wasn't what anyone wanted. That would have been the power to redo the undoer, the power to reshape anything within His dominion. The Undoer sought not Godliness, but near godliness . . .

For a long time, there was silence on the announcer's end, as there stood no being to commence the contest.

To craft such a being from imagination was force a memory--to perhaps pluck basis from history and permit it to permeate as a tangible existence, but an existence that was vastly inferior to the one the Undoer sought--an existence which was not Gaia, but loved the world all the same.

And soon, a single voice broke the silence. "Mairse."

His was a voice with some degree of respect behind it, but sounded young--one might argue that he was in his early twenties, at best, judging by voice alone. And yet for however alto his voice must have been, it sounded as if he spoke deeper than was his nominal pitch.

He stood before the two weapons in the middle of the area, a man who, without his boots, would have stood at six feet tall--even. He wasn't a foreboding man, but he was an outlandish one. He wore thick clothes, a tarp around his shoulders that, too, served to cover all area below his nose, and a wide brimmed hat that covered much of his crimson hair. All but a small portion of his face was covered with cloth; clothing much akin to a vagabond's, amongst the West within a history that never was, nor ever will be. His tarp, hat, gloves, and boots were all a tan color, while his long sleeved undershirt and pants were both an equal black.

A weapon so bland became that of a rapier upon the touch of his gloved hand. The rapier itself appeared to be nothing more than that of a simple fencing saber with an equally as simple curved plate to cover the entirety of the wielder's hand, a measure which may or may not have even been necessary . . .

[Paroxysm]

The God-like being stood straight with attention, his gaze focused on the new comer, of all the realities he had foresaw, of all the times he had shifted through, and those he had picked and tossed aside--this was the one he didn’t see coming. Yes, this would be good, he thought to himself, as he finished inspecting the man who would champion Dystopia in the upcoming challenge.

“That is your weapon, then?”

The gargle like voice echoed again, it was obviously the voice of the Faceless man, as his attention was still focused on the champion, but it did not seem to actually come from him.

“So be it.”

The echo came once more, but the God’s attention shifted to the opposite side of the stage and to a new figure.

This new comer would be clothed in shadow, his form was decrepit looking, and tormented looking, even, and his eyes spoke of both blood thirst and hate. Despite his look, the man’s features were chiseled and he looked to be native to Cizok, a nation of Dystopia, but this could prove to be false. His skin was a light pale, deathly sick looking, and he stood at a five foot eleven, which meshed particularly well with his broad shoulders and anxious stance. His face was defined by black, medium length hair that ended just at his shoulders, bunched together and tied into a “tail.”

“This will be your opponent, Master Mairse.”

The Faceless man turned back towards Dystopia’s champion, the man in the “blue corner,” and smiled knowingly.

“He was a former warrior of the very realm you defend; he lived a tortured existence, the life of a murderer, and of a slave. He is not a very nice man, not really, he isn’t, but a light grew within him--eventually. Fortunately, the Undoer finds those who aren’t completely taken over by the darkness to be far easier to corrupt, to undo, and so we have our champion. Do not fret, if you care about such things, however; as he remembers very little about his life. He’s a puppet, temporarily, unless he proves useful, then permanently.”

Taking no offense at the God-being's words, the Champion of Destruction, the puppet of the Undoer, stepped forwards, walking swiftly and steadily to Ax'kron the Blood Edge. A momentary pause would be taken just before the weapon, the blade seemed to shift and twist just out of reach of the man's out-stretched hand, his fingers wanted to, but could not close around the hilt--the blade was taking on many forms, from a short-sword, to a broad-sword, and back again. Sometimes it wouldn't even be the form of a weapon that the thing took, but a normal house-hold object. It was strange, but eventually it decided on a form, as if of its own accord, and the champion was able to wield the thing with much ease.

The weapon's form was that of a wooden sword, shaped in reminiscence of a katana.

"You will both be fighting for your realms, your happiness, your sadness, and your rights. You both may even have different reasons to be fighting, but you share a similar goal--even if one of you is in too much of a stupor to really know what that goal is. You both know what will happen if you lose, but now you will know what will happen should you succeed and win."

The gargled voice took a moment to snicker to itself, sending an eerie chill down both fighter's spine, a sense of fear running throughout the very core of their beings, regardless of their bravery, or their resolve.

"If you win, should you win, that is, a boon will be granted to you--the Undoer can do more than undo, as I'm sure you can guess, and a wish--free of restraints--will be granted to you. This is in my power and the Undoer's powers. What you do with that wish is up to you, you can waste it, or you can spend it wisely. The choice is yours."

Both contestants would find themselves sent to opposite sides of the stage, facing each other, but a considerable ways apart.

[Nayt]

Fear--yes, that was the best way to describe Mairse's feeling when he heard the Faceless One's voice. Fear was a powerful tool; it could strike families apart and guide nations to genocide--and here, it existed as a functional tool to guide both fighters into exactly that: battle.

Mairse inevitably stood at one side of the arena, with his opponent at the other. Almost blankly, he gazed down the distance, and watched his opponent from afar. Initially, he did not move; Mairse simply lingered where he stood, arms by his side, the tip of his blade touching the ground.

For a man like Mairse, there was a lot to think about here. His was an existence that could be questioned. He was a theory, and nothing more. If he ever did exist just as he did now, his existence had likely been erased at some juncture, making it so that he never really, truly, existed, just like this, on the ideal Utopia or Dystopia. Perhaps, at one point, he did, but to erase an existence was to erase any trace that it ever once was. Pages blanked, memories erased themselves, and history forgot all about you. Such would have been a horrible fate to suffer, but upon suffering it, how much would it matter? By that point, one simply didn't exist anymore.

If he ever did once exist, Mairse hadn't a memory of such an life. He was much akin to the Champion of Destruction, a man that had been conjured based on a simple idea, a theory of what may have been, but never had the right to--except the Champion of Darkness had, undoubtedly, existed at one point or the other.

He did not make the first move, but instinct acted for him. Unconsciously, he traced patterns in the sand at his feet, infinity symbols over and over again. His eyes slowly drifted down to the area between he and the Champion of Destruction, as it seemed he was . . . dazed. But there was a power there, a power somewhere with him--or perhaps beyond him . . .

[Paroxysm]

Mairse’s opponent would also not move, instead he would simply stand there, his weapon was not poised, nor did it seem as though he was truly ready to begin. There was no nervous tension present in his stance or his features, nothing was betrayed about him, it was as though he were an empty shell, but that wasn’t entirely true either--no, he had felt a surge of curiosity at the foreign emotion that erupted through his being, his heart had started beating faster, his throat drew tight, and his breath caught short. But it was all temporary; it would, and did eventually fade away as though it had never happened.

Playfully, the shadow-cloaked man would push the edge of his weapon into the arena’s tiles, forcing the floor to give in and crack--as though an immeasurable weight had been placed on that particular spot, forced downwards, and at an angle. Despite this action and despite his opponent’s actions, the Champion would not ever take his eyes off of Marise, as though he were mesmerized by the man, his eyes stayed focused with intent, although empty of thought.

Several minutes may have passed before either fighter moved, if it had not been several minutes, it felt like it, for there was no telling how time progressed in this particular zone, disconnected as it was from Dystopia proper. But eventually stillness would yield to movement, if it could be called that, because had there been watchers, crowds of people witnessing the sport of battle, they would not have seen anything, they may not have even noticed the man move, because within that one movement--that first step--his weapon had already been forced into a lance’s thrust for Mairse’s diaphragm. The speed and strength of the attack would have blown apart normal men, it would have felled trees, and broken mountains. That was the sheer intensity and skill behind the attack.

Even should Mairse dodge the attack or manage to guide it safely away from his person, more would follow, hard, powerful, and destructive blows would repeatedly be thrown towards Mairse--both short, side-way slashes and powerful down-ward slashes would be part of the attacker’s rotation, a particular pattern present in his attacks, should Mairse have proved observant enough to notice.

[Nayt]

A thrust.

In an instant, Mairse shifted his left foot back, throwing his weight backwards all at once, narrowly evading the tip of the wooden sword by an inch. Almost immediately thereafter, though, Mairse's opponent threw his arm and weapon at him once more, this time in a horizontal strike.

Mairse, who took another step back, threw his right hand out to the side, to clash his blade against that of his opponent's. The instant their blades struck, their clothes would flip and furrow, as would their hair. Mairse's hat wasn't knocked from his head, but it shook somewhat. Could one see in slow motion, one might see how much force was exerted by Mairse's weapon striking against his opponent's--his opponent, who retracted his blade in an instant, to draw it up and slam it down in an overhead attack.

Again, Mairse stepped back with his other foot, just as he brought his right hand, still out to the side slightly after the previous clash, up and to the side, to strike against the side of his opponent's blade as it came to, to better deflect it from its intended path.

Wooden though the man's sword may be, it would not break or take even the slightest of notches against Mairse's blade. There was a vast number of reasons behind this. First and foremost, their weapons were presumably spectacular blades, meant to both give and receive otherworldly punishment. The second reason--and the reason why, were they normal weapons, the wooden sword would not break or notch--was a simple one: Mairse's rapier was blunt. There was no edge. It had a curve and was shaped just the same as a rapier, but it boasted no cutting blade.

And it continued. Mairse would take a step back as he deflected a blow, another step as he struck against the next one, and so on--until the pattern became evident. Without even thinking, he took his first step forward when parrying a horizontal swipe, and if his opponent took a step back, Mairse would continue; he'd deflect an overhead attack and take a step forward, and continue forth at that pattern.

Yet he hadn't yet began to overtly attack the man. He was deflecting and parrying blows, but that was all. And all the while, the previous presence that had gathered continued to grow . . .

[Paroxysm]

Roles would be switched, as Mairse begin to take steps forward and his opponent, still delivering blows, begin to move backwards, each step occurring one-after-the-other for a few seconds, before the man instead slammed his foot into the ground, as though in declaration, and in mid-parry by Mairse, the would-be Champion of Destruction pushed forwards, the pattern of his attacks would remain the same, but the fury and intensity would increase--each slash and swing of his blade would become harder and harder, faster, and more devastating than when he had first begun. However, neither his nor his opponent’s blade would ever yield nor shatter between the exchanges of blows, parries, and so on.

As the man’s attacks grew in strength, gusts of wind would be left in the wake of each slash, clothes would blow furiously in this wind, and sound would be deafened by the clashing of their blades. But none of this was paid any attention by the attacker; he didn’t care, or chose to ignore it outright. Regardless, the strength of the wind would pick up as his speed increased, until the only hint of his attacks was the wind itself, which would precede the blur of his blade, but even if Mairse was unable to bring about the same speed, he would have the advantage of still knowing the pattern of the attacks and being clued in by the wind, which continued grow.

The wind and the pattern were a trap in and of themselves, that much was obvious, while being controlled mentally; the Undoer’s champion still retained his fighting knowledge, his instincts, and his muscle reflexes. He was able to strategize and react, he was able to feel about himself and the area, form a plan or a trap and use whatever situation that arose to his advantage--the Undoer was merely repressing his memories, his former life, and enhancing him physically as a trade off. So, the wind and pattern could be used to his advantage, of course; not yet, it couldn’t. He was still growing in strength, his blows still needed to be heavier, and faster. His repetition of attacks would not stop unless broken.

Regardless of whether or not Mairse had recovered and started forwards again, or was forced into moving back once more, he would notice that his feet no longer moved atop a hard surface, as they moved, the ground gave way to grass and dirt, and even Celtic ruins would become visible as they continued moving. Indeed, it did not matter who was being pushed back, the same result would be had, the only difference would be that the back peddler‘s opponent, the person they were fighting would have the original arena grounds behind them.

[Nayt]

Mairse's blade continued to meet that of the other Champion's. For moments there, he stepped forward with each parry, and seemed to push his opponent back by the yards. It wasn't quite short lived, though, as far as time in battle went. In fact, it might have actually felt like hours to the fighters, while spectators only observed it as seconds.

But the forward movement on Mairse's end soon came to a conclusion, as his opponent stamped his foot down and promptly began taking forward steps again. It wasn't so much that which prompted Mairse to step back with each parry than the force his opponent was putting into his strikes. Mairse didn't quite match the man's strength, either. His speed? That was simple to match. Mairse didn't actually need to be as fast as his opponent to match his speed, not when he was using the same simple attack pattern. The wind picking up and seemingly corresponding with each of the man's attacks threw him off a bit, but after only one slightly weaker parry, Mairse got used to it and returned to what he felt was a nominal strength for the situation.

And still, the power within Mairse continued to grow--but unlike that of his opponent's, Mairse didn't show his power. He maintained an almost weak sort of appearance, despite everything; he had continued the act of parrying while swinging with sub-par strength, only at precise times to successfully knock back the attack anyways.

The stage seemed to change all around him, but Mairse didn't pay much attention to it. He simply continued to focus upon his opponent, and minded the change in scenery only with his feet. With each step backward, he made sure to tap his foot upon the ground first, then step, while still having all his weight on the other. This made him walk backwards just a little slower, but after a second, that didn't really matter.

This time, though, it was Mairse that stopped moving backwards, abruptly like that of his opponent, but not with a stomp of his foot. In fact, all he did was push his left foot into the grass as an anchor and parried the man's attack as he'd done two dozen times before. This didn't prompt a step forward, though. In fact, Mairse had simply stopped walking entirely. If his opponent, then, were to take a step forward and swing, Mairse's inevitable parry would actually set them so close to each other that the most useful weapons would be their fists . . .

[Paroxysm]

When the two fighters stopped and Mairse’s opponent’s last attack slammed down upon his weapon, what was supposed to be a parry would instead have to be a block, there was no way around it, unless the man instead changed his mind and chose to attack following the believed parry, but even this could prove fatal. With that last blow, the ground itself would be torn asunder, all of the force of the man’s strength was directed downwards, and the wind itself howled with matched fury.

At this point, the wind would easily tear clothing and slash at flesh, even the Destruction’s herald was not immune to this, as a stream of crimson ran down his forearm, but the wind had not quite picked up hard enough to really do much more than cause minor injuries to either of the two. Still, it was obvious that even forces of nature, once tamed, or directed--either purposely or accidental--could be dangerous in this fight. This was not two normal warriors facing off in a world of flimsy mortals, these two, for the sake of the fight, or through their actual design--would have no limitations. Their powers, which may have normally been put in checked by unseen devices, would be left to run rampant--and rampant they ran.

Showing the first signs of emotion in his eyes, a fiery blaze of enjoyment gushing from the man’s gaze, the shadow-cloaked warrior, wielding the wooden sword, would force his weapon downwards again, but without lifting off; he was trying to unbalance his opponent by pushing down and backwards, using both his hands to increase the strength. However this was not to restart the exchange of blows and parries, no; this was simply to break the swords off from each other. What happened next depended entirely on Mairse and his reaction to break. Whether or not this turned into a fist fight or Mairse unleashed something else, or an entirely different approach was taken altogether; would be known in the next few seconds--minutes--hours--days.

[Nayt]

Offtopic: Sorry for the epic wait. D:

Indeed, the wind that the Champion of the Undoer carried with each and every blow was unavoidable. Mairse could do little against such a thing, as his clothes ruffled with each clash of their blades, and soon, his clothes began to tear under the pressure of a seemingly blade-like wind.

A plethora of cuts and gashes lined the Champion of the Undoer's opponent. Blood ran down his shoulder and chest, as a large part in the same area of his tarp was cut open. Under it, he didn't actually appear to be very muscular; above average, but not overtly muscular in the slightest. This did very little to halt his movements, however, and he didn't seem too hurt by it. He hadn't narrowed his eyes, furrowed his brow, or even pursed his lips in pain--even though his lips couldn't be seen behind his tarp.

Mairse blocked overhead with what he intended to be a parry, but as soon as their blades met, he found that his opponent was putting too much force behind his attack to allow for such a simple method of defense. Mairse may have been well trained in such methods, but he had his limits. A vast difference in strength between them was just that limit, too. Mairse may not have been putting forth the full of his potential, but he was still outmatched as far as raw strength went, especially with such an intense and drastic spike of physical power to defend again.

Although he did not resort to holding the blade with both hands, he maintained the block and strained somewhat to keep his opponent from breaking him down.

As soon as his opponent detached their blades, as forcefully as he had, Mairse restrained himself from stepping back. Following this closely was Mairse dropping his right arm to his side, blade and all. He didn't seem at all prepared to use it, then. He then moved his feet, but not as a step forward or backwards. Instead, he stepped to the left. From there, it was all a matter of twisting his right hand, and in a quick and jagged step, physics alone would drag the tip of his rapier into the side of his opponent . . .

[Paroxysm]

The Champion of Destruction’s body would blur, from Mairse’s perspective, he’d still see his opponent, his blade would even continue on its path, but it would go through the image of his enemy and perhaps even leave the man confused, if he was able to display such an emotion, that is. Looking forwards, Mairse would see his opponent standing several feet away, he hadn’t moved in any direction but backwards; the only signs of life that he displayed was the gentle rise of his chest as he breathed, but otherwise it was as though the flame from earlier had already been doused.

The wooden sword that had been chosen at the start of the battle would be planted into the ground, going through the dirt with relative ease, just as easily as it had pierced the marble tiles of the arena floor, and a hand would be kept upon the hilt of the weapon; following this gesture, an explosion would occur just at Mairse’s side, rock, dirt, and other debris launching into the air. Despite the obvious attack, it would not appear that the man, cloaked in shadows, heralding destruction’s side; had so much as taken a step. Another explosion would occur immediately after the first, followed by another; these explosions would maybe be an inch from one another, heading closer and closer to Mairse, until they were just shy of being on top of him.

They weren’t all that powerful, just enough to knock a man up and backwards, if he happened to be caught up in it, but they wouldn’t be nearly enough to kill either of the two fighters. In fact, not much would probably be able to harm them, not fatally, at least; and that should have already been an obvious detail. Still, it would have been annoying to have been caught up in it; Mairse would probably do well to ensure he wasn’t, as there was no telling what could eventually follow the explosion, let alone its after-math.

[Nayt]

The Champion of the Undoer retreated in the most essential of ways, returning back to a distance between himself and Mairse, leaving Mairse to recollect himself after the last block that knocked him somewhat off balance--not too terribly off balance, but off balance nonetheless.

By the time his opponent jabbed his wooden sword into the earth, though, Mairse had already regained his composure. Again, the Champion of the Undoer had Mairse's utmost attention. He did not look to the dark figure, nor the outer contents of the arena--the watchers that observed the spectacle, safe behind a field that ensnared the two warriors and all that could come from them within the arena's fighting grounds. No, they were the last of Mairse's concerns--all of them. None of them would interfere. And if they did--the dark figure, arena officials, fans, any of them . . .

. . . they'd just have to be cut down all the same.

The first explosion heralded the immediate disappearance of Mairse himself. He faded in a series of rapid blinks all occurring at once over a span of a tenth of a second, around the approximate time of the explosions' conceptions themselves, each and every one of them--

--only to end with Mairse appearing again, not ten feet ahead of where he disappeared a moment prior, but no longer standing in a static pose: rather, he stood as if he were still in mid run, nothing more than an image that disappeared as stones and force expelled from the earth just to the side of it.

Another-- another appearance in mid run-- another-- another explosion--

And Mairse's final reappearance, inevitably, would be before the Champion of the Undoer himself, Mairse just feet from his person, landing upon his right foot as if to anchor himself immediately, with his right arm already out to his side, already parallel to the ground, already cutting-- already cut, already attacked the Champion of the Undoer, lashed out before Mairse even appeared for the final time.

[Paroxysm]

Blood spattered against the ground in small drops, it wasn’t a lot, but at the very least; first blood was Mairse’s. Despite the blood, however; the man that had been attacked was no where to be seen, even his sword, which had been planted into the ground; was missing. Although his attacks appeared to be ranged, they weren’t, it was an illusion, of sorts, and each attack was being delivered within melee range, and so when Mairse’s blade came into contact with the Champion’s body, he had already been in mid-movement, it allowed him to escape what may have very well been the haymaker of the match, it wasn’t, but it could have been.

Before the dust and rocky debris had a chance to dissipate, from the last explosion, a wooden sword would be brought into a slash at Mairse’s body, at least; at where the attacker figured Mairse’s body would reappear, using the man’s after images as reference material. The attack wasted no time, it was powerful, full of ferocity, but it was also controlled--it was deliberate, not a mad flail; designed to kill the opponent, a normal opponent at least, this match, however; this was a match of Gods, for lack of a better term. Even if the attack did hit, Mairse would probably not be damaged too badly, just as the Undoer’s side had negligible wounds, at best.

In the end, the man would vanish again, after the attack, and reappear a few feet away; an image similar to Mairse’s would be left in his wake, his sword having been brought down, as if the attack had already occurred, perhaps to mimic Mairse’s trick, or maybe even a coincidence. After all, it was questionable as to whether or not this man was even capable of expressing mimicry at this stage of his “life.”

[Nayt]

He didn't see it coming. Such a sudden existence carried such little experience; all the fighting talent in the world would be lost on one who'd never fought a day in his life, and for all intents and purposes, neither Mairse or his opponent had actually fought before. Not to their knowledge. Not to their bodies' knowledge.

Mairse was nearly brought to his knees. The pain was an incredible one. Pain in general, at this point, was incredible. He hadn't truly experienced it before--or had he? Mairse squinted his eyes. He was sure he could remember something--which was odd. What was it like to remember something? To have memories? It felt strange. That, in the end, was the pain he felt, or at least what Mairse confused with pain. What wasn't really pain was just a mental twinge, a reminder that maybe there was something in the past.

That maybe he existed.

Maisre stood up straight again, and with his arms by his sides, turned to face the opposing champion. He released a sigh. Such obscure thoughts . . . they were better left off of this battlefield. They were better off replaced by this growing twinge of energy Mairse'd been feeling for awhile. Without further hesitation, he brought his blade out before him and prepared for his opponent to attack yet again.

[Paroxysm]

There would be no attack, only a sensation; a feeling. The Undoer’s champion’s blade would be held poised as if to strike, mere inches away from Mairse’s neck, he had vanished and instantly relocated behind his opponent, after he, too, had reappeared and recovered from the attack. Being able to appear in any location, at any time, with but a moment’s notice, that was a good ability, no; that was a great ability, in fact.

This brief, momentary feeling may have been enough to set off some alarms in Marise’s head, not thoughts, but an instinctive urge to defend his hind side, and if he turned to do this, his opponent would no longer be there, instead coming from the front with a thrust of his blade. All it would take would be a single lapse in Mairse’s attention to the front, if he looked over his shoulder, turned his body, it didn’t matter, but that didn’t mean this would be the other’s haymaker, either. The attack itself was fast and cut through the air, however; it was not instantaneous and there was a considerable degree of power being withheld.

The charge would occur even if Mairse’s focus hadn’t been redirected, it would have been optimal if it was, but it would still occur regardless of what had happened. The shadow cloaked man pushed forwards, fast; he was prepared to move, however. This forward charge was only a ruse and would be broken away from, with the same speed demonstrated earlier, and forced into a different attack. Mairse would be unaware of this and that was where the danger was hidden.