Participants: Felix Septim Agathius vs Hemmit Vasalk
Area Info: Sunset Way Town
Fight!
Participants: Felix Septim Agathius vs Hemmit Vasalk
Area Info: Sunset Way Town
Fight!
The man on a horse rode into Sunset Way Town.
Two oxen pulled a supply-laden cart behind him. The first set of wheels was small and the second large, the entire cart having no bed. Just a small box attached to the front two wheels, the rear portion of it heavy with bundles of hardtack and grain.
It was bound to be a long time until he got back to Expedition command in the Blue Hills. Sheune, he wasn't even sure where he was any more. Yet, this idiotic, barbarous and gladiatoral nonsense apparently offered the best chance of finding his four missing men. At least, that's what he'd been lead to believe. The hawking promoter who barely understood a word of High Comnenic appeared to agree. Then again, it appeared anything that brought financial enrichment to the rotund little shit was viewed favorably.
Agathius leaned over the side of his horse, and spat.
The horse snorted in return. It was a large beast; near sixteen hands tall and wrapped in lamellar barding that shone in the sun. "Easy," Agathius assured his steed. The horse jostled; he knicked its flanks with his rowel spurs. More of a kick, really. That caused the beast to steady. Deprived of that worry, Agathius took a moment to study the town.
Well. You could call it a town. If you were being generous. The dusty thoroughfare that stretched on ahead was flanked by low wooden buildings and adobe lodges. A stray collection of desert reed whipped down the lane, egged on by humid winds. "What a forsaken place," the Comnenic knight could be heard to grumble. "Wretched," he added as cool green eyes came to rest upon several malnourished souls lingering in the shadows of a balcony-latticed saloon front. Their stares did not abate, though they troubled the cataphract no longer. He was secure in his bearing, the serenity of the Alltime felt so close at hand.
"Let us to it pell-mell," he whispered with a flourish. A gauntlet-wrapped hand came up and danced atop the spherical pommel of his sword before drawing it in a flourish. He whirled Magnus Septimii blade over end several times, wrist moving precisely. The blade shone in the sun before it was returned to its baldric with an equally abrupt motion. "If not to heaven, the hand in hand to hell."
Last edited by Glory; 01-20-2011 at 05:24 PM. Reason: Photo Insert!
"I fight because I was born to force the unjust from their thrones at the point of a sword, and this Empire is the instrument through which I realize my purpose. Comnena is war made manifest. That is why it is perfect."
-Augustus IV Flavius Lucas Invictus
OOC: Nice photo!
Traveling the surface of the world was something remarkable, an overwhelming rush of sensations nonpareil, touched by that which gives life to all so freely. Overwhelming innervations reach down to his very core, blossoming outward with a surreal state of tranquility and harmony. It was here, deep within the glebe that he felt at peace, wrapped in a veil of security, laced with a sense of belonging. To put such magnificent sentiments to words was only to insult its very essence, capturing only a glimpse of what truly was deeper than comprehension. Hemmit spent his entire lifetime achieving such bonds with the land, spending decades learning to center his being and become like that of a mountain or plain, changed slowly overtime, but never prone to sudden changes. The winds of time, the rivers of change, these could change the form that he took, but they could not destroy him.
Beyond the city some short ways, perhaps a walk of 30 minutes for an average man, a swirling cloud of dirt rises from the ground, dancing like leaves caught on the wind. The soil slowly takes shape, forming the body of an average man, filling in his body and soon forming a robe. The process takes only seconds from start to finish, a whirling cloud of dust one moment, and a full-grown man in simple robes the next. He stands in place for many moments, drinking in the fresh air and steadying himself to surface travel. It takes a few minutes of peaceful reflection to temper down enlivening feelings brought on by the travel through the earth, emotions that would only serve to distract in the heat of battle. It was not until he returned to his state of equilibrium, complete neutrality and indifference, did he begin walking to the city.
Upon entering, Hemmit felt a tinge at his neck and sensed his opponent nearby. Hemmit slowed his walking, taking care to watch for the possibility of less honorable opponents for whom surprise tactics were a preferred method of battle. Much to his relief, no such opponents presented themselves and soon the signal from his collar grew stronger. Hemmit continued travel down the roads, ignoring the unpleasant conditions that plagued this ‘town’, if you were to call this place such a thing. It was dirty and unpleasant, full of people who suffer from hunger and other ailments. Such was no concern of his and therefore nothing worth dwelling on; he was a practitioner of earth meant to keep her balance pure and strong, not someone to rescue human masses from themselves.
Turning down another road to find himself on some reed covered lane, Hemmit spots someone sitting astride a fine looking horse, pulling behind him a cart of various goods. The collar on his neck chirps in excitement, pushing him on, the opponent found. Hemmit walks onward towards his opponent, his collar in full view for the other to see, his face as plain as stone. His eyes betray nothing but silent stillness; his features are smooth and blank. He has no hair, for his head is shaved, eyebrows included. He is presumably middle-aged, though gauging the years of an individual can be difficult at times. The robes he wears are plain brown and loose fitting. In his right hand, he carries a staff and in his left, he bears nothing at all. He stops about 5ft from the man atop his horse, saying nothing prior to his stepping forward. He raises a hand briefly in a motion suggesting ‘wait’ and then begins to speak:
“I have come to these lands seeking my opponent and I believe I have found that man. Tell me, do you too show the collar that marks us as contestants?”
Agathius watched the haggard earth-sage's approach, unmoving. Though his collar had warbled irritating warnings in his mind since Hemmit had arrived, the Knight of August was not to be perturbed. He spent the void between alert and visibility fastidiously, drawing his oxen to a halt and then bidding them turn 'round so their livelihood was shielded from any debris or attack by the bulk of the cart, the rear of it now facing Hemmit instead of a pair of malodorous, ill-mannered pack beasts.
He dismounted with similar, pointed movements used to indicate no threat lingered or that no attack was to come suddenly.
"I am Septim Agathius, Exarch of Seloria; known to my home as the Sword of Comnena." The words came out clipped; precise. The knight slowly tied his horse's bridle to the side of the cart and then returned to the rear, leaning idly against the corner with one arm splayed out over the grain sacks.
"I do show such a collar, as it happens. Would you be disinclined to allowing me a measure of prayer before this bout begins?"
"I fight because I was born to force the unjust from their thrones at the point of a sword, and this Empire is the instrument through which I realize my purpose. Comnena is war made manifest. That is why it is perfect."
-Augustus IV Flavius Lucas Invictus
Hemmit watched the individual with little expression, his face a mask of neutrality. Whether or not he expected the newcomer to pull some unforeseen move did not register on his face. His eyes barely flicker as the man ties his horse, though in truth they took in everything about the man and his actions. When he replied to the question, Hemmit gave a brief nod and replied himself in turn.
"Of course, take your time."
Hemmit remained still, his body poised but still, not a muscle tensed but prepared to move if it were to become necessary. Nothing suggested a lack of honor about the man, in fact the opposite showed. It was good to do battle with an individual for whom respect and nobility were important.
Diligite justitiam, o judices terrae.
Maior risus, acrior ensis.
The cataphract prayed. His eyes closed and muted hymns came from pursed lips.
"O, Unconquered Allfather, guide me through..."
Then he brought his palms together and the world was drowned in fire and smoke.
Agathius' arm, that which had been splayed across the sacks heaped at the rear of the cart, had surreptitiously secured a grip on the end of a small, barely noticeable silken cord. When he'd brought both hands together to conclude his prayer, the cord was tugged - pulled on - by simple measure of the arc of his arm. It was, all in all, a concealed factor in an already innocuous movement.
That silken cord was thread neatly through the sacks of grain, where it disappeared into the top of the long, iron tube that was concealed beneath the assorted packs and bags. The sudden tension on the cord pulled the end of a pin, which in turn popped a spring-loaded piston which thrust a firing pin down into a pre-packed charge of powder...
Agathius' cart was not, in fact, a cart. It was a caisson and limber, towing a camouflaged one-hundred and fifty milimeter howitzer of the Imperial Comnenic Army's artificer corps. When he'd turned the cart 'round moments before, he had in fact been bringing the hidden weapon's bore to bear on Hammit. When Hammit had drawn within five feet of Agathius, he'd inadvertently brought himself into the heart of the weapon's killing zone. By tying off his horse and leaning against the corner of the cart, Agathius had not only been getting himself in position to jerk the firing cord, but evacuating himself from the line of fire.
Some infinitesimal fraction of a second after the firing pin was ejected into the primer, the primer itself detonated and hurled the weapon's payload down the barrel. The howitzer had been pre-loaded with a single canister of Imperial case-shot; a hollow bronze cylinder whose top and bottom were thin plates of tin. Contained within the canister were close to four-hundred musket balls. The heat of the detonation and power of the shot caused the canister to virtually disintegrate upon firing, the mutilated husk of the case joining the already-deadly payload of musket balls leaving the barrel. They shredded the meagre collection of mealie bags heaped over the barrel and like some brutal tornado of steel and blood, fast enough and with enough force behind them to rip through Hammit like he wasn't there. This close to the bore of the cannon, less than two meters, there would be close to no time to react, and the geomancer was faced with the full payload of the canister before it dispersed too widely.
It was quite likely Hammit would be suddenly and abruptly reduced to a twisted mass of blood and bone being propelled down the street, his own bodily offal struggling to catch up.
"...this endless dark."
"I fight because I was born to force the unjust from their thrones at the point of a sword, and this Empire is the instrument through which I realize my purpose. Comnena is war made manifest. That is why it is perfect."
-Augustus IV Flavius Lucas Invictus
Rare was it that his judgment proved wrong, decades tempered wisdom into the folds of his mind, providing Hemmit with a much clearer view of life. In spite of this, Hemmit was no more than a mortal man, bound by both faults and mistakes, prone to errors and misperceptions, though he less so than others. He took the man to be an upfront fighter, a man of nobility and someone of esteem and virtue. Hemmit cared little for the battles for the people, but he believed in the balance of simple fairness and respect. Hemmit never took those values lightly, always reserving some shred of doubt in the back of his mind even when it appeared most like that he was among friends. Indeed, it is often during those times that a man faces the greatest level of danger, when he is most comfortable with his surroundings and at peace with those around him. This wariness was what likely saved his life; by granting him the difference of less than a meager second's time, he could react to danger looming before him, threatening to snuff him out before the battle truly began.
Though the preparations were movements that seemed natural and harmless enough, there still lied and undercurrent of something that almost seemed... choreographed. Movements and positions taken by deliberate intention, no action passed by a man of this sort of look came without some purpose held in mind. The ease and care that which he dismounted from his horse, to the particular subtle nuances in his body language that alerted Hemmit to the possibility of ulterior intent. Alerted to such and alarmed by the change of things, Hemmit instinctively enclosed himself in a shell of soil, using minor production and manipulation to coat his self, building a barrier just as the Knight's hands approached each other to unleash a torrent of hell. Guided by instinct, experience, and the sudden detection of large quantities of lead nearby, Hemmit tapped into his staff for a quick transformation of the material surrounding his body, enclosing himself in a barrier of monocrystalline silicon, his strongest defensive maneuver.
Fire bursts from the cart and smoke billows outwards, smothering visibility to the area. Musket balls fly in all directions, hurled at great speeds, intent upon doing great damage. The roar of the guns drowns the sound of rebounding bullets and the echoes of wood being rend and farm animals noisily voicing terror of such loud contraptions. People within the village scream and flee, destruction already taking place inside this dusty little town. A loud crack erupts from behind as a support beam to an inn cracks under its weight and sends the structure tumbling down after itself.
Through the smoke and the haze, a lone figure stands with arms crossed a foot from his chest and face, connected at the forearms. One hand holds the staff, whose subtle markings now glow in an eerie emanation of milky white, slowly fading as the seconds pass by. The figure still stands, stolid despite the blast, seemingly unaffected were it not for the coating of hoariness that surrounds him. The silvery material recedes, appearing to melt off him and fall atop the muskets stopped by his body. The man is not without marks of battle or damage, scratched, bruised, and sporting a couple of mild cuts, one of which still bleeds. Despite the blast and the damage, Hemmit's face does not suggest that any of it was felt or care for. He stands impassively, weighing the man who attempted to end the fight so early on with lowly tactic, one that Hemmit certainly did not care for.
As he stands, his staff begins to draw energy from the earth, using it to begin healing the wounds that he took from the blast. Already, the wound that bled closes and no longer looks quite so nasty. Hemmit stands still all the while, continuing to lock his eyes on the warrior. He says but one thing:
"My, I was not expecting that, coward."
Though his words suggest otherwise, Hemmit makes no move. He stands as still as a mountain, bearing the weight of the world while he quietly tucked away power, building up his reserves to begin fulfilling is potential.
Spoiler:
Felix Septim Agathius has until Wednesday, Feb 2nd, to make a post or offer notification before his next turn is skipped. If the turn is skipped any damage that could be avoided or actions interrupted will be dealt. This is not normal practice for the tournament, however, giving the duration of time and the time it will be as of the 2nd, it will become one after so long.
Perhaps the only partially effective attack left his opponent flummoxed. Perhaps, it was the fact that Hemmit still stood at all that left him standing in place, taking no course of action and offering no response to the declarations Hemmit laid down not long before. Regardless of the reasoning behind his stillness, the pause gave Hemmit an edge he was not accustomed to receiving in the heat of battle, a chance to gather yet more power without having to worry about interruptions or needs to bolster defenses. Furthermore, the lack of activity enabled his Staff's leant regenerative properties to work at their full capacity, mending wounds and restoring vitality at an optimized rate, borrowing from the life flows of the earth to tend the wounds left by the cannon blast of just seconds earlier. Garish wounds still weeping dim and begin to appear as though they have undergone the healing process for days.
Currents of energy from the earth beneath his feet ebb and flow, washing like gentle ocean tides over grains of sand, leaving behind sediments of power with each passing flow. Not yet detectable, the fluctuations in energy rising around him only gave slight stir to the particles of earth around him and his opponent. No changes display in Hemmit display, his visage still impassive, his body relaxed and unmoved. Smoke billows from the site of the cannon, caught in stray winds moving this way and that, blowing past Hemmit with no visible affect on his unwavering concentration focused only on the gathering of more power. His opponent would have yet another opportunity to act without need of defense, should he choose to take action this turn.
I was going to try and have this tournament go without a disqualification however giving that that enough time has gone since the last post from Max and his last day active on the site, his turn is again skipped and whatever damage or prep counts that come from the post of his opponent will be applied and his foe can once again post.
Hemmit was unsure what to make of the developments that followed since his opponents initial attempts to dispatch him. Surely, the man would make some sort of effort to finish off the man, while he seemed too preoccupied with his power gathering to bother with the knight. Even after Hemmit stood his place and made no movement, his opponent matched him step for step by taking none himself, locked in position as if some divine manipulator had failed to retake the reins after their initial push for victory; perhaps the man stood still in place, confounded by the failure of his preplanned assault? Hemmit cared not to spend time speculating on what it was that drove this man forthwith into battle initially, only to cause him to give over to subtle immobility that dared not move even as his opponent gathered strength and recovered lost life. His motives were his own to dwell on and not for the other to ponder, let him stand in his place and stare take no further action, while Hemmit built upon his strength instead.
The energy and spirit of the earth flowed freely into him like water down a steep slope cut by preceding currents hundreds of years in the making. His wounds turned back their damage and soon most completely healed over while the few remaining injuries, more serious to begin with, were no more than minor cuts and scratches. His face contorted and showed hints of expression, the rise in power making it difficult not display some of the edge he felt while containing so much life. Hemmit's grip on his staff tightened to such a degree that his knuckles turn white as alabaster. Dirt surrounding his feet jumped from their massing below, specks at a time, catching foothold in the wind and attempted dancing before their master.
Hemmit could appreciate a man of serenity and patience, yet a man who stood statuesque in the obvious face of danger to such a degree that rivaled his own made him irritable and uneasy. The battle had yet to have truly begun but already they were nearly back to square one with no secondary exchange made. Concentrating his own power on gathering, he ushers a mental command to the staff to make an attack for him, to avoid drawing from his own reserves and to see he could make this man dance a little. Could he move to the beat, or would he stand in place as he has the moments before, letting the steps run him over instead.
Using the second of three possible usages of his staff's ability to change earth material from one form to another, Hemmit chooses to manipulate the soil beneath the feet of his opponent, as well as that within a surrounding radius that comes within 3/4 the distance between he and his enemy, turning the material from soil to dry quicksand. The effect is instantaneous and goes an equal amount of feet down as it does outward (the said radius). Should he not find a quick manner in which to get off the land he currently stands on, he will sink very quickly and be unable to rise back out again, short of some divine or magical intervention.
Spoiler:
Hemmit Vasalk advances to the second round.
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