Participants: Calais Uidec Alampion vs Alexander Ruglia
Area Info: Skywire
Fight!
Participants: Calais Uidec Alampion vs Alexander Ruglia
Area Info: Skywire
Fight!
He found himself back on the frontier, on Muhirian soil. He'd known the method of transportation, it was no big secret. It had been a long time since he was this close to the capital, or even the hidden village.
Returned to his natural stature through trial by fire, Alexander found himself standing at an outcropping of stones. He wore traditional Worthington regalia; high boots, jeans, a t-shirt, black leather jacket and black gloves. Sheathed at his side was a stark white katana, the palm of his gloved hand resting on its pommel.
A cool wind swept in from the south, but it did little to tremble his resolve. The shadow cast at his feet was long like that of a titan, and justifyably so. He was a stoic herculean statue; only the appearance of his opponent would stir him.
And when my soul steps to exit this frameI will be reincarnated as rain.
It was likely that not even Calais' appearance would even in the least bit move Alexander.
The Muhirian culture was similar to that of his father's fallen empire that once stood as a shaft upon the sinking sands rather than abiding rock. Muhir was perhaps different however, and it was for that reason that Calais was honored to battle on such a battleground.
There wasn't much to the setting Calais stood upon. His recently purchased dress shoes that hadn't even been scratched from a battle past stood upon the verdant grasslands, and the ocean eyes of a hardly caring alchemist stared into those of Mr. Worthington's. Hopefully their bout would be much enjoyed.
For a reason Calais only assumed, rather than introducing himself he flexed his right hand which held Malleus Justicarum. It alone served as a hello, for there was no need for the two to speak. This would only serve as another battle under one another's belt, only another event to occur in the sequence of the world's natural clashes.
Calais waited to be sure that his opponent was ready, before he himself begun. That didn't stop a slight buzz of honeyplum from swirling within Calais' right eye, perhaps a forecast of future events.
The man approached and made no attempt to name himself; a clear indication of their mutual understanding of the art of war. He flexed his swordhand as the unspoken indicator there was to be a challenge here; a letting of sweat and blood. Not a timeless thing for them to do, however, easily a thing for them to be diligent in. The stakes were high and one could not afford a strategic loss in such a crucial time.
His was a comely response, practically an autonomous reaction to such a stimulus. Now to draw his—entirely white—majestic sword seemed surreal. Its features were achromatic, yet reflected no light, not even a dull luster coruscated from its visage. Juxtaposed, his sable gloved hand coiled adroit digits about its woven haft.
Depositing the sheath somewhere behind him, its hollow clamor riddled the open—mountainous—range with its cacophony. His was neither a stance of advance or retreat, merely preparedness. Knees were barely bent, stature remained almost entirely vertical, there was little beyond the weapon in his charge to indicate he was a combatant whatsoever. Stoic were his features, and likely they would remain for the duration of their business.
And when my soul steps to exit this frameI will be reincarnated as rain.
The simplistic fighting-style Alexander assumed made it clear to Calais that they had similar ways of going about combat. Perhaps their area's of expertise were different and their levels of skill were as well (which would be seen soon), but they definitely had similar idea's of fighting, atleast that's what Calais surmised. So after his foe's preparation's had concluded, he decided that a stance was unnessicary for what he had predicted would be the outcome, and only marched forth.
The gunblade wielding hand—wielding the magical gunblade crafted by his father—swung upwards. It aligned with his opposition standing exactly ten meters away from himself, stanced and prepared. The trigger didn't pull however—instead the figure grasping its shaft continued trekking forth. Calais' skin appeared to be suffering frombeing cooked. As if he had been baked in the sun, and the result was darkening pink skin that also shot steam from its exterior.
Calais appeared to be used to it by then. Ten meters became eight, then the trigger pulled. A .357 sized magnum round catapulted at humanly imperceptible speeds, booming with a shattering sound, and careening straight for where Alexander's chest was centered. The seeming effect was obvious, the real effect was perhaps illusive and highly deceptive.
His opponent continued to approach with intrepid mannerisms, fear had escaped him in his eyes, and Alexander come to understand it intently. Adamance encapsulated Calais, jettisoning steam from his countenance, all the while he continued to close the distance between Alexander and himself. The Worthington himself did not remain steady in his opponent's approach, instead he continually inched back until Calais drew down upon him.
He'd seen his fair number of swords, he'd also seen his fair number of guns, but never before the two devices ingeniously combined in a relatively functional manner. When the hammer fell, the barrel turned, and the shell discharged its round, Alexander was far more than capable to understanding its intentions. What was the value of such a thing, a thing that was given a one-time trajectory, finite speed, and an extremely limited impetus.
In the most simplistic shifting of his stance, Alexander positioned his sword between himself the the oncoming projectile. The stark white sword collided with the bullet, tip to tip, as the critical vector of the Worthington's blade called to the heavens. His hand was an unmoving, herculean, obstacle; where the bullet would eventually fritter away what velocity propelled it. Though stoic in his action, Alexander himself was movable.
Where his heels stopped, two miniature trails in the dirt preceded the toes of his boots. Without having critically compromised the projectile itself, Alexander merely swept the blade to one side, discarding the bullet before regarding his opponent once more. Determination now smeared his features, as his eyes narrowed Calais in their vision.
And when my soul steps to exit this frameI will be reincarnated as rain.
It seemed Calais wasn't mistaken. Removing the obstacle from damaging his countenance in the most simplistic way possible. Impressive, and with that knowledge he would act once more. The finger pulled the trigger to the unique gunblade, and another round was fired. With a slight adjustment of trajectory, lowering the barrel slightly, the finger pulled once more. Both shots occurred back to back, firing within a foot of each other.
Calais then quickened his pace. His light march became a committed jog, while the burning sensation flooding his veins and jolting through his muscles only intensified. His eyes glimmered with determination yet adversity. The gunblade lowered to his right side, its tip digging into the dirt to create a trail just at his side as he approached. While the stretch between the two gradually closed, he waited for his foe's reaction first and foremost.
It was all the same to him, the modus or means might differ in slight nuances between histories writ or legends told by word of mouth, the end result was the same.
When backward momentum shifted, Alexander's feet rooted firmly into the bosom of the earth, with his hands raised, perhaps Calais would come to the realization that his conventional weaponry was anything but lethal to the likes of his opponent. The first bullet passed him by, with no thin margin, as the second met a similar fate as its original predecessor.
Thrusting his sword hand forward, Alexander was able to effectively create a vortex to cradle the projectile against the spine of his own blade. With swift motion, lacking no dexterity, the man was able to turn the weapon as a crux—gripping the inside of the hilt, turning the wrist, and exerting the necessary force. In mastry of the art over countless years, shaving away at the riddle of steel, one finds themselves at the bottom of Alexander's ladder.
The parrying motion, though exacted with the percision of a machine, was but a fleeting second in the stream of time. Equally less than what Calais, himself, had to respond as his own bullet was redirected at him. His breast would find the blazing heat of its penetration, and his heart would drown in its own vitae should the reflected shot find its mark.
And when my soul steps to exit this frameI will be reincarnated as rain.
Alexander Ruglia advances to Round Three.
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