The black wolf nodded solemnly. So, she believed that now she had the power. It was strange...for how much he irrationally feared and respected the weapon, he did not perceive it as something supernatural. She appreciated the blade more deeply than he did. Perhaps that was to be expected, she was a warrior. His great-great-grandson, Skoll, had been a warrior as well. He, however, had never been that. His berserk fury in his life before lycanthropy had made him formidable, but his abilities later came in raw strength compounded by years and years of murder...he was not a warrior, but a killer. The distinction was important. The thing he had become was simpler, more narrow. A warrior could do many things relating to combat, could control its lethality, protect as well as destroy. A killer could do one thing, only.
"Perhaps you are right, and this dream holds significance to your span outside of it. As for me, I know nothing of what awaits me beyond this. My memory insists that HawkWind and his creation are entirely gone, which means I may not even be the wolf whose form I wear and whose memories I share. Regardless of whose essence I am, I am HawkWind here, and he was needed to help you. If its his part that must be played, however, VoidFane's falls to me, as well." The ground began to tremor. "We'll be going back shortly. Vanquish the monster. When you have, do not let him escape you by any means. Follow him into the bog, if you must. Be sure to take his head." He smiled wanly. "I do not wish to wake again."
The ground shook, and the sun that had peaked out over the steel walls sank below them again, and all was blackness. When light next illuminated the landscape, it was a less hellish one, though still far from appealing. It was nearing dusk, though yellow light still filtered down through the thick brambles of the swamp canopy. Slick mud squished underfoot and a black shape moved between the gnarled trunks of the stunted trees. There was a hill in the midst of this, thick with weeds, probably the only place with good footing in a hundred yards. Cwmfen appeared into this place with the hill at her back, and the vast, spider-like shape before her. A shaft of light caught its face, and one bright, dead eye was evident from between branches. The giant stepped into the open, its face expressionless. A corpse lay in the mud behind it.
"You possess the blade that struck me down," it said hollowly. "You are smaller than its last wielder, and the blade is large...your power is--most likely--still insufficient to kill me." Its fingers curled into rigid claws, ending in long, curved, wicked tips. "You should have run with them, if you wanted to lengthen their lives. I will remove you, and take the father and children." He approached her, taking great strides through the muck.
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A soft smile flickered across her maw. The woman had believed that she would somehow set this wolf free, to rid the entrapment of this place. But perhaps he was right. Perhaps, with his destruction, he would be able to rest in that eternal sleep unprovoked, untroubled by the worries of a life he no longer controlled. With a quiet nod, the woman finally gripped the sword and rose as if knowing what was to come. She looked down at the black wolf. "Thank you," she said.
The world was wrenched from beneath her once more. The only sound that belonged to her was the sound of her own heartbeat drumming in her ears and the quiet, angry song of Obsidon humming in her hands. Darkness overcame them, but it was like the turning of the heavens from night to day, though unburdened by the forces of the stars and moons. And as before, the darkness lifted, allowing her to see. She stood now not in that bloodied place of memories, but alone in a bog. The woad marked warrior shifted, her feet sticking in the wetness of the mud. The footing here was dangerous. If she were not careful, or if she did not time her attacks and retreats properly, she would be caught, slowed by the unrelenting grip of this wet earth. Here, in this place as much as the other, timing was important. A single moment could allow her to live or die. Swiftly, Cwmfen lifted the blade, holding it with both hands. The feel was different from that of Badb, as was its song, but she had trained with double-handed blades before. If only she had been given enough time to test the blade’s style.
But she had only had the time to lift the blade when VoidFane’s voice struck her. He approached surely, prepared to take the life that she had only scarcely escaped with moments before. She saw the dead things about him, the deadly curvature of his claws, as he made his slow but steady approach. The woman backed up several steps if only to allow her more room, but she could feel the edge of that hill, dry and steady at her feet. With the hill at her back, if she could keep it there, she would have the high ground. "It will strike you down again, VoidFane," the warrior called out, that alto melody ringing in the silence as if a bell had been struck. "It will conquer you once more." The warrior did not allow the possibility of failure to enter her voice or her words, for it was part of the show to display that confidence. And she did intend to keep her word, if not for herself than for the HawkWind of this Dream. Then, with a cry that was pulled from her core, she raised the blade, the tip rising swiftly and obediently before she brought it down at an angled arc to take his shoulder or neck—she did not forget HawkWind’s instructions now. In case the blade did not bite, the warrior adjusted her grip to allow a second strike to find its way back. The blade carved the air with marginal awkwardness—the blade’s balance with that of the handle and pommel had been greater than she had expected. But the warrior, able to adapt to such a thing, swiftly made the necessary adjustments.
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Shorter responses since they're in battle? Sorry for the delay, work+a shared writing project=time consumed <<
The nightmare moved lithely, sliding under her first slash with all the sleek grace of an adder. For such a tall creature, it was an impressive feat, done so smoothly as to elicit chills. The monster's confidence was unshakable. The blow could have killed it then and there, but there was no panic, no quaver or flinch of fear; its mind was possessed of only one goal, and her death was at the forefront of that single focus. Her back-slash, however, came fast and strong, and the yielding body of the beast answered the sword's path with a splash of red. One fearsome claw, at the end of a long arm, darted out in a quick arc of its own, seeking to rip her face, to take her eyes or tear the side of her neck...claws like its own could take a throat or an artery as readily as a set of fangs. Regardless of the success of this attack, the nightmare wolf retreated two strides, easily leaving the effective range of her blade.
The two white orbs glowed with the reflected light of the sun, scattered between thick, gnarled branches. Dark blood dripped from his upper arm down into the slime. It began to circle her, to come at the hill from the side. If it took the high ground from her, it saw an opportunity to drive her into the bog. There, it would murder her in the slick, watery murk. Parts of the bog ran deep. It could even hide the blade here, after it was done. Its calculations came up short, however. The hill could only be approached from one side. If she saw the danger as it did, she would bar its passage, strafing alongside it to ensure that she kept him in his poor footing. Malros had not seen that danger, but had still won the fight. The deep water at the far side of the hill, however, had swallowed the Wraith Wolf and prevented him from confirming his kill, so it had all worked out for the monster in the end.
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Shorter responses are fine with me, ^=^ And don’t worry about it!
Is Obsidon like a long/broad sword?
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The monster dodged her blade easily, his movements unnervingly similar to that of Corvus. It was as if this were battle were fated to occur—but it was not as if the warrior believed in coincidence. Everything happened for a reason, and upon this night, within this Dreaming, she fought this creature. The Raven Dreamer could feel the reason, could feel the purpose, but she could explain it no further than that. She knew only what must be done. Once more that satisfaction, that wild ferocity, leapt up like a flame with the song of golden chords. The blade leapt within her hand also, its song a fierce snarl as it bit the flesh of the one it was now destined to destroy. Even as Obsidon drew first blood, VoidFane’s claws lashed out. The woman leaned back, although the claws grazed her neck, jumping as she turned her hips to cartwheel herself over the still moving blade that now served as the stationary fulcrum. Her legs could have struck her attacker, but he had already leapt back several paces and had gone out of her reach.
The woad warrior immediately righted herself, raising the blade to stand between them once more. As the beast began to circle her, the woman resisted the natural instinct to do the same. Her mind was alerted, raised up suddenly as if receiving a surprised jolt. The blade felt a little more comfortable within her hands as she refused to give the black giant the higher ground. Closing the distance between them once more, the woad marked fae attacked, bringing the blade up in a circling arc above her head before swinging it down once more to cut him. As the blade’s path began to return to her, the woman grabbed the hilt and thrust forward, attempting to run him through as the shadows had done, placing herself dangerously close to the black male to achieve this end.
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Hmm...unfortunately, when it comes to European swords, terminology can be very vague. Long swords are generally perceived to be one-handed, generally around three feet long (by my understanding). Broad swords can be short or long, but most people refer to a long broad sword when they talk about them (such weapons were thicker and heavier to break through armor...though most European swords still weren't more than a few pounds). You said you weren't too familiar with European sword fighting, so I thought I'd bring that up. As for Obsidon, it was originally created by a craftsman as a centerpiece for his display at a renaissance fair. It's completely functional in terms of edge and point, but it's really too big for anyone but the very biggest human collector to wield...which is why it felt about right to Malros. It about a foot longer than a Zweihander (two-handed sword), with six and a half feet of blade, and a little under two feet of pommel. All in all, it's a smidge more than a foot longer than she is tall, if she was carrying the real one. Might be that in the dream, it's of a more manageable size? PS: Provided he hits her at the end, feel free to suggest that she keeps the sword. He'll be losing those fingers regardless.
The female charged the Wraith Wolf, though with appropriate reserve...she was not reckless. It would have been better had she been less level-headed. VoidFane made many kills against frightened, enraged, or impassioned opponents. He lacked the feral rage that HawkWind had been capable of, the adrenaline-charged strength that many possessed, but his calm enabled him to respond readily to exposed weaknesses and openings. His secret was in his cold-blooded professionalism. He was not excitable, despite the dire passion that had powered his creation. He was completely divorced from the emotions that prevented HawkWind from extinguishing lycanthropy himself.
VoidFane stepped out from her first swing, and jerked forward, to kill her while she gathered the blade. Her skill exceeded his expectation, however. The loop from her last swing into the air and down again was tighter than anticipated. Most werewolves who wielded human weapons created weaknesses they were not aware of. Wolf claws had their limits, but they were natural. Human tools were often top-heavy, and wolves sought to swing them powerfully. Any heavy implement swung with fervor took space and time to slow down, to kill its momentum...the harder one swung, the more overbalanced they became when they missed, the longer the window to kill them on the rebound. But this dark wolfess, who was so like him in complexion, was practiced. The strength of her blow was not immediately fatal to one of his size, but the window was too small for him to execute her. The blade came down smartly against his skull, and the monster's ear was shorn off, as well as a deep gash extending down along his muzzle. No accompanying roar, though the beast blinked in a knee-jerk reaction to save his eyes.
Despite his damage, the nightmare responded smoothly to the thrust. His right hand struck the blade at an angle, and his long fingers wrapped around it, the sharp sensation of steel biting into the ligaments there suggested that he stop, but all such messages were very quiet to VoidFane, whose solitary purpose overrode all other things. Bringing his monstrous strength into the hand, driving the steel edge deep into the fingers, VoidFane pulled it toward him suddenly, and lashed out with his left hand, supplying enough force to send a wolf of her size onto her back, and hopefully open a new window. It believed that three seconds would be sufficient if she were off her feet.
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Thanks! And, oh, hahh, yeah, that’s a good half foot taller than her, ^=^ Maybe the dream does make it better, ^=^;;
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Cwmfen’s attack had spilled blood once more as VoidFane miscalculated, opening a wound upon his face and head. The rapid blinking was disturbingly like the rapid movement of shutters in the wind of dark house she had seen in a dream so long ago when the remnants of human existence had continued to be foreign. But her thrust, unlike her swinging strike, had not been successful. His grip upon the blade had been unexpected as he flicked it aside. The song of Obsidon seemed to shudder through her as its blade bit into the fingers of the beast, but the sword did not know the difference between an attack it made and an attack upon itself, and surely in this case it was the latter. She knew that she should have relinquished the blade when he pulled it toward him, but she did not, suffering for that mistake through the reception of the blow his left hand through.
The black fae fell back, her back hitting upon the soft formations of the bog. Her head did not hit the ground as her chin was held against her chest, but because her hands still gripped the blade, the shock of the fall was absorbed through her torso. A sharp breath was released as she struggled to regain the situation. Using the momentum of her fall, she pulled the male back toward her, and whether he followed or not, surely his hand would pay the price. She used the stability of the ground beneath her and the sword within her hands to push of the ground, her heel tucked in near other thigh. And then she kicked out at his stomach, twisting her body deftly onto its side so as to execute that attack, her hard heel seeking to making contact with that single powerful stroke. If he did not fall back, she would kick out once more in rapid succession. But the warrior hoped that he would release the blade, that she would be given time to rise.
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Some power play. Let me know if it needs changed. Oh! And can you tell me what 'spear-handing' is, or whatever that move was she initially used to strike his solar plexus?
The difference in weight between the two combatants was extreme. As such, when she fell, there was resistance, as her mass wasn't sufficient to move the monster. Instead, when she fell, the blade's edge jerked against the entrapping fingers, severing deeper. A spurt of blood coated the blade now, but VoidFane wasn't done killing her yet. The damage could be considered later. He stepped near to her, and the fallen female kicked up at his gut. There was a sharp impact, but the sinew there was thick...too thick for the strength of her relatively small leg to damage from her position. As she turned to kick again, however, Obsidon shifted in his grip again, causing a final severance in his hand. The thumb fell away, and the fingers lost all strength. Her kicks were ineffectual, but his grip could not hold the blood-slicked steel forever.
VoidFane's left hand wrapped around her lashing ankle, which seemed comically small compared to his massive palm. Stepping back and planting his feet, the nine-foot werewolf summoned all his strength to swing her up off the ground and into a nearby tree, simultaneously damaging his opponent and distancing himself from her newly freed blade. The only available target from her position beneath him had been his legs, and if he were hamstrung, he would be dead soon whether he succeeded here or not. Now, VoidFane would stun her, and finish this. Immediately after her impact, he crossed the distance from where she'd been thrown to where she lay, blood pulsing from his sawed finger tips and severed thumb, pale eyes open and riveted on her form, left arm poised to deliver the killing blow to her neck.
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Got your PM!
Nope! It’s fine by me, ^=^. Also, I thought here she may be opened to kill him, but I left it open just in case you had anything further planned, OuO
And here is spear hand: picture. It’s called 관수 (Gwan-Soo) in Korean, ^=^. As weak as it looks, when done properly it’s very effective.
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The smell of blood from his severed fingers rose in the air, almost delightfully overcoming the stale smell of the bog. He grabbed her ankle and she knew that there was no immediate escape from that grip that practically closed about it unless she released the sword, and she knew that she could not relinquish the sword. HawkWind had made it quite clear that the obsidian monster’s head must be taken, must be severed. The mistake of King Malros from the tale that had been regaled had cost him his life and the permitted persistence of this monster of Vengeance. Obsidon was recoiled, gripped now with the blade pointing to the earth should she have been standing. But with the blade held in that way, it did not catch upon the earth and she hit the tree painfully. For a brief moment the warrior shut her eyes against it, falling to the earth. She could hear his approach and knew that if she did not move, Death literally would be at her throat.
He approached swiftly, but the warrior, despite the pain of the impact that had jarred her insides, was already moving with equal speed. Instead of rising, she remained upon the earth, her white orbs riveted upon the bone white gaze of this enemy—in this way she revealed nothing of what she intended to do. When he was near enough, her leg shot out, catching him behind the knees as she braced herself with her hands upon the earth, her right still gripping the handle of the prone blade. Regardless of strength, this technique always worked—it was simply anatomy. Turning completely and rising, she brought the blade around to catch him at the neck, Obsidon responding as it easily cut that path in the air. Her other hand came about to grip the blade, using now the weight of that blade and the momentum she had gathered to cut into the neck and spill his blood upon the murky waters of the marsh.
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I'm not 100% sure I get what she did, but I'm gonna roll with it. I'll want you to explain it to me though...if he's approaching her, how did she get the back of his knees? Either way, getting kicked in the knees sucks regardless of direction, so I'm happy with the situation. Furthermore, I think I've seen something similar to that move, but it was used on the throat to crush the windpipe (the NPC Soro employed it in one of the threads I sent you).
The kick came suddenly. VoidFane had underestimated her discipline; self-control was a quality so seldom found in his victims that he rarely accounted for it. Those that controlled themselves usually came at him head-on, and were easily dispatched because of how hard they needed to work to maintain that self-control. Her brand of discipline was unusual to him, however, and somewhere deep in his subconscious mental calculation of the battle, he believed she would hesitate a moment longer than she did, out of pain, out of fear, or out of indecision. She did not. His knees buckled, and his feet splayed through the mud as he tried to catch his balance. As he landed on his hands, his severed fingers sent shocks of pain into his brain, which inevitably delayed his reaction time as well...despite that horrifying singularity of focus, such intense damage required significant beating down of the body's animal reflex.
Given all these things, VoidFane responded frighteningly well. The machine never cried out, never wasted a moment. Nevertheless, his opponent was fast, and wasted no time either. The calculation came out unfavorably. Despite his own perfection, the seconds hadn't added up in his favor. Against an opponent who also made no mistakes, one of his best advantages was gone, and he had not accounted for this. The blade came down. Her arms were small compared to his own, but they were still strong, and the blade was still heavy. Obsidon passed through his neck, and cleanly emerged out from the other side. Death was not immediate, it rarely was with beheadings. VoidFane's world rolled, and a splash coated his face in murky water...the splash that signaled the fall of his body onto the swamp floor. The nightmare was felled. A far-off roar, like the tide coming in, could be heard somewhere beyond the brambles. It was over. The Wraith Wolf was slain. Death was defeated.
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Sorry about that! OnO She could have used a swing kick (I’m not sure what the American name would be) or she could have used a narrowly executed roundhouse or hook, ^=^;;
And yes, that could be used to crush the windpipe, though instead of holding your hand vertically, you’d probably want to hold it horizontally—but I think that’s what happened anyway, ^=^ But yeah, those can be dangerous, o__o
I made it so that she returned with the coming of that tide-roar, but if you wanted to continue, send me a PM ^=^
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Blood spurted, making slick the blade and colouring the dull landscape with its brightness. In her mind, the blood should have been black, and so she was almost surprised by the vibrancy of that shade. It spattered her coat and darkened the woad that it touched. The blade bit his neck and took the flesh with it—all of it. The power of the blade was greater than she had expected it to be, and she fell heavier than she intended to upon the blade as its point made contact with the earth. Obsidon was satisfied, his humming flowing strongly through her, and yet the song was subdued by the blade’s satisfaction. A soft breath was released from that woad bound maw as the white eyes beheld the severed head—those eyes still seemed to hold something within them. Of course, she told herself, he would die—he was mortal, just as she was. The mind could not survive without the body....
The woman lifted her head, straitening her posture but feeling a weariness that seemed to transcend the mere physical—Dawn must have been approaching in that world of the Real. The woad bound ears pricked forward—there was a roar in the distance, and it was familiar. Her recollection of that meeting with HawkWind had already grown dull, and it was as if it had never happened at all. Somewhere, she felt that it was time to go. The white orbs looked down for the last time at the head with eyes dulled by Death. She thought of HawkWind, and she hoped that this were truly the end, that she had not failed him. And though she had only met him for that brief memory, she felt that somehow she owed that much to him, as if what had happened here were more important than herself. And to the woad warrior, it had been. She had been willing to die and perish in these lands, to be spiritually destroyed, for this mere dance between symbols and ideas, between strength and weakness. The corpse at her feet was the epitome of evil, but HawkWind had been good. With a brief bow, she left the Wraith Wolf behind, ascending the hill.
She did not know where this place was or how to return to that place in which she had entered this Dream. It was dangerously close to dawn, and she could feel it in her gut. She struggled to recall the places and names of that Real world, and, as the seconds crawled by, she was beginning to forget herself. The black, woad marked warrior stood at the pinnacle of the hill, her white gaze looking out over this strange marsh. Obsiden hummed in her hand, and she looked down, remembering it suddenly. Thrusting it into the earth, she relinquished her ownership of that black blade. Her ears grew deaf in the roar of that tide, and though she could not see it, she could feel it. Raising her maw, the warrior let out a low howl, her song of dark tones rising slowly in the air. It was upon that song that she returned, her eyes lifting to see the rising sun.
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The black beast was slain, and HawkWind felt his own consciousness begin dimming in time with the dying monster's. He observed her as he felt his life draining away, and saw her leave the site, beginning on her journey back to the realm of the living, of the waking. This place...it was a place of dreams, but also a place of death. It was no place for the waking, and no place for the living. And so it was that as she made her way out, he realized that she had made open a path for his own escape as well.
The disowned spirit emerged from that darkest nightmare with the shedding of those fell memories, and soon was forgetting them himself, as if in a dream. From his ethereal vantage point, he was able to observe the phenomenon more closely. It appeared to be some kind of memory well or vortex, a place where intent and shades of the past layered heavily over one another. In order to exist, the phenomenon had needed a lead actor, someone to fill the role of VoidFane, and that had been the first spirit to enter it--himself. It had not needed a second, he had been trapped in that place for many weeks before the black female had arrived, but it welcomed her as a plausible victim for the main character of the drama. The wolf whose spirit was now free had never been a scientist in thought or action, and so it was difficult for him to piece together how this bubble of other-life material had formed for a soul that no longer existed in any fashion whatever.
Very powerful spirits could sometimes project an aura of their own perception around them, he had seen another spirit do this around mortals before, creating visions, but had never been of sufficient ability himself. The idea of such a reality bubble forming in the absence of a projecting soul seemed...well, wrong, to him. Then again, spirits rarely died entirely, they were usually banished or ascended to one place or another. Maybe the actual destruction of this one had created a void, a vacuum which kept all of these experiences together even after the spirit's death? Or maybe his soul had simply been so potent that these residual memories took a long time to fade, and he'd been drawn into the whirlpool, circling the event horizon before sinking into nothing before the warrior had come and saved him.
The spirit smiled to himself. He remembered his old identity, now. It wasn't as dramatic as VoidFane or HawkWind's, but it suited him just fine. Maybe that woman's personal battle had been about symbols, some personal quest she'd had to undertake for herself, but he knew that--whether the rest of it was real or not--she had saved him. He faced where he thought he'd last seen her, and answered her bow with one of his own. He hoped that she had a good life after returning to the living. As for him, well, he was a lingering spirit, and he needed to get back to the unfinished business that was keeping him from his afterlife.
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