Ash 16th, 4619
Two figures stood there in an intricate throne room, posing as if they were fighting each other. On each side of the room were racks of weapons for each competitor. A row of spears, a couple of mace-ax’s, a rack of battle axes and their signature weapon; two daggers within the hands of their figures. They appeared to be in freeze frame for a moment, posing in various combat stances.
They wore elaborate golden masks, encrusted with feminine faces. Additionally, they had adornments that would differentiate the wearer. The competitor on the left wore a mask engraved with a sun on the forehead, followed by black engravings across the eyes, highlighting the eyelashes. The competitor on the right had similar features, but engraved with a moon on the forehead of their mask.
Dahlia would enter the room and circle the two warriors who were being tested in some kind of trial. She circled the two challengers who were prepared; they remained poised in action as she took a look at them before establishing the rules of the game “You must perform at your best, the rules are; perform at your best. This is a test of your strengths and your courage. To back down from this challenge, is to bring ruin upon yourself in this order.” She would explain as the two warriors remained in their stances as they would stare at each other.
It was almost in comparison to the Mnathan na Madainn on the outskirts of Lyonesse. Perhaps this was a homage to the occasion. Dahlia would take her seat on the throne and watch as she stared at the two anonymous opponents one by one, wondering who was who. Firstly, who was going to be her winning champion? It would only be a matter of time before someone was crowned.
She clapped twice, initiating the sequence as the two warriors turned around, facing away from each other in hopes of achieving a fair fight. Both of them prepared to be staring away, preparing for their first strike. They appeared to be stoic and confident, but their true expressions were hidden by metallic masks.
Dahlia would raise her head and cross her legs, watching the two warriors who were in elegant positioning, before speaking in Gentevarese “Begin!”
The two warriors would begin at war with each other. The intense parrying of their daggers and the clinking sounds of metal would begin as the moon-masked figure would enact aggressively. A big mistake on his behalf, since the sun-masked fellow was already in a defensive stance as he parried each blade strike. Yet, he was gaining on him; until he let his guard down after missing a rather fatal stabbing.
The sun-masked fellow back-handed the moon-masked fellow, watching him get stunned by the sudden weight of force that he had inflicted. Taken back, he turned around, stumbled enough for the other masked fellow to grab him and initiate a takedown, only to be interrupted by a high kick to the face.
With a stepback; the vicious cycle of parrying would continue; their gazes locked on each other with aggression.
Another episode of battle between the two as Dahlia watched; smiling at them both. It appeared she was impressed by the competition between the two as she whispered to the bodyguard beside her “Impressive, I must say our new initiate has been… Interesting…”
“He has no background in Daravin; just a mere slave boy…”
“I see… And Brazim chose… This…” She uttered with disgust as she continued to watch them both struggle, fighting until one was tripped up. The one with the moon mask.
“Brazim is a fool…” She uttered ungratefully as if she had forgotten who blessed her with such beauty and the ability to do what she wants. “A weak, malignant fool… We must rise for a better cause…” She continued as she looked over at the man who fell and glared at him, before clapping with everyone else.
The first round was over.
The moon had been defeated and yet he sat up to his opponent, still on the floor; he looked at his opponent as he unveiled his mask over his head; looking his opponent in the eyes as the other followed up with revealing his own face.
“Salen… Why don’t you put your mask back on… You’ll scar that pretty face of yours.”
Provoked by what his opponent had said; Salen used the force of his hands, pushing them against the floor and lifted his legs up in the air, before pushing forth, lifting his body upwards and landing his feet on the floor; managing to get into an upright position again. He picked up his daggers, pirouetting and swirling them in his fingers with vicious and fine dexterity.
He readied into an aggressive stance, pointing his daggers towards his opponent’s direction as the musicians began playing the drums; a sign that things were getting intense between the two opponents. The other male seemed panicked, only this time he chose to take the initiative in starting.
Salen struggled with each parry as the strength of the other opponent was relentless; his look appeared to be taunting him as he smirked at him. There it was, the cocksure attitude that lingered within his opponent as Salen defended himself as best as he could. His opponent disarmed one dagger out of Salen’s hand. In shock, he gasped as the other dagger was knocked out of his hand.
Salen retaliated as he cartwheeled, kicking his opponent in his face; he continued to handspring across to the other side of the room towards the wrack of weaponry. He chose to somersault upwards towards the battle-axe on the wall. As he landed, he looked at his opponent with malicious intent; the narrowness of his eyes was obvious that he didn’t take lightly to the situation at hand. They were competitors, enemies at heart; intense rivals with a burden to bear.
A burden to show strength, courage and dignity.
The other opponent stopped for a moment as they stared at each other intensely as the other male threw his daggers towards two golden statues; they landed between the visages of the nether regions. Afterwards, he handsprings towards the weapon racks at the opposite end of the room and picks out a spear from one of the racks.
Salen unhooks the axe from the mounting frame on the wall and somersaults backwards, landing perfectly on his own two feet with such grace. He tested the weight of the axe; which appeared to be slightly out of proportion to his own capabilities; but still he bore it with dignity.
The way Dahlia watched Salen; it was almost as if she was impressed by his resilience to keep going. Her eyes widened; it felt like she became obsessed with him. She tilted her head as she whispered to her bodyguard again “He doesn’t give up does he?”
“What can you expect from someone who’s been through hell all their lives.”
“I don’t care about their life… I only care for my cause… I shall be the usurper of power; once I release Brazim… I will take his rightful throne.” She uttered.
“Indeed, you will…”
Dahlia’s gaze dwindled right between the two warriors who had begun initiating their aggressive stances and parrying between axe and spear. Salen swung aggressively as his opponent used the spear to block the bludgeoning axe attack; it then became a struggle to swing the axe as it was heavier than Salen had anticipated.
The spear-wielding opponent however appeared to be reveling in the struggle; looking for weaknesses to pinpoint for him as he parried intensely; until Salen had been disarmed. Eventually he swings the spear aggressively as Salen would try to grab it from his hand and struggle with it.
He was eventually thrown over the man’s shoulder and subdued. He held the spear against Salen as he grinned. The heavy breathing between the two was the signifier that it was an intense fight.
Salen had lost, but it wasn’t about losing or winning.
It was about strength.
“I see you’re getting better, Salen… I might have to watch my back…” The opponent had explained in a haughty tone.
“As I will…” He uttered in a more confrontational way as if he was ungrateful for his loss. He knew if that was a real fight, he would’ve been dead.
The opponent offered to help him up, but Salen refused his hand and got up himself on his own accord. Dahlia clapped as she approached Salen, smiling; although it was alot more chameleon-like than her genuine service of gratitude.
“You’ve done well… You may rest…”
Salen nodded.
He had been bruised, beaten and tested by the many traditions of Dahlia’s sect. Now it was time to be his own man. He may have lost, but there was no point on dwelling on losses of the past.
Salen had a future to build.
Or so he thought.
Two figures stood there in an intricate throne room, posing as if they were fighting each other. On each side of the room were racks of weapons for each competitor. A row of spears, a couple of mace-ax’s, a rack of battle axes and their signature weapon; two daggers within the hands of their figures. They appeared to be in freeze frame for a moment, posing in various combat stances.
They wore elaborate golden masks, encrusted with feminine faces. Additionally, they had adornments that would differentiate the wearer. The competitor on the left wore a mask engraved with a sun on the forehead, followed by black engravings across the eyes, highlighting the eyelashes. The competitor on the right had similar features, but engraved with a moon on the forehead of their mask.
Dahlia would enter the room and circle the two warriors who were being tested in some kind of trial. She circled the two challengers who were prepared; they remained poised in action as she took a look at them before establishing the rules of the game “You must perform at your best, the rules are; perform at your best. This is a test of your strengths and your courage. To back down from this challenge, is to bring ruin upon yourself in this order.” She would explain as the two warriors remained in their stances as they would stare at each other.
It was almost in comparison to the Mnathan na Madainn on the outskirts of Lyonesse. Perhaps this was a homage to the occasion. Dahlia would take her seat on the throne and watch as she stared at the two anonymous opponents one by one, wondering who was who. Firstly, who was going to be her winning champion? It would only be a matter of time before someone was crowned.
She clapped twice, initiating the sequence as the two warriors turned around, facing away from each other in hopes of achieving a fair fight. Both of them prepared to be staring away, preparing for their first strike. They appeared to be stoic and confident, but their true expressions were hidden by metallic masks.
Dahlia would raise her head and cross her legs, watching the two warriors who were in elegant positioning, before speaking in Gentevarese “Begin!”
The two warriors would begin at war with each other. The intense parrying of their daggers and the clinking sounds of metal would begin as the moon-masked figure would enact aggressively. A big mistake on his behalf, since the sun-masked fellow was already in a defensive stance as he parried each blade strike. Yet, he was gaining on him; until he let his guard down after missing a rather fatal stabbing.
The sun-masked fellow back-handed the moon-masked fellow, watching him get stunned by the sudden weight of force that he had inflicted. Taken back, he turned around, stumbled enough for the other masked fellow to grab him and initiate a takedown, only to be interrupted by a high kick to the face.
With a stepback; the vicious cycle of parrying would continue; their gazes locked on each other with aggression.
Another episode of battle between the two as Dahlia watched; smiling at them both. It appeared she was impressed by the competition between the two as she whispered to the bodyguard beside her “Impressive, I must say our new initiate has been… Interesting…”
“He has no background in Daravin; just a mere slave boy…”
“I see… And Brazim chose… This…” She uttered with disgust as she continued to watch them both struggle, fighting until one was tripped up. The one with the moon mask.
“Brazim is a fool…” She uttered ungratefully as if she had forgotten who blessed her with such beauty and the ability to do what she wants. “A weak, malignant fool… We must rise for a better cause…” She continued as she looked over at the man who fell and glared at him, before clapping with everyone else.
The first round was over.
The moon had been defeated and yet he sat up to his opponent, still on the floor; he looked at his opponent as he unveiled his mask over his head; looking his opponent in the eyes as the other followed up with revealing his own face.
“Salen… Why don’t you put your mask back on… You’ll scar that pretty face of yours.”
Provoked by what his opponent had said; Salen used the force of his hands, pushing them against the floor and lifted his legs up in the air, before pushing forth, lifting his body upwards and landing his feet on the floor; managing to get into an upright position again. He picked up his daggers, pirouetting and swirling them in his fingers with vicious and fine dexterity.
He readied into an aggressive stance, pointing his daggers towards his opponent’s direction as the musicians began playing the drums; a sign that things were getting intense between the two opponents. The other male seemed panicked, only this time he chose to take the initiative in starting.
Salen struggled with each parry as the strength of the other opponent was relentless; his look appeared to be taunting him as he smirked at him. There it was, the cocksure attitude that lingered within his opponent as Salen defended himself as best as he could. His opponent disarmed one dagger out of Salen’s hand. In shock, he gasped as the other dagger was knocked out of his hand.
Salen retaliated as he cartwheeled, kicking his opponent in his face; he continued to handspring across to the other side of the room towards the wrack of weaponry. He chose to somersault upwards towards the battle-axe on the wall. As he landed, he looked at his opponent with malicious intent; the narrowness of his eyes was obvious that he didn’t take lightly to the situation at hand. They were competitors, enemies at heart; intense rivals with a burden to bear.
A burden to show strength, courage and dignity.
The other opponent stopped for a moment as they stared at each other intensely as the other male threw his daggers towards two golden statues; they landed between the visages of the nether regions. Afterwards, he handsprings towards the weapon racks at the opposite end of the room and picks out a spear from one of the racks.
Salen unhooks the axe from the mounting frame on the wall and somersaults backwards, landing perfectly on his own two feet with such grace. He tested the weight of the axe; which appeared to be slightly out of proportion to his own capabilities; but still he bore it with dignity.
The way Dahlia watched Salen; it was almost as if she was impressed by his resilience to keep going. Her eyes widened; it felt like she became obsessed with him. She tilted her head as she whispered to her bodyguard again “He doesn’t give up does he?”
“What can you expect from someone who’s been through hell all their lives.”
“I don’t care about their life… I only care for my cause… I shall be the usurper of power; once I release Brazim… I will take his rightful throne.” She uttered.
“Indeed, you will…”
Dahlia’s gaze dwindled right between the two warriors who had begun initiating their aggressive stances and parrying between axe and spear. Salen swung aggressively as his opponent used the spear to block the bludgeoning axe attack; it then became a struggle to swing the axe as it was heavier than Salen had anticipated.
The spear-wielding opponent however appeared to be reveling in the struggle; looking for weaknesses to pinpoint for him as he parried intensely; until Salen had been disarmed. Eventually he swings the spear aggressively as Salen would try to grab it from his hand and struggle with it.
He was eventually thrown over the man’s shoulder and subdued. He held the spear against Salen as he grinned. The heavy breathing between the two was the signifier that it was an intense fight.
Salen had lost, but it wasn’t about losing or winning.
It was about strength.
“I see you’re getting better, Salen… I might have to watch my back…” The opponent had explained in a haughty tone.
“As I will…” He uttered in a more confrontational way as if he was ungrateful for his loss. He knew if that was a real fight, he would’ve been dead.
The opponent offered to help him up, but Salen refused his hand and got up himself on his own accord. Dahlia clapped as she approached Salen, smiling; although it was alot more chameleon-like than her genuine service of gratitude.
“You’ve done well… You may rest…”
Salen nodded.
He had been bruised, beaten and tested by the many traditions of Dahlia’s sect. Now it was time to be his own man. He may have lost, but there was no point on dwelling on losses of the past.
Salen had a future to build.
Or so he thought.
