It was just before sunset when the dying light attempted to break through the clouds overhead. Moss covered the forest ground, carpeting the alpine forest with green and small flecks of white flowers. A gentle snow dusted the forest, halting abruptly midway through a clearing, as though it had run into an invisible wall. The scent of pine trees and wet dirt was thick on the air, almost welcoming would-be hikers to take a moment to enjoy the area.
To most, the scene might have been considered beautiful. To Zaren, it looked like an obvious trap. The moss allowed for silent steps and the snow obscured vision and adversely effected the mask’s ability to reveal heat signatures. Strong ambient scents also prevented any ability to potentially smell anything out of the norm.
The Blade didn’t like this. At all.
While the forest behind him was clear, the snowy section before him was unexplored. He didn’t need to see them to know they were there. It was a sensation that was difficult to describe, but he could feel that he wasn’t alone.
Zaren paused at the edge of the break in the trees, quickly surveying the area. It was when the air suddenly became frigid that he knew he was being approached.
Sitting upon a felled tree was an average sized Ascalonian man dressed in dark leathers. He had geared himself similarly to Zaren - or at least what he presumed Zaren would have. The Ascalonian’s graying locks were pulled back to keep his vision from being obscured and to make it easier to hide beneath the shadows of his hood.
“Reaper,” the man said, bowing his head to give respect more to the title than Zaren himself. He did not wear the mask that was uniform for the Order, so his smooth, low voice could easily be heard.
“Master Laren,” Zaren replied in return with the bow of his own head. He did, however, wear the oni mask. The enchantment on the item warped and distorted his voice into something otherworldly - almost a low growl.
“I must say, I did expect something like this,” Zaren said, lifting a hand to gesture to the area. “It was more a question of who it was that would come.”
The Ascalonian smirked. “Councilman Raynard sends his regards.”
“I am certain he does,” Zaren replied. The magic on the mask kept his voice steady and even, obscuring any irritation he might have had with the situation. “And he relies upon you to end me?”
“Not quite.” With a laugh, Laren stood up from the felled tree. “The Councilman wants to ensure that you remain capable, despite your grave injuries.” The Ascalonian took a few measured steps closer, hands lifted, “You are of no use and no threat if you have not rehabilitated yourself.” Laren regarded the masked Luxon briefly before continuing, “So no, I do not plan to kill you. Not outright. Instead, I propose a duel.”
Zaren tilted his head slightly, the dark eyes of the oni mask resting on the Ascalonian. “Do you?”
“I do,” Laren replied calmly. “To the death?” Zaren clarified. Laren nodded once. “Very well,” the Reaper replied.
“I presume that your allies shall remain at ease?” Zaren inquired.
“They shall,” Laren replied as he lifted his own mask to his face. As he spoke, his voice warped in much the same manner as Zaren’s. “This is between you and me.”
“Ominous,” Zaren said with a snort. Through the distortion of the mask, the sound came out as more of a low growl.
Without further preamble, Laren drew his sword from his scabbard and approached. In turn, Zaren drew his own blade- distinctly Canthan in design with a jade inlaid hilt. The choice of adornment was the only potential hint that the man beneath that mask was of Luxon descent.
The sound of metal colliding soon peppered the ever present howl of the wind against the treetops as the assassins engaged in their duel. Each attempted strike was met with a block here, a parry there. Both had dedicated their entire lives to pursuit of blood and steel and neither faltered despite the moss, rocks, and branches littering the area.
It wasn’t until Laren threw a knife with the flick of his left wrist that the flow of combat had been altered. Reflexively, Zaren yanked the sheath of his sword from his belt and spun to block the knife while counter attacking with his sword with a swift and sharp thrust. Laren leaned to the side to dodge it, but was not quick enough. The wickedly sharp edge of Zaren’s sword sliced through the Ascalonian’s armor and to the skin on his arm.
Laren stumbled back, expression beneath the mask twisting with irritation. The wound burned as the poison began to take its course. It wasn’t the standard hemotoxin of the Order - the one that those within had built an immunity to. This was something else, something that took hold almost immediately
“Unfortunate,” the Ascalonian observed as he swayed. Again, he moved to strike, though with far less grace. It was easily countered by Zaren, who stepped in closer to slam the hilt of his sword into Laren’s mask. Though it was technically armor, it was still a surface making hard contact against his face and it brought the man to his knees.
“Grenth be just,” Zaren murmured as his blade swiftly severed the other man’s head from his neck.
Victorious, the Reaper shook the blood from his sword in a sharp circular motion with a snap at the end. Zaren raised his voice to call to the forest where he knew the others were hiding, “Tell Councilman Raynard to ensure that my seat at the head of the council is prepared for my arrival.”
With that, Zaren knelt beside the beheaded body and retrieved the mask from the ground beside it. He then took time to give Laren a proper burial. They had been enemies, but the man died with honor.
