The young Sea Wolf, exhausted from the long trek up the mountain and back, stumbled his way back into the darkness of his fishing village that night. The bloodstained axe on his back felt like a lead weight dragging him down to the Seventh Hell keeping him from floating away in elation.
This was it. He'd done what he'd been asked to do - what he'd been born, raised to do. It was just one man. He hadn't even put up a fight. One old man, practically wasting away in the mountainous wilderness.
Why did he feel so hateful joyous? Rounding the corner to the village square, the other roegadyn of the village all lit their torches simultaneously, and a great cheer went up from those hidden as they flooded from the buildings and alleys for their chosen savior.
He smiled, wide and cheery, as he was surrounded. Congratulated. He'd done it. He'd rid the world of the horrible, rotten bastard that had plagued them all for so long. Caused them all so much suffering!
Now, he could rest. He need never kill fight again.
They hadn't expected the wolf to return with an appetite. A desire for the harvest to continue, unending and savage.
And what better than the liars caretakers who had spent so long using him?
Thus, he was herald to his own change. His new age. His new beginning.
In the dead of night, as all slept from the celebration and under the empty, black sky of the new moon, Zirnaren began to bar the doors of the village hall before he took it to the torch, his face an ugly knowing smirk.
Bringer of fire.
(Evening Fist) Evening was kneeling by a rather grisly sight. Dead in cold blood, presumably. And he didn't like WHERE, either. He'd come to this place out of...some misguided sense of nostalgia, for a fight hard won. And here was a dead monk. "Last time I was here, killed one'a'y'buggers on this spot...seems lightnin' likes to strike twice..." He got to his feet, rolling his shoulders as goggled eyes looked up to the raining sky. "...hrm." He took a few cautious steps away from the body...he didn't want to be victim to that exploding corpse trick a second time.
(Gunnar Bloodblade) Out of the curtains of rain he came; first a vague sweeping, then a silhouette, and then a phantom. As he drew nearer his form grew clear -- Gunnar, soaked to the skin in his usual tunic, traipsing about without the pretense of his bodyguard. His arrival was far, -far- too convenient. His silver eye dropped down to the body, and then looked up at evening. "...ah."
(Evening Fist) The roegadyn looked over towards Gunnar's almost trepidatious-looking arrival. But he knew better. This man was a deadly weapon, and then some. "Well ain't this awful fuckin' funny. I go back to where y'last sent a monk to kill me, and what do I find but another dead monk. See, last time I wasn't worried; was just business, after all. But I learned real quick it ain't ever that simple." He turned fully to face the aging highlander, resting a hand on the eastern blade on his left hip."Catch y'at a bad time?"
(Gunnar Bloodblade) He inclined his head at the man. As ever there was a deadly calm to him -- though his usual secure smugness was absent. He was here on business, it seemed. "So it wasn't you who did this, then..." He murmured, "I suppose that's a relief. It would be a waste to have to kill you here, I rather enjoy you." His chin tipped down at the corpse, "That's one of mine. He was supposed to report to me a bell ago. Unfortunately he's not been the first. In fact -- he's about the twentieth. My men are being slaughtered."
(Evening Fist) "Damn shame, that. I'd reckon they deserve it, servin' a man like you are. Now, much as y'know I ain't your biggest fan, best we can do is be civil. So. I'll be civil." He raised a hand, placatingly. "Though I ain't gonna get into how you wouldn't find me the pushover I was last...time." A pause, first. A realization, second. "Y'ain't walkin' around without a bodyguard? Dangerous for a man yer age, Gunnar."
(Gunnar Bloodblade) There it was. That smug confidence that translated into a half-lidded sneer on his lined face. "What, will I have to push slightly harder now?" He jeered, "That aside, if civility is what you want, I will respect it." He drew closer, his frame like oil on polished tile. His interest seemed more in the body than Evening's proximity. "Bodyguards tend to get in the way if something happens. They're so -slow-. Good for show only."
(Evening Fist) "Don't think you got a hard enough push." He takes another step back, gesturing with a sweeping hand to the body as if to say 'be my guest', while he strolled around it, keeping the body between him and Gunnar. "Any clue what did him in? Couldn't see any identifyin' marks. Seven hells, I even thought it was YOUR doin'." Evening's tone turned slightly jeering, at that. "It gettin' under your skin?" He was, truthfully, anything BUT civil.
(Gunnar Bloodblade) Gunnar adjusted his tunic and sat to inspect the corpse. Battered, as was the wont of any man who fought fist to fist...but no particular intentifier regarding -who- did the battering...though by the look on his face, he seemed to have a clue. "I have recently lost custody of a rather petulant...guest. I can only assume this is his doing. It would seem he aims to erase my forces in entirety. An...effective and irritating tactic, so I suppose yes, it's getting under my skin a little. I don't enjoy having my assets destroyed." His eye flicked up to evening, "I don't suppose I could interest you in a contract? What with your -alleged- improvement and all."
(Evening Fist) Evening stared. "...I'll at the very least be polite enough to hear y'out, but don't expect anything pleasant, warnin' you now."
(Gunnar Bloodblade) The old man took some time to bite down on his finger -- it drew blood, and like a diligent child he made smeared red markings upon the corpse -- markings that the rain did not seem to erase. "I'd like a man and his family killed. Four men in total -- and their house burned. They live within the Goblet, so you'd have to be discreet."
(Evening Fist) "An' what, in the flamin', deepest depths of the seven hells, could you POSSIBLY give me to convince me to do that."
(Gunnar Bloodblade) The old man stood and licked his finger clean -- the wound was gone. "I don't know. What do you want?"
(Evening Fist) "I want a lotta things, Gunnar. I want outta this rain. I wanna keep buildin' myself up, be one of the best damn samurai all of Eorzea ever did see. You dead, but that's obviously not on the list. So I want a lotta things, Gunnar. 'n iffin' I'm bein' honest? I don't think you can give me a damn thing I want."
(Gunnar Bloodblade) He huffed a chuckle. "I see. Unfortunate." He brought his hands together as he glanced down at the body, "I think you'll probably come around someday...but I won't push for that today." With a blast of smoke, the corpse was gone. When he looked back up at Evening, it was with a very, -very- pleasant and warm smile. "I won't force the issue -- I've things of my own to attend. With this business done, I can afford myself some leisure. Namely, partake in the holiday activities. It's one of my favourites, you know. All the little ladies, seeking out brave and true Seneschals." The pleasant smile transposed only slightly -- but somehow the subtle motion gave birth to an expression most unsavoury, "...and I do so very much enjoy obliging."
(Evening Fist) He stared him down. The stare didn't falter, even as the body disappeared, even as those disgusting, foul words rolled out of his mouth like poisonous gas. He was calm. Was it time, he wondered. Was it worth it, he mused. Aim true, ye vengeful. "You're a sick man, Gunnar. A greedy, poisonous man. You treat men 'n women like stepping stones 'n the world like it's your favorite ball of yarn. An' I'm sick of obliging that. Make peace with whatever god you're beholden to - you're about to meet 'em."
(Evening Fist) He wasted no time once he was finished speaking, his right hand flew to his blade's hilt, drawing it and slicing in one motion, the very air frosting before the blade's path as he slid towards Gunnar; one smooth motion. One cut. He knew he could do it. He'd behead this bastard and they'd all be done with it. No bodies to swap to, no shadows to trick him - he could end it here.
(Gunnar Bloodblade) The bastard didn't even -flinch-. He looked forward blandly and raised a pair of pinching fingers, ready to intercept as if he was about to capture a wayward piece of paper. Something at the last second riled his caution, however -- a shocked stare flung across to the Roegadyn, and with a quick flick of his hand he presented one of a pair of khanjars in his defense. While it was enough to have him keep his head, the clash of steel wasn't nearly enough to stop the gash in his chest from opening up. It was raw, bloody, and left a splattering trail as the man flung back into the tree behind him. No shadows. No way to run. He sat slumped there, his tunic reddened. "...ah."
(Evening Fist) Just as quickly as he'd drawn, he whipped the blood off the blade with a smooth flick and drew the blade back, running his hand along it. "This ends." Surging forward as if borne on the wind, his blade wreathed in aetheric energy, he aimed to simply jab the blade through Gunnar's forehead, the air whistling behind him. Evening's true calling had evidently not been the axe. But even as he rushed forward with the force of a tidal wave, he had to wonder; would it be enough?
(Gunnar Bloodblade) Gunnar grunted -- he wasn't afforded time, and was left no choice. There was irritation there, but the necessity of survival left him little choice. The blade struck his forehead and sliced at the eyepatch. The leather fell away, but his flesh may as well have been cermet. The blade did not penetrate at all. As the patch uncovered his other, closed eye it was evident that there was...nothing wrong with it. The structure of his brow and cheekbone had spared the eye itself from being cut by whatever had left that nasty scar. Slowly, he opened it to offer a binocular silver gaze toward the Roegadyn. Aether -welled- from him. Waves of it -- bands of it, it -radiated- from the man like light and heat would off the sun. Thirteen brilliant seats of it roared and roiled, even as the blood gushing from him suddenly crystallised. Crystals began forming from the tree, in the land, and even hung in the air around them. "You want me to make peace with my God?" He murmured. The man stood, his presence oppressive despite his much smaller stature. "I -am- my God. And yours." A slight smile. "Will you bow, run, or die?"
(Evening Fist) He took one step back as Gunnar rose, blade still at the ready. The shockwave that had travelled up his arms from his blade clashing with the cermet-like skin had been nothing compared to the feeling the aetheric waves rolling off of Gunnar gave him. Another step back, though it was not a retreat - he needed space. Think. He could hardly think, with that overbearing presence, weighing on him. For the first time in a long time, Zirnaren Skarnbhalnsyn felt fear. Though it was not for himself he feared, but for another. Many others. How confident was he, in his skills? In his abilities? Did he fight here and perish? What example would that serve? A forgotten corpse, likely used against his will. 'Aim true, ye vengeful' he had thought. He HAD, and it wasn't enough. The aetheric energies had yet to dissipate from his blade however, as he affixed Gunnar with a steely gaze. "I don't bow to madmen." He had an idea. And it involved speed, and precision. With a stubborn grunt, he resolved, inwardly...-aim better-. He whipped back in, slicing for Gunnar's left arm - he didn't seem to care if he hit or not, as he immediately withdrew the blade and came in for his right. Again. And again. And again. Cermet skin be damned, he would strike.
(Evening Fist) Left, right, left, right, stab, left, right...
(Gunnar Bloodblade) Gunnar...disregarded him. It was the ultimate show of disrespect; the old man set his attention to idle on some odd shrub in the distance as those strikes came. It turned out that the floating hunks of blue, glittering crystal that had formed around him were no random anomalies. One instantly intercepted the strike. Its form bucked, crackled and ground into a vague shape that shattered before the blade. The next did the same -- and the next, and the one after that. It was about the fourth or fifth one that truly showed the shape the crystals were taking. Small arms, slight torsos, round faces with vague crags for features. Children. They took the shape of children that leapt before each strike to take the blow for him. The aether about him diminished, but the difference was slight. Slight...but not negligible. Even as he paid attention to the shrubbery, Gunnar reached up and broke off a chunk of that crystalline blood from his chest, red and glimmering. It crackled and extended to a long blade...a blade that he simply held in waiting until the next strike...then unleashed with a lazy flick in the general direction of Evening's torso.
(Evening Fist) His blows were furious, yet not frantic - he was utter calm, embodied both in his arm, and the extension of it in his blade. Making leeway. Albeit too slowly for his liking. His eyes behind the goggles flicked to the display of crystalline blood even as he continued the assault, before he whirled about to face it - there was no time. Falling backwards, he used his blade to prop himself up as he practically limboed under the bloody crystal, which sheared narrowly past his face. Close enough he could make out the whorls and patterns in the blood. Launching himself to his feet and a few yalms away, a lock of white-blonde hair drifted down between them. If that had connected, Evening realized darkly...but he was making headway. Very, very slow headway. Tightening the grip on his blade, he spoke, some distance away. "What, still makin' others take the blows for you? What happened to that skin-trick y'had goin'?" Regardless, it was clear that while Evening Fist had his own strength, his wellspring of aether paled in comparison to Gunnar's sheer, endless expanse. This could very well be a battle of attrition. And Gunnar would win.
(Gunnar Bloodblade) Gunnar was silent as he held the blade out in the follow-through of the motion. It crumbled and shattered into brown scab-like flakes. He reached to his chest again, but to remove the torn tunic. The injury from where he had prised his self-forged blade was nowhere to be seen. "I'm not one to abandon caution to power. You know as well as I do that you tailored those strikes to cut through even that." He sighed, "I am -fond- of you, Evening. Very much so. It would sadden me to erase you before you can truly see your grand place in this world. Will you not stand down?"
(Evening Fist) The grip on his blade tightened. Evening Fist wondered if he alone could truly make any headway. But, deep inside...Zirnaren had a plan. "Sixty ticks. You give me sixty ticks to prove to you you're not as godly as you think. And at the end of those sixty ticks? What happens is up to history." He took a step back and held his blade aloft, allowing the tip of it to drop into his now outstretched left hand. "You wanna show me my 'grand place', Gunnar? You got sixty ticks to do it."
(Evening Fist) "You ready?"
(Gunnar Bloodblade) Gunnar did something that many had not yet seen him do; the old man raised his fists. "Don't think to highly of yourself. I needn't be anything near as Godly to deal with the likes of you. But I'll take your challenge. Come."
(Evening Fist) He returned his blade to his two-handed grip, having conserved his energy...what little he had left. "In sixty seconds, you'll change your tune." Evening was calm. He had to stay calm. Once more he surged forward, another attempt, another flurry of blows - each strike precise in equal measure.
(Gunnar Bloodblade) The old bastard was -fast-. Even with his bare hands he parried the blade with the back of his hand and his forearms -- though he did well to dodge the -stabs-. Those he seemed particularly wary of. That confident, smug grin was there, growing nastier by the moment -- and then, a twist of Evening's blade caught him off guard. His forearm parried it at the wrong angle...and a red line drew upon it at once. Blood flowed in thin lines, and the old man frowned. Still, it didn't stop his tempo. With a flick of his arm the blood extended to a crystallised pata, the blade of which wrapped around his fist for a stabbing strike toward the larger man's gut.
(Evening Fist) Zirnaren made mental notes. What worked, what didn't. Fast was -right-. But he could manage fast. It was those damn blood weapons that threw him for a loop, and he was immediately on the defensive, swinging his blade down and to the side, pushing against the bloody blade and stepping back in the same motion. Gunnar could afford as many blows as he wanted. Evening couldn't afford one. But Gunnar and Evening would both feel it - each strike of his blade, however true, was minutely weaker. He was flagging. So it was Evening brought his plan to fruition - a quick strike to his cermet-skinned left arm, dead on. No chance of cutting. Another. Another. Each blow caused him to reel back harder, the recoil evidently getting to him, his hands beginning to shake. But something changed - on his last blow, he changed the trajectory - ever so slightly - to sweep past Gunnar's arm and into a drawing position, whereupon he once more sliced out in one smooth motion. Only this time, he aimed for Gunnar's elbow. Regardless of whether his strike connected, followed through, whatever - as soon as he'd met his mark (or surpassed it, as was his hope), all the energy from his blade faded, and he was left with his master's sword once again. Sixty ticks were up.
(Gunnar Bloodblade) Gunnar seemed...entertained at first, to say the least. The blood pata shattered easily, and he laughed as the blows glanced off of his skin. "Losing your touch, I think!" He jeered. And then came that slice. He'd been in the middle of a retaliating punch -- the blade swept his arm wide and arced -right- through the elbow. While it didn't entirely sever the arm, it sure as hells left it hanging by a thread. The old man's eyes went wide with shock...just as a massive, fanning burst of aether and blood erupted from the wound. It immediately crystallized into a macabre pattern of red and blue -- almost like a wing. Shock had given way to fury, and that silver stare displayed killing intent. The crystalline formation from his wound crackled and molded into the shape of a man -- Gunnar himself. It rumbled, cracked and snapped in Evening's direction, seemingly intent on seizing the Roegadyn by his throat.
(Evening Fist) Plan worked. Time for a quick escape. With his last gasps of aether he launched himself backward with another swing - no intent to hit anything, simply relying on the force to send him flying backwards and out of reach of those grabbing, crystalline hands. Sliding to a halt many yalms away, he kept his blade at the ready, even as he began to back up. This was information. THIS was his weapon. And if he died here, now...no one would ever know. So for once, he skipped the jeers. He skipped the retaliatory taunt; he simply turned and was off, launching himself ten yalms forward at a time, zigzagging out of the Wellwick woods as fast as his last sparks of aether could take him per leap.
(Gunnar Bloodblade) ...He had been had. Fury flickered on his face -- all the remaining hunks of crystal around him mirrored it, twisting and cracking into silently roaring visages of rage...and then they stopped. With a few deep breaths, the old man stood straight and allowed the crystals to return to him. It was a slow process -- perhaps painful by the way he winced at intervals. For certain there was much -less- than he had started off with. The glittering blue formed a cast around his arm that sank in and left it as good as new...or so he thought. Eventually the man was left standing there, staring. "Impressive," He murmured, "Exilarating. Infuriating. Frightening. Erotic. Very well." And so, the madman stopped to gather his bloodied tunic and his damaged eyepatch. He would need to recover. Perhaps not physically, but the unstable slate of his already twisted mind had been shaken...and it would take time for it to settle again.
Ah yes, another not-ominous conversation.
Okay, okay, it wasn’t ominous but it sure was depressing. At the very least Evening helped Shizu out with some issues.
Not that he helped himself with any of his own while doing so, mind you. WHOOPS.
