Duel:Caedan v Quinton
Quinton stands headstrong and some distance from his so-called sister, folded arms and stalwart gaze daring not betray this faux-unbiased demeanor concocted. Uncharacteristically comes forth a deep bow; all-the-while, arms unfold and upon return to grace, that legend of a blade's sturdy steel hilt is firmly gripped. Emerald optics tighten so as to ascertain opponent's posture and with a great bellowing shriek, Hellfire slides from scabbard to sight in a most terrific display of famed might. This veritable claymore has cast upon its form an onslaught of hieroglyphic-esque imagery; a dauntless lion and its mane glows golden and beneath it, a vigorous dragon and its presence bleeds incarnadine. Lastly and nearest the tip of this beast, there is shimmering with divine wrath the depiction of a sinister demon, perhaps one final mark in likeness to the late Halycanos; within the picture a sneering smirk comes upon illustrated pallid lips. Thunderous screeching reverberates throughout the surrounding land from sword to night sky and at once and at last, Navarre rushes forward though at first wayward, trying as he may to support his inheritence despite a lanky stature when suddenly, as another great cry emanates now from the Catalian, Hellfire is truly unleashed. Fiery indignation spreads as though a freakish spark of undeath was cast 'pon the hilt and much to Quinton's chagrin, a torrent of flames engulfs not only the sword but some noteworthy measure away from it as well. In this outrage by the imprisoned spirits within, the boyish rogue cannot resist being taken entirely with its ways and, now a slave to its ugly will, a gallant leap into the air is taken whilst a crazed number of meters toward Caedan is traversed -- no distance to be accomplished without otherworldly aid Shrieking fearfulness envelopes a man helpless in his tainted steel's yearn to destroy; Hellfire high above his skull and thrust downward at a rapid pace, Quinton unwillingly descends upon his beloved, roaring fires seeking flesh to incinerate nigh-mindlessly and sever perfectly a troubled girl in two.
Caedan stands as she is, clad in boots -- for once -- to avoid the rough terrain of the cobblestone way that connects a popular tavern to the store just to the south. She's smiling today, perhaps anticipating the lesson her brother has promised her, and when Hellfire is unleashed from its sheath, Fallen Dream soon is released from its position against her back and grasped firmly in capable hands. Her grin widens when Quinton comes charging forth, and she falls into a defensive position, as she has been taught by the Catalian himself. However, Fallen Dream trembles within her grasp, and once Hellfire erupts into flame, it calls out immediately, the intensity rivaling a banshee's shriek. Caedan catches her breath at the sight, only momentarily distracted when her own brand begins to spew shadows from the shrouded blade, pouring onto the ground and tainting the area around them as if to cause the two to walk upon a macabre cloud of its creation. Still defensive, she is prepared to deflect the mighty sword, even as the heat is felt, singing brows and hair alike; but Fallen Dream has chosen to react to Hellfire's own manifestation of dominance, and in it's wicked challenge, physically pulls Caedan forward to meet the attack offensively. The swords clash, the sound reverberating around the perimeter and echoing throughout the atmosphere around them. The teen is forced back as superior strength causes her to bend to Hellfire. The sword descends, and instead of striking her in two, her stumble causes her to only sustain a most horrific gash upon her shoulder, descending to her sternum. Fallen Dream hisses angrily, and begins to pull a wounded Caedan forward. Shadows still spill from the blade and churn towards Quinton, hoping to unbalance him by the tumultous waves they create around him. Another shriek is issued from the sword, and Caedan is forced to swiftly move forward, dropping low at the last minute into the swarming darkness to execute a horizontal swipe at the Catalian's knees in hope to sever him in two before he realizes her -- Fallen Dream's -- course of action.
Quinton is quite taken with retracting Hellfire from its extended outreach and as such, fails to escape a great bit of the incoming waves, which dance about his midsection and leggings and force the lad downward despite much in the way of fancy, artistic movements in a bid to escape their latching essence. As Caedan lunges from below, so too does her brother fall into her unintentionally -- and as such, both bodies slam violently into one-another. Of Fallen Dream's malicious intent, it does indeed scrape the very skin from Quinton's kneecaps and so vitae spills from drained legs now trembling from the pain. From this fall and the anguished cry squealing profoundly, a sudden roll away from his sister across blood-soaked grass commences, haphazard and rambunctious. A quick leap into the air is made as physical fights incorporeal blackness to escape the shadows; feet slam into the earth, no doubt causing terrible distress to the above wounds. In this action, the sword is shoved into the dirt, sending shockwaves of growing strength as residual imagery recalls the tremendous might of Hellfire's wrath; visual echoes radiate like crystal-clear imprints into thin air whilst the very ground shakes uncontrollably and stray shadow arts are dispelled. A ninety degree angle is taken with the dominated boy; the earth beneath Caedan crumbles and caves inward, its location the demon's target as a quake erupts. A sudden flip to the side and a somersault wayward takes shape; in a flurry of sidesteps and calculated leaps to and fro, he approaches like a starved wolf, emerald optics now taking to them a bloodshot shade. Hellfire falls to a single grip and yet somehow, Quinton Navarre maintains complete balance one-handedly; flames grow in splendor and waves of oscillating clarity pound all the stronger as a swing from top left to bottom right is taken. A fire remains in this motion, burning ever still completely in place and then a second slash straight through in the opposite direction; a scorching 'x' is then willed forth to the girl with but a free hand's extension and a gentle blowing from parched lips. In its incoming force and the combined terror of the ground giving in, a quick and final, decisive sidestep is taken and with a twirl around to Caedan's side, Quinton swings around and closes the distance so as to have the sword veer toward her back in its heavy cleave, closing off both forward and backward escape routes from the ensemble.
Caedan 's jaw is agape as her sword would bring so much destruction upon he whom she would protect above all others, he who had saved her from a fate worse than death ... worse than the madness she now endures. That insanity is offset by the sword -- the gift, the curse -- and she finds herself unfortunately lucid, lucid enough to realize the harm she ... the sword ... is doing. Fallen Dream continues to tremble in rage, spewing forth shadows like vomit, even as the ground quakes beneath her. Footing is lost immediately, accentuated by Quinton's tumbling into her, and she goes down; the sword drags her back up, willing the girl to stand and face the oncoming inferno that seeks to scar her most grotesquely. Ever aware, the psychic understands the danger posed in an instant. Quinton is seen speeding towards her, Hellfire is seen brandished, posed to possibly sever her spine. And all Fallen Dream wishes to do is confront that blasted claymore. The entirety of the girl's will is invoked to delay the sword's desire, and she drops once more, practically riding upon pitching ground under foot before rolling forward, and straight into the 'X' formed by the crossfire flames. Fortunately, she is low enough to the ground to not be marked by its shape, managing to roll straight through the upside 'V' created while sustaining a series of burns upon her upper arms as well as her legs and back as she tucks through the flurry of flames. Facing away from Quinton now, she only has time to react, and Fallen Dream is brought over her head, and directly behind her, the point reaching for the now-stable ground she stands on, and intercepting the claymore before it would spill her blood upon already stained cobblestone. The sheer thrust of the brand sends Fallen Dream's tainted blade into her back, and sends her stumbling forward, reeling for balance. A hasty retreat is in effect so she might turn and face him, collected, poised. Caedan would pause, take a moment to recover ... or perhaps end this madness ... madness that exists in actual reality, as opposed to her own version that exists solely within her own mind's eye. But there is no time. Fallen Dream will have its vengeance, and it will retaliate with or without permission. Obviously, it intends to do the latter, though it will need Caedan's aid. Thusly, it jerks her forward once more, seeking retribution upon Hellfire for its offense against Fallen Dream's owner. Calculated steps are taken forward, and shadows begin to swell, amassing and building into a veritable wall. Mimicing, mocking Hellfire, the sword sends the wall towards Quinton, intent on distracting him long enough to conceal the girl's location as she is forced to follow close behind. The shadows sneak forward, and seek to infuse into the wound sustained at his kneecaps, forcing that preternatural madness upon Quinton's mind, seeking to riddle his conscious with illusions and insanity that she herself possesses. Meanwhile, the hidden teen lunges forth from her veiled seclusion behind the wall of darkness, Fallen Dream held high, screeching and shrieking its anger as it descends at a vertical angle, intent on wresting Quinton's arm from his shoulder, while the ominous wall thins, for the shadows pouring towards Quinton's kneecaps intend to make him pay dearly for wielding the sword that would offend Caedan so grievously.
Quinton swings ferociously, unyielding, at this coming wall and from Hellfire is a sheet of flame; for every dash in every direction taken, this sheet intensifies and a scorch over the ensuing debacle becomes both forces; a desperate battle is waged between the element of darkness and that of fire. Between the spectacle does blackness seep through and, unable to escape its grasp once more, Navarre's kneecaps are touched and tickled and toyed with by the nightshade. Bloodshot eyes widen and both hands clench tightly. Teeth slam into eachother and a stumble commences; one can only imagine the mental anguish cast forth upon the unfortunate lad as the darkness enters his body and replaces clarity of thought with purified madness incarnate. Swings grow steadily more and more erratic; the wall of flame begins to shatter and a sea of obsidian is let through like a hellish tsunami. Enveloped by the dank craze of it all, Quinton falls to the ground, dropping his blade altogether. A perfect target is he; Caedan is but seconds away, now, from what with this change in angle not taking his arm but his head from the neck it droops down from. Restless amidst complete surrender, shaking overcomes a psychologically shattered captain and despite slinking down so totally into the battered earth as to taste his very blood from stained grass, jawbone slamming into the dirt with reckless abandon, both arms are propelled almost instinctively to grasp the hilt once more and just as Caedan descends, a sudden barrel roll wayward becomes him whilst Hellfire rises to the occasion, its flames ever the stronger from it all and it immediately take to absorbing the very darkness threatening to drown its host in endless sorrow. A stream flows into the sword and through possessed lips does Quinton speak a sinister tone; truly, this isn't so much him as the blade. "You have only further awakened the nightmare from its sleep." Unbelievable as it might appear, a full frontflip brings the Catalian very much away from the disaster, though Fallen Dream doesn't walk away empty-handed -- rather, in its swipe it took flesh from a fleeing back in the form of a scoop. This pain, however, does not seem somehow to affect Quinton Navarre in his wild state, and the very night sky grows all-the-darker as a maddening flurry of effortless, one-handed swings is taken every which way in its accord, its vindiction. Coming back like a mindless devil, the blade becomes, itself, obsidian and then leaves the boy's grasp once and for all, twirling 'round and 'round like a reaper in the form of a fan and the flames depart this apparent shuriken in its wake, wrapping about Caedan Navarre and closing in dangerously as one, as before, whilst the star at blinding speed seeks to strip cranium from body.
aedan whimpers, her bottom lip trembling rather profusely. This training lesson gone awry is beginning to play havoc with her mind, inducing dementia beyond what she possesses. Fallen Dream holds that insanity at bay, shadows curling about the girl's arm and up her shoulder, as if to comfort the stricken teen, and offer support even though it continues to coerce her into fighting a fight she doesn't wish to continue. Shadows have collected at her shoulder in attempt to quell the blood gushing from the wound sustained earlier, and the flush upon her cheeks is not from exertion, but rather from the heat radiating from the burn wounds that now criss-cross across her body. Panting for breath, the immensely distressed teen seeks her brother, only to met with a faint glimpse of his back as she unwittlingly tears flesh from spine. Hellfire sends the remaining shadows skittering away, retreating back unto Fallen Dream like a puppy with its tail between its legs. Caedan is forced back by the abrupt force in which the shadows return, and assumes a sort of deer-in-headlights stance as Hellfire comes whirling and scissoring towards her. The flames are unavoidable; should she crouch, she would become piecemeal, and so her decision is made. Flames lick at her skin, and shadows streak out to meet that dastardly fire and stifle the damage to be sustained, while she concentrates upon the rapidly approaching Hellfire. The swords clash once more, and Hellfire's speed cannot be countered. Even as the psychic dips and spins and twists to avoid certain carnage, the claymore kisses her flesh at every opportunity, leaving ribbons of sanguine across nearly every visible orifice. As she continues to spin and weave her way in that intricate dance with the fabled blade, Fallen Dream veritable erupts, sending streams of shadows around Hellfire, gradually enclosing upon the blade, shrouding it as a stormy night might a lighthouse beacon. Seeking to extinguish its flames once and for all, the sword is pushed to its limit, even as Caedan meets her own. Bloodied, and profoundly weakened, she drops the sword altogether to stumble back, and away from the vindictive Hellfire. Meanwhile, as the shadows focus on consuming the claymore, Fallen Dream lurches forward, jerking into self-animation as the psychic is buoyed by pet shadows that gently whisper around her ankles now, attempting to keep her on her feet. The sword begins to scream, a piercing, echoing cry that resonates throughout the area, drawing forth a litany of responses from various animals that loiter around the outskirts of the forest nearby. Dogs bellow, birds caucaw, and a general raucous of epic proportions is created within little time. The momentum of Fallen Dream increases ten-fold, and as it shrieks towards Quinton, it seeks to pierce straight through his middle, impaling the transgressor, he who would challenge the sword's pseudo-authority, and damage it's damaged girl.
Quinton falls backward untriumphantly as the shadows return yet again, fearful posture taking firm hold and instilling a sense of absolute dread -- that remaining inkling of humanity within the possessed man is but a shelled frightfulness and it shows. Contortions tighten, bloodshot eyes widen ever-more, trembling becomes him. These shadows that dance and swim in their ecstatic torpedo-like charge are batted at recklessly until as they converge, enveloping and seeking to choke Hellfire's passion from the steel, the Catalian gasps for air; within him, some dark matter still exists and it further hardens its grip on his vitals. Coughing up vile poisons, a stream of black escapes broken breaths and of his sword, there seems little hope. Too much, too fast; Hellfire cannot simply take in such a large 'meal'; instead, a cracking reverberates and to say the least, Quinton's arms are convulsing incredulously. The sound of breaking; a rapture becomes the blade and it truly seems for one eternal moment that the legendary sabre has at last met its match and is doomed forevermore. And then it happens -- something extraordinary, something profound, something downright electrifying. Bolts of pure energy like lightning from the skies above zap in multiple directions upward from the uber-weapon and though they are reddish pearl in shade, a very evil essence fills them; were one capable of freezing time, they might note the strands of darkness laced within each subsequent blast. As they grow more numerous, a more evident obsidian comes from each until they are all quite close in colour to the very hatred Fallen Dream has unleashed. Both the inner essence earlier absorbed and the onslaught incoming are eradicated in these outbursts; Hellfire has effectively shot out its would-be destroyer and the bolts strike trees into ashes, they strike the tavern's shingles into collapsing, they strike even the clouds above into vanishing. In this act, its flames have accompanied the darkness and a lifeless steel is all that remains -- a lifeless steel that in one fell effort, one final act of vengeance, its spark diminished, its form nothing but that of a withered claymore -- rises past these few seconds so longwinded to meet Fallen Dream one last time in a sweeping clash to finish things once and for all. Coming in fast with intent to impale, both hands shake horrendously as the sword is held a horizontal arc and it's anyone's guess what might happen now -- Fallen Dream so charged, it could perhaps break poor Hellfire in two and maintain its course and kill Quinton Navarre mercilessly. And then a drunken fool in his alcoholic stupor steps right on through the trajectory and the world will never know what fate would have befallen the target sword and its keeper, for the bloody bastard has entered the attack arc and is impaled on the spot, dropping his flask and dying quickly.