Fight:A Battle in the Cathedral Ward

Summary: Mehrafarina, new to Lithrydel but unyielding in her beliefs in the common good, finds herself in open combat against one very persistent Percivaale...

Cenril:Cathedral

The cathedral bored into his plum-red eyes with a grandeur magnificence, demanding attention and respect to the young child who stood before it. He was rather insignificant in size compared to the large structure, he realized as he was barely touching 4 feet. Popping a red candy into his mouth, he was entranced to just… enter it at his free will. But it wouldn’t be free will if it was bewitching him, would it? Besides, there was rather large crowd that blocked his way to the cathedral, and it became rather annoying that one of the fools among them bumped into him. He bites his tongue, glaring into the woman, but she quickly apologizes with an easy face, “Sorry, sorry, I wasn’t looking. A kid shouldn’t stand in the middle in the road, y’know?” Percivaale narrows his eyes, as she quickly tries to get away from him. But against his better judgment, he turns his head. He needed to find a quiet place, away from a crowd like this at the moment. He needed to study. Putting a hand in his pockets, he strides away— only to find them empty. At this moment, Peercivaale finds herself somehow strolling beside her, smiling ever so sweetly before he swears he’ll burn her alive.

Working in the smithy, she had to excuse herself before making her way to the cathedral, but after a quick bath and a change of clothes, the young foreign woman made her way down the avenue, her eyes on the sky, praising the sun for it’s warmth. All the same, the crowds getting thicker was beginning to ware on her comfort, and she found herself slowly taking more note, more paranoid scanning of the crowd. As her eyes rattled across the faces of people coming and going in every direction, she found herself caught by a sight. A young woman and a man following in quick pursuit. She took in the man’s face, dark, mottled red eyes and grey flesh were enough to send a chill up her spine, but something about their body language triggered in her a very specific concern. Feet planted in the street, she looked up to the Cathedral, then to the street, where the two heads moved through the tide. A sigh rolled out of her chest, and she turned to swim up the traffic after them.

Percivaale , after finally matching her pace, manages to drive the pick-pocket speechless when she sees the kid strolling beside her casualy. He doesn’t look at her, he doesn’t confront her, but instead, he holds a rather innocent face that seems like he had been having a rather good day. The thief breaks into a run, only to be held down by the child who grabbed the back of her ratty tunic. “You have something of mine, miss,” he raises his other hand to her, expecting something to be dropped into his palm. Instead, she feigns her innocence, “W-what are you talking about? Stupid, kid, didn’t anyone tell you to respect your elders?” “I don’t respect you,” he furrows his brows, his palm now turning into a blazing white fire in his hand, “So don’t expect me to spare your life. I have what I want anyway.” The theif looks into her pocket now, furiously patting her pants, only to find nothing. Satisfied that he now has what rightfully belongs to him, he smiles once more, reaching to push aside her frayed locks back into her ear. What seems like a charming action, ended up with her screaming mercy, collapsing into the ground as she clutches the side of her head. Tears stream across her face, with a newly made mark the shape of a hand frames her cheek. “Hoh, you’ve had enough already? That hardly seems fair. At least play with me some more,” he chirps, attempting to patting her head. But she instinctively moves away. Perci frowns, grabbing her wrist and this time pulls her toward him, pulling her close enough to hear his threats, “I’m not just good with fire you know. I happen to be rather phenomenal with ice, too~ You know what happens if you mix two and two together, do you? You should learn. You seem to be lacking any sort of intelligence, if you decide to steal MY things.”

Mehrafarina beat the pavement to weave through church goers and first shift workers heading to the markets, rounding the corner and into the alleyway off the main road. She watched a moment, her hand reaching into the draped sheets of fabric that make up her dress, drawing out an aged scimitar. The blade was notched and buffed from years of use, considerably more experience on this sword than the girl could have given it, the rough patches of green ore exposed. As the child shoved the thief around, including his elemental arcanum coming to him as second nature, the girl who could barely be six years his elder kicked off her spying nest. As he insulted the woman’s intelligence, the girl rushed across the clearing of the alley, shoulder checking the thief clean out of the boy’s hand. “That’s enough!” The thief flew a few feet, crashing into the dirt, her hand feebly pawing the dirt before collapsing into unconsciousness. Mehrafarina, on the other hand, stood tall, Her right hand held her battered scimitar, the left sleeve of her dress shoved up to expose a tattoo that pulsed a gentle, golden shimmer. “You’ve got back what belongs to you, she learned her lesson. You walk away now and leave her to treat her wounds.” Her right hand rolled in, the leather of the scimitar’s grip groaning in response.

Percivaale wasn’t prepared for this, smoothly hopping a few feet away to avoid any sort of instance that he and that scimitar would clash. With hands in his pocket, he recollects himself— though he still look as though he had his toy taken away from him. He observes the girl of a holy caliber, noting her blood’s scent of… iron and sand-dust, he pauses, tilting his head “Even if she’s a thief? For someone who seems righteous, she would die anyway with the rats in jail.” Percivaale continues, "Might as well save Cenril Soldiers the effort."

Mehrafarina stood with her weapon outstretched, her feet shifting as her body felt out the dirt beneath her and how the ridges felt against the soles of her slippers. Her other hand tightened, a flicker shining above the corona of the tattoo. The woman stood out from many of the population of Cenril. Where they were stout and of paler tones, this woman bore skin the color of brown and gold with a solid sheet of black hair that caught the light like a fabric of prisms. Shoulders squared, she rose her sword and sunk into a more mobile position. “If a thief lives in a city as strong as this, it is a failing of the rulers, not the thief. You’ve beaten her and reclaimed that which belongs to you, and her wounds will be enough to remind her her mistake. But killing her gives her no opportunity to reflect on her wrongs.” The clouds moved, the rays of day fading behind the buildings to the west. “Lyria, I sing your praises for the day, and bless you for the dawn.” She prayed, glancing from the boy, to the thief and back. “I won’t entertain this slaughter. Stand down.”

Percivaale long white eyelashes fall down slowly, he presses his lips together to form a bitter smirk this time, “There’s always the dregs of society, even in a utopia,” he exhales, speaking with precision, “There are no perfect communities, no matter how much a ruler tries… even if he was the greatest ruler in the world. There’s always scum that accumulates at the bottom of the glass that decides that they are above the law. Therefore, a ruler can only strive for perfection. I’m only cleaning up the filth— I’m doing the crown a favor.” The child crosses his arm in a defiant stance, a crowd of onlookers seeing forming a circle around them. Percivaale then smiles, "Please, a child should do his chores, don't you think?"

Mehrafarina scowled at the sneering derision of the woman, her eyes darting around the crowd before returning to the child. His eloquence and confidence defied his appearance, and her hands came together, clutching her weapon. Diplomacy was getting her absolutely with nowhere with him, either. “Your ‘chores’? You pretend this woman is refuse, as if you have any idea what circumstances brought this woman here?” Where he was cold and distant in his rebuke, her passion burst off every movement to match the burning sun. “If you believe for a moment I’ll allow you to senselessly snuff the life from her because you’ve decided you are her superior, then I’m afraid I’m going to have to intervene. I don’t want to harm you, but I won’t allow this.” Her voice was sharp, and her statement hit the crowd, a wave of murmuring following it. Between her stance, her weapon and the scowl drawn onto otherwise rounded features, there was no question. Mehrafarina would not allow him to advance on the fallen woman.

Percivaale covers his mouth, feigning surprise, “Oh my… so innocent. I rather not speak anymore, lest reality consumes it. Instead…” he charges straight for you, his hand drawing back with no flame visible, “My actions will speak for me.” Although the sun was beginning to rise, Perc still had a bit of supernatural energy to twist his body, and touch the woman’s curved blade with his right hand, whispering the chant to conjure a basic chilltouch spell.

Mehrafarina grit her teeth, her fingers curling in on the leather grip to dive forward. His charge was fast, faster than she was prepared for, but not so fast as to throw her entirely. As they bridged the distance between them, her jaw tightened before barking a furious, “Lyria, guide my sword to redeem this wicked soul.” As the sun and the clouds glide across the sky, a ray of light finds its way through the buildings to shine on the woman for a brief moment, the light flowing into her like a clean breath of air. As his fingers grazed her blade, a flash rebuffed the frost spell, coming not from her sword but the woman herself. Her left foot skid across the dirt, her right leg shooting out to swing back to face him as he moved, her sword thrusting forward toward the back of his arm and behind his shoulder. A divine pulse coated the blade, a streak of gold painted through the streams of blue fabric.

Percivaale hisses, forgetting that vampires was rather weak to holy magic. He was weak to holy magic. He grits, his fangs gleaming under the light of the sun. Perci retreats to a missile range, holding on his cut arm. His dark blood stains through his white button down shirt, “I should have known. Never come close with a blade,” He scolds himself, “They always ruin my clothes.” He speaks the same chilling chant from before, but this time on himself. Embodiment of coldness itself, he sears his wounds shut as he freezes the openings. Visible jutting ice protrudes from his cuts. “Ah! So cold~” he teases, “I’m freezing under your glares. Suppose you react better with heat?” Giving time to himself as he speaks, he doesn’t hesitate to throw a ball of white heat at your grip.

Mehrafarina lowered her weapon, the blade resting in only her right hand, her stance adjusting to their distance. The sight of ice coating the boy, of spires of frost punching through the clothes and flesh of the wound sent another chill down her spine. She watched every movement, listened to the spitting words that rattled off his lips without taking them in. Idle chatter of an imp with murderous intent that bore as little weight in her heart as her devotion to the light might rest where his heart used to be. His threat offered her a moment’s insight to his next attack, a fireball chucked for her arms. She was fast, but his undead body would almost always maintain superiority of initiative, and as the ball of plasma careened across the divide, she rolled her wrist and slashed the core. Flame splattered from the attack, spreading across the sleeve of her dress and over her exposed skin, calling a dry, throaty gasp. Rolling her shoulders as she reclaimed her stance, she shrugged herself free of the upper half of her dress and squashing the flame between the fabric and the dirt, and then her shoe. Her feet spread, her chest drawing a deep breath beneath the leather vest left to cover her from the elements. “If you think I’m going to give you enough breathing room for that twice, I’d fold now. Unlike you, I’ve no interest in ending a life today.” Her right hand crossed over her hips to meet her left, grasping her sword. Then she moved, another splash of color against the light of the fading sun. Blue and brown and gold glided across the circle that made their arena, sword gliding over the ground, poised to swing. A second to spare and softened leather scraped hard to the side, her weight shifted, and rather than her sword crossing the final gap between she and the vampire, he foot jut out, the butt of her heel spreading a cloud of dust as kicked for his teeth.

The ice that closed his wounds shut have grown a great length, covering his right arm defensively. Natural instincts led to him shielding his face with his sleeve of ice, as warm gold glows reflect of its sheen surface. He had never used his icy gauntlet to defend himself, however, and as a result, the back of his frozen hand still doubles back, hitting his face. He exhales, the corner of his smile twitching. Since his hand of ice was never used defensively, he counterattacks gripping for your ankles. The child doesn’t intend to let go. Colors of gold and blue that danced in the air, were sucked away by a deep and vibrant plum color. A fire-like darkness creeps along the woman’s calf, spreading in a strange watery movement. As the shade sticks to your leg, it spills, dripping onto the dirt ground as it burns away your shadow. Even though her leg was visibly being burned, it should not hurt—just numbing. Instead, the areas where the chilling fire spilled— her shadow burns away, its right shoulder eaten up by it. Coincidently, the woman’s shoulder tears in pain. “I don’t quite rightly know how this works yet, so forgive me if this goes wrong. I am having a rather fun time.”

Mehrafarina let out a cry, her jaw snapping shut to look down on the boy. He’d done well to catch her leg after a direct blow like that, especially given the momentum behind her swing. His magic coursed up her leg and she caught sight of her skin turning raw under the cold, the irregular movement around her shadow. Her standing leg bent, kicking off the ground to rise above the boy’s grip before dropping a second time, freeing her from his grasp. The curve of her jump landed her in the soil shoulder first, before rolling to a knee. Her back was to the thief now, her weapon still ready. Pain wandered across her skin, up a leg and over her shoulder. With her jaw squared, she rose to her full height, hands rotating out, her arms rolling forward before she took grasp of her weapon in both hands. As she stood, a shimmer coated her body, radiating from the inked pattern in her left arm before finally bursting out in a ring around herself and the thief, the rise of holy light washing over the humans, their wounds stitching closed at the grace of the sun. A keen eye would note that her sword had held onto some of that light. “I’m not interested in entertaining you.” she spit, her body lunging again. Her off hand shifted to the pommel of her blade, shoving the weapon forward, aiming to bash across the frozen arm. With her arms extended, the light retained in the sword splashed out, an aura of divinity attempting to rebuke the undead.

Percivaale doesn’t attempt to dodge, letting the ice crack under the impact of her scimitar. The physical blunt does little to him in comparison to the spilling holy light. It begins to burn, like acid on his body, but he doesn’t attempt to avoid it. Not in a crowd like this, where it blocks every exit towards escape. Instead, the child, burns multiple cauterizations on his porcelain skin. The wounds do not heal this time either. “You do your best to defend your lovely thief,” blood spills from his mouth as he coughed, “You seem quite adamant to keep her alive, and yet you do not see she’s burning to hell.” The unconscious thief hands glazes the tip of the same plum-colored fire before, moving gracefully, flickering with gentle movements, despite the fact it spreads like a water-spill. It touches her shadow, her fingers turning black. He was quite sneaky this time. He can only control fire with his left, ice with his left, but the chillfire shadow was something that he learned that could spread on it’s own. He had so much difficulty playing with its properties, yet it never listens to what it says and just… spreads. “If you want to save her, your better off using your holiness to heal than to inflict.” he considers his next words carefully, “Don’t let your shadow touch it.”

Mehrafarina recoiled from the burst of divine light as much as he did, though it’s heat did little but spread through her, the afterglow of her attack returning to a more level basis. Where the burns on her skin had been, the persistent, golden shimmer of the sun’s light rested in the place of wounds. It wasn’t until the little vampire began to speak that she realized the thief was under any sort of assault. “My shadow?” She muttered as she turned back, watching the shadow-flame spread to the woman’s body, her skin beginning to tighten against the cold. A few voices from the crowd let out a ring of disgust, but Mehrafarina only huffed. “Very well, imp.” came her voice, barely above a whisper. Her scimitar rolled from her right hand to her left, and she surveyed her palm. When the sword had struck ice, capillaries in her hands had burst along the insides of her knuckles, leaving her hand stinging. Her eye line sailed upward, meeting his as she reached to her face, index, middle finger and thumb rubbing a streak of blood over her bottom lip. “You warn of shadows, as if they can linger in the sun” Her hand dropped from her face, streaking across the ink on her forearm. At the flush of blood across skin, another aura burst out, dazzling those looking directly onto her. Her skin took on a golden light, less of the desert and more of the sun itself, and the light of her goddess spilled from her, cutting across the field in all directions. Her left hand rounded her wrist, lifting the sword to her back and fitting it into a slat on her vest’s spine. Giving off divine energy with every step, she turned from the opponent and walked toward the thief, placing a hand on her before facing the vampire. Her face had taken on a quiet calm, and this calm spread from her core to her hand, to the shoulder of the woman, who began to take on that same divine glow, the blessed light driving away the flames that wracked the woman’s body. After a moment more, the light began to fade from the woman, and her eyes shifted, and she awoke. She was sore, but her body had been cleansed. Mehrafarina released the woman’s shoulder, and stood once again. Her hands were empty for the time being, but the light. The light would not dissipate from her. “Get into the cathedral and they’ll provide sanctuary.” danced a quiet breath over her shoulder as she faced the mage ahead of her, and the thief began to back away. “Now.” Mehrafarina barked, right hand reaching for the blade once again. “Let’s let this be done. Neither of us wants to end our journeys here.”

Percivaale responds “That’s because it’s not a shadow. It’s… a chillfire,” he flusters under it’s rather juvenile name, as it’s combination of two spells. It was still a work in progress, as he eventually learns more of its properties, “It doesn’t care for light— it’s a temperature. A type of heat.” He explains, putting out the very little information he has on it out loud. It was strange to hear it ring across his ears. The vampire child slowly gives up from the weight of his eyelids, to listen to the sound of his voice. As you begin to heal the thief, the light had certainly healed the petty thief, but he knows very well that light shouldn’t have effect it. Instead, he stomps the flame that lick at her shadows from a far while you cared for the woman’s safety. He mumbles to himself, “It’s a type of heat that can devour shadows, and yet, a good pat would probably leave it dead. Everything else, it does not care. So use the light as much as you like, it’s only craving the shadows it leaves behind.” As the neophyte paladin commanded to bring the thief to aid, Percivaale has already long since decided to disappear into the crowd. He is not insane enough to stay in such a state, hastily leaving behind what he so strongly sought after. At his missing presence, lies an ugly looking gold metalwork of what seems to be a butterfly, unworthy of its ornate jewels and pearls.

Mehrafarina looked around, and the crowd began to follow her lead. The undead child was gone as if everyone managed to look away at the same time, leaving only the mortals behind. Weapon at her back, she felt her knees wobble beneath her before taking a step forward, then back, before sinking to her ass in the dust. The thief was gone, ducking into the cathedral for clerical help, and the crowd began to disperse. A long couple of breaths rattled her lungs before she finally pressed a palm to the dirt and craned herself back up, kicking the upper half of her dress up and into her arms. "Lyria. Is this the kind of work I have ahead of me?"