RP:Who's Off-Kilter?

From HollowWiki

Location: Valley of Trees

Synopsis: Eirik and Lucila informally meet the other. No names are exchanged. Instead, blades cross paths. Neither seemingly right in the head.


Who's Off-Kilter?

East of the Meadow and north of the Heart of the Burrows is a curving path that channels through tall, thick trees. You don't realize it immediately, but this path trails through a valley, the trees growing on a subtle slope. On one side of this path is a massive boulder covered in a green moss; the boulder presents itself as a place to sit and rest for a moment, though it'd probably have to be climbed by the smaller races to make use of it. The occasional bird call can be heard from the distance, followed by another bird's response. Some insect buzzes by, though you don't know where it is or where it came from. Looking down on the ground, you'd find a stray dragonfly sitting upon a blade of grass, the weight of the bug bending the blade close to the ground. Looking more closely and you'd find an intricately-colored cricket trying to climb the base of a tree where the roots sink below the earth. Here, the world is silent but alive and serene. Heading west will take you to the end of the valley of trees and into a meadow, while heading south will take you to the bustling heart of Hobbit life.


Eirik traverses through the area with ease. It's not due to any formal training. Nay for instead it’s the experience of his Lycan nature. The forests of home and Kelay usually the place where he seeks solace for his transformations. Though, that isn't why he found himself here today. Instead, the berserker only sought to skirt the duties of leadership. Aarika had claimed to be able to handle the rest of their daily matters. As usual the Lycan marched as if prepared for some game of war. Armored sleeves worked their way up both arms and weaved into red cloak covered leather and steel plate pauldrons. A black leather jerkin protected his torso and gave way to a red sash, a plethora of belts and woolen black pants. Brann Forbruker, a simplistic runic longsword dangles from one hip, tied via the means of a leather baldric. An ice enchanted tomahawk hangs from the other. Scuffed steel greaves start and the knees and feed into leather boots. Eirik, the scarred foreigner looked rough despite being well groomed. Finally, he comes to a halt, leaning against a nearby tree. Silver eyes seem to just idly gaze off into the distance. Much is on his mind.


Lucila stalked through the woodlands with a little more confidence this time around. Xalious was becoming more familiar to her with each hunt. Lucila had left a lantern atop the sole landmark on the valley's path. It's glow was warm and gentle-- welcoming, even. The occasional breeze caused it to rattle about on the boulder's surface. Little did the cursed know how ill-fated she was tonight... yet another potential mark would be well aware of her presence. Lucila's rapier, handguard designed like petals of a rose open to her hand, jingled at her hip. The scents of soap and blood (despite the washing of hands and metal) were strong about her. These footsteps were still not of a proper tracker. Here she was, though, lurking about the forest like an idiot, hatchet held with both hands close to her chest.


Eirik is not one to be snuck up on. Nor to be confronted without knowing that someone or something approaches. Despite his minds eye being lost in a world altogether different than what lies before him; his guard is never down. Frigid silver eyes twist to the stranger, examining her attire. He watched Lucila with a sort of mild enthusiasm. What exactly is she doing? A Lycans senses were hard to fool, though he was sure that isn't her attempt. What was she stalking? Or who, even? Eirik not one to remain silent while others were lurking through the area calls out. Probably ruining whatever she is attempting to do as she sneaks around. "You'll never obtain your target when your footing isn't sound." His voice is deep and grainy, like rocks being crushed beneath a weighted boot. 'Pon his scar riddled features sits a half amused smile. "Do you even know how to use that thing?" A single digit extends pointing to her hatchet.


Lucila probably didn't pick the finest gear for hunting. A white silk shirt with frilly, bell-like openings at the wrists, and simple leather pants and boots made up her main attire. A metal mask mimicking the features of a woman's face covered Lucila's, with dark, wavy hair threatening to conceal it as well. Eirik's words caught the failed huntress' attention just as she looked past unaware of his existence in the night. Such a surprised left her too close to cardiac arrest for comfort. Lucila staggered back away from the voice, released one hand's grip on her axe to clutch at the cloth closest to her heart, and frantically looked about in the lycan's vague direction until her pale eyes finally found him in the night. "WHO ASKED YOU!?" came a witless retort. Her gaze fell down to the tool in her hands following Eirik's words. "W-Wel... WELL ENOUGH TO CARVE YOU WITH IT!" Lucila yelled over in forced bravado. Both hands found the wooden handle once more, and shaky steps began closing the distance between the pair. Maybe she meant what she said?


Eirik had to stifle back a chuckle. Enough to carve his hide? The leader of the Steel collectives band of mercenaries? The witch slayer? The semi-finalist of Frostmaws Titans of Winter tournament? This impudent little bug is just that to the Berserker. "If it's death you seek, by all means continue. But once you step into the ring with the big boys, don't be surprised when your friends are weeping over your carcass come morning." Eirik would eat her heart, and unlike others, is not too friendly or forgiving of mistakes. A hand idly reaches for Brann Forbruker and his ice enchanted Tomahawk. Both are ceremoniously drawn, but neither hint at their hidden power. The only sounds to announce their arrival is the clanking as both collide into the other. From where he stood, this ill-equipped child stood no chance. She had been warned. Approach with caution.


Lucila soon saw that a simple woodsplitter wasn't fit to rest with her in the grave she was obviously digging herself here, nor would it be much use in a real fight. Whether disappointment or excitement shaped her visage, it was unknown. However, unsure steps now held a confidence that might mirror what the woman wanted to project earlier. Lucila took the time to discard her hatchet while Eirik drew his weapons of choice. Her silken grip quickly found the delicate metal at her side and freed the ornate rapier from its home. It was treated with more respect by its weilder, as opposed to how clumsily the ax was hefted about earlier. Lucila approached with her sword arm leading and habitually held her blade level with where the lycan's heart would be. There was hesitation-- nerves, still? The woman did not move to strike first and opted to keep just out of either of their weapon's arm reach, if allowed to even approach that far.


Eirik studied her movements, the pull of her rapier. The berserker was sorely disappointed. Both in her choice of weapons and her slow movements. Unlike the woman before him, the berserker could hear the call of the wolf from deep within his very core. Could hear its madness tearing at his sanity. The rage. It is a never-ending call to arms. There isn't enough blood in the world to satiate his thirst for pure carnage. She looked hesitant. So hesitant. The tomahawk would be the first to scythe through the air, with naught but the flick of a wrist. The moment it leaves his hand, the enchantment sparks to life, freezing particles of humidity as it whirled on to its target; which is the very ground beneath Lucila's feet - not Lucila herself. It's magics go to work in an instant, turning the very ground into a slippery surface of ice. This act might catch Lucila off guard as Eirik, would never allow the woman to approach him pointing a sword to his heart. No, he would intervene like any true bestial killer would. He leaps into the fray, not knowing her intent, but cared little. She was given her chance and she made her choice. The hulking mass of Eirik sprints, and then leaps off to the side to change his angle. "Ignite!" He bellows, neck muscles bulging. That runic longsword glows white and then strikes the ground as he lands. A power explodes from the blade, sending a fiery torrent of waves in her direction. Perhaps to force her back if she had not already slipped. He continues to move, hits the ice and slides, snatching that tomahawk right from out of the ground.


Lucila was not addled enough by her own bloodlust, that darkness bloating further in the back of her mind, to leap blindly into her death against someone armed much better than herself. An agile long backstep, then another in fear of the ice spreading further, kept Lucila from slipping onto rear or face just to be sitting prey. However, it was not enough to bring the woman out of the furthest reaches of the blast zone. Lucila turned to run a little later than she should have, but the delay didn't carry immediate consequences for it from the flames. A strange energy began pulsing from a thin ring upon one of her left fingers. The force surrounded Lucila in a spherical barrier of sorts. Debris narrowly avoided the woman's form, and whatever fire threatening to catch on her definitely-flammable clothing waved about just out of reach behind Lucila as she fled for better ground. Eirik was surely right on her by then, hopefully to be met by a needle-like blade aimed for his throat as the woman turned to meet him before taking the berserker's follow-up strikes.


Eirik is not surprised - nor bothered by her reaction to the oncoming assault and she was right - he is on her heels. Though what she might not realize is the lethality of intent the Berserker carried. When she spun around to face him and thrust the needle at his throat, he gives a surprising response. Eirik shifts his weight to his right side, leaning his left shoulder up intentionally. Its effect? Her needle like blade digs and buries itself into his shoulder. Frighteningly so. Whats worse, is the death defying grin now besmirching his visage. The Lycan grunts, drops the Tomahawk and grabs the elbow of her weapon wielding hand. His grip is backed by the enormous weight of the two hundred and ten pound Northman. Eat his attack, she certainly would. He yanks that arm down with all the might he can muster, while simultaneously driving the butt of his blade for the side of her face. With such opposing forces, her blade could flat out snap, or be lodged and forever left to dangle from his form. Whether she ate the attack or not, the Lycan would grin again. "You finally turned to face me." He'd stop giving chase and spoke. "If you seek to learn how to wield those weapons better, come to the steel collectives barracks." That smile fades. "It's not far from here. Ask for Eirik." His name often proceeded the mad man. For a moment, he considered staying, and instead, snagged his weapon and made sure she still had hers. Finally, he would turn and wander off.


Lucila would have dropped her weapon at such a sight if it were not practically buried inside of her assailant by then. Suddenly the world was spinning-- no, it was just her eyes from the blow she just took to the head. The metal mask in the way was (thankfully) enough to prevent the majority of her teeth being smashed out, among other horrible fates depending on where specifically the bludgeon landed. It wasn't enough to protect Lucila from the sheer force of the strike, however. Somehow it wasn't enough to knock her unconscious, but she probably wasn't far off from it. Eirik's words were acknowledged with incoherent mutterings right before Lucila collapsed.{