(OCC: its okay, you're making it worth it, with these posts, heh)

As the energy of the tremor was once again absorbed into the earth, the crowd shut up for a moment. The turbulence of the dual wind strikes more than made up for it.

"If you can hear me." He yelled into the wind. "I must thank you for silencing those dogs for me. I want to save the wanton slaughter for later." His comments were met with a stronger wind that dragged his leading foot forward slightly.

This will be big... If she's still alive in that thing, she has complete control of it; it won't be something to be evaded easily.

Aronel drew the Aura once more, but took great care with the blade. This was not a sword drawn in anger or bloodlust. It was a sword of another kind, from a forgotten school that Aronel absorbed into the ryamokou ryu. A sword that protects was the sword he called on. The few spectators that were still paying attention to the match through the chaos also noted that Aronel drew the sword backwards. He did not draw the Aura with his hand at its side, but with his palm on the top. This odd draw further explained why it was so slow, but it did not explain why he drew it that way in the first place. He lifted himself up out of his offensive stance and stood tall and square facing the whirlwind. In one hand was the Aura, with the tip pointed to the storm, and edge raised to the heavens. His other hand left his side and joined in clutching the sword. As Mina released the bestial wind, it took off straight for Aronel. Like the unholy fusion of a bloodhound and a bull, the spell plowed through everything in its path. The aetherial force, sucked in to the heart of it, lifted the stones and bones that littered the arena floor. There they were rendered and obliterated, only to be absorbed by the body of the spell.

Aronel stood his ground, even as the runes on his cloak burned in anticipation of the spell. Even several feet away, it was too strong for the runes to diffuse. Fleeing was dishonorable, and futile. To fight the whirlwind without a plan would be suicide. His only ally…

Was irony.

In that battle it was used to save Mina, in this it would be used to hinder. The attack drew closer and stronger, drawing Aronel’s right foot forward. Almost as if submitting, Aronel’s grip loosened on the Aura slightly, and let his hand fall to his side. He drew his left hand closer to his face, in a sort of prayer. Though it didn’t matter where his hand was, it helped to mask the movements of his lips, in the event Mina could see.


“Realm of disorder, return to stability… Revert to Nothingness! Mu” (OCC: read that as MOOOOOOOOOO!!!! ) The will of his spirit, and the power of the soul of the sword merged with the words. Feeding upon their own powers until they emerged into the visible world. Aronel’s black will infused itself into the Chronium blade, producing a pulsing void of magic. Like in physics, where high-pressure systems are drawn to the low, and where heat is absorbed by the lack of heat, magic would draw itself into the void to bring balance. The irony was weaved, the skill that saved Mina one day would help to bring about her hopefully inevitable defeat.

Through the heart of the tornado was drawn a single strand of wind, saturated with dust and dirt that it collected from the coliseum floor. A black finger from the Aura emerged and danced before the wind, as a siren would sing to a sailor. It swayed and flickered drawing the magical wind to the Mu. The strand came to the black flame, but at the last minute hesitated. Though neither had a soul of their own, it was as if the tornado had an instinct in its recent moments. But it was too late for it to ‘enjoy’ its possible awareness. Aronel flicked the blade upward, urging the flame towards the retreating strand of magic. The black and brown threads connected in a whirling frantic embrace. The Mu reeled back into the Aura, dragging Mina’s spell with it. The thin strand of wind pulled from the whirlwind and became thicker with each passing moment, while the void merely continued to draw it away into nothing. Even with its energy draining with each second, the tornado urged forward towards Aronel. He could not just hold the sword and wait for nature to take its course, for that course would terminate with his life. Instead, he took the matters into his own hands. The Aura was nearly completely saturated with magic, and would only absorb a bit more before exploding in a hurricane like rage. But he had no choice. As soon as the attack was in range, Aronel slashed upward draining a bit of the storms ferocity with it.

Then, he released the remaining grip he held on the aura, releasing the power of the tempest with his grasp. All the dust and force the Aura collected was thrust outward, which at the level he held the sword at, was right at the first few rows of the spectators. Fortunately for them the walls absorbed much of the rage, then fell with a collective crash to the floor below. The black imbued blade was ready for another go, as Aronel’s grip closed on the sword, it twisted to the way it was meant to be held, instead of backwards. Then came a second slash, a diagonal blow from right to left that further hobbled the spell. Finally, against the final obstinate heart of the wind, Aronel released a lateral slash from left to right across the width of the spell, clean through its core. With the attack dispelled, Aronel brought his right hand and the Aura up to his face. He placed two of his fingers on his temple as he slung the blackened blade over his shoulder. As if he were flinging blood from it, he whipped the sword in a crescent that ended before his right foot. The remaining tempest was released with the centripetal force of the arc.

As Aronel weighed his current options to attack, he heard a gong from behind. The fierce battle was almost at an end, without much more time for attacks to be batted to and fro. He looked to the Aura, which was still filled with the waning void, just enough to be converted into his next attack. Instead of sheathing the Aura like he usually would, Aronel pointed it forward, and then brought it up above his head, being held at the tip by his left hand. ”Furies and wraiths, unhinge the gates of Hell… Dark Wave!” The Aura was once again being filled with the enmity that Aronel held in his heart, but this was not an attack that drained magic, it was an attack that would drain the soul. Whether it would be the opponents, the attacker, or some other random victim, the rage that was summoned in the blade would not be sated unless it destroyed something. Aronel wound up and slashed once more, maybe for the last time this round. The sudden changes in speed and direction jarred the spell from the blade, which was then thrown outward in an arc that swelled and grew with each passing moment.