TOA Elite Eight: Kylista vs. OceanEyes28

[Shan'do Spike]

Ok, here begins the elite eight of this TOA. Make sure to read the rules, posted here. May the best fighter win, and good luck. I expect to see blood, peoples!

PLEASE READ BELOW

The closure post rule (previously known by a different name) remains in effect for this round.

[DragonHeart]

Three rounds completed, many warriors exhausted and injured from the furious battles. It was merely luck that she had yet to feel the dull ache of a body pushed too far, or the searing jolt of moving an injured limb too quickly. Sensations she had experienced many times in her long life, and wanted to forget. Flesh could heal; memory remained. Watching the matches she had not been a part of brought back the pain in her side, the scar throbbing maddeningly. Centuries had passed since she acquired it, but she still saw it clearly, that chaotic night when her enemy had nearly impaled her. The first time she knew true fear, and, she promised herself, the last. Still, hearing the screams of the injured and the triumphant cries of the victors, she couldn't help but wince as old terror stole through her momentarily. She wasn't human, but she was suddenly feeling her own mortality.

"Your memory is entirely too good." Zakaris somehow sensed her thoughts as he settled next to her on a half charred log. Garath's fire had destroyed quite a bit of the ancient wood, but Kylista had found a small niche, a hidden spot almost completely protected from the ravenous flames that had devoured the area.

"It has been nearly two millennia since Damyian. Why do you linger in the past? You had no choice then; you cannot change that now." His tone was sharp, but his golden eyes held the soft expression of understanding. He held his cloak closer against his body; the weather was mild, but he had been ill as of late and still hadn't recovered. Privately, Kylista was concerned, but he was stubborn and refused to listen to her.

"He was my brother, Zak. I shouldn't have fought him. Yes, he slaughtered the rest of the Draekonykyn, even our family, but he was all I had..." Kylista didn't look at her mentor. She couldn't. The Tournament brought back too many memories, and too many regrets. She was starting to wonder if coming here was a mistake.

"Khashahk!" Zak swore, irritated. "Get over it! Too long have you been haunted by your own indecision! Accept what you've done and move on before you destroy yourself with this nonsense!" He would have continued, but a fit of coughing wracked his body, stopping any further rebuke.

Startled out of her own misery by his sudden lack of formality and composure, Kylista whirled in anger to answer the subtle challenge. As soon as she saw his state, however, she immediately reached out to help him. He ignored her and staggered to his feet, still coughing. He leaned against an ancient pine until the fit passed and he felt steady enough to walk.

"Do not bother, you have something more important to consider. I expect to see you in the arena next week." He held up his hand, forestalling any protests, and turned away, vanishing in the darkness.

Kylista stared after him, knowing it was futile; she couldn't detect him unless he wanted her to.

"Maybe you are right, Master..." She murmured. Silent once more, she was left to her thoughts. The silver moon and stolid trees watched the restless warrior for many long hours. She did not move nor make any sound, but sat with a blank expression, pondering the words of the Clan Leader, lost in memory and time.

The arena stands were filled to capacity, the spectators anxious for the battles to resume. The noise of thousands of voices became a dull roar, a distraction and nothing more. The excited people discussed the previous round, bet on their favorite warriors, spread rumors about others. Most of the gossip centered around Kylista and her opponent, as their match was about to begin. No one bet on Kylista, for the latest rumors involved her being a ruthless demon disguised as a human, who could at any moment destroy all of them and end the world. Nonsense, of course.

Zakaris grew tired of trying to hold his tongue. Listening to his former apprentice be likened to some careless bloodthirsty beast enraged him to the point of using his power. He couldn't do that even if he wanted to though, as his weakness had yet to pass. He simply sighed and tried to block the humans out, wishing many curses upon every one of them for spreading such horribly false stories.

The arena suddenly silenced. Zakaris sat up a bit, forgetting to hide his inhuman eyes as he watched Kylista enter. He could tell at once that she was different, and for the better. It was such a slight difference that he doubted anyone else would notice, but she was calmer now, and moved with more purpose. It wasn't the same as the last two matches, when she had simply been fighting for the sake of losing herself, not caring whether she won or lost. This was the Kylista he remembered from so long ago, when the Crimson Shadow was feared throughout the world.

"Now entering, Kylista Dakyren!" The herald announced, looking a bit nervous. After all, she was one of the most unpopular participants. Zakaris couldn't blame the man, but he was thinking of when her name held a completely different meaning.

Kylista stood wrapped completely in her cloak, only her crimson eyes and long raven hair visible. Zak frowned; this wasn't like her at all. He leaned forward, squinting as if to see what she was thinking. She really did look like a demon then, and already new rumors were racing through the crowd. No one dared talk above a whisper, for fear of being heard.

With one motion, she stepped forward and tore the cloak away, letting it drift to the ground. Zak was shocked; she couldn't reveal her true self like that! After a moment, however, he understood. No longer would she hide from this world, lurking in shadow, the last survivor of a lost history. She was ready to revive the dreams she had abandoned long ago. The Crimson Shadow returned to seek the glory long denied her kin and her clan. Kylista Dakyren existed no longer; Kylista DragonHeart was ready to fight.

Her ebony armor appeared to absorb all light around her, creating darkness where she stood. Only the silver trim reflected the light, outlining her sleek, graceful form. The clan medallion set in her armor breastplate was that of an embossed dragon's head with eyes of black crystal; the DragonHeart. It was made of pure gold, and flashed fire in the sunlight. Once, that symbol was both respected and feared; now those days were but a memory. Kylista would bring that memory back, and then some.

The real surprise was what her cloak had kept secret. A pair of draconic wings extended from just below her shoulder blades, each tipped with a silver wing claw. She spread one, then the other, rotating them in a figure eight pattern. The muscles were stiff from disuse, but she was confident that they would still serve her well. With each movement, black mist wafted from the large black sails, swirling and shifting constantly, forming a kind of blanket across the ground, concealing anything beneath. Her long tail twitched absently, stirring some of the mist.

The stunned crowd was staring at her, all of them but Zak whispering prayers or making the sign guarding against demons. Ordinarily Kylista would have avoided the situation, but now she was grinning. Their ignorance and belief that words and gestures could protect them amused her. Never had such a thing stopped her from slaying those she considered a threat or a nuisance, and that wouldn't change now.

From a sheath at her side, Kylista drew Crimson. The katana glowed with the same aura as its namesake, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. She was quite calm; the pulses revealed a slow, steady rhythm. She held the blade in her left hand, letting the tip touch the grass, which turned scarlet and died at the touch of the steel. Crimson gained its aura from death, stained by the blood of the defeated. Idly she wondered how much brighter it would get today, how deeply it would drink of blood.

From a sheath on her other side, she drew Dakyren, Zak's gift. The hilt looked normal, but the rest of the blade was a writhing, twisting blade of shadows, moving of its own accord as if it were alive. The power he infused in the katana was so great that it had melded with the steel of the blade, creating a hybrid of magic. It was truly unique, and Zak actually felt bad for her opponent. It was likely he'd suffer much at the mercy of that blade.

With Crimson in her left hand, Dakyren in her right, Kylista was quite an impressive sight. She waited impassively, her eyes closed as she concentrated on preparing for the coming battle. Her tailed twitched every once in awhile, but she was otherwise motionless. In her mind she was replaying every battle she'd ever been in, every wound she inflicted or received, every clash of steel upon steel, and every death she had caused. Would the end of the match add another defeat, maybe even another casualty? To whatever end, Kylista would fight, and DragonHeart, the lost clan, would receive the honor and glory it deserved. She would win, or die trying.

[OceanEyes28]

((OOC: Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry.... busy and my computer broke. Blah.))

“NO!”

A shriek jolted Ouri from sleep, her chest heaving forward and sending her into an upright position of panic. Where am I? Her eyes darted chaotically about the room, searching for familiarity. Everything seemed strange. Why wasn’t she in her bedroom with the cool cotton sheets and cream colored curtains? Instead, the sheets were damp with sticky sweat and the curtains were a deep red. Where was her pale blue gown that smelled like soap because her mother had just washed it? Instead, steel was embracing her ribcage, and it was set out of place, making her breathing shallow. Fear swept over her trembling body as she grasped for something she knew and understood, but found nothing.

Slowly, she let herself slide out from beneath her covers-- her protection. The floor was rough against her feet, making little bloodless scrapes on the balls of her feet as she tiptoed carefully over alien ground. She stood at the window, and saw her ghastly face against the soft reflection of the weathered glass. Taking a closer look, she yelped and stumbled back. My face! What happened to it? I’m supposed to be a child. But... She looked down at her developed figure and shapely legs. But I’m not. A timid step forward brought her face to face once again with her reflection. The woman there was fatigued and lost. She was sad. Looking at that woman, Ouri decided that he did not want to grow up to be her. Her delicate fingers skimmed the surface of the woman’s face. The woman cringed at the touch and looked away. Ouri returned her gaze to the window. Who are you? She turned and went back to her bed. Her sheets were tangled in each other, so she tossed them up in the air and let them flutter back down.

She scanned her room for something she might recognize. It was as if her childhood had been left somewhere and she couldn’t remember where she had put it. Forgotten. A glint of light pierced her eye, and forced her to turn. Casually discarded on a sturdy mahogany chair, was a slender sword with a black blade and silver edge. It was enchanting. In an eerie sort of way, it was very attractive in its smooth ebony silence. She approached the still weapon and squatted down to look at it. It stared back at her, and dared her to make a move. “Why did you call me over here?”

A silky touch against her ears, a murmur barely escaped from within the sword. No one could have heard it unless they had been right beside it. As a viola sighs heavily and beautifully, so the voice hummed its reply.

“I did not call you. You came to me.”

“No, I didn’t,” she said softly, matching the sword. “You called me.”

“Of course you do not remember. How could you? You tried to forget me.”

Ouri squinted here eyes and brought her face closer. She looked past the sword, past its reflection. Something... something was there. Specks of blood glittered against an indigo storm. Rain littered the scarlet masterpiece. Flames. She could smell fire, and blood souring and vaporizing in the heat. Smoke stung her eyes, but she did not dare look away. Disturbance in the picture. Backwards by a few minutes. A little girl stood all alone beneath a sickly sky, moaning with discomfort. All Ouri could see was the child’s back. The child was still, letting the rain immerse her. A woman’s voice called out.

“Come inside! You’ll get sick!” It echoed against the sheets of water soaking the air. The child did not move. “Come in! Please.” Whispers could be heard from within raindrops, chilling Ouri as she watched. The child peered over her shoulder. Her blue irises were dazzling yet very out of place against the bloodshot whites. Her stare was frozen, and her the corners of her mouth were curved down. Wet hair stuck to her neck and forehead, making her eyes seem as two moons peaking out from behind a thick cloud. Her feet shifted slowly beneath her, the soles of her shoes scratching the stone walkway. She wore a chain around her waist. It clicked as she moved. One hand was concealed beneath a robe, and the woman became curious. “What do you have?”

“Go away.”

The woman was shocked. The child’s tone was malignant, and her malicious stare had not faded away. The woman called to someone inside, and a man came to stand beside her. He scolded the child for speaking to the woman in such a way. The child only glared. He was afraid, but he would not show it. Instead, he acted angry and stomped through the soggy street until he stood towering over her. “Show me what you have.”

With a bitter grin, she removed the hand from her robe and held it out. Red oozed from between her fingers. The man gasped and leapt back. Gingerly, she opened her hand and two disgusting plops were heard as two bloody globes hit the ground. Eyes. Torn out. A shrill shriek was heard from the woman at the door. She cried out in fear and agony. She did not know where to find the child she once knew, and this one had taken her away. The child, distorted by some wicked entity, licked her palm and began to suck the crimson from her fingers. The man wailed above the howling wind and lunged for the child. But the child would have none of it, and a dark blade appeared from beneath her robes where her hand had been. She sliced his abdomen open.

The woman ran away. The child stood numb for a moment. When she had wounded him, he had knocked the sword from her hand. It called out, but she could not see it. Then she saw her hands. Stained forever with the blood of that man. She looked at his cold dead face.

“Daddy!” she screamed. She couldn’t understand. Why was Daddy dead? Where was Mommy? She saw the woman disappear. Mommy was gone. She began to cry, and sob, until she heard the murmuring of the black sword. “Where are you?!” she cried. It called out again. There. She noticed fiery streetlights lighting the street, so she took a lantern out of its glass case, and hurled it at where the sword was hidden. The gas within the lamp exploded, and a building caught fire. She didn’t care. Nothing mattered. She collapsed and curled up into herself. This was hell in all its fury, and she would sleep through it. Perhaps she would wake up to find it gone.

“You did this to me!”

Ouri woke from the reverie and toppled the chair on which the sword was throned. All at once, her memories came surging back, and she remembered it all. Her childhood, her growing up, Damien, her last match. Her last match! Oh God... had she killed him? She couldn’t remember. She had been unconscious. The blood of another had been spilt because of her. And what of Damien? Had he really left her behind?

Just then, keys rattled outside her door. An attendant peaked in and informed her of her next match. The attendant... he looked at her with caution. Her throat became choked and she tried to say something, but she only coughed. The attendant told her to be ready in five minutes.

“No!” she managed.

The attendant turned.

She cleared her throat and pushed back her emotions. “I don’t have a weapon to fight with.”

“Sure you do. Just use the one you’ve been using.” He wouldn’t hear anymore. He didn’t think she made sense. Maybe she didn’t. Tears exploded from inside of her, and she wept loudly. Her body convulsed and shivered. She was so scared. What was she now? A mere skeleton of her former self meant to be controlled by an object? This morbid demon of herself was consuming her heart and how could she stop it? She had to fight.

Why should I stay? Why shouldn’t I run away? I could find Damien again. She adjusted her armour and prepared for battle. No. I can’t. I have to stay. I have to finish what I started. She trembled as she reached for her sword, knowing what it would do to her. I’ll beat you. You can’t have my body. She put the sword at her waist.

You fool. You have already lost

Not yet. It isn’t over yet. The soul has not been thrown away. Ouri wiped her cheeks, and cupped her hand around the doorknob. So she would go to fight now, and perhaps die. But if she lived, she would continue on whatever path was chosen for her. If she won, she would still fight. If she lost, the word was open to her again, and she would find her lost companion.

The stadium doors opened before her, and she stepped inside. She closed her eyes before he laid them on her opponent. She couldn’t bear to look at another creature she would have to fight just yet. Instead, she smiled to herself and enjoyed the cool on her face, just in case it was the last time. But she smiled still, and only she and her possessor knew why. There is still hope... Don’t you see? I’m winning.

[psychosyd]

2 Marvelous posts, only one victor. This goes to OceanEyes, you had a wonderful background sidetrack. Though IMHO somewhat excessive, it was done well, and really was the crown for the win.