Practice [Closed]

[Alaric von der Marck]

The sword was a familiar weight in the elder’s grasp, the steel almost as ancient as the elder himself. The weapon was something he’d collected while still human; he’d not wanted it, but the war had crept closer and closer to home. He’d managed to avoid getting swept up in the melee, but eventually…

Through all his tribulations, the sword had remained with him. It was a miracle it had not been lost in the chaos, in the move from one continent to another. And it was more surprising still when he opened the old, decaying trunk in the vast basement beneath the estate to find the sword still there. Still intact, and, with a little tender loving care, still as sharp as it had always been. Sadness clung to the elder’s heart when he thought about the blacksmith who’d created such a lasting element – though Alaric could not figure out whether he was sad because the blacksmith would surely be dead by now, or because Alaric could not join him in his peace.

Though the elder still could not be certain that there was any peace in death. There certainly hadn’t been for him, but he still hung on to the hope that it was different for humans, and that his soul was punished only due to the dark force attached to it, eternal.

The rapier was small but deadly, its blade wider than some but still thin enough to be easily concealed. The weapon had been used alongside the muskets, a backup for close combat. Down in the sewers, Alaric found a foe worth his time. Down here, the chaos of the modern world was muffled and kept at bay; down here, the elder could almost imagine he was back in the 17th century.

Sneakers scuffed through puddles as Alaric wound through the tunnels, his only weapon his sword. He was clad in what the modern mentality would call ‘activewear’; he didn’t understand it, though he couldn’t argue its comfort. The ‘shorts’ had taken some getting used to and though the retail assistant had tried to sell Alaric the tights that went underneath the elder had steadfastly refused. He’d bought numerous plain shirts, however, and the hooded sports jacket was black (along with everything else) for easy blending. Too many times had Alaric ruined suits on these excursions underground, before he’d realised the futility of keeping a wardrobe that consisted only of ‘smart casual’.

Around the next corner, Alaric encountered his next foe; he didn’t break stride as he lunged at the Prophet, knowing it would take more than a few easy swings to take this one down. The prophets were a challenge that Alaric relished…

[Amaranthia]

It wasn't second nature to her, though there was some sort of instinct was developing...she was pretty sure at least. It was starting to, as Leiren had taught the woman to say, "click" for her at least. There were even times when it felt like she knew what her opponent was about to do, and reacted just in time to save her own skin. It simply wouldn't do to come back home and have Mordechai see that she'd got herself all cut up again. He'd likely question her need whether perhaps she might be better off just staying in the Necropolis and teaching him to dance instead of trying to learn how to fight. It had never been second nature, she was a lover (quite literally), not a fighter. A courtesan by trade, and it had served her well throughout her mortality and quite a while into her immortality. However, more recently she'd started to come to the realization that neutrality was not going to continue to serve her. She didn't like having to trust someone else to keep her from her greatest fear, being sent back and trapped in the shadow realm.

Mordechai had led her to this place, it wasn't nearly as dingy and damp as the other sewers. It seemed to be a place of it's own, and more so just another section of the sub-cityscape as opposed to actual in use sewer. She knew they would be a tough foe, but were within working limits for her, and so far she'd experienced a good amount of success. Prophets however, they still for the most part eluded her defeat. Most of the time she ended up fleeing, rather than letting the creature come too close to sending her back into the realm. The idea burned her metaphorical cheeks to admit, should she have to tell Mordechai of her failure.

She felt, rather than saw, the other intelligent creature that apparently shared her space. She wasn't about to let some one see her get defeated again, no she only took on Prophets when she was sure she was alone. Leaning back into the shadows, she waited to watch the male make his attempt. Perhaps she'd be able to learn some new perspective watching the interaction that she could put into her own application against the creatures.

[Alaric von der Marck]

The challenge that often presented when dealing with the prophets was that they were better able to resist Alaric’s power. The first that he attempted – to overwhelm his target – failed. The women pushed through with barely a misstep, and with a roar she transformed. She became something feral, a mutation. Something that Alaric had seen before, in others not of his path, but that didn’t make it any less shocking. Alaric ducked for cover as the prophet cartwheeled from him, one hand still gripping her firearm. The bullets she sprayed in his direction missed their mark.

When Alaric stepped back out to face his opponent he found that there was not just one, but many; it took no more than a second to understand that it was an illusion, that he was not faced with more foe than he could handle but that the one in front of him was merely trying to confuse him. With a bark of annoyance, he swung his blade in a wide arch. Surely, it would eventually slice the correct target. And while he swung, he threw his own power at the prophet, who’d proved herself to be dishonourable in battle. If she could use dirty tricks, then so would he. The power he flung in her direction blocked her mind; the illusion flickered then fell. With his target now in sight, Alaric pushed forward, his blade a blur as he sought to gut the prophet. But she avoided him, stepping back, and back again. She waited until Alaric changed tactic then launched herself in a somersault over his head; she’d pulled a blade seemingly from thin air; it glinted in the low light and Alaric swivelled to avoid being slashed.

He, however, was able to swing his own blade so that it cut deeply into the prophet’s arm. This went on for a good fifteen minutes, the back and forth. The prophet had discarded the gun in favour of blade, which Alaric preferred. There was parry and slash, push and pull, neither using powers and instead relying only on their weapons. Alaric’s clothing was torn, his own thigh and shoulder sporting gouges given by the prophet’s blade. In the end, however, it was Alaric’s blade that skewered the prophet’s face; the tip plunged through the eye socket, and Alaric twisted. Blood gushed from the wound before the body collapsed at Alaric’s feet.

He did not yet wipe the blade. He gripped it lightly, ready for the next opponent.