The wind blew strong at this altitude. It was nearing midnight, the Dark Hour, and a storm was beginning to roll in from the east. The prelude to the fury of the oncoming thunderheads was even more apparent at the top of this mysterious old tower. None but the very oldest of the Anui knew the origins of this strange structure. It stood, majestic and tall, over the endless grasslands that dominated the heart of the continent. Alone, proud and tall, with nothing exceeding its size for at least a hundred leagues. Lomedor held wonders taller than this, and the temples of the gods were certainly more ornate. And yet none of these places held the mystique of the old tower, the type of ancient wisdom that seemed to radiate from the old brick walls.

Xoco could hear little over the howl of the winds and that flapping of his cape. His long white hair fluttered across his shoulders and his bangs blew annoyingly across his face. Thunder roared in the distance Lightning struck a tree in the distance, creating a brilliant flash. The acrid smoke drifted swiftly to the east along with the winds that carried the clouds through the sky. The tall grass rolled and swayed in waves below, an ocean of dull brown. The fresh smell of approaching rain filled the air, along with the mold and mildew of the ancient tower.

He stood still, silent and tall, in the middle of the platform atop the high tower. Two piles of equipment, the largest of the tournament thus far, lay to his left and right. These were the last two survivors of the violent tournament matches. The tournament had begun with many fighters, all talented, skilled, well-equipped, and all hoping to walk away with the big money that lay at the end of the bloody road to victory. This was the last step, the last great stretch to the finish line, and the grand reward at the end. But first, there would be one last fight, and this time, there were no limits. Before, the Drow Nafalen had set limits on what types of equipment could be used in the matches. But now, all limits were off. The last two contenders would fight to the bitter end, all-out. No restrictions.

The tower creaked as the wind strained its ancient mortar. A small piece of rubble broke off the top platform, falling the dizzying distance to the ground below. Xoco did not look left or right, but simply stared straight ahead, across the plains.

“Congratulations to both of you on making it this far. You have both impressed me greatly with your skills in battle. You have proven yourselves against less worthy opponents, and fought excellently with the distraction of a large crowd. And now, here you stand, so very close to the prize which both of you seek. All you must do is defeat your opponent to walk away with a lofty sum of gold. It will take cunning. It will take bravery. It will take skill. Both of you have the chance to become wealthy and famous.” Xoco paused for a moment. Taking a breath.

A heavy rain began to fall spattering arhythmically across the top platform of the tower. The rain began to drip off the side of the tower in small streams, falling down, down, down to the ground below. It would soon be laced with red. Xoco spoke once more.

“When you are prepared, you may begin”.

An essence. Engraved into his soul, coursing through his veins, and seeping through his pores. A warrior. Masked by formalities. A witty tongue, a broadened grin, and a sweeping cloak. All mere veils swathing what he was made to be, what he was born to be. Ever since childhood he would outweigh others physically. A quick mind would take each new skill and call it his own. While others were still busying themselves with childish trinkets he was out late, observing and picking out what he could, then sneaking away to unearth these devilish tricks. Despite family ties to this education broken, his misadventures still allowed him to prosper for what he could know and carry on. Most of which he learned and could teach himself. The rest was blending of many lands and encounters; a fusion that came to be his own distinctive style. He has yet to unlock the mysteries looming behind his counterpart, which has only proven to be one of destruction and one of might.

Countless hours of training, days of travel, and a resilient spirit would bring one to this pivotal moment. Every interchange of past experiences could be resurfaced in this time. With that, innumerable counters and offensive techniques would stride through on the empty battle fields, the practice against cunning shadows, and countless rigorous training sessions. Sometimes night would sweep its vast cloak over the area, yet he was relentless with his movements. Stopping: a word foreign from his vocabulary during these moments. Often he returned from sessions calloused and caked with dust from the earth. His muscles would ache and his body would thirst with hunger. Nonetheless the harder he trained, the better he was able to push past the long hours into much more advanced techniques. He was able to feel himself improving with every steady gait. Practicing what he knew needed work seemed tedious at timed, yet he persevered, and the movements came to be almost as simple as breathing.

Leagues on end he would sit back and think about his past opponents, his past mistakes and his future accomplishments. For this new round he vowed not to repeat history’s curse, rather to go bold and win. A lot was at stake. At first he was driven by the prize, a healthy amount of gold, which tickled his fancy at every passing recollection. Now he was driven by more deeper motives, ones that were sure to keep his spirit strong through the duration of the battle. He was playing for his pride, his namesake. Never had he been good enough for his father, the harsh lashings still raped his subconscious. During his days of travel, he disclosed on the belief that it would bridge his detachment from his past and restore any confidence he had lost, thereby, breaking any masks that still plagued him from his childhood. Anything that got in his way of this revelation he already deemed worthless. It was his time to be selfish, claim it for his own, and get what he desired.

There were duet scenarios that constantly reeled through his mind during any down-time that he had allotted himself, during his journey to the final round. One was of victory. His face shinning, arms raised in obvious exhilaration, with the crowd exploding around him - cheering the winner of the most anticipated ending to the popular tournament. The other was a more frequent version of this daydream’s foil. Here, the arena was blackened around his own bloody expression - he would be watching down on himself - failing, falling into his own pool of blood, while his opponent rose over him cackling furiously. And horrifically enough, his father would rise out of the stands, a look of disappointment plastered over his robust face, before he retreated in disgust. At the end of every vision, Vaud would have to shake himself up and force his mind away through another few hours of training. The half-breed had become obsessed. He could hardly carry on a conversation with anyone without various tactics racing past his subconscious, of which he would heedlessly pantomime until he had a proper chance to properly carry out the techniques.

After a while, as the date of the round neared, he had to tell himself to be happy with his current strategies, for if he changed too much his mind would be filled with contradictory actions. Therefore, as the days drew closer, he continued to practice what was comfortable, fast, and effective. The only proceeding drawback of this round was the unknown, namely, his challenger. He would have liked to go into the battle recognizing the man’s fighting style, side-stepping any strengths and taking advantage of debilities. As much as that would benefit the half-breed, he realized how attractive the round promised to be. Both would be starting on a clean slate, unaware of any surprises lurking in either’s mind. Besides there were no limitations, both competitors unbound an fully equipped, fighting in their true and unbiased form. The news of this unbridled round was sure to spread fast to grand proportions. The outcome of the crowd born to make their appearance was bound to be larger from the second round ten fold. Everyone liked to see bloodshed, and this final stage was eminent to deliver.

Yet the location of the last phase of the tournament wasn’t held in a prestigious Deity stadium to accommodate welcomed spectators, or even in the courtyard of an extravagant castle; instead a prominent and rather ruddy tower, looming over the vast plains in the midst of Arda’s most distinguishable grasslands, was playing host. This stroke Vaudeux as odd, but nevertheless he made his way through the tall grass. At a distance it was the tallest point anyone could see of the grasslands, yet it wasn‘t the ideal location for a spectator sport. With its cylindered body and precarious build, how were the foremen going to cram everyone inside? Let alone the judges to watch over the fight. And with a sinking feeling that there wasn’t going to be an audience he trudged forward, the long stalks of brush parting at his shins with ease. At last the grass grew shorter and more scarce, and the warrior was graced with the presence of unstable rocks at the base of the Ancient Tower. He strode across them with accomplished ease until he drew near to a solid oak door.

It was wind-blown and heavy, as he pulled on its cold iron latch and swung it open. Inside was just as unimpressive as the outside of the tower. It was as dark and dank as any dungeon, aided by the candle-less posts spiraling up the wall. There was a peculiar smell of mold as he crossed the threshold of the building, so he didn’t waver long before he strolled over to the nearest mark of progression: the winding staircase. The lobby was empty expect for a few doors across from his own that obviously led back out to the familiar grasslands. The tournament was most likely held at the topmost room of this tower, yet with the standard of this final round Jupiter wasn’t too sure so he busied himself with any door that he came across along the way - finding nothing but a pile of stray goblets here or carcasses of small animals strewn there. Finally he made it to the topmost platform, his quads tingling plesently; a good warm up for his tight muscles. He reached outward towards the second iron latch of the day with his long fingers, to open the door to his fate, to either wealth or shame.

All of a sudden a serge of nerves overcame him so that his arm quivered a fell limply back to his side in defeat. At once Vaud was taken aback with himself, he had come thus far not to open the door? Had he not prepared restlessly for this moment for weeks on end? Had he not foreseen himself opening a door, of similar proportions, to this very battle in his recurring dreams? Of failure and of success, there was no set answer, and his opponent could be waiting for him right on the other side of the thin slab of wood brandishing a superior sword and wearing a glimmering set of armor. Had he taken that into account during preparation? His eyes had glazed over, deep in thought, boring into the knotted wood of the door ahead. Your tactics… Hissed a deep and deadly voice in the recesses of his subconscious. He had to have gotten this far with something, and that wasn’t his mithril short sword, the simple boots on his feet, nor the support of another or even supportive cheers from the crowd; in truth he made it way here on his own self-determination and his cunning mind. And to lose confidence in himself now would be a mistake.

So, vowing to leave all nervousness here on the top platform, he dropped his tense arms and shook them and his head with closed eyes. As his body bounced rhythmically, he could feel his mind relax almost as if his mind were shaking the anxiety out through his fingertips. Then he stopped, and took a breath to finalize his state of being once more, and, with his confidence soaring he forcefully pushed his way through the surprisingly light door. It banged against the opposing wall and rattled in his wake as the half-dragon took two great strides into the room, not sure what to expect within. Here he didn’t find a towering figure with daunting instruments of pain, but the cloaked being whom had signaled the beginning of Round 2 of Nafalen’s Tournament. For a fleeting second he thought he would have to fight this man to prove himself worthy of the prize. There was a powerful entity surrounding the figure, almost beyond his comprehension, and he almost regretted stepping forth through the door. Yet he shook himself from the worry as the figure acknowledged his arrival, because, as usual, Jupiter was the first to arrive for the fight.

Almost instantly he was relieved that his opponent hadn’t arrived yet. Not only has be became accustomed to being first, but this left nothing to interpret in his stride if his opponent had seen him burst through the door. So he walked the rest of the way towards the Wraith and to a familiar pile that held his things. Quickly he attached and secured his belongings under his black elven pants, or over an open-collared off-white shirt. His dagger lay in a holster under his pants while his Drows armor hugged his torso. Before picking up any other ornaments he stood up from his spot and jumped upward, testing the stability of the floor under him and the spring of his step all at once. Physically he was primed for the fight ahead. His stomach was settled, having eaten a hearty meal hours before, and his muscles practically itching to wield a blade - the rest was a mental battle. After another series of winding motions with his arms, testing his reach and flexibility with his light armor, he crouched once more beside his pile to warm up with his sword. As he stooped, his eyes fell upon the massive pile of equipment belonging to his opponent. There was indeed an impressive set of mail and to his utter disappointment a remarkably long sword that looked vaguely familiar. Then, to his immediate horror and a flashback from his previous battle - the smog and fire… shooting from the ground, of geyser’s strength… - he was able to place the blade while he stared into it, a flash of lightening brightening its blood-stained surface, and his qualms were evoked,
Damnit…

Air ripped through the trees in a less-than-gentle manner, almost unnatural in its intensity, sending torrents of leaves into a frenzied dance that twisted and surged towards the rumbling gray sky overhead—a mass of darkened bulbous clouds lit up by flashes of sporadic lightning—dispersing into the tense, electrified sky in such a violent manner that, if watching them, one would think great unseen hands were ripping them from their chaotic dance back into the great black clouds that invigorated them in the first place. A fierce storm had approached the grasslands overnight, and now sat in watch, waiting to unleash rain and thunder upon the land—but not yet—it appeared to be waiting for something; a signal to commence its downpour. A darkly dressed man looked up at the sky from his vantage point on a tall oak's branch. He knew what the sky was waiting for. He was part of it.

Slipping off the branch, he fell silently to the woodland floor, landing in a whisper of cloth. His great dark cape drew up around his form as he rose to his full height again, glancing to his left, then his right, as if waiting for something to cross his path. Nothing appeared, however, and he began to walk. The man was clothed almost entirely in wispy sable clothing; loose pants that brushed the sides of his thick leather boots as he walked, several belts around his waist with pouches of various styles clinging to it, along with a large, thin sheath for his sword, which was absent, given that he had placed it in the hands of tournament officails. Folds of cloth danced on his chest as he walked, and glints of silver could be seen from under them every moment or so, showing small, shiny throwing daggers that he had placed all over his body for easy reach despite the situation at hand, or position he found himself in. A crimson scarf was wrapped loosely about his shoulder, neck and face, with its ends clamped together at his chest by a golden emblem with the words 'I Hate Demons' Engraved on it to some comical extent, though the man would find nothing funny about it. His face was obscured by the scarf, but also by the shadow of his most distinguishable article of clothing—a large, buckled, wide-brimmed hat tucked low over his dark brown hair, casting a pall of darkness over his face so that no distinguishable characteristics could be seen in it, save for his eyes, which seemed to glow in the darkness, bright with thought and terribly colorful; indeed, each eye was lit up with a different color, one a dark blue, the other a light green, each relaxed, peaceful, and ever wide open, searching the land in front of the man for anything strange or interesting. The man was Sartana Misirlou; demon hunter, explorer, philosopher and do-gooder.

Sartana stopped as he reached the edge of the woods, just before the threshold of dark forest undergrowth and lithe, bright green grasslands that seemed to glow in the stormy overcast. There was a tall object looming at the edge of the sky, barely discernible in the given lighting. The demon hunter watched it thoughtfully for a moment without moving, and then began walking again, pulling down his scarf as he did to reveal a hard face with strong features, and a prominent chin littered with stubble, as he didn't shave very often. On his lightly sloped nose ran a deep scar, horizontally across its bridge. He let the grass touch his fingers as he walked. Another day, another fight... Always another fight. He thought to himself with a grin, pulling a piece of wheat from his side with startling speed, only to slowly place it between his lips, and let it sit there. He went over the information he had been given once again. Information was the greatest of weapons, after all.

“Vaudeux Jupiter...” He whispered to himself, bringing up the information in his mind. He had friends watch the man's matches, and could derive his fighting preferences from that, along with equipment, race, age... Just about everything. A half-dragon. Can he transform into a dragon? Don't know. He's a few inches shorter and myself, and seems to be about the same weight, with quite a bit of muscle, given that he's a fighter. Despite this he also has very quick reflexes, and can handle a sword—a shortsword being his favored weapon, apparently—quite well, able to make attacks with startling speed. What was that which Luke Duke warned..? Oh yes! “You'll find, my friend, that Mr. Jupiter fought with an opponent wielding the same sword as yourself in his last match. That being said, he's likely not to be surprised by the use of its abilities.” The demon hunter looked down at his side, where his weapon usually sat. From what he had heard, the half-dragon had not but a shortsword. He looked up at the tower again, which he was slowly closing in on. I'll not fight an opponent with such a substantial advantage. Not in a friendly tournament, anyway. Sartana thought, walking at an easy pace even if he was late for the fight. He had entered with tournament mainly on a whim; he didn't need the money, and would undoubtedly send it to some charitable organization if he won it. Gold was hardly important to him. What was valued by the demon hunter, however, was one's strength, both of arm and mind. He was going to test both of these in the arena this night against an opponent that was more than a match for him. I'll use my falchion, dagger, and nothing more. He thought to himself with a smirk, finally reaching the tower. It was hardly impressive. That, combined with how long he had been forced to wait, brought a frown to his face.

Nafalen's tournament was supposed to run for a month. Round one the first week, round two the second week, a rest week after that, and the final match the week after that; yet, it had been nearly a month since the demon hunter had completed his last match with the powerful opponent Annihilate before plans for this final match were announced. What in Loth's name could that damned drow have been doing that was so important to post pone the match for a month's time? He thought to himself, walking slowly up the tower's crumbling steps. Sartana knew Nafalen from their adventures together, and honestly, he wouldn't put it past the drow to have been having a good time during that month, spending the tournament grand prize on boos and women. How the Hell had he set up this tournament anyways? Apparently there was a mysterious figure helping him, one of great power. Still, if there was, he should have gotten the match started earlier. That, and it should have been put in a better location.

He stepped under the archway of the stone tower, entering a small, decrepit room littered with debris and refuse. This was likely a gathering point for some gang, or group of bandits; the remnants of a camp fire lay near the center of the room, with bones and old rags resting in the ashes, and a few logs stationed around it. There were no attendants to greet him, or delicious foods waiting in their private rooms, or private rooms at all, for that matter. It was mundane, untidy, and a bit insulting, for that matter. During the last round of the tournament, the demon hunter had been treated like a star. That, and he got a free meal—something he would have liked to have now, since he had only eaten a light lunch to go along with his exercises. Sartana wasn't one for crowds, or being the center of attention, but for the final round of a massive fighting tournament he had expected a massive, grandiose stadium, brimming with those who wished to catch a glimpse of two seasoned fighters, two of the best in the land; for aspiring swordsman to watch that which they hoped to become; for young children to form dreams around the edge of a sword. The demon hunter shook his head, kicking a charred piece of wood from the center of the room. How anticlimactic. And think of the funds that could have been raised for a good cause if it had been in another place—damn it. With a sigh, he began to climb the stairs. At least he'd get a good fight out of this, in the least. If he wasn't killed in the process.

It was a long climb to the top, but he ran. He started slow, moving one step at a time, then began to skip steps. Soon he was sprinting, clearing several steps at a time, balancing on one for a second, turning on his feet and launching himself forward. His heart raced, and with one final bound, he reached the top, stretched and warmed up for the fight. Cracking his neck with a grin, he pushed the door open.

The wind his his face, and he pulled his hat lower against is head, his dark brown hair reeling to the side as he did, and his sable cloak tearing to the left, then the right, in bursts of moist, warm air. It looked as if he could reach up and touch the massive clouds above them; they surrounded the tower, and enveloped the mountains at all corners of the tower. It was beginning to rain when Sartana stepped in front of his opponent, a grin on his face. His information was correct, as he knew it to be. Jupiter was about his height, and about his weight. He had black hair and eyes of a dragon. The demon hunter watched them for a moment with his own colorful eyes, reaching down to retrieve his gear. He picked up his weapons, armor, potions, and all other things that had been taken to him, and then stood to his full height again, watching Jupiter.

“It is good to finally meet you, Jupiter.” He said, looking at the young half-dragon. “I've heard of your supreme swordsmanship, and had hoped you would win from the beginning—this fight has wandered my thoughts for some time.” He unsheathed his falchion, its shiny, wide blade glinting as lightning struck a forest in the distance, brightening his features into black and white shadows of light, his eyes completely hidden by the heavy shadow of his hat, but a wide grin visibly stretched wide across his face—an odd expression for the man. The demon hunter's arms were long—much longer than an average person's, it seemed—and he held them wide to his sides with open, gloved fingers, breathing deep the cool stormy air. He let his falchion rest on his shoulder, then, and tipped his hat up so that Jupiter could see his eyes better.

“I was sorry to hear we were fighting in such a dismal setting, myself.” The demon hunter said in a strangely mild way. “I was hoping for something more grandeur, but what is a fighter to complain of his battle's setting? We're just here to bash swords together, aren't we?” He smiled and held out his hand. “Good luck.” After Jupiter shook his hand, Sartana would take a defensive stance, and ready himself for the half-dragon's attack. It was raining harder now, and the drops splashed against the top of his hat, keeping his face dry, and his eye site unhindered. There were times when he enjoyed his own eccentricity in regards to articles of clothing.

From across the wind-swept tower the light oaken door swung open, but this time with less might and a more graceful appeal. The commotion was enough to tear Vaudeux’s attention away from his opponent’s blade and look onward. It weren’t the whines from rusty hinges of the door, nor the clunking of heavy boots that drew his interest away from the equipment, but the tingling of a new sensation… A new presence in the empty tower. Both the hairs on the back of his neck and his body stood erect to face Sartana-Kun, as he strode into the circular stage. Immediately a variety of things happened at once. His eyes lit up so violently scarlet that his irises appeared to be moving with the rhythm of a steady flame. The burning curiosity of the Wyrm within him, accompanied with his straining infravision decoding the night shadows, was a stunning visual display for the new arrival. At once both men seemed to be taking in one another like any good competitor. The more one knew about their opponent the better. With this, Jupiter had received the short end of the stick. He had come into battle thoroughly preparing himself, lacking any true sense of what his opponent might be hiding. Now all he had were inklings.

For a moment each man stared at the other, it was their turn to finally meet. All their time and energy put forth towards the two previous rounds now rising up in this one final match. Even so, Jupiter found his challenger’s eyes repulsively vibrant in the shadows and glanced away to examine the rest of the man’s veneer. Catching his interest at once, was a ridiculous button sewn onto the man’s front. I hate demons… At the sight of this Vaud simply grinned to himself, resisting the urge to laugh audibly, and destroy the closed first impression of him for his opponent. For a moment he considered the meaning of the purposely placed patch. There was an obvious sense that Sartana had a sense of humor, but such a declaration was plaguing his mind. There was a literal meaning behind it that Jupiter just could not ignore. Then it was apparent that the pair stationed at the top of the ancient tower, would be fighting not only with different blades, but with a different set of morals. And to make the scene more ironic, like any other final round situation, it would be a fight against good and evil. How delightful…

What was not amusing, besides the rickety tower, was in fact his challenger. The man was inches taller than Vaud, wearing a tall and preposterously wide-brimmed cap, a hodgepodge of belts, and several useless folds of clothing over his torso. Next was an equally absurd cloth wrapped around the bottom portion of his face. It was enfolded in such a manner that Jupiter had an immediate desire to rip the ruby scarf off from the demon-hater’s smug countenance. As Sartana approached his own equipment, Vaudeux was enveloped in his own silent loathing. The man was of such a stature and equip that it was almost sickening to watch him, so Vaud reached up to his own cloak and loosened the ties around his neck. He didn’t need the unnecessary weight and he certainly didn’t desire its warmth. While the thief unfastened the knot beside his collar he looked down at himself. His worn cotton shirt, the best thing he had that was comfortable enough to fight in. The black britches over his lower half were nice, but stolen from a bathing elf. Even the boots on his feet he couldn’t call his own. He was mismatched, without a true style. To intensify matters more, as he now took notice to his equipment, the blade in his hand was even stolen. Stoically, he looked back up to the demon hunter, and if it weren’t for his determination to stay neutral and the darkness of the night, he would have turned green.

With a warm gust his cloak blew off without any persuasion. Like a heavy spirit it glided over near the half-dragon’s pile of items, now where only a pair of gloves lay, and slapped against the cool stone that was the knee-high wall rotting under them. Overhead the black nimbus clouds swirled threateningly and the wind adopted a chilled authority, as it blew over his lightly perspired form. At this point he caught sprinklets of cold rain from above, catching him at every open pore in odd intervals, feeling as though his skin were tingling. The thief gazed up at the sinister clouds as if to blame them, when a particularly bulbous drop landed on the shelf which was Vaud’s upper lip. At once he flecked the disturbance away with his tongue; to taste the saltiness of his own sweat accompanied with the cool temperature of the rain water. In his vision of the tournament’s end he had always pictured a sunny day… Then the man started to speak and Jupiter looked back on level with his opponent, now fitted with his mail and another blade apart from the one he had saw earlier. He had thought this man named Sartana would surely endow the powers of the long sword, for he knew that it held abilities of power and of surprise. Not questioning the strategies of his next target, the half-breed merely listened thoughtfully.

“-had hoped you would win from the beginning,” Uttered the eccentric male, which had abashed Vaudeux at once. He even had to advert his eyes in bemusement. Was he being serious? Jupiter almost hoped that the man was being sarcastic so he could reply venomously, yet he could detect nothing but sincerity; which was just as infuriating to him. At the moment, he could think of nothing but hatred for the man that he didn’t even know. Whether it was the green monster still roaring unpleasantly within him, or the mounting frustration of the dormant Wyrm residing in his conscience, Vaud nodded in reply full in his normal nobility - not going to subject the important occasion with arcane feelings. He continued to listen silently, taking in his rival’s words, and agreeing with them wordlessly to himself. It was true about the setting of their final match. When he first arrived he noted how dull his surroundings were, he wished it would be a place full of prestige so the competitors could receive the same. Instead it was a rotting landmark barley noted from even the most critical storytellers. The Ancient Tower too, now suffered the same fate to Jupiter’s hatred.

Both men had overcame obstacles and some of the best warriors across the land to make it to this stage, and now it was just the two of them left to battle it out in a tower that was barley withstanding. No one else but the judge, watchful for the victor, was there to survey the skilled combatants. The anticipated outcome of round three wouldn’t be known immediately, as it would with hundreds of spectators watching and cheering. Nor would the uptake. He was expecting it to start off slowly, scarcely gaining momentum until one of the pair spied a chance to sprint for the finish. Perhaps this would be a battle that would last hours and the one with the most perseverance would suffice. Whatever it promised it would prove to be a mysterious forthcoming fight at the least. Unknown as the choices before him. It would be a mistake to fear anyone but himself at this point. It was him alone that had got him to this stage, and only he could finish. So, as the demon hunter Sartana reached forth an impending handshake, he took it confidently in his grip - somehow signing his own contract to an indomitable spirit in the process. Throughout the ordeal Vaudeux had remained silent, but when their grasp broke he finally managed to grunt, “Luck to you as well,” before turning on his heel and circling out from the knot of equipment.

Finally he stopped talking,” The thief thought viciously as both competitors made their way to the centre of the platform. He had found himself breathing shallowly, his body’s way of dealing with fury. The emotion was peculiar almost, yet something about the man just boiled his blood. He suppressed his last abnormal breaths subtly out through a clenched jaw, as it was now time to let his emotions fall away through his feet rather than muddle up in his head. Vaud knew what it was like to be an emotional fighter and he was not going to win feeling envious or anything but confident. So he moved leisurely over to where Sartana was stationing himself for the start of battle. Along the way he gazed down into the mithril sheen of his short sword, admiring his own tanned complexion in its gleaming reflection. Resisting the urge to try out an alluring expression, perhaps wink at himself, he tore away and stared down at the floorboards leading up to the centre of the condensed arena. He was walking against the grain of the planks, and he noticed how uneven they seemed under the soles of his shoes - an element he would have to be wary of.

Even so, he strode forward until he was facing the demon hater, his right hand grasping the smooth grip of the wolfs bane. With a slight dip in his wrist he maneuver the blade outward and in a circular motion, the very movement practical before commencement in every battle he has faced thus far, also doing well to loosen his wrist further. As the blade returned from its very minute circle he brought it up and rested its tip level with Sartana’s chest. He fixed his stance so that both his feet were pointing diagonally out from his body, leaving no step hindered by a too forward of standing and no movement unreachable by a too defensive of stance. By the looks of his opponent’s readiness, it seemed as if he were in for a good parrying nonetheless. So, once the half-breed’s sword was fixated in its comfortable and familiar location out in front of him, his opposite hand slowly rose from his side and accompanied his previously unguarded plated chest - leaving nothing to pierce in return. With a shrug of his broad shoulders he felt his mind finally release its tension and at once he was in tune with his body. He could feel the electricity coursing through the cords of muscle in his bulging forearm, almost as if they knew, from earlier training, what was coming next. Then finally the warrior looked up away from his body and, like it were waiting for this precise movement, the sky above crashed, with the ferocity of angry giants, into a thunderous roar.

Apart from the wetting of the battlefield, the clamor it was creating, and the effervescent strobes of light; the thunderstorm was nothing but a climatic setting to the real action of the events about to unfold in the few seconds of uninterrupted silence. Vaudeux let the tremors of the rumble fade into the distance until his body almost became numb of all feeling. He was a set of eyes, remaining unblinking, behind a muscled form. The man across from him had remained fixed as well, and their waiting seemed to last longer within the recess of their minds than in real time. Before Jupiter could draw the man into a false sense of security or unwillingness to attack he plunged forward with an upward palm. Comically his blade dipped weakly to the ground, yet his lower body had moved with quickness as if he were really intending to strike. He didn’t wait around to see the outcome of his feint, for he scuffled backwards, across the partially wet floorboards, to where he previously stood. Had he really been expecting much? Jupiter was a warrior, but he also knew the human mind. But to understand your rival’s mind you would first have to understand how they reacted to such actions. Even if he weren’t the most skilled deceiver out-right, he still had to test the waters.

The still atmosphere now broken, Vaud inched forward ever-so-slightly now that both competitors were in motion. Then, barley lifting the tip of his blade, he traced a halo around his head with his pummel. The short sword zinged as Vaud’s body sliced forward, his guarding hand wary of his opponent’s blade. Though it seemed as if the thief would strike Sartana’s head, he instead brought his burley elbow downward so it solely flew level to the wielder’s belt-level. At this angle, the blade proceeded cross-wise and descended towards the demon hunter’s forward knee. No matter the outcome, Jupiter finished his slash before quickly recovering, jerking his blade back and upward until it was once again level with his chest. The short sword had no time to rest before its trained owner was slashing, in an outside crest, at the border Sartana’s closest upper arm. Even with the quick double slices complemented with pursuing his quarry; Vaud would return his blade abreast his free hand, giving him any parry opportunities that would undoubtedly arise.

The wind was picking up, the rain slipping from a light drizzle to successive downpour—all in the moments that Sartana had entered the tower's flat stone roof, approached his opponent, and equipped himself. It felt good to have his weapons on him again; they were a part of him, as any fighter would remark about their own armaments, and he felt naked without them. Standing at full height, facing Jupiter, he watched him with a careful eye. They had just shook hands, which came as a surprise to the demon hunter. His opponent was not of a benevolent mindset. That, and the half-dragon did not seem to agree with his opponent's choice of clothing; Sartana had seen the laughter in his fiery eyes, and the grin that had slipped onto his face as he regarded his opponent. Honestly, this came as no surprise, and Sartana was used to it—at least, in Arda, he was.

Several months ago, the demon hunter had stood in the northernmost reaches of his own world, a place not unlike Arda, though dismal and war ravaged in comparison. Tarsonis, his home, had been invaded by resource-seeking demonic hordes that wiped out much of the human population as they unleashed vicious, bestial monsters across the landscape. Sartana had escaped to the arctic regions of his continent in order to gain the aid of an ancient necromancer that made his home there—but found that once he entered the tower, and stumbled upon an enchanted brazier of flame, he was transported to Arda with not but the clothing on his back. To this stormy, terrible night he still did not remember exactly what happened in that tower, or what sent him here, but he still loved his world, and wanted nothing else but to return to it and defend his people. The clothing he wore was a testament to this. Not a piece of cloth on his body could be considered a superfluity; all had been acquired in his adventures in his own world, and each held a place in his memories—not to mention being of tactical advantage. His body's build was indistinguishable in the mass of cloth he wore; folds of cloth around his chest hid a variety of weapons and items, providing for quick concealing of blades; belts tied around his waist held a superior number of potions and alchemical reagents, along with his prized weapons. The hat on his head had been his since the ranger career he held in the forests of Tarsonis long ago, and was terribly comfortable, not to mention that it obscured his face to hide who he was, and kept him dry in the rain—as one could tell now—as well as cool in the sun. The emblem on his chest, pinning his scarf together, was especially important to him. But he would not speak of it, even if asked. There were some things, and people, he wanted away from the frivolous violence inherent in his line of work. All in all, he wore what he did when it suited him best—and this situation called for every piece. The wind blew his cape behind him as he watched Jupiter, helping to obscure his form in the twilight, along with the loose clothing around his chest. These also worked to keep him dry, and did not absorb the rain that hit the cloth; it was water proof, and free of water's extra weight. His face completely dry, thanks to his hat and scarf. His potions were all in there regular positions, where he could call upon them with a quick movement of the hand. Lastly, his emblem sat on his chest, giving him resolve to win this fight, and ultimately, find a way home to his loved ones.

They entered the center of the stone and wood platform above the tower, the demon hunter glad that he wouldn't be slipping about on the soaked stones and planks underfoot, thanks to his boots. He caught a glimpse of Jupiter looking at himself in the reflection of his sword. Is he.. admiring himself? Sartana thought incredulously, watching him. This is too much. He shook his head lightly, but didn't let this skew his knowledge of the man. He was a renowned fighter, even if he couldn't help but admire his manly features. The demon hunter ran his hand along a sheath at his left, and unsheathed only his falchion, a wide-bladed weapon predominantly used for chopping, and the man's weapon of choice. He'd bring out his Dao of Destruction later, but first, he wanted to size up his opponent's moves, and fighting techniques.

Jupiter stretched his wrist with a circular twist of his blade and pointed it in an ostensibly cocky manner towards Sartana's chest, as there was no need to hold it in that position while weighting one's body, and placing it in a preferred position—nor was it needed to shift one's feet for any stance. But of course, the half-dragon may have been taught otherwise. Sartana thought, mimicking his opponent's style, shifting his feet diagonally away from a center point about a foot behind his body, without all the sword pointing. He wouldn't take his preferred stance until they had clashed blades. This would keep his opponent guessing what his style was, instead of giving him the leisure of observing it and finding weak points as Sartana was doing now—though honestly, Jupiter's stance was a balanced, efficient one, so it gave the demon hunter no real advantage. He would need to wait for an attack to see if his opponent could use it effectively.

There was a moment of relative silence as the thunder overhead halted, and lightning prepared itself for another round of strikes against conspicuous objects on Arda's surface. The pattering of raindrops on the demon hunter's leather hat was somewhat peaceful, and lulled him into thinking that a nap would be splendid, but he shrugged this thought off with a shake of his head, sending a ring of water off his hat. This was no time for such peaceful thoughts—especially at that moment—for Jupiter shifted forward with a sudden jolt of his body, leading his shortsword low on the ground and preparing to strike at Sartana, who shrewdly watched his opponent's strange sword position, and the manner of his lunge. He didn't move in the least, nor would he even if Jupiter had really been executing an attack, instead of a feint. There was no reason to move until one's enemy came close enough, no matter their attack, and Jupiter had not crossed that threshold when he suddenly jumped back, taking up his former stance.

No reaction, eh half-dragon? What does this convey? He thought to himself, shifting closer to his opponent and watching his reaction. It was obvious that Jupiter was testing him, but really, commencing the final battle of a prestigious tournament with a feint? He couldn't help but roll his eyes. Not a moment later Jupiter brought his sword above his head in a twirling motion once again, shifting his feet accordingly to carry his body forward as he brought about what looked to be a high slash, only to bring his elbow backwards at the last moment, arching it downwards to cut through Sartana's belt and leading leg. Already having his sword in a low position just to the inside left of his forward knee, the demon hunter had expected to merely move his head and dodge a high attack, but in finding his opponent's attack a misleading maneuver—the second of its kind in only two attacks—he slammed the tip of his blade into the soaked wooden planks at their feet, holding it at a slight angle so that as Jupiter's slash closed in on his belt and waist, it collided with Sartana's own falchion, just below the guard. This stopped the powerful attack before it could do any damage, but the half-dragon's reflexes were such that this loss of momentum did not stop or faze him; he immediately withdrew his blade the moment it made contact and lunged forward for another sweep, higher this time in a horizontal outward crest. Looking to make an effective counter-attack at the same time that he avoided the half-dragon's attack, Sartana ducked to the right, his opponent's sword grazing the very tip of his hat. The demon hunter stepped backwards with his trailing foot as he did this, twirling in a crouched stance, letting his free hand slip to his belt as he did and holding his sword arm close. As he spun to face Jupiter, who had since taken up a defensive stance prepared for riposte on Sartana's part, he flicked his wrist forward towards him, letting loose a small, clear vial filled with an opaque, red liquid. It hit the ground in front of Jupiter with a blast of flames and smoke, not meant to harm—though the flames could do considerable damage—but rather, to create a distraction required to execute his next attack.

“My dear friend,” Came a voice in Sartana's mind as he recalled the information. “There's a vicious rumor going about that the half-dragon's incredible dexterity is such that, when being attacked by ranged or thrown weapons, he can—in a rather amazing manner, I dare say—catch them before they do him harm. Be forewarned!” This had been taken into the demon hunter's consideration as he made his attack, slipping his fingers into the folds of cloth at his chest, removing three thin throwing knives between his knuckles and deftly jerking his wrist forward, flinging them into the mass of smoke and flames before him from which Jupiter was likely standing behind, either choking on the fiery smoke or blinded by the explosion. Jupiter would have caught the knives quite easily if they had been clearly thrown at him to see—but that certainly wasn't the case here.

Sartana shifted his position to the right, ensuring his back was facing the tower entrance. There was only a two foot high stone wall surrounding the top of the tower, with a fermenting, out of shape wooden guard railing over that, held together by mold and rusty nails. This would not make good backing if the towering figure of the demon hunter were pressed against it. That, and he had no spells to save him from such a high fall. It would be safest to make sure there was a solid wall to his back at all times.

Using this short halt in action to his advantage, the demon hunter unsheathed his Dao of Destruction, it's long, blood-covered blade moist and glistening as lightning struck about the tower and lit up the sky. He sheathed his falchion, and tossed the Dao into his right hand, holding it low to his side and letting his left elbow face the cloud of black smoke and flames. His left knee was leading, with slightly more weight on it than the other, as his body leaned forward. This would allow him to effectively pull off his next combo if, as he was assuming, the half-dragon recovered and rushed out of the smoke at him. He slipped a small translucent dagger from his belt, arming his left hand and keeping it close to his chest, with the blade held downward, as a dagger should be. He was ready for whatever his opponent had in store for him.

And thus the battle commenced. As expected the demon hunter wasn’t quick to attack Vaudeux at the slightest of movements, let alone flinch, at his feint. Which was advantageous for him because, though his defensive techniques were honed, it proved that Sartana was selective instead of perhaps jumping at any possible opening. His cause was also misleading, since it was the beginning of the battle, the smartest thing for both competitors to do would be to discover each other’s movements to better predict and counter them. So, with this in mind, Vaud continued forth slashing and sliding his way across the ever-dampening floorboards. There were no other lingering thoughts in his mind, besides the aftermath of the spike of fury that resolved in his opponents impersonating stance. It was apparent the man was no fool, he wanted to give away nothing and save for everything. So, from the first stroke of his test, he could already tell that this battle was going to be no mere sword fight.

It proceeded with the initiating swipes from his short sword. His first real attack was blocked with no true surprise, thus the slash of his second strike went all the way through his target, not stopping even if it made contact. His sharp emerald orbs followed the path the tip of his blade, tracing through the air, hungrily. For a fleeting moment he thought that his quick slash would indeed make contact, instead his opponent was deathly agile and shifted away. Jupiter’s hunger grew as he watched the sharp point of his wolfs bane split through the carefully stitched hat hung on the demon hunter’s head. It gashed to a small opening as big as a mouth with a barley audible rip. His eyes grew wide with the contact and felt a rising sensation of confidence within him. I can get him, I can get close… It was as simple as that. He drew his weapon back into him as he stepped back, in return to familiar stance. While doing this, he became aware of his opponent continuing to move in a noticeably circular fashion.

Instead of jumping to stab the man as he was spinning, and already stepping backwards, he brought his weapon back to its favored location at the ready. At this point he was watching his adversary closely, noting the smooth movement of his rotation for future reference. Jupiter also detected the blade spinning around with the lowered demon hunter, closing into his body to create a swift movement that was bound to reach out towards the half-breed. So, unwilling to face an upright assault, the warrior shifted backwards and started to move ever-so-slightly in observing retreat. There was a fluidity of the competitors movements, moving back and forward towards the other under the beating rhythm of the rain. For the most part Vaudeux had remained unhindered from the damp, and barley noticed the droplets gaining in momentum around him. Slowly his shirt was moistening and loosely clinging to his muscled form. Yet none of this mattered at the moment. His thoughts were now entranced into the fight. Like a true warrior in battle, his mind was an empty bowl. It was the main reason he was able to react so quickly. His mind feeding, usually, on his first instinct.

Quite suddenly a movement, so subtle the half-dragon had almost overlooked it, was initiated with the momentum of Sartana’s spin. A small apple-shaped object appeared and, just as quickly, found itself near the feet of the bronzed warrior. At once his eyes flicked to the object, momentarily perplexed by its appearance, and watched it soar towards the ground. Though normal the vial looked, Vaud didn’t underestimate the actions of his opponent, who had already impressed him with his near-questionable attire, and continued to shift backwards and away as it was falling towards him. Instantly, as the bottle made contact, it broke into large shards that sent the fiery liquid inside seeping into the floorboards. With a split second observation, the liquid from the vial exploded into an unbridled wall of flames. To shield his eyes from damage Jupiter had to close them tight and stagger backwards in shock. If he was expecting anything for this battle, it wasn’t a show of alchemy. The explosion sucked all the air out from its surroundings and filled it with a thick black smoke, while the raindrops dare to try and breech its flaming barrier, only to fail. The area surrounding the powerful potion dried up from the heat and the very floorboards underneath quaked in agony.

Off from the initial blast, the half-dragon opened his eyes, which remained sensitive to the heat - apart from the rest of his body - and watered instantly. Since his vision was clouded in tears, all he caught was the wall of black, before he closed them tight once more. A majority of his senses were suffering from the eruption. The smoke filled his nostrils until his breath came in thick and slow. In a single gasp he felt unfulfilled, he wasn’t getting enough air. He had to get away from the smog and from the heat. There was no way he would be able to plunge forward into the mess and near his target, without drawing breath. So, acting on impulse, he lowered himself towards the ground with his remaining balance while simultaneously crossing his arms before him - that had flown up in defense. His sword was now under his left forearm, close to his body and tight in his grip, he was aware of its location as he could feel its cold metal pressed against his thin woolen shirt by his ribcage. Just as quickly as the explosion, he catapulted himself away from behind the barrage of smoke and ducked into a ball. His left forearm first caught the rough planks of the Ancient Tower from his leap, thoroughly saving his head from making contact, followed closely by his left shoulder. The warrior’s body rolled away from the roaring potion and remained in contact until his opposite right hip turned up so he was able to push his legs against the damp planks and stand back to normal height.

The air was once again cold, the storm winds rustling his hair gently as he stood several paces away from the ruckus. It was no longer clouded by the black smoke or plagued by the infernal heat. His eyes popped open, feeling the relief of the clear air, and he looked about to find himself to the left of the explosion and facing the door. Distantly he heard the sounds similar to darts hitting a board, and spun around to find the looming figure of his opponent starting to stand behind the entrails of his own potion - the smoke escaping by the storm like a mornings mist. To his absolute joy he saw that the demon’s hunter back was to him. The man was replacing his blade and drawing out the blood-stained weapon he had seen earlier, of which Jupiter smirked as he had wondered why he weren’t using the destructive sword forth-wit. Nevertheless, Vaud was making his way towards the man at a quick stride, now mere feet from his adversary. His boots were clunking against the floorboards, but the thunder was now letting out a low rumble, regurgitating from the nimbus clouds overhead while the lightening spider-veined through them in a spectacular electric crashing.

Eyes wild with bloodlust, he proceeded, his feet steadily gaining in speed as he grew closer. His arms were pointed forward, blade held outward, making a bee-line apparently on a mission. Like a creature from a nightmare stalking its next victim he strode. Feet from Sartana, Jupiter jumped upwards, allowing his body to carry across the ground and bridge the gap between them. With his defensive hand in front of him, pointing down towards his opponent, his wolfs bane was drawn at shoulder-height aimed in the same area. His first-most fingers were loose, enabling him to switch his grip across his familiar hilt, it slid around his smooth palm until he held the handle like he was going to stab it like a dagger. As his body reached its maximum height, gravity grabbed him and pulled him back down. Meanwhile his hands joined ahead of him allowing him to raise both high above his head, holding his weapon with an incredibly strong grip. All of his weight going down, and feet drawn in, seemingly on top of the demon hunter, he then thrust his short sword directly towards the earth with colossal force. He felt his body rush to the Earth with the power behind his loins. It had seemed as if Sartana was utterly focused on the smoke before him, as if Jupiter were still lurking behind there. No matter whether the demon hater had noticed and moved, Jupiter had to strike through.

His weight plummeted into the floorboards as he landed, both hands on the hilt of his sword forcing it down. Breathing in, he then stood up and recovered quickly; the fresh air humid with the overhanging storm. With the explosion gone, the raindrops were now settling back into their desired locations and cascading across his form. The half-breed stood tall and flicked his head back. The short tendrils of hair whipped up and from his brow, until they were slicked back once more. He saw his opponent before him and rushed forward, a new strategy pouncing into play. Now he lunged forward, swinging from left to right in a great slice, both of his hands still gripping his blade. It whooshed through the air in its full grandeur, so that it was completed past his right shoulder. From there he flicked back his dominant wrist, released his left steadying hand to return it to his torso defense, and swiped it down and outside. The blade contorted in an opposing manner downward, yet he was able to twist it back naturally as it swung up, creating more power as Jupiter sprang towards Sartana. After the swing towards the midst of his rival’s abdomen, Vaud allowed his sword to remain as he gave the man two more quick jabs to deal with in rapid succession.

It was a true bombardment to handle, yet just another testament for his challenger. Vaudeux already knew how the man reacted to feints, and this was just another page implemented from his book of tactics.

---

Due to inactivity of this topic and the slow up-keep of topic postage both competitors have retired from posting. What some may not know is that: Competitor Sartana-Kun has decided to give the prize and bragging rights to Vaudeux. But not before specific IC agreements have been made about this topic.

And so the battle waged forth, both competitors slashing and sliding their way across the top the wet Ancient Tower. With Sartana's focus and Vaud's quick hits their movements were easily matched from the beginning. As the minutes passed both men seemed to sense that their best was only going to come up even against their adversary. Sarty had determination and both arms on-hand, whilst Jup thought he would soon find a weakness and exploit it. With every step a new technique was executed and, seconds later, unhinged as easily as if it were the basics. It was obvious that the pair was meant to be in the top spot, for their skills were unmatched at that moment under the crashing thunder and blinding lightening - unmatched except for each other.

The rain never let up, and Vaud was soon hindered by his own stolen boots. His body dripping, feet slipping, the battle-worn fighter slid one second too soon against the well-balanced and continually-slashing Sartana. Already angry with the increasing miss-hits and delay of win, the fury mounted when Jupiter received a disfiguring scar that would extend up the base of his strong chin and left cheek - his beautiful face. And, for the first time in Nafalen’s Tournament, Vaudeux Jupiter transformed to wreak havoc in his Wyrm state. The human mind of the competitor seemed to be lost, as his wolfs bane sword was replaced by several long and dangerous talons, and his skin was encased in hard leathery scales. Sartana proceeded to put up a grand show with the 11 foot dragonling thrashing about, the best any budding guardian would. But the ancient power and intelligence of the Wyrm soon encompassed the arena, breaking through its barriers and overpowering the skilled demon hunter, threatening to chuck him off the tower. It was then clear to the judges who won, so as to stop the uncertainty of death from the uncontrollable force.

The relationship between the two tournament finalists would remain rocky. Though this was their first meeting a battle is enough to forge a lasting relationship, even if it is not a bonding one. Vaudeux would always feel superior against the Sun Guardian, and the feelings of jealousy would never truly be dwindled. As for Sartana, it is quite unknown how he’ll feel about the half-breed until the future. Perhaps his good nature would always prevent him from loathing Jupiter back. In future topics Vaud promises to be boastful towards Sartana, the only demon hunter on his enemies list.