The building seemed familiar.

It was the magnificent Parmamar library in Lómëdor where the battle between the House of Twilight and the House of Seragtar was due to take place, and nobody could have chosen a better location to fight in. The sun flashed brilliantly through the tall oval windows lighting every single inch of the interior with very little room for shadows and the books had all been tidied neatly into their place, alphabetically sorted and given a slight dusting in preparation for the new day. A new day of learning, discovery and enjoyment. Or not.

Tobias Drate hopped out of his carriage and watched as the other two carriages containing the House of Seragtar and the House of Twilight opponents drew to a steady halt. He let rip a toothy smile, hardly recognizable as being fake, raised a hand above his eyes and squinted through the bright light to see what he could make of the entrants. Blinking through the powerful shine of day he struggled to make out any details, and decided it best to postpone the surveying and instead beckoned them to follow him with a wave of his hand. Striding lightly up the entrance steps he paced towards the titanic front doors of the library, cane in hand and certain significance about him as moved. As he reached the doors of the library, he stopped briskly and swivelled around to face the competitors. By walking to the top of the steps, he was higher than the others and felt a sudden surge of authority and command as he looked down his nose at the four combatants.

The city was teeming with life as per usual, with many harmless civilians tramping past, the occasional youth staring inquisitively up towards the creatures gathered outside the prominent Lómëdor landmark. Tobias stood silent for a little before clearing his throat and beginning his introductory speech. “Greetings conquerors. Today the House of Twilight shall be competing against the House of Seragtar; the winning team will progress to the next round and the losing team will be eliminated from the competition.” He paused, smiled at the prospect of ‘eliminating’ any of these people in front of him then continued, “As you might have guessed, the battle will be held right here in Parmamar library. We do not have permission to host such a battle in this building, but I have been re-assured that several measures will be taken after the tournament to prevent any lawful action being taken out against me. Or any of you. Therefore, you can cause as much damage to each other and to the library as you deem necessary.”

His official speech was over and all he was required to state had been announced. Nonetheless, Tobias was keen to take his own precautionary measures to ensure that the combatants in front of him were genuine and not impostors. He stepped forwards and pulled out a small sheet of parchment which had the details of each contender scrawled upon it in the most horrendous handwriting. The first name read ‘Vencrest Kianthis’ although the narrator had no idea how to pronounce it. “Vencrest Kee-ahn-thees, am I right? Let me see here…” He muttered, scanning his finger over the physical description of the Drow. “The first member of the House of Seragtar. I never forget a face, but in your case I might make an exception.” Tobias smirked, revelling in the fact that if Vencrest was to react inappropriately he could very well be disqualified. “Which must mean you…” he scuttled to his right a touch until he was in front of a very sadistic looking individual. “… must be Valerik. Dark hair, yes, very tall,” he mumbled checking through the description before looking back at the vampire and saying with a casual smirk, “I don’t recognise your face, but your breath seems familiar.” and with that he turned on his heel, ticking off the House of Seragtar and gliding forwards to the members of the other team.

“So!” He declared with a hint of glee, “That leaves us with a ‘scrawny blonde elven girl’ who goes by the name of…” he paused momentarily to check her details, “…Ayre Reitara. Marvellous.” The temptation was too great to miss, what with the large man she was partnered with being only feet away. “You should wear a hat, that way at least you’d know which end to wipe!” He snorted, delighted with his own spontaneity. Shaking his head whilst smiling he looked down at the last person on the list. It was scrawled in such terrible freehand and the ink had been smudged over a vast portion of the bottom corner in which the details were. Tobias chuckled to himself a little, then caught the man’s face and explained, “I’m sorry Sul-tah-nah-bun, it just looks as if the list says your name is Sartana-kun! You can’t be him.” As he made eye contact with the thuggish opponent he began having second thoughts and consulted his list. “Wait, that’s not an L, it’s a T! Hang on.” he panicked, wiping away the ink as best he could and revealing the faint scribble of ‘Sartana-Kun, guardian of the Sun, B.A.D.I Guild Leader’. “Sartana! Er, I mean, Sartana-Kun! I didn’t realise you would be entering this competition!” the noble simpered, offering another fake smile as an apology. The damage had been done though, and he thought it would be best to just get them on their way and begin the battle.

Skipping backwards back up the flight of steps, he turned his back to the opponents and flung open the entrance to the Library revealing rows upon rows of books, with the bookshelves acting as pillars supporting the roof and the occasional pillar acting as a bookcase. There were armchairs scattered about the huge hall, allowing for comfortable reading spots (or in this case, places to take cover behind.) and there was at least one lighted fireplace on every single wall. Unfortunately it seemed that there were already some people reading quietly to themselves, but luckily nobody Tobias knew personally. They would be in for a treat; a match worthy of the Battle stands and they got front row seats!

He looked back to the warriors waiting outside and thought it best not to prolong the match any longer. “I shall be judging your every move.” he reminded them, before taking one step backwards, then bowing forwards most graciously as an indication that they may pass him and enter the ‘arena’. Havoc was just around the corner ready to slap them all in the face.

---

OOC: Good luck to all competitors, you have the entire library to fight in and feel free to be as destructive and creative as you want in you mission to eliminate the other team! Please bare in mind that this is a public building within the biggest city of Lomedor, so there are likely to be a few NPCs wandering about despite it not being very busy. There are not any lessons going on in the spell casting wing as of yet.

Some basic rules:

1. A player can only post once per round.
2. A round is comprised of four different players posting.
3. The order of which will be established once the four have made their initial contributions. All of the following rounds will proceed in that pattern.
4. I'll be making posts occasionally, they'll include important information about the environment you are in and what is going on. Please don't ignore an event mentioned if it directly affects your character.

Vencrest's carriage rumbled slightly as it sped along the streets of Lómëdor. Vencrest was comfortably seated on the soft cushiony booth, his head rested in his hand, allowing him to gaze out the window into the bright light of the bustling city. Although he was staring out of the small window inside the carriage, his mind wasn't present, and rather, drifting into thoughts of his fight that would happen with in the day. He was eager, and excited, yet at the same, worried for the fate of himself, along with his ally, Valerik. The very thought of the opponents the tag team would be facing caused his blood to chill. It was Saratana - Kun, the famed and legendary Guardian of the Sun, and Demon Slayer. Vencrest hated the sun, and hoped for a chance to fight the cursed deity that dared promote the thing he despised most, yet now that the chance had arouse itself, he began to rethink his previous accusations. The other opponent, which he didn't recognize, was an Ayre Reitara. None the less, he was still frightened of this unknown factor of the fight as well as the Guardian, afraid of the results of the battle.

His thoughts were not only filled with worrisome pictures of his opponents, but with scenes of the glorious victory. Dark powers, rising against the light, swallowing all the hope, and crushing the very fabric of life that held reality together! These thoughts also gave him chills, but rather than that of fear and terror, but chills of hope. His train of thought was interrupted as the library came into view through his window. Vencrest sat up quickly, twitching in eager anticipation of the fight that he had dreamed of for so long. The chariot squeaked to a stop as they neared the building that was known as the Parmamar Library. Vencrest stood, his legs shaking slightly as he did so, and pushed open the padded door of the buggy, sending a flood of light into the dimly lit chamber.

He stepped out of the carriage, looking forward at the two carriages that were ahead of his own, one of which containing the House of Twilight, and the other, containing the judge of the competition, which he had heard, was known as Tobias Drate. Indeed, the man stepped out of his own carriage, holding his hand in front of his eyes to shield himself from the sudden brightness of the sun. He waved his hand, signaling all of the combatants to follow him. Vencrest obeyed, an eager bounce in his step as he did so, remaining close behind the judge. After climbing a flight of stairs, Tobias had ended at the top step, slightly higher than the rest of the competitors. His gaze appeared as though he was looking down upon them, as if he was higher than the rest of them. A noble, no doubt.

The judge cleared his throat, with an air of authority, and began to speak to the combatants below. “Greetings conquerors. Today the House of Twilight shall be competing against the House of Seragtar; the winning team will progress to the next round and the losing team will be eliminated from the competition.” He paused, and smiled, as if he was thinking of some thing funny, to himself. He continued, saying “,As you might have guessed, the battle will be held right here in Parmamar library. We do not have permission to host such a battle in this building, but I have been re-assured that several measures will be taken after the tournament to prevent any lawful action being taken out against me. Or any of you. Therefore, you can cause as much damage to each other and to the library as you deem necessary.” At this, Vencrest smiled, much like Tobias had done earlier on in his speech. A fight, with a completely destructible environment would prove to be enjoyable.

He pulled out a scroll, and glanced at it, and began to speak again. “Vencrest Kee-ahn-thees, am I right? Let me see here…” Vencrest's cold grey eyes glared at the judge, hate and rage bubbling in him. The man would dare make a mockery of his family name! He contained himself, keeping his violence for the fight that would be soon to come. “The first member of the House of Seragtar. I never forget a face, but in your case I might make an exception.” Vencrest's cold glare remained constant, hoping that his stare might kill the man on the spot. “Which must mean you…” he said, shifting to his right “… must be Valerik. Dark hair, yes, very tall." He smirked again, “I don’t recognise your face, but your breath seems familiar.” He didn't seem to care that he was mocking a powerful creature of the night. But he could, being the judge. He could mock all he wanted, for he knew that none of them could, and most likely would do nothing to stop him. And for that, Vencrest hated the man.

“So!” He exclaimed gleefully, moving on the list of names of the combatants, “That leaves us with a ‘scrawny blond elven girl’ who goes by the name of…” he paused for a second, looking on the scroll for the details of the girl, “…Ayre Reitara. Marvellous. You should wear a hat, that way at least you’d know which end to wipe!” The man snorted at his own joke. “I’m sorry Sul-tah-nah-bun, it just looks as if the list says your name is Sartana-kun! You can’t be him. Wait, that’s not an L, it’s a T! Hang on.” The man wiped away at the parchment, and then, smiled at the large man sympathetically.

With that, he turned his back to them, and flung open the large doors of the library, revealing rows and rows of books, along with armchairs, scattered along the hall, and fireplaces on the walls of the building. Vencrest was compelled to find a good book, and read himself, but forced himself to keep the grim mind set of battle in his mind, despite the calling of the warm, book filled room. “I shall be judging your every move," he warned them all, before stepping back, and bowing, as if signaling that they may enter the 'arena'. Vencrest eagerly stepped inside, and shuffled to the left, to allow the other combatants to enter as well.

He drew his sword, ready for the fight to finally begin. He channeled energy through out his body, casting the spell Thunder Hammer . His blade began to cackle electricity, making it more powerful than normal. Vencrest lunged forward, slashing his blade forward at the small elf that was entering behind him. It felt odd, making the first blow, but he kept his blade steady and strong, in an attempt to get the first blow of the match.

Ayre's eyes idled upon the sky, the infinite and calm expanse being far more interesting than what awaited her. Her gaze snapped back to Sartana, and she gave him a half smile. Fighting for money wasn't quite in the realm of being a knight, but this was more a competition. If some knights jousted at the till, she could join a tournament. That was simple enough logic! It still seemed low to her, however. She'd prefer spilling the blood of the profane and the darkest of mortals over spilling the blood of other contestants. Beside her on the cushioned seat (she was facing Sartana on the opposite seat) perched a belt full of implements of war, and a shield lay haphazardly upon the door. The extremely short ride to the Parmamar Library turned into eons. Ayre couldn't focus, couldn't allow time to pass by, she felt as though the fight had already begun. Then came the delicate cease to the vibrations of the ride, and she glanced out of the carriage once more to see the library. In moments her apparel of war was upon her, belt looped through her pants, shield strapped to her back, and two rather annoyed little spheres ordered into the air.

"Attack the first to attack me, dears." Ayre said to the trinkets. Her hand fell upon the latch to the door, and she slid it open. The two orbs hurtled out sideways, struggling through the gap the moment it presented itself. They buzzed angrily over to Tobias, flitted over to the other two contestants, and returned to hovering inches from her form. She walked up the steps, the palm of her left hand gracing the tip of the hilt of her oldest weapon, a longsword. On the opposite hip lay Windcutter, the most favored of her blades. But as she reached where the man stood, she found that he was having a field day with insulting them.

"Sir, I'd kindly suggest that after shoving your head in a blast furnace, that you remember not only are you balding, but that you are unmarried at your age even though you are fantastically rich and should have women crawling all over you, and you happen so physically unfit that you aren't competing in a tournament where two rather slight young females have." Ayre retorted, in the sweetest of voices she could muster.

The drow strolled in nonchalantly as Ayre drew Windcutter and adjusted her shield to be comfortable on her arm. Then came the first of many spells that would come on this day, and she casted the Draconic Might spell on Sartana. She'd hardly need it. Ayre walked into the doorway, and gave the slightest of smirks to her opponent. She counter-charged, accelerating far quicker and barely sidestepping his lunge. Windcutter lashed out, the mighty four foot long blade intent on making a deep gash across the drow's entire stomach. Her ability to make for far more devastating charges would turn this exchange around utterly. Furthermore, he was already committed to his strike, and it was highly unlikely he could defend himself in time. Death came on wings as well, as both of the shuriken sentinels buzzed in at a point six inches below the man's shoulders, eager to rend him to pieces. All three strikes fell upon him within the same heartbeat.

Valerik's arms were drawn tightly against his chest, his mind racing about the battle to come. His opponents were fierce, legendary at the least. At least one of them. Sartana-kun, the Guardian of the Sun. Guardian of the most deadly thing to Valerik. The sun was exactly undead, in particular vampires, despised, loathed, and wanted the most to destroy. An opportunity to let the guardian know how he felt about the sun was indeed a wonderful experience, yet incredible dangerous, if not fatal. Valerik would need to keep on guard, try his hardest to not let Sartana kill him.

But he would not let his worry show. He could not allow the Guardian's ego inflate any more than he assumed it already had. Valerik could picture the scorn on Sartana's face once he discovered he would be fighting a vampire. Valerik grimaced, turning slightly away from the window, pulling his arms closer to his chest. 'I must win,' he thought. Losing could possibly result in the end of his unnatural life. His stomach turned at the thought of him at the end of the Guardian's sword. 'I will not let the sun, or its Guardian, take my life!' he thought, straightening his pose as he did so.

His hands idly slid to the hilt of the sword that lay on the seat next to him. He was forced to unattach it from his side when he sat, not wanting the powerful blade to pierce the fine leather seats. The slight cackle and hiss of the lightning surging through the enchanted blade made the air inside the carriage slightly static. Valerik rubbed the ornate hilt, proud of his expensive weapon. He took pride in his weapons, for in previous years, he never managed to maintain a weapon for a long period of time. But he knew that this new blade would stay with him, stay with him for a long time. Valerik moved his hand off his blade and back across to his other arm, folding the two over each other.

The rumble of the carriage came to a halt. Valerik peered out the carriage window, seeing the gates that he recognized. Those gates were the ones across the Parmamar Library, the two teams' selected arena, where the House of Seregtar would fight the House of Twilight. Two creatures of the underworld facing the very Guardian of the Sun, and his team mate. Valerik opened the door to his carriage, moving his hand to shield the sunlight from his eyes. The sun prickled his skin, giving his a burning sensation. He had recently fed, making his more resistant to its rays. But within a few nights, he would experience incredible amounts of pain just by the slightest exposure. He grabbed his Lightning Blade, exiting the ornate carriage.

Tobias Drate, their judge, left his carriage, and the House of Twilight exited theirs as well. All the contestants ascended the staircase, just one step below that of Tobias'. He held his nose up in the air while talking to them, his tone containing that of one who thought they were untouchable. Some would think it was 'authority'. Valerik scoffed. “Greetings conquerors. Today the House of Twilight shall be competing against the House of Seragtar; the winning team will progress to the next round and the losing team will be eliminated from the competition.” He paused, “As you might have guessed, the battle will be held right here in Parmamar library. We do not have permission to host such a battle in this building, but I have been re-assured that several measures will be taken after the tournament to prevent any lawful action being taken out against me. Or any of you. Therefore, you can cause as much damage to each other and to the library as you deem necessary.”

Valerik's face spread into a wide grin at the prospect of causing as much damage as necessary. His mind flowed with ideas, images of bookshelves crushing his foes swimming through his mind. “Vencrest Kee-ahn-thees, am I right? Let me see here…” Tobias muttered, “The first member of the House of Seragtar. I never forget a face, but in your case I might make an exception.” 'This guy is way over his head,' Valerik thought. He suppressed his urge to slice the man's throat. “Which must mean you… must be Valerik. Dark hair, yes, very tall, I don’t recognise your face, but your breath seems familiar," Valerik cocked his head, confused. "You recognize my breath?" he asked, unsure by what he meant. His dry humor was confusing to the vampire.

“That leaves us with a ‘scrawny blond elven girl’ who goes by the name of… Ayre Reitara. Marvellous.You should wear a hat, that way at least you’d know which end to wipe!” Valerik laughed, amused by the insults at the House of Twilight. Of course, the insults to the House of Seregtar was offensive, but it was humorous when it came to insulting the opposing team. “I’m sorry Sul-tah-nah-bun, it just looks as if the list says your name is Sartana-kun! You can’t be him.” He smudged the paper, "Wait, that’s not an L, it’s a T! Hang on.” he panicked, “Sartana! Er, I mean, Sartana-Kun! I didn’t realise you would be entering this competition!”

Valerik scoffed. Of course the Guardian 'deserved respect'. Tobias proceeded to the large doors of the library, opening them. The mighty bookshelves and few lounge chairs were revealed to the contestants, the 'fighting arena' becoming open. Vencrest headed in first, Tobias saying “I shall be judging your every move," as Vencrest headed inside. Next was Ayre, blades drawn. Valerik unloosed his blade himself, holding it firmly in his hand. He took a deep breath, excited about the fight to come, yet worried about the possible fatalities that could happen. He gulped merely at the thought.

He started forward, behind the blond haired warrior. Suddenly, Vencrest swung his blade at Ayre swiftly. Valerik jumped back in surprise, not realizing that the fight would begin so early. He realized that it could happen at any time, yet he was unprepared at it happening this early. It seemed that his drow ally would be taking the women, which left Valerik Sartana. But he did not want to fight him outside of the library, where the guardian was in direct contact with his element. Valerik sprinted past the drow and women, running into the depths of the library. He jumped over an armchair, knocking over a lamp as he did so. He dashed behind one of the bookshelves, peering around it to see where Sartana would attack from.

Valerik's mind was racing on what to do. 'I must attack!' he thought, sweat dripping down his brow, even though the fight had barely begun. He focused his energy throughout his body, sending it down his arm to the point he commanded it to. The energy materialized where Valerik had commanded. The lightning formed above the door where Sartana would soon be entering. At the Guardian's first step into the library, Valerik would release the energy, bringing lightning down on his foe.

The sound of bubbling water surrounded the demon hunter. His eyes were closed, and memories lit up the blackness of his eyelids much like pictures would in a slide show. Some came up blurred, or imperfect, but the longer he watched, the sharper they appeared. An unconscious growl escaped his lips. A man and woman stood side-by-side in patchwork clothing, hugging each other and kissing through fits of laughter. They seemed very happy. How such a memory could disturb someone—especially the stoic Guardian—was a question only Sartana knew the answer to, though he'd never speak of it. His 'family' was nothing but a bad memory.

A 'splash' opened the man's eyes. They narrowed at the sight before him: a woman, about his age, lowering herself into the hotspring's waters. Steam danced about her form as she submerged herself neck-deep in the warm liquid. He sighed. She responded by dunking her head under the water and popping back up with a pleased gasp.

“I said, 'get me when it's time', not 'help yourself to my private spring'.” The man scolded, pulling a towel from its perch on a rock that jutted from the water. The woman shrugged. Her eyes were still closed. “I'm away in the northern continent for three months, and all I get on return is a handful of freakin' merits. What the Hell good are they? Can I get a drink at the tavern with 'em? Nah. A new weapon? Not quite. A nice, quiet vacation? Ohh! If only! So, I'm helping myself to your spring. If you don't like it, I can always find employment elsewhere.”

..I'm never getting married. Not ever. Sartana remarked solemnly in his mind. The girl, one of his few A-class agents, continued her complaints as he wrapped the towel around his waist and grabbed another to dry his hair. Today was the first day of the tournament. It would be the demon hunter's turn to participate; a nice change from heading a competition, like he had a few months earlier. That, and he'd be able to enjoy some time away from the guild, which would be left in Randolf's hands while he was participating in matches. Merenwen, his 2nd in command, would have taken over the guild in his absence if not for the fact that she was competing in the tournament as well. Oh! What a battle that would be! He hoped she did well; the girl was strong, and could prove to be an able opponent.

But there were others as well. Xoco, Guardian of Shadows, and Jupiter, Guardian of Fire. And the two were on a team! What a struggle that would be. Just the thought brought a smirk to the man's rugged face. He scratched his moist chin. To battle my fellow Maiar... Who undoubtedly think me weak for my decision to remain mortal. Ah, but I shouldn't jump to assumptions; I would never underestimate their abilities, and indeed, they're not so foolish as to-

“Hey, Sartana, you do know the tourney carriage's been here for ten minutes already, right?”

The demon hunter whirled around, his head half-covered by a rumpled towel. “..What?”

It was another ten minutes before he was equipped and ready, bursting from his tower and running down the guild forest path, the farming fields, the courtyard, and finally the front gate of the guild. Two BADI agents moved to inform him that the carriage had left without him, but Sartana was already sprinting, having guessed. His speed was something to be admired. A naturally proficient runner, the man's abilities were only furthered by his divinely-enhanced attributes and the magical boots he wore.

It was midday and the streets were bustling. Swerving through a writhing maze of commoners, Sartana leaped from a cart to an over-hanging roof, sprinting a short distance, and springing his black form to a higher roof. Soon, he was leaping between buildings, making his way towards the Parmamar library. The people below didn't even notice, such was his speed.

It wasn't long before the carriage was in view. Cape flaring, he dropped off an over-hang, slid along the cloth cover of a road-side merchant and landed lithely in front of the carriage. He rubbed one of the horses hooked up to the rig as the driver scrambled down to let the esteemed contestant in.

Ayre was already inside. He tipped his hat to her, sitting on one of the cushioned seats as he did. She flashed him a small grin, and he could only wonder what was on her mind. Was she nervous? A young knight like her couldn't have seen much in her lifetime. This was likely her first major competition. Did he make her nervous? Fighting along-side a guardian was no doubt daunting. The girl did not hint to her feelings, however, and Sartana was left to his musings.

They arrived shortly after. The demon hunter cracked his neck as he stepped out of the carriage. A drow and his companion, a dark-haired man of dire slightness, exited a transport directly behind The House of Twilight's own. These were Vencrest and Valerik, evil beings Sartana would enjoy beating to a bloody pulp. He assumed Ayre felt the same way. All four contestants climbed the stairs of the library to the greetings of Tobias Drate, a magistrate of the tournament. Sartana knew he was to be taking part in the competition. That was three BADI members! Plus Winter. I cannot forget her. Four guildmates. 'Twas a small world after all.

Tobias's insults brought a frown to the demon hunter's lips. He did not tolerate wanton rudeness. The noble's demeaning words nearly provoked the drow to attack him (and Sartana gave his opponent credit for resisting), while his teammate, a vampire, didn't seem to catch the man's game. Ayre was next, and responded with a terse presentation of Mr. Drate's current marital and physical status. How she kept such a sweet voice during it was beyond the demon hunter. Finally it was his turn and, by some strange occurrence—perhaps under the haze of old age—the pompous noble did not seem to recognize him. While he was not directly insulted, Sartana figured the man deserved a little something.

“Tob,” he started, placing a hand on the man's bony shoulder, “I don't think you've heard, but recent renovations in the BADI library—your office and quarters specifically—have forced me to relocate your location a bit—closer to the east wing's janitor closet, I'm afraid. Or rather, in it.” He smiled. “Don't fret! It's close to the youngling section, and, by Keiraline, I know how much you love children.” A heavy pat left the noble to his thoughts.

Nearly walking into the library afterwards, Sartana remembered his boots. Armor couldn't be worn; not the slightest piece, besides a belt. He sat down on the stone steps and removed his shoes, tossing them over the side railing into a trimmed bush. Pondering whether or not he should wear socks, the demon hunter decided on tossing them aside, too, to give him better traction. He stood, well aware of the absurdity of this. Well. At least I can wear my hat. He remarked dryly, tipping the wide-brimmed companion higher on his head.

Inside was the Parmamar Library in all its splendor. Nostalgia hit Sartana. Shortly after arriving to this plane of existence, he'd traveled here to read up on the history of Arda, as well as the flora and fauna of the world, the races... everything. He practically lived here for the better part of two months. And how was he repaying the building's kindness? By fighting in it. He sighed. I'd best keep my blades close, and my exploding potions safely tucked in my belt. No sense in causing too much damage to the place.

Ayre moved beside him and whispered an enchantment. Wisps of red energy swirled about his form, suddenly. His muscles tensed. They suddenly felt larger; stronger. “My thanks.” He whispered in a deep, low voice, breaking into a series of short stretches. His focus in this fight, Valerik, rushed ahead of him and disappeared behind a book case. At that moment, the unsheathing of weapons echoed through the silent library and his partner was side-stepping a devilish first attack by Vencrest, the drow. Had the battle started already?

A rumbling overhead only confirmed his thoughts. Looking up, the demon hunter was only mildly surprised to find a cackling shard of lightning heading straight for his position. Weapons still sheathed, he used both hands in unison to quicken his spell. Four deft, mirrored hand movements and a blue-ish sphere flashed over his form. “Reflect!” His voice cut through the air, just as the lightning hit the edge of his barrier, ricocheting off and smacking into a wall with a heavy 'thud'. Several fragments of stone broke free and tumbled down. The demon hunter jumped into a roll, springing up and running towards the book case Valerik stood behind. I guess it can't be helped if there's a little damage to the place! Raising his hand in front of him, pointing with one finger, with his thumb raised to the ceiling, Sartana let off three blasts of light energy. The first rocked the book shelf; the second caught it again, further pushing it back. The third knocked it clear over, and hopefully onto the foolish vampire.

The Guardian whipped his Dao of Destruction from its sheath, spinning it deftly in his right hand. Would his opponent be so foolish as to engage him directly? As if in anticipation, the man's left hand—the ultimate weapon against demons and undead, capable of destroying them with but a touch—began to pulse with white light. One punch. That's all he needed.

Taking aim with his dao pointing ahead, Sartana would shoot a continuous beam of chaotic energy if the vampire exposed himself. This 'laser' was extremely difficult to dodge, as he needed only move his wrist a tiny bit, and it would instantly shift its position—hopefully hitting the flesh of a certain unlucky dragon rider.

What!?!

The thought echoed through Vencrest's head, a thought of terror. His attack had caused him to fly forward, using his momentum to hit his opponent. It was well planned, and well executed. He had power in his blow, along with the element of surprise. A normal opponent wouldn't stand a chance against such a quick and powerful move, but his had managed to dodge the blow! She had side stepped him so easily, as if she was fighting a simple bandit, not a drow, with hundreds of years of experience in swordsmanship. As his body continued the strike, he came to a realization. He was against a strong opponent. He had underestimated this woman, and now, it would cost him severely. He would have to prepare for her counterattack in the few seconds that he had. There would be no doubt he would take some damage, but he would be ready, and hopefully, avoid the severity of the blow.

Vencrest began to stop himself from moving forward, with difficulty, but his opponent had already managed to whip out her long blade, and slashed it out towards his chest. Not only that, but she had two small setenials, floating above her head, flew down, near his shoulders ready to strike. She sure has managed to pull out a lot of blows on me, Vencrest thought, beginning to fully recover from his over swung attack, and miss upon the lady. He braced himself for impact, knowing that her blade would strike him, but due to him recognizing his missed attack, and stopping from moving any more forward, it wouldn't be as serious as it could have been. It was a hit none the less, and would prove to be painful.

And indeed it was. Her blade cut across his skin, and shirt, creating a large wound, about a half a inch deep, ranging completely across his chest, nearly coinciding with his scar, that he had received decades ago, from a failed experiment. Dark red blood spattered across the entrance of the library, staining the pearly white magnificence with the hardships of battle. He let out a cry of pain, sending his voice echoing across the library. He gripped his chest, trying in a futile attempt to stop himself from bleeding. But there was no time to wait, for two more blows were coming on him, and fast. His grip on his chest tightened, as he quickly stepped further inside the library, towards the left of the building. He had managed to avoid the blows of the twin sentinels. He had taken a lot of damage, but hopefully, avoided some as well.

He looked towards the entrance, a thought of escape entering his mind. He would run fast, and into the alley, avoiding the magic that the two would cast at him. Yes, that would be his plan. If he didn't do anything, he would die here, he had to leave! What would happen to Zekbel, his plasma dragon if he died? What about his family, his friends? Was he going to give up his life, for a chance at some gold? Was it worth all of the pain he was in? Vencrest's eyes darkened, and he tightened his grip upon his blade. The electricity licked up from the side of his blade, prepared to cut his foe. He wouldn't leave Valerik, he would win, they would win. He had fought worse opponents, and been through worse battles. He had killed in cold blood, there would be no reason he couldn't do it again. There was no reason he wouldn't win this match. Vencrest and Valerik were powerful; they knew powerful magic, and they had strong weapons.

He shot a quick glance at Valerik, his thoughts of escape set aside, to see how his ally was faring against the Guardian of the Sun. The vampire was hiding behind a bookshelf, in an attempt to avoid direct contact from the Guardian. Valerik had choose a bad spot to hide, for Saratana had sent blasts of holy energy at the bookshelf, sending it towards Valerik. Not only that, but the Guardian had drawn a odd looking blade, and pointed it at the book shelf, sending a beam of chaotic energy at him. It was an unbeatable combo. If the vampire attempted to escape, he would be shot down by the chaotic beam, and if he remained, his only option would be to get crushed by the massive bookshelf. He would need to do some thing creative, or die. It was his only options, and they looked grim.

As much as it pained the drow, there was little he could do. The vampire would have to think of his own way out of the trap. He decided to at least warn him of the impending danger. "Watch out!," He roared, in an attempt to alert the vampire of the falling bookshelf, even though he most likely was already alerted of its presence. Either way, the gesture was in good nature, and hopefully have a benefit in the fight. Vencrest had his own opponent to fight in the meantime, and unlike Valerik, she had already managed to place a strong blow on him. Vencrest turned back to Ayre, and faced her. He outstretched both his hands, and channeled energy to them, casting the Blizzard spell. Shards of ice, pieces of hail, and cold winds flew towards Ayre, all being able to cause severe cold damage to his opponent. It would be unlikely for her to exit the path of the blizzard, with out getting harmed from it, unless she could teleport away from its path. He held his blade in front of him, in a defensive stance, prepared for a counter attack, despite the pain from his previous wound. He wouldn't let her get him again, and would prove to be a worthy opponent to her. There would be no way he would let her strike him again, there was no way he would fall to these scum.

Blood ran down the edge of Windcutter, a liquid harbinger of victory. A single rosey drop slid off, rather late to strike a surface, as the sheer force of her blow had sent a titanic spray elsewhere. Ah, it was such a reminder of why she had dedicated her life to causing death amongst the profane and the murderers! There were oh so many as well, and it would take many more such as her to do it.

Today could be another victory of that glorious crusade, with the blood of the man she pursued echoing his fate as it slid down her face and form. It was an odd thing, most paladins took the moment to cleanse themselves of their opponent's blood. Against many beliefs, Ayre was not a paladin, but a knight, a goddess amongst men when it came to the field of combat. A knight mounted was a reaper, the exarch of dealing death on the field of combat. An unmounted knight brought a skill with blades honed from years of specific training.

Most importantly, they never let their quarry gain breathing room. Ayre followed him as he shuffled off, hesitated, took his attention elsewhere. She circled around him, her graceful and bloodstained legs crossing over each other's path. But all the while, she kept herself a breath away from him, capable of breaking any little attempt he made to save his pitiful existence. It would be short, swift, especially being injured as he was. Such a grievous wound to keep fighting with. There was something to admire in such determination.

"This isn't a game of chess, dear," Ayre murmured as he began his next move. The delicate movement stopped and she shifted strategies entirely. Where he aimed quickly became devoid of life as Ayre sprinted around the storm of ice and straight into him yet again.

"When you fight you cannot take a breather, love! It only quickens your death, and as much as I dislike your kind, I cannot say I enjoy killing amateurs." Ayre shouted, her voice over-all surprised. He seemed much older than she did, and yet he fought as though he had all the time in the universe. Quite simply, he didn't. Her shield shuttered as shards of ice impacted into it, some finding that pretty little face of hers. More blood streamed down, a nick taken out of an ear, a delicate little shard stuck halfway into a cheek as it melted away. She felt alive once again, the pain, the presence of her own warm blood, the beauty in the risk of death.

In moments they were close enough that Ayre could again smell the delicate taint of his flesh once more. Her shield hurtled forwards, intent on shattering his form. Then the shield slid away, pivoting her entire body and bringing in her second blow. Windcutter, the graceful white blade with his red mire dripping from it hurtled forwards as she put her entire body into the blow. Her shoulder pivoted forwards as her arm came from a bend at the elbow to a vicious, straight armed lunge. The shuriken sentinels followed after mere breaths, ricocheting off of walls until they came hurtling in for an attack on his unprotected back.

Valerik jumped in surprise, a loud thump echoing all around him. A flurry of dust scattered around him, forcing a loud, throaty cough out of him. Another thump came yet again. Something hit him in the back of the neck. He jumped, swinging his blade towards his side. Nothing was near him, Sartana was no where in radius to physically hit him. Valerik glanced around nervously, still confused about the dust, what hit him, and the origin of the thumps. Valerik's eyes finally drifted to the ground. A plain book, with a simple red cover, had fallen from the book shelf behind him. At last, he discovered what was happening, right as the last thump echoed around him.

"Watch out!," roared Vencrest, taking the opportunity to aid Valerik in his fight. But it was to late. Valerik turned, facing the book shelf. The mighty column like object was headed directly towards the vampire, intent on crushing him. Terror surrounded the vampire, in a flood of despair and fury. 'Why hadn't I noticed that?!?!' thought Valerik, angry at himself for not noticing the impending danger earlier. The mighty structure moaned as it headed straight for the vampire. Valerik knew that it was too late to run, that he had to do something else, and fast. But he had no idea what, no idea on how to escape this situation. Valerik would have to act fast, or end up vertical against the library floor. He did not want to be scraped off the ground like unwanted waste, that was not how he intended the fight to end. Valerik growled, now knowing what to do. He would have to act fast, have perfect timing. He focusing his energy through his body, down his outstretched arm. A flood of books and scrolls were falling towards the vampire, the bookshelf itself coming slightly slower than the smaller tomes.

Valerik let the energy accumulate at his hand. He grimaced, letting more and more mana gather, until he at last decided it was enough. Already, the bookshelf was dangerously near to crushing his body entirely. He let the energy out of his body, in a stream of electricity. The beam crashed into the bookshelf in a loud bang! Valerik shielded his eyes from the flurry of dust and debris that was brought up with the impact. The book shelf was sent flying across the room, crashing into the wall, knocking over several other bookshelves as it crashed through the room. The wall moaned at impact, a large, angry crack spreading across the area the two had collided. Valerik grimaced at the loud and destructive crash. Books and dust was thrown up everywhere, making the environment slightly more interesting. Books and bookshelves covered the entire side of where the bookshelf had crashed through.

Valerik wiped his brow, clearing the sweat away from his eyes. He was incredible stressed. It seemed as if this fight had already lasted for days, even though Valerik had not sustained a single injury. But that was about to change. The vampire let out a loud shriek, clutching his chest. A beam of energy, originating from his enemy's sword had struck him. Valerik's chest began to bleed, badly. The burning sensation began to spread through his entire body, the pain erupting at his chest. He began to run, the beam following him, now striking his arm. He ducked behind another bookshelf, slumping behind it, his body in excruciating pain, even though the beam was off of him. He stood, his head swimming. His left arm and chest were bleeding fiercely, an angry gash spreading from his right shoulder, heading all the way to his left shoulder. The wound was uneven, deeper in some parts than others. He gripped his sword, anger flaring in his eyes. The desire to kill Sartana became the only thought in his mind, fury and rage his only emotions.

He had never felt this way before. Valerik had scourged Arda for countless centuries, had felt infinite degrees of misery and despair throughout his entire unnatural life. And yet, he had never quite felt so raged, so infuriated. The desire to kill his foe was the primary thought in his mind. Images of Sartana at the end of Valerik's sword constantly swam through his mind, bringing him a smile whenever they did. Valerik began to think quickly, formulating a plan. He knew that even though he was a powerful swordsman, Sartana might be able to defeat him in melee combat. But that was a risk that Valerik would have to take.

Valerik mentally searched through his repertoire of spells, trying to pick the correct one to use in the situation. He did not have many spells, and of the few he did have, lightning dominated the field of elements. It seemed that magic wouldn't be able to help him here. He would have to resort to physical combat, battling Sartana hand to hand. He jumped in front of the bookshelf, his hand twitching eagerly. He charged, roaring as he did so. He would have to risk hand to hand combat, wishing that Sartana was not an expert swordsman. He hoped that he didn't have tricks up his sleeve. But little did the vampire know, Sartana could explode the vampire with a mere touch of his palm. Valerik was completely unaware of the extreme danger he was putting himself in. If the vampire was lucky, he could escape the fight with a mere blade cut.

"Vencrest!" yelled Valerik, "KILL HER!" he ordered, in a desperate attempt to recruit his aid to fight off Sartana. Valerik hoped that he could handle his own opponent. He jumped in the air, his blade held above his head. His face had a look of ferocity, showing his opponent that he truly desired to kill him. His blade cackled and hissed, lightning licking up in the air, ready to strike Sartana. It seemed that when he neared his foe, it hissed even more, as if its anger increased with Valerik's. He put strength in the blow, using gravity and his own power to hopefully break the defense Sartana might use.

In moving forward, towards the falling bookcase and his prey, Sartana's focus gradually shifted from the battle to the cushy library carpet. He was shoe-less, remember, due to a ridiculous 'no armor but belts' rule—which he'd never employ in one of his tourneys. The carpet was of a soft and inviting touch. Not often was it that the demon hunter's mind wandered from a task at hand, especially one as dangerous as this, yet the floor lining was just too nice to ignore! This is a nice carpet. Started Sartana, deep voice echoing through his mind. I'll have to get Randolf to order some for the youngling quarters. They're always complaining about the hardwood—and it's not like we're strapped for gold, even with those High Council bastards breathing down our necks...

The man snapped back to reality. His other opponent—the dark elf named 'Vencrest'—was shouting warnings to his companion, who still crouched behind the falling book case. Sartana's multicolored eyes inspected Ayre, who approached the drow. She seems uninjured. And focused; her steps crossed deftly over each other in a calculated dance, bringing her around and slowly closer to her wounded mark. Vencrest was bleeding. Badly. She'd landed a direct hit in their first clash.

There was no need to further analyze their encounter: the young knight was holding her own. Catching a low chanting under the foot-falls of Ayre and shouts of civilian library-goers, the demon hunter's eyes thinned, his lips curving into a scowl. Another spell, vampire? In response, a blast of electricity heaved the massive bookcase (being well over Sartana's height) into the air in a shower of tomes. He ducked instinctively as it passed. The wooden framework flew over his head and slammed into the wall at his back in an explosion of books and dust. A wave of ripped pages poured past the man, snapping his cloak and the ends of his scarf forward in a flurry. Such a waste, though Sartana, spitting to his side, to destroy literature! He glanced at the floor, then, and reminded himself that he shouldn't be spitting in a library. Especially not on such a nice carpet.

“What now, my blood-sucking prey?” The man whispered, words only audible to himself. He expected an attack from the side under the cover of dust and flying debris; perhaps a slash from behind, preceded by the use of a teleportation spell (as this was a very popular move among ardians, he'd found), but neither came—perhaps because the demon hunter put the innate abilities of his Dao of Destruction to such liberal use following the book shelve's aerial flight. Sartana's beam of chaotic energy cut through the opaque dust, particles twirling it in its wake, tearing into the chest of his opponent—and twice!—nicking his arm as the vampire tried to escape. Seeing his attack had hit to a most successful conclusion, the demon hunter lowered his blade, holding it defensively, facing the floor at a slight angle. Valerik was hiding.

Sartana cracked his neck in irritation. What was this? He'd entered the tourney for a challenge—not a damned game of hide and seek. Use one of your bolts to drop a chandelier atop my head! He growled, taking the perspective of his opponent. A distraction! Followed by a melee charge, as I recover! Surely a dragon rider isn't completely useless without his mount. Nothing came, save for a wave of chilled air. The drow, Vencrest, had enacted some form of ice spell. Ayre was doing a masterful job dodging out of the magical attack's way, keen on adding another wound to the dark elf's chest.

A desperate voice shot through the clearing dust, followed by the thudding of an equally desperate charge. The vampire's cackling blade lightened the hanging dust around him, as he sprinted, tinting it a light blue—and making him an even easier target, as if his shouting wasn't enough. The man's face was pure hatred. Whether this had been caused by the demon hunter's attacks (along with the subsequent wounds, which clung to Valerik's form), or some other, innate hatred for the sun (with him being a vampire and all) Sartana knew not. He was too concerned with how his opponent would strike.

He jumped. Leaped. Soared through the air straight at the demon hunter! What in the infinite layers of the abyss are you thinking?! Sartana gasped, raising his sword extended before him. To commit one's self to such a reckless charge! And to lose contact with the ground! Defense was very much based on solid footing. Air was not solid.

Pushing aside thoughts of just side-stepping and avoiding the blow, he met the attack head-on, blade turned horizontally. Every pound of the man's body weighed on Sartana's curved dao, which was pushed backwards, thanks to the added force of gravity. Valerik's blade streaked with writhing strands of lightning. The demon hunter grinned. He punched forward with his fist, his left fist, intent on punching the man in the face. To further his attack, Sartana did the unthinkable: he stepped forward, easing up on the opposing force of his sword, letting the vampire's weapon descend and cleave into his right shoulder. It moved slowly through the layered muscle, heaving into the man's scapula.

And that's where it stopped. Snug and caught in the bone.

Sartana growled instead of screaming; clenching his teeth together as blood splattered and electricity coursed through his body. He could have avoided the blow, but he had not been injured in a long time, and needed to feel it again; feel the sting of a real wound. It was not only that, though. Now the chances of scoring a hit with his left hand sky-rocketed.

Legends spoke of the Guardian of the Sun's left hand, a weapon so potent against the aberrations of undead and demonic heritage, it could destroy them outright with but a touch. Or a punch.

The demon hunter's multicolored eyes never left his opponent. He would watch... watch as his blow connected. Watch as the evil creature was blasted from existence.

She was coming in close, dangerously close. Vencrest had already experienced a blow from her deadly blade, and wasn't going to take a chance by getting another blow from it. She moved with exceptional agility, dancing almost. She was masterful with the blade, as if it was merely an extension of her own body. She was a strong opponent, probably the strongest he had faced in decades, but there was no reason he wouldn't win. With his blood spilt, Vencrest was ready to have his own blade taste his opponent's flesh. He too was a powerful swordsman, but his style was different from this female knight. Unlike her flowing dance of sword and shield, he choose a more chaotic selection, favoring a mixture of fist and blade. She would face his true expertise, and she would lose, no doubt.

He readied for her attack. She charged forward, her shield extended to bash in his body. He leapt sideways, in an attempt to get out of the way of the shield that was flung at him, but she surprised him by pivoting herself, and swinging to the side in an attempt to strike him again. But he wouldn't but harmed so easily. He released a chaotic energy inside himself, filling the surrounding area with a red glow of chaotic energy. It was his Chaotic Aura , capable to reflect blows from those who follow a lawful path. He stepped to the side, attempting to avoid the swinging blade that had already tasted his own flesh, and unknowing to him, avoiding the two flying weapons that were aimed for his back as well.

And now, she would have to deal with the ignominy of her defeat.

An idea sprung in his head. He reacted quickly, in a hope that he could catch Ayre off guard. He sprinted, panting heavily, towards a row of three mahogany bookshelves, rising about six feet in the air, and ten feet across. The dark wood glistened in the pale light of the fire places scattered across the room, but soon, they would become a weapon in destroying his foe. A nearby reader looked up from her brightly colored book, an exasperated glare spread across her face. She began to speak ", Some of us are..." Her words were cut off, as Vencrest speed past, her towards the set of bookshelves that were closest to their fight. The readers mouth formed a small 'o' of shock as the drow ran by. Her gaze drifted the fighting beyond, the 'o' of her mouth only enlarging in shock. She stumbled up, running towards the back of the library, a small scream echoing as she did so.

Vencrest wasted no time with her, trusting Tobias's words that they would be safe from any of the guards that might be nearby. Now, his attention was focused on the fight. He clutched his side in pain, continuing his sprint. A trail of blood followed him, leaking from his gash that ran across his chest. It was painful, and his activity was not helping his wound.

He reached the bookshelves, panting slightly as he came to a stop, but taking no time to catch his breath. The bookshelves were marvelous, and elegant, with beautiful carvings on the side. Vencrest couldn't help but marvel in their beauty for a mere second, the awe of all the knowledge before him swelling. But he would have little remorse for what he was about to do to the magnificent wood work. He pulled his leg up, pain erupting in him, as if red hot flames were spreading across his body. He didn't stop, only a grimaced look forming as he did so, and continued his kick. His foot made direct contact with the solid wood, a thump emitting as he did so. It fell forward, groaning, and then, made contact with the shelf in front of it, and then the other shelf, in front of it.

All three of the shelves fell on the ground, with a colossal amount of noise upon their decent. Patrons rose, glancing in the direction of the fight, interested in the location of the recent cacophony. All the contents of the shelves were scattered about, with debris and dust lying every where. A variety of colored books, pieces of wood, ands metal book holders were all scattered about in a chaotic scene of destruction. It was perfect.

He raised his hands, ready to cast the Blizzard spell, yet again, but it would have a much stronger impact this time. The massive amount of debris, which he had now created would be launched in the air, as a perfect distraction for Vencrest to get a strike at Ayre. It was the perfect distraction. He channeled energy through him, as he had done the first time he had cast the spell, and released it. The blizzard swarm from hands, with high speeds wind, chunks of ice, and as always, cold temperatures. The winds picked up the clutter, scattered across the ground, sending a swarm of objects flying towards Ayre. Books flapped about, pages tearing in every direction. Splintered pieces of wood flung forward as well, aimed in the direction of Ayre.

Amongst the flurry of debris, Vencrest ran towards Ayre as well, sword held up high, the red glow of his Chaotic Aura shimmering as he did so. He kept his foot falls gentle, and made no sound, as to not alert his foe. He neared her, and swung, but before he finished his blow, he pivoted on his feet, so he ended on the left side of her, and completed his swing.

(I got grounded. Go physics and one day to do twelve hours worth of homework.)

Her blows missed. It was as though she had been striking at a wall of air. A slight pressure, and her blade had slid away so simply that it stoked the fires of her rage. The rage never blinded her, but it provided her with a necessary ingredient to fighting. Adrenaline. It coursed through her as he stumbled off through the alternating shadows and daylight of the library's windows and walls. Ayre's hand flicked through her hair, and drew out the sliver of ice stuck in her cheek, feeling nothing but a tug and sudden surge of warmth. It wasn't life threatening, but it served to make her appearance far more barbaric, which she took prompt advantage of.

A scream, and a crowd gathered. A few realized what was happening, and a series of hushed murmurs infiltrated the crowd, and spread a chant like the plague. Ayre drew blood from the wound on her cheek with two fingers, and she observed her own life giving fluid in its escape from her. She drew it across her eyebrow and eye socket, trailing off until the two threads of coagulating blood became one. She was barely aware of the chants for the glory of House Twilight, how the men and women of the library raised their names unto Aman. Instead, what came to Ayre was her training. Religious chants, chants for the glory of Reitara, the holy litanies that reminded her of who she was. A master of the blade.

Then came the movement of the nearest row of books. The crowd paused in their chanting, and screams echoed throughout the library, each one dedicated to saving some man or woman stuck within the oaken trap. Some escaped, their own screams as they hurried to become a member of the mob, to find strength in its grasp. The others were crushed by the monoliths of literature, the liquid more precious than water seeping out beneath some. Hands that tried to escape without their masters twitched, the howls of the dying rent the air asunder.

Then came the vile magics of the drow, his intention to unleash the mighty blizzard spell upon her once more. Her mind came to a screeching halt, and the sermons echoed endlessly, giving her a purpose. The people were behind her. He was aiming at her. The spell couldn't go that far. Ayre threw aside her shield, the clang of metal and the shattering of priceless porcelain filling the library. Her now freed hand worked quickly, bringing about the mightiest of spells within Arda. She murmured the spell, summoning it through the orisons of her youth.

"I stand as a wall to defend Her believers, those who worship Her and Her cause." Ayre declared, as the spell tore from the air itself. His magic found itself dispelled. Delicate tendrils of white energy grappled with the magic that fueled the blizzard spell, and then tore it away. What was once deadly shards of ice turned into harmless water, with gravity completing the remaining work. A delicate and horizontal rain struck her, a pleasant way of removing all the heat from her body worked up from the battle. Books and objects of similar weight collided with the ground, metal contraptions falling not too far from where they started. And yet, with his cover falling rapidly away, the drow still charged. She laughed, as the leader of her order had laughed upon a pile of the profane living dead.

"There shalt be no escaping the eyes of those who do Her work." Ayre shouted, the litany tearing from her mouth to denounce his strategy. There was no lack of joy in her eyes as she drew out her second blade, one she had never given a name. The blades were drawn into the air, parallel to each other and perpendicular to her body. Flickering light off of the nameless blade caught her orbs, a gentle persuasion of the massive object above. A chandelier, an ornate and in this particular ornament's case, it was an artifact of the library's construction.

"And from the heavens Her wrath shalt fall, to purify and purge the misguided from Her domain." Came the cry of yet another sermon, and the battle insanity of the caller was known only to two things. The shuriken sentinels hurtled from their original trajectory to make another strike upon the man named Vencrest, and instead hurtled to the outer reaches of their gargantuan room they clashed in to gain the proper velocity for severing the mighty cord that suspended the opal of the library's entrance.

"The profane must accept the impossibility of their triumph, and kneel for the executioner's blade!" Ayre screamed as she fell from a rigid stance to that of a dancer. Her blade came up, the nameless and yet powerful blade striking across his, deflecting the blade from its intended target. Pain lanced through the upper reaches of her shoulder, slicing the white garb of a temple maiden from her, and staining the remainder. It was a graze, but one that would contribute to the harrowing fact that he threatened to match her blood loss with his own. As the shuriken sentinels neared, she screamed out another denouncement.

"And for not, the profane strike upon the holy, their blades answered with that of the paladins and clerics who serve in her name!" Ayre casted, her voice hoarse but covering the noise of the snap and hopefully drawing attention from her second blade's intention. It lashed out across his body, with more intention to slow him than to strike him as her feet left the fight entirely. Her advantage in sheer speed became obvious as she sprinted, her footfalls heavy and strides long. And yet, it still wasn't enough, as her step fell at the moment the the collision occurred. The floor shook, and she fell. Her chin struck the ground, a grunt emanating from her as she struggled back to her feet. She balanced on her heels momentarily to draw up her blades again, and then straitened her legs, bringing her to a stand once more.

"I shalt not become a martyr excepting the best of reasons, for it disrupts a lifetime of servitude." Ayre muttered to none. She spun both blades on deft fingers, and spat blood from her mouth. The elven knight wanted blood, and not just her own.

Valerik could not hear the cries of the commoners or the over zealous shrieks of Ayre. All he could concentrate on was killing Sartana. The vampire's blade sunk into the guardian's shoulder, the lightning within the enchanted sword flowing out of the steel and into the body of Sartana. Valerik's rage soothed slightly, easing only a minuscule amount. But something struck Valerik, piercing his mind like a needle.

The guardian had willingly taken the blow. That could only mean that he had a plan, a plan that more than likely involved magic. Valerik's smirk quickly wiped into a scowl at the realization of his flawed plan. Immediately, Valerik understood the foolishness of his charge. He had let his rage over come his decision making abilities. And already, gravity prevented escape from the guardian. Sartana raised his fist, aimed at Valerik's face. All the vampire could do was watch. The fist swung, connecting directly to the dragon rider's cheek.

Valerik's blade dislodged itself from Sartana as he flew backwards from the forcefulness of the blow. He collided with a bookshelf, nearly knocking over the massive structure. The sounds of the panicked onlookers flooded over him, the screams and wails swarming all around him. He arouse, a look of confusion spread across his face. A strange feeling began to rush through out his body. It felt like a tingling sensation, as if he was an embarrassed school boy. But that soon changed.

He immediately was thrown back onto the ground, his roar of pain silencing all the onlookers. All the commoners watched as the vampire wailed and thrashed on the ground. Valerik felt as if pins were being pressed from his insides, piercing his skin. He roared, tears of pain streaming down his face. The vampire had been tortured and beaten many times before, experienced so many degrees of pain, yet in all his centuries, never felt like this. The full grown, very well aged man, wept on the ground, wailing and shrieking, resisted the overwhelming urge to collapse and fade away. It was either his will power, or the massive pain that was keeping him conscious.

Soon, blood began to seep from his skin, several gashes forming on various places of his body. Valerik was unable to hear anything but his on shrieks, his own heart beating in his ears. The commoners were gasping, covering their eyes in fear of the scene of gore that began to unfold. Valerik convulsed, a small bit of vomit escaping his mouth. Now, it seemed that his skin was dyed red by the blood that seeped through his body. Valerik's mind spun, unable to keep still. 'This is it, the end' was the only thought that crossed his mind, to preoccupied by the incredible pain he was in.

The thought again echoed in his mind. 'The end,' the two words constantly pulsed throughout his entire being. He roared in pain as his mind began to pulse with thoughts. 'Loss, the end will mean loss,' he thought in between of a spasm of incredible pain. Several seconds had already passed. "I will not lose...I, I vowed" he roared in pain, laying on his side, not even trying to stand. He convulsed, throwing his body to his side, curling into a ball, "I vowed the sun will," blood leaked from his mouth, causing him to choke on it. He spat, turning to face Sartana. "I vowed the sun will never take me!" he roared, half in pain and half in anger.

He pulled himself up, collapsing on the ground. Each of the pins pressing on the inside of his body seemed to collide on the ground, pressing against his body again. He mustered all his will, trying his hardest to conquer this challenge. Valerik focused his energy, trying to harness the 'pins' in his body. He focused them, aiming them to an area of less importance. He attempted several times, unsuccessful. At last, after several more seconds, he was successful.

A sickening pop echoed through out the entire library, followed by a roar. Several commoners puked at the sight of the vampire.

The gory mass rose, standing with some difficulty. His face was barely recognizable by the mass amounts of blood on it. But it was apparent what had happened. One eye stared viciously at Sartana, a fierce look of hatred piercing him. His left side of his face was covered entirely by blood, and pieces of flesh were his left eye once occupied. Valerik smirked, trying his hardest not to flinch as the last of the pain dissipated out of his body. He took his left hand, bringing it to his face.

The vampire put his two fingers at the place were the gory explosion occurred. He gingerly placed the digits on his bloody, tender flesh were his left eye should have been. He kept the same sadistic smirk, using all the will power he had to control the incredible urge to fall to the ground in pain. He brought his fingers down to his mouth, licking the blood off of them. He chuckled slightly, his maniacal smile scaring some of the commoners to flee out of the mighty library doors. Valerik chuckled, blinking his single eye. "It seems the fight now truly begins," he said with a slight laugh, raising his hand.

The desire to destroy Sartana now became the only goal of the vampire. No longer did he care about ruling the skies or obtaining all the money he could possibly imagine. All he could think about was revenge, revenge for what that fiend had done to him. Not only had the sun destroyed his freedom, but now had taken one of his eyes. Valerik clenched his fist at the thought of the sun, anger and furry now conquering all other emotions.

This had been the most damage Valerik had ever taken in a single fight. That meant he had to win. He did not sacrifice his eye merely to lose. He now would win, no matter what it took. Valerik focused his energy throughout his bloody body, gathering the reduced amount of mana he had left. It accumulated, turning into an orb of electricity. This was the same Chain lightning spell he had used so many times before in this fight. But something was different. The lightning pulsed, itching to blast the opponent before them. It seemed as if even his blade pulsed with the same hatred that flooded Valerik. Even his magic. His essence was imbued with the desire to kill Sartana, to destroy him and his element. He released the energy, sending the blast towards his hated opponent. The bolt branched off, a section headed towards Ayre's back. The brunt of the electricity was aimed for Sartana, at least seventy five percent of it. Valerik scowled, waiting to see the outcome of his magic.

Shortly before the tournament's start, the necessities of organized combat were dealt with: the rules of engagement were placed before the contestants. One of these rules applied directly to the four guardians who had entered the tournament, bluntly saying that their powers were to be cut, dampened, and otherwise weakened to the point where they'd be fighting at near mortal capacity. No spell or item was behind this; it would be up to the demigods to consciously lower their powers, or face the wrath of the judges.

Now, in the midst of combat, one's mind tends to stray—even that of the demon hunter's, trained as it was to remain calm in such situations. His punch was not restrained. Every divinely-enhanced muscle popped and strained as his arm swung forward and connected with the vampire's cheek, which gave quite readily, followed by his head, his body, and even his sword—as snuggly as it had found itself caught in the demon hunter's shoulder. A whirlwind of papers and debris was heaved aside as the unfortunate vampire flew across the library, colliding with a deafening 'thud' against a solid book case. Tomes rocked and fell about him, nearly covering his writhing, pain-gripped form.

Sartana was stunned. “He lives?” The man managed to gasp, several seconds later, still not believing—but there he was! Valerik was in obvious pain; immense, mind-breaking distress, but alive nonetheless. Such an event had only happened once, back in the demon hunter's home plane, but that was against a... well, a powerful being, to say the least. There was no way this vampire matched it.

A sting of pain caused the man to wince, and he quickly glanced at his own shoulder. The cut was several inches deep; his arm hung limp at his side, and his sword had fallen to his feet. Not one to waste valuable time, even if his opponent was defeated, Sartana brought his left hand to his lips, kissing his knuckled, before making ten hand-gestures (twice the required, having only one usable hand) and slapping his palm to the gaping canyon of blood. “Heal me, Lothlómendil, so that I might continue this fight.” He whispered. White light fell about his palm, smothered in blood. Cleansing white smoke rose from where his skin touched the wound, and not a moment later, in removing his hand, only a subtle scar remained. His eyes shot back to Valerik.

He continued to resist being torn apart. Unbelievable. The demon hunter thought, picking up his fallen Dao of Destruction. The effects of his hand were usually instantaneous. The unfortunate demonic or undead victim would have but a second to convulse, cry out or curse, before they simply vanished under the cover of a white light. That was it. They were banished from existence. But this vampire! He continued to fight; would not give up, even when death was imminent. A flash of light sparked through the demon hunter's multicolored eyes. Resist as you might, vampire, you've lost this match, and your life. Flourishing his curved, blood-stained blade, Sartana stalked forward to provide a clean coup de grace.

A series of cries halted his advance.

Sartana's eyes darted to his right, widening at the dire situation. The drow, Vencrest, had kicked one of the massive wooden book cases over. The ensuing domino effect threatened to crush a number of commoners who'd yet to flee the battle. While a number of people were scrambling out of the way, or aiding others, the majority were too enthralled in the combat; they stood about as cattle would, chanting praises to House Twilight. The demon hunter had little time to express his distaste for these mindless people—he had to do something before anyone innocent was killed.

An elderly couple stumbled as the shadow of a tome-carrying behemoth enveloped them, followed by the monstrous thing itself. They weren't going to make it. Yet, suddenly, the shadows scattered at the appearance of a blinding white light—a ball of pure energy, suspended in the air, quivering under the weight of the book case. The couple stumbled out of harm's way, followed by a number of others. Across the library, Sartana concentrated, left hand facing the tangible essence of his guardianship.

Only a few more seconds... But he didn't have that long. At his side, the vampire's bloody form rose; eyeless, gory, spewing words of utter hatred for The Guardian of the Sun. The man glanced at his risen foe, eyes thinning in anger. Impertinent bastard! Why don't you die already? In response, Valerik lifted his hand, calling forth his electrical powers once more. Sartana's eyes dashed between the vampire and the suspended book case across the room. He needed more time.

But there was none left.

Electricity surged through the air, headed straight for the preoccupied demon hunter, then splitting in two; the other, lesser bolt, whizzing deftly through Sartana's vision, streaming towards the back of his ally, Ayre. There came the decision: protect himself, or his partner. Reasoning echoed through his thoughts at once, but it was all for nothing. It was not a difficult choice.

Dropping his Dao, the demon hunter spun his other hand towards the young knight, twirling his pointer finger around her distant form; a faint, trailing light followed his finger through the air. Then it hit him. The bolt smacked squarely into his chest, flinging the large man backwards. He spun once, losing his hat in the process, before breaking through a book case and colliding with the library wall. The second bolt, aimed for Ayre, found her form covered by a shimmering, transparent half-circle of magic. It struck the barrier—which rippled in response, as a body of water would, having a pebble thrown into it—before disappearing entirely. The girl was unscathed. Across the room, Sartana fell to the floor. Pieces of broken wall followed.

His head spun. “Mmm... Mmhmm.” He grumbled, rising to his feet, holding his head. His first thoughts were incoherent concerns for his hat. It didn't take long for him to recover, however, and realize what had happened. Immediately unsheathing his other sword, a non-magical falchion, as well as extending his wrist main gauche, Sartana cracked his neck. Seems I'm not terribly injured. He thought, wincing as he made his way to his hat, which sat patiently on a chair. The demon hunter reasoned that Valerik was not a spell-caster by profession; that, by casting his spell in such rapid succession as he had during the battle, his mana had been depleted; this lightning blast being a weakened version of his more potent spell, only further cut in strength by being sent in two directions. Still, it had ripped through his clothing, and his burnt chest steamed a bit. Also, his leg appeared to have sustained some damage. Sartana grinned. Aside from that, he was fine. A quick glance to his side assured him that Ayre was okay, too.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

Scooping his hat up and plopping it on his head, the demon hunter stared into the eye of his opponent. “Nice try, but...” He kicked his fallen dao into the air, deciding to retract his wrist dagger as he did, before catching the weapon in his left hand. “..you'll still die in obscurity!”

He charged forward, despite the injury sustained by his left leg, closing the distance to his foe in but a second. The non-magical falchion dove forward in a flurry of blinding strikes, intent on taking his other eye, while the dao stayed close—close enough for defense, or a counter-attack, if the opportunity presented itself.

Vencrest charged through the flurry of debris, his sword held high above his head, a look of determination and sheer ferocity spread across his battle stained face. He began to hear words chanted, as if a spell was being casted of some sort. "I stand as a wall to defend Her believers, those who worship Her and Her cause," a voice rang out, echoing with might and stature. Her firm words seemed to have some magical effect, as the cold winds, and pieces of ice lost momentum, and fell, as a water. Vencrest began to perceive the fading white tendrils that she had summoned as a spell that caused his mighty blizzard to disappear. He kept charging, his motive all the same. He had to strike, this women was a powerful warrior, and had barely taken any blows. But there had to be a limit to skill. There would be a point, were he would break past her defenses, and destroy her.

Ayre held a firm stance, her blade held at her side, ready to deflect his blows. "There shalt be no escaping the eyes of those who do Her work." Ayre shouted, as she drew her second blade. She held the two of them firm, a determined look spread across her face. There was no doubt that she was a skilled warrior, and had experienced battle many times before. Her training was exquisite, judging by the way she held her blades so precisely, as if she had perfected her style, most likely through many hours of devoted training. "And from the heavens Her wrath shalt fall, to purify and purge the misguided from Her domain," she exclaimed again, her outbursts remaining the same over zealous exclamations that disgusted him so.

Vencrest kept his charge, wondering what the purpose of her shouts could be. A golden glimpse caught his eye, as a flickering object darted from its original position. Was it the sentinel? Vencrest did not care, he was so close to striking her, and would be willing to take a strike from the sentinel, if it meant striking her in return. "The profane must accept the impossibility of their triumph, and kneel for the executioner's blade!" she screamed yet again, her shouts becoming louder as he neared her. She pulled up one of her blades, deflecting his own, and sending it flying backwards. She held her swords with such power, it startled him as he made contact with her own blades.

A splat echoed across the library. Even despite the noise of the chaotic screams and hectic civilians, he managed to pick up the sound of a drop of blood. He hadn't been successful in his attack, but had managed to graze her flesh, staining the ground with her 'holy' blood. There would be much more blood to spill, Vencrest would assure that. A grin spread across his face as he reared himself back into a defensive stance, for a counter attack. "And for not, the profane strike upon the holy, their blades answered with that of the paladins and clerics who serve in her name!" Ayre cried, slashing with her newly drawn blade. Vencrest stepped backwards, pulling his own blade towards him, parrying the blow. Why did she perform such a simple maneuver? He now could counter attack, and place a much stronger blow on her. But why the pathetic attack?

The knight began to sprint, running at speeds much faster than he himself could run. She sprinted away, as if avoiding something. But why run away? A groan echoed from above, causing Vencrest's gaze to drift upwards to the source of the noise. A chandelier fell from above, its beautiful crystalline structure falling towards him with an amazing amount of speed, due to its massive weight. No doubt, the impact of the object would kill him. He would have to avoid it, or die.

Vencrest ran, trying to match the speed of the knight who had ran before him, and failing miserably. He seemed a snail compared to the speed of Ayre, who had managed to sprint away at the falling chandelier. But he was barely fast enough. The chandelier collided on the ground, beautiful pieces of crystal shattering across the ornate floor. Vencrest ran low, covering his head from the flying projectiles. He dived finally, behind the cover of a bookshelf, trying to avoid the sharp shards of crystal. Even though he had dodged the chandelier itself, its ornate crystals had managed to make contact with him. His dive revealed upon impact that a rather large crystal was embedded in his back, near his left shoulder, about three inches deep within his flesh. He groaned impact with the hard ground. The crystal popped out quite painfully at his dive, stained red with his blood.

Vencrest stood, rubbing his shoulder, his own blood warming his cold hands. It seemed that the collision of the impact had created quite a crowd, even despite the fact his previous blizzard spell had managed to harm some civilians. Cheers began to rise up, hailing the House of Twilight as the ultimate winners. It was disgusting. Vencrest stood, staring at the chanting crowd of civilians. His blood began to boil, as he started to speak to the crowd, who was so feverently praising his opponents, merely for the fact a knight and Guardian was on the team. His words were spat with disgust and hate, as he began.

"You think there is good in all of you?" Vencrest questioned, walking into the center yet again, facing Ayre, who was standing up as well, her own two blades held in a defensive stance. "You actually think that you deserve a passage into the after life, because you have led a life of good, and prosperity? You are WRONG!" He bellowed his words, the red glow of his Chaotic Aura adding to his frightening appearance. "You all have killed! You all have stolen, lied, and cheated! Yet you live a life were you follow the path of the good!?! There is nothing good in you!" He began to pant, his eyes being that of a lunatics. "THERE IS NOTHING!" he roared, running at the crowd.

Screams echoed across the library, those of the terrified civilians. Vencrest grabbed a young man, with brown hair and green eyes, that of his thirties. He let out a scream, his hand outstretched to some one behind him. Vencrest shot a glance backwards, to see what the man was gesturing to, only to see a small boy, with the same brown hair and green eyes, his hand falling limply at his side, as the hand of his father's was ripped away from him. The boys lip began to quiver, and a shriek erupted from his small, toothless mouth.

But Vencrest did not care, this man would serve his purpose, by becoming a tool to aide to the death of Ayre. His plan was unique, and hopefully, unique enough to catch the knight off guard. He neared Ayre, ignoring the screams of the man. He pulled the hand with his blade back, and plunged it into the mans chest. The man let out a small gasp, his hand clawing frantically at the space behind him, as if motioning for his son to leave the library. Vencrest didn't look backwards, to see the fate of the son, his thought entirely on Ayre. His blade stuck out of the body, for about two and a half feet. Vencrest lunged forward, holding on the blade lodged in the mans body, attempting to spear Ayre and the man together, on the same sword. Hopefully, this method would serve as an appropriate disguise for his true intentions.His weapon would cause the death of both of them.