Had the idiot actually accepted his challenge? He only sent it as a means to piss the guy off, but he didn't know how great a fool he was dealing with. Whatever, it didn't matter. The battle was pretty much his now. The point of an assassin is to have them kill their intended target using stealth and surprise as the deciding factors. Pitting them against their opponent in an open battle? Why did he always attract the idiots to be his enemies? Well, it was already done, and now here he was. Termáre Dagor, the only battlestand to exist in all of Arda. It was in the massive coliseum that Fendrel stood awaiting his opponent. There was a vast crowd cheering and waiting for the battle to start, to his surprise. Then again, he was known in the city for his violent nature and misdemeanors. What's a Chaos Knight to do?

Scanning the crowd in his idleness, Fendrel met eyes with Victoria. She smiled sweetly at him and gave an enthusiastic wave. Smirking, Fendrel nodded to her and continued to look into the crowd. He had to be there somewhere. Ah, there he was. And in a booth of all places. Noblemen these days. Always trying to show off. He tapped the edge of his sword against his shoulder as he began to converse with the very person that hired the assassin; Sir Baldron the Third.

"Baldron! My good friend! Glad to see you actually showed up to watch your plans fall apart!"

"You're a fool, Cheshire! My assassin's going to rid Lómëdor of your presence for good!" Baldron responded, which was backed by a triumphant cheer. Seems Victoria was his only friend in the entire stadium. Fendrel sneered at the thought. It'd make the victory all the more sweeter.

"Cheshire? Don't call me by my surname, Baldron. I don't like you enough for all that. And um...is it like you to hire murderers that can't tell time. They're late by ten minutes almost..."

"Wha...I know but...Grr, how can you be so calm about this!? You're going to die, Fendrel Cheshire! Get that through your concrete skull!" Baldron spluttered out. Having enough of Fendrel's shenanigans, he turned and waved a hand at the man in the central booth. He nodded and lifted a swift with little delay. The groan of ancient steel brought Fendrel's attention to the circular walls surrounding him. Every few feet there was an opening that was covered with a rusting steel gate. These, however, were currently lifting as Trolls began to walk out of them, glaring daggers at Fendrel. He counted five ugly green mugs in total. Sighing and looking back at Baldron, Fendrel shook his head.

"Only five, mate? You're going to disappoint the crowd." Fendrel taunted. Baldron looked simply flabbergasted but Fendrel was already rushing towards the small group of enemies coming at him. They raised axes and the like to try and cause bodily harm to Fendrel but he'd have none of that. Jumping out of the way of a particularly close slash, Fendrel swung his leg around and caught a Troll right in the neck with his heel. He quickly turned and blocked a blow from an advancing Troll's axe. Lifting his blade to sending the axe flying, Fendrel swiftly slashed through the Troll's stomach, opening a gapping wound that spilled out fountains of blood and dirtied entrails.

"Ew...didn't mean for all that, now." Fendrel muttered before kicking the Troll in the face and sending his bloodied body crashing down on the Troll from earlier. These guys were pretty heavy, so the lifeless corpse was enough to crush the skull of the downed Troll warrior. Two down, three to go. Another Troll advanced and gave him a sharp knock in the back of the head with a knobby fist, but Fendrel quickly recovered and slashed through his attacking arm and then back down through his neck. Following through with the slash, Fendrel rode on the force of the swing and lunged forward as his body twisted around. The feat caused him to dodge another swipe of an axe and decapitate the attacking Troll all at once. Landing behind the body, Fendrel lifted himself up and surveyed the remaining Troll. Sneering, Fendrel simply tossed his weapon at the creature. It sailed through the air, sliced through the top of its head, and continued on until it plunged into the wall on the opposite end.

Bull's eye!

"Well now, that was boring. Come on, Baldron, you gotta have something better up your sleeve, right?"

Had the idiot actually answered the challenge? Watching the fat pincushion of a human male mouth the words that she so hated and reviled, Vex was tempted to answer yes. Tempted because she knew that though colossal morons did, in fact, exist they were a rather shifty, rude, stupid bunch that did not pay in solid gold coins that could be chewed on. They also didn't live in luxurious mansions whose doors were fitted for -troll- bodyguards, whose oaken desks were lined with gold and whose windows were made of clear, nigh-unshatterable crystal. Colossal morons also couldn't tell real alcohol from the crud they served at a pissing hole. This one could. He had surprisingly good taste in refreshments. Vex had been much obliged on more than one occasion.

All of this information forced Vex to come to one conclusion, and one conclusion only: her employer was clearly joking. He couldn't have possibly meant what he was implying. Wait... now saying.... and now demanding. Assassins, by trade and nature, were not fighters by proxy. They were not warriors, combatants, knights, unholy paladins and et cetera, et cetera. They were assassins. They assassinated their targets by stealth, guile and the occasional stroke of good luck. Anyone who believed an assassin to be a formidable physical warrior would be quite more than correct. Anyone who believed an assassin to be a match for any of- say- the forementioned groups they would be labeled the village idiot.

"I'm quite serious." Balding (that was what Vex called him in her head, in reality he had some long, no doubt noble title that could trace his lineage several generations backwards, forwards and side-by-side) told her, his voice and manner betraying no intricate game of dice, a gamble at fate or a sudden whimsy that some (more intelligent nobles) were so prone to. He was serious.

And Vex knew, in her heart and head, that she was speaking with the village idiot. His noble mien, presence of proper grooming had made her initially believe him to be something of a proper patron. His utter inability to figure out simple sums should have alerted her to something being quite wrong but she had hoped. Hoped in vain, apparently, for while his trials and contracts were easily fulfilled and exceeded the man himself was hopelessly thick. Vex was rather surprised she had not already slit his throat and tried to take his fortune. Her good conduct probably had something to do with boredom. Or so she hoped. As of recent note she seemed to have been... changing. Less liable to drink, less liable to carouse and constantly, constantly, constantly thinking. It was a rather annoying frame of mind, one she normally abhorred. Still abhorred, actually.

"Your wish is my command oh great master of a thousand suns," (that rather extreme use of honorifics should have probably also alerted her to her employer's nature) Vex intoned lowly. And instead of becoming a bat, swishing her cloak ominously or doing any of the thousand things that the idiot no doubt expected her to do, Vex just walked out the door.

And then slammed it.



They went separately, hiree and hired, to the Battlestands- officially it was because Vex needed to gather her energies so as to be able to strike her opponent down with one blow, un-officially it was because Vex was considering whether or not this particular battle deserved the presence of the Warlord. The Warlord might be able to handle this particular hurdle without much trouble, indeed it would be almost no trouble whatsoever but Vex herself was unamused by the notion. Whenever she wore the helm of the Banshee she found pieces of lost self and the pieces hurt. So away she shoved them, and away they went. Useless fragments of a life long gone and a life long past.

She gazed at her mace, her armor, her potion. Was it enough. Did she need more?

Ah, fudge it. She didn't care anymore. Things were... changing. Too fast for her. Too fast, perhaps, for anyone. There was war in the air, blood on the wind and the images of the Fell deep in the hearts and soul of all. For Evil, and she had seen the signs and watched their movements, was on the move. This small battle, small task was nothing. She could try to ride this wave, try and ride it until her goal was complete and she could fall down and die again. But that was later. Much later. Reaching down, she plucked her helm up from the ground and placed it on her head.

The Warlord walked out, mace in hand.

Shouting, excitement. Her visage was -changed- when she wore this helm. She saw the downed troll, the spittle-incensed nobleman who was her employer but would be her employer no longer once this battle was through. She raised her mace and pointed at her opponent. She dared not speak, in fear of unleashing the banshee. It was a primitive but powerful magic. But the Warlord's body spoke volumes anyways. The crowd roared.

Come