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year 5, quarter 3
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He was not quite sure how he ended up in the city of Provo. He remembered the cold embrace of death, and then opening his eyes in the unknown lands he was now roaming. He remembered awakening in a numbed and dazed state, but then there was pain, so much that even he could bear it just barely. He had gathered what strength he had left, and at some point a savage - no, a woman - came in his aid. It was the first time he had needed someone's help in a lifetime. He was not even sure of why he was helped. Him? He could not remember much of his past at the moment, evidently his almost-death had made him strongly amnesiac, but the very first things that came to mind when he thought of himself were blood and fighting. Although it felt more like a hunt than an actual fight. He knew he had the best fight of his entire life just before his "death", but he could not quite remember the face of his enemy. He only knew he held that person in high regard and was disappointed in himself for losing.
He glared at a young woman who was about to approach him with some papers. She hesitated, locking her eyes into his, then shivered and stepped back apologizing. He could not care less, as long as she would not bother him.
He caught the flow of his thoughts and went back with his mind to that challenge.
It would have been a good way to die, for him. He knew he was a wild beast, living for the spark of ruthless battle, so he was sure he would have gladly accepted to fall in battle. Yet he was still alive. Why? He had thought about it for quite some time now, and still had no answer. But no matter. He was alive, and had to find a new reason to live. His previous one - the very same person that had killed him he was fairly sure - was lost. The best thing he could probably do for the time being was to sell his strength. He had a massive frame, a well-trained body and the instinct of an animal, why should he not put them to use? He had still not recovered entirely, but he was already craving for some sport. Thus was he roaming the streets, looking for someone who could need someone to guard them, or their wares considering the amount of merchants. And a few animals of fiends would certainly not be a match for him, even in his weakened state.
Not to mention that he felt different. He knew for certain that something within him had changed, and that something was lost. He could still feel the voidsent within - it had been spent just like him and recovered with him - , but there was something else that had changed and he was curious to know exactly what, and to which extent his abilities had weakened. For this very reason, the moment he laid his eyes on a blonde man that caught his attention, he chose to walk closer and approach him. He needed to fight. It was a craving, a hunger.
But he would have to be... Polite. In the beginning, at least.
«Pardon me.» he said, looking at the man. He would wait for him to make eye contact, then stare right back to study him. His posture, his gaze. That man was a fighter, the former crown prince was more than sure of it. He had only needed to look into his eyes. «You look like a warrior.» he told the man. His expression was mostly neutral, if not slightly anticipating. Zenos knew full well that people could see one of two things into his eyes: the bitter cold of Garlemald, or the overwhelming heat of battle. He only looked at people, and they would think he was glaring. Many were more scared of his silence than of his moments of.. Anger, perhaps? He had never been good at classifying emotions.
«You have the eyes of a fighter. One who has seen many fierce battles, and won just as many.» He did not even think of telling him his name, or of asking for his. He would have forgotten anyways, as he could not care less. What he wanted was not just a word, but the fire - and for the hunger within to be sated. «Would you accept to fight me?» he eventually asked. He would not insist too much should the man refuse. He had learned by now that one cannot take everything by force. Most things, yes, but everything? The pursuit of his latest battle had proved him wrong already.
[attr=class,bulk] Dion had much to answer for on his return to Provo. He hadn’t left without the blessing of the healers, exactly, but there had been stern instructions not to overexert himself, and he had been stocked with enough potions to take one for every day of his journey to aid in his further healing. He returned exhausted, his body aching, and had once again been assigned to bedrest.
He mostly needed sleep, as it happened, aided by the occasional magicks of Healer Yuna and Healer Monori when they were not busy in the practice of saving lives. After a week’s rest, he was back on his feet, able to dress himself, and had been given leave to explore the city and enjoy the fresh air.
Unfortunately, while Provo was no doubt a city of its own wonders, its exploration was not high on Dion’s list of priorities. While he would occasionally marvel at the canals and the boats that so often drifted by, there was little of interest to him in the marketplaces, lumberyards, and grain mills that composed most of the nation. Thus, he preferred to spend his days outside the clinic, leaning against the building with his arms crossed, chin tilted towards the sky.
It was good to feel the sun on his face. Before his miraculous and perhaps cursed entry to this realm, he had not seen it since before Bahamut’s rampage at Twinside. The summer heat was less pleasant. He caught eyes as he stood there, fully dressed in high boots, long pants, a buttoned up shirt, and gloves which reached halfway up his forearms. He simmered in the heat, but it could not dampen his spirits in the face of that sunlight and the gentle breeze which rustled in his hair. He longed to jump into the sun, to find the highest precipice which he could reach, and feel that wind stronger and wilder than ever before.
Alas, that seemed somehow inappropriate for the occasion. And so he merely stood, enjoying his small pleasures until the summer heat overcame him, and he would inevitably return inside.
That was the plan, at least, until a certain man caught his eye.
The man stood out far, far more than Dion himself. He was armed, for one, which while not uncommon on the streets of Provo did tend to draw eyes. He was also armored though not overly so. What first caught Dion’s attention specifically was the man’s regal garments, clearly hailing from some form of nobility. The second feature which caught Dion’s eye was the sheer size of the man, towering over Dion’s own considerable height by nearly a foot.
Dion’s instincts prickled at the sight of him and he watched the man closely until, unfortunately, the man’s eyes met Dion’s own. The man approached. Dion straightened, certain to keep himself on guard from such a…conspicuous stranger.
”Pardon me,” the man began, and though it was certainly a well-mannered greeting, Dion knew the imperial courts well enough to never trust such things on their appearance alone. There was a fire in the man’s eyes, something which Dion had seen on occasion, but only on occasion. It was a dangerous look, crazed perhaps, and made even more dangerous by the mask of civility barely laid over it.
”You look like a warrior,” the man continued, and Dion stiffened. Dion was unarmed and unarmored. It was true that Dion himself could recognize those who had seen combat well enough, but to do so on sight was…
Disconcerting to say the least.
The stranger went on to explain that Dion had been recognized by his eyes alone – that he had seen many battles and won just as many. His assessment rang true, and that made it all the more untrustworthy. Had someone hired this man to face him? Or was he truly so well versed in such assessments? Finally, the stranger arrived at his point.
”Would you accept to fight me?”
After everything that he had said, the challenge came as little surprise. What did surprise him was the utter civility of the request. For it was a request, at least on the surface. But what kind of madman would approach a man on the street and request a fight?
Dion returned the man’s heated gaze with one of cool composure. ”For what purpose?” Dion answered. ”I have no quarrel with you.”
Post by Zenos Galvus on Sept 25, 2023 5:21:32 GMT -6
Zenos viator Galvus
Garlean | 26 | 226x130 | M
This is the beast...
The man's question brought Zenos to simply stare at him for a good minute. ”Is it truly so odd to enjoy a good fight for what it is?” he asked, merely thinking out loud. ”I am not one who would wage war at another for a piece of land, retribution, or for the glory and prestige war itself may bring, unlike my father.” he continued. Only then did he notice he was actually talking, and he paused for a moment. ”Apologies, I did not mean to speak my thoughts..” he said a moment later ”.. Although it is true that I embrace violence for its own sake.”
He spoke quietly, without raising his voice or changing his expression. As if speaking as he did was completely normal to him. Like talking about the weather.
”So allow me to ask again. Will you accept?” and after only a moment ”Should you deny me, I shall not bother you any further, I will find someone else, in time.. although I would be curious to see if my instinct is still the same as ever.” The man did not deny the former prince's words before and stiffened instead, which probably meant he was actually right. Would this man be a good sport or a disappointment, he wondered? If he chose to accept at all.
His mind raced back to Varis, the former Emperor of Garlemald. At the time, he had not yet understood that some things cannot be taken by force. That he could not simply have a good fight whenever and however he pleased. He had killed his own father for spoiling his Hunt - and for many other reasons, if he had to be honest with himself -, and it only led to a terribly boring civil war. One that the former heir himself ended with a "meaningless massacre", as he classified it. He pursued that fight for what felt like eons, killing, destroying, hoping for the warrior to come to him, he longed for acceptance.. and it brought to nothing.
This time, he would not repeat his former mistakes. Should this man want to be left alone, he would leave him. He would not pursue a fight he could not have. Not anymore.
[attr=class,bulk] The man was silent for a long time, those crazed blue eyes set on Dion’s own. In that time, Dion did not falter. He met that silent gaze with a cool composure of his own though as the seconds ticked on, his hand twitched for his spear. This man was dangerous. Perhaps confused. And now that he stood directly before him, Dion was made all the more aware of the sheer size of the unhinged stranger as he craned his neck to meet his eye.
The man’s weapon was…unconventional. A farmer’s scythe, elaborate and pulsing with dark power. Dion was certain that if the man chose to attack, he could dodge away in time to launch himself out of reach. But what was this stranger’s motive, truly?
He did not have to wait much longer to learn the answer.
Dion listened patiently as the stranger went on his mad half-ramble, sometimes speaking his thoughts aloud, sometimes going on as casually about bloodshed as one might the trivial gossip of nobility. The man did not need a fight so much as bedrest and time to organize his thoughts. Still, Dion was prompted to answer. His own principles would not allow otherwise.
”I have spilled much blood in my time,” he said. ”But never once have I found pleasure in it. There is honor in fighting for one’s homeland and one’s people. There is satisfaction in one’s martial prowess, but never in violence for its own sake.”
Every life he took, be it Waloedean or Dhalmekian, had been a life which could not be replaced. Each life was as valuable as his own with dreams and futures and those who loved them. To justify taking such a life, he believed, required extraordinary circumstance. War was not so meaningless as this man claimed.
Still, if Dion refused the man’s proposal, it was clear that he would continue on seeking the violence he so craved. His next target may not prove as capable or discerning as the Warden of Light.
”Do you propose a spar?” he asked. ”I would not accept a duel of any higher stakes. My life and yours are worth more than that.”
Post by Zenos Galvus on Sept 26, 2023 12:46:58 GMT -6
Zenos viator Galvus
Garlean | 26 | 226x130 | M
This is the beast...
The words of the warrior did not entirely please Zenos, but he could understand that many did not enjoy combat. He could not quite see how they could not live for it, but he did get that they were not like him. Other than that, though, he was satisfied enough by the man's reply. He would not put his life on the line, and Zenos could live with it. He would simply put a little more effort than usual -which was usually zero- on the side of self control in battle. He did not necessarily agree with him on the part of a life's value, but that would not get in the way of a potentially good fight, at least for the time being.
"Very well. Your terms are.. acceptable. I offer you a spar, and no lives shall end within it. But other than that.." he paused for only a moment, then finished the sentence saying: "... give me your all."
He looked straight into the man's eyes, with anticipation and a hint of excitement. He could not wait to see the true strength of this stranger. He expected much from him, although the former prince himself was not in the best of forms. He was well enough to fight, and expected the other warrior to do the same. He knew he would have to tune himself down just enough, as he did not want to disappoint himself nor the warrior, but he also would have never wanted for the battle to stop midway because he went too far in this man's judgement.
"Arm yourself. Simply designate a location and moment, and I shall await your presence there." he would then say, if the man agreed.
After these words, if the man chose a place and time, Zenos would simply start walking towards said place, without as much as a nod or word. And if he did not know it, he would simply ask for directions to the locals.
[attr=class,bulk] Dion saw a struggle in the stranger’s eyes. There was confusion, disappointment, and finally satisfaction.
He accepted Dion’s terms.
Somehow, from the way that he said it, Dion doubted very much that this stranger’s bloodlust would be curbed by a mere spar, but that was why Dion had accepted. It was much better, he thought, that he be the one to take the brunt of this man’s madness than someone else far more valuable and more loved than himself.
The thought brought an ache to his chest, but he found it rang true. Here, lost in this strange realm without his crew or his countrymen, he was no one to be missed.
The stranger straightened, his eyes burning with hunger as they angled downwards to meet Dion’s own. He left the details of their duel to the prince’s judgment.
”There is an outskirt of the woodlands outside the city's east gate where its citizenry dare not tread. I shall meet you within the hour. I shan’t need longer than that.”
With that sorted, the man simply turned and left, wandering eastward with a purpose to his step. Dion shook himself once they had parted, letting the anxiety of the man’s presence settle over him now that the stranger could not see his weakness.
The stranger’s size and eagerness were enough to set any man on edge, but Dion had sensed a darkness within him which he had scarcely faced before. Soldiers did their duty for the sake of honor, their homeland, or merely for their oath. It was rare that one should seek bloodshed in earnest, and in battle that hunger drove them quickly to the grave. But that a man should crave it so outside the bonds of war…
Dion wondered if King Barnabas Tharmr had resembled this man as he had laid waste to the tribes of Ash. Those tales set into the books of recent history were Dion’s only points of comparison.
Dion allowed himself the indulgence of his nerves for only a moment before he started inside, heading up to the room which he now permanently occupied. The thought struck him that he could, perhaps, alert Healer Yuna or Healer Monori of his predicament should they wish to be on site to aid him, but he quickly dismissed the notion. They had real work, the work of saving lives, to which he would not dare interfere. Instead, he set quietly towards his room and pulled from beneath the bed a neatly folded set of chainmail armor.
It slid smoothly over his shoulders as it had a hundred times before. He fastened the familiar buckles, embossed with draconic emblems, and attached his gauntlets with only minor difficulty. As he set his pauldrons into place, however, he felt another pang of loss overcome him. How many times had Terence buckled these pauldrons upon his shoulders in his stead? How many times had those nimble fingers readied him for battle first as his squire and then as his knight? Now Dion was left to attend to the buckles himself, clumsily and with great difficulty for the task was not meant for one man alone.
When, finally, he was satisfied, he took his spear from where it had been carefully propped against the opposite wall and started as quietly as he could manage back down to the clinic entrance. It wasn’t that he wished to keep his actions a secret, per say, but that he knew the healers would not agree with it. Though he had more than his share of apprehensions in his promised encounter, another part of him longed to once again wield his lance and take to the sky.
The stranger may have been quite mad, but he had been correct in one thing. While Dion could find no pleasure in spilling blood, he could find quite a bit of it in the physicality of combat.
Armed as he was, he found himself the target of far more eyes as he made his way to the city’s eastern gate. A short walk later, and he found himself at the aforementioned woodland clearing where the stranger predictably stood waiting for him.
Dion spun his lance through his fingertips, testing its weight on his newly recovered body. His muscles felt stiffer than usual – his reflexes slightly slowed. How long had it been since he had last taken such time away from his spear? Since before his lessons with Sir Killian in Castle Whitewyrm, at least. When he was satisfied with his own performance, he stuck his spear decisively into the ground.
”We shall limit ourselves to light wounds only. Anything which cannot be easily healed can be considered out of bounds,” he began. ”We shall fight to the yield. Do you accept these terms?”
Post by Zenos Galvus on Sept 27, 2023 17:14:43 GMT -6
Zenos viator Galvus
Garlean | 26 | 226x130 | M
This is the beast...
As soon as the man told him about the outskirts of a woodland, Zenos knew where to go. He had awakened somewhere over there, after all. So he waited for the blonde to finish his sentence, then started heading eastward. He had high expectations. He spent the whole time waiting, wondering, dreaming. He just knew that he would be good sport. That he would be entertaining. When he saw him walking closer, dressed in his chainmail and with a finely crafted spear in his hand, Zenos' lips curved upwards, even if almost imperceptibly. "Finally." he whispered to himself, before taking a few steps forward to greet the warrior.
He waited for the man to warm up as much as he needed, keeping quiet and observing him. Then it came. The utter, unbearable, complete disappointment. Light wounds only. Easily healed. Fight to the yield. In hearing those words, the former crown prince of Garlemald let the tiny smile on his lips dissolve. His eagerness, the anticipation, the quivering... it all faded into a bitterly cold glare. He took the scythe in his hands, rotated it above his head and sliced the air pointing in the man's general direction with the technique of the unyielding blade: a wave of dark-infused aether, following the shape of the slash, darted towards the lancer, less than half a foot away from his body, inevitably dissolving into thin air after a while. What was that feeling? Anger, perhaps? Frustration? Pride? He did not know.
"Do not mock me, savage." He said in an icy tone, narrowing his eyes just slightly. "This was not our agreement. Hold true to your words, or leave. I do not need to add more boredom to my own, and I tire of empty discourse. Be prepared to give me your all, except your life, or return from whence you came. There are plenty of bandits who would be more determined to overcome me than you."
Perhaps there was a bit of his princely side in this line of thought. He had always been a man of his word, no matter the promise. Was this what upset him? He could not say. All he knew was that all of a sudden he only wanted to get over with the charade and either murder this coward or leave. Most likely leave, as at this point he was probably not even worth the spent energy.
[attr=class,bulk] The stranger did not, as it happened, agree to his terms.
Dion saw the swing of his scythe and readied himself for battle, shifting his stance and raising his spear defensively. However, as the scythe slashed before him, it brought with it a shockwave of magic. Almost on instinct, Dion launched himself skyward, watching that magic as he shifted and twisted himself through the air. It was like a shadow made manifest, sparking and crackling with aether. As Dion landed nimbly in the branches of a nearby tree, he realized that he had been mistaken. The magical shockwave had not been meant as an attack, but merely an emphasis on the man’s uncontrollable rage.
This stranger, this warrior, this feral beast howled his offense into the wind. Dion’s eyes hardened as he watched the display. It was unbecoming of the man’s noble garments and his own humanity. What had brought him to such a state? Grief? Loss? Or was there something slightly askew in his mind, a monster from birth?
Dion’s stance shifted as he stepped from the branch, landing easily back upon the forest floor, and straightened to face the unnamed stranger, back straight, head held high. ”Those bandits would be fools,” he replied, his tone every bit as cold as his opponent’s. ”Forgive me. I have grown accustomed to military life where one would rather take one’s own life than spill the blood of a man one does not consider an enemy.”
He readied himself, knees slightly bent, lance at the ready, halberd side first to deflect a strike from close range. He tilted his head, smirking slightly with his own confidence born from countless battles and the strength of an empire beneath him.
”Come then. Let us see how high the wings of sheer bloodlust may take you.”
Post by Zenos Galvus on Sept 29, 2023 8:58:15 GMT -6
Zenos viator Galvus
Garlean | 26 | 226x130 | M
This is the beast...
The man artfully jumped into the air and landed on a tree, exactly as one would expect from a dragoon. Only a few moments later, as the man let himself fall back onto the ground, something had changed. Had his words and actions gone through? Had he finally understood what Zenos was truly looking for? As he followed the warrior with his gaze, the former prince took notice of the difference. If before the man was simply ready to fight, now he was clearly ready to fight. Zenos could not help but smirk, without even noticing. That was exactly what he was looking for. That change in the stance, that prideful gaze.
"Indeed." He simply replied, about the bandits being fools. They were, or they would take one single glance and understand they would have to stay far, far away. Then he listened to the man's words. "Anyone could become an opponent in the blink of an eye." He said. "I have learned this myself when my useless father attempted to spoil my Hunt. He had become an enemy." He continued. His mind went back for a moment. The rage, and then the satisfaction he felt when he had murdered him with his own hands. That was the only rhing that man deserved. "I made sure he could not do so twice."
After this brief confession, Zenos prepared to properly fight. The difference in the position of the knight's legs and arms was more than enough to tell him he would not hold back. Not much, at least. "Very well." He muttered, then he once again rotated the scythe above his head and entered his battle stance, with the weapon behind his body, ready to slice upwards, and the left hand extended forward, the arm and legs slightly bent. Then he dashed forward, ready to slice diagonally from his bottom right to top left, as the stance would have suggested. He wanted to start slow, and then pick up the pace with him. He expected the man to deviate the blow, and thus was ready to turn around and hit him with a kick straight in the abdomen right after, adding his weight to the blow.
[attr=class,bulk] It was clear in an instant that this was the outcome the man had sought. He wished not for the physicality of combat, but for the clash of rivals hellbent on blood. His words had been mere bait – bait which Dion had taken easily by choice. Even knowing this, Dion would not have taken a different path. This man, this monster, would not know peace until he had sated himself on violence. Dion, he thought, was a more capable opponent than most others.
His resolve only strengthened at the man’s next words.
”You would boast of patricide?” Dion replied, his lips edging towards a snarl. There was no fouler a crime, no greater stain on one’s honor than this. Dion had committed it himself in his rage. No matter his intentions, no matter the darker schemes at play, his crime still haunted him with the blood he had spilled.
And this man would boast of it?
If the warrior truly sought his rage then he would have it. Dion’s eyes burned with his fury. For a moment, it seemed the world had tinted blue, the ghost of Bahamut’s light rising within him, proud and terrible. But that light had been taken, a fitting punishment for his crimes, and he knew that it could only be his own rage which drove him.
The stranger moved first, charging towards him like a wild aevis. Combat, Dion had learned, was nothing like the songs and legends told. It was a matter of strict brutality, half ruled by instinct and the other by intellect. Though he was unused to his rival’s strange choice of weaponry, its path became clear a moment before he struck, and Dion’s halbard was at the ready to clash against it. The man’s raw strength grated against his steel, and the sheer effort of Dion’s counter almost blinded him to his opponent’s true intentions. But dragoons were famously light of foot, and he managed to disengage, hopping to the side in time to avoid the brunt of the man’s kick.
Though aimed at his abdomen, clearly intended to stun him, the man’s boot instead collided with the side of Dion’s ribs. His newly healed ribs. Dion grit his teeth against the pain, but allowed the force of the blow to spin him rather than send him sprawling, his own footwork fast and graceful as a dancer’s as he circled to his opponent’s side, twirling his halberd towards its pointed end – the dragoon’s lance which he jutted towards the man’s leg, hoping to incapacitate him or at least slow him down.
His opponent had the advantage in size, strength, and sheer brutality. Dion visualized himself facing the infamous dominant of Titan. In this fight, speed and dexterity were of utmost importance.
