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Erdawn Il Deus · 08-10-2005, 04:50 PM

His eyes on the polyphemous tip of the white giant’s blade, Sebastian unclasp his belt and cloak, letting the silky robe of fleece fall lightly to the grass, revealing a narrow body of lithe and dense muscles roped up and down with athletic finesse and networked with the criss-crossing lines of scars – everywhere, scars, penned over veins and arteries, all save for the mortal line over his jugular and carotid – letting scars drawn into the flesh to let blood flow in ritualistic offerings, practiced by the iscarian centurions all their lives until the Last Cut, the mortal and honourable cut made to send the dying or old into peace.

The centurion rested his eyes on the white gigas – letting out a long breath through his milky nostrils – cold, sparkling fog gushed from his lungs, rising softly, coldly into the night, and for a brief minute Virtue swore he saw the green eyes go a coppery, metallic crimson.

“Hile, Virtue,” Sebastian said. “I am Sebastian, the Ghost Wolf of Iscariote, here to end you in turn.” With a serene scraping he drew his longsword, and Virute observed that the blade was black - a cold and milky black, the steel only reflecting light from the towers of glyphs etched up the groove. He discarded the leather scabbard, wearing only heavy leather belts that swung with gourds and packs.

Virtue said nothing, although he straightened, and Sebastian brought that wicked runeblade back off his body, the point behind him, his every muscle settling like fine oils. His knuckles tightened on the long, steel grip, and as it did the blade glimmered – rims of frost snaking up the edge and coldly tracing crystallized arches and branches in sheet-blues and whites, ethereal brush-strokes in eyes.

There was something odd about the man – his body was living but seemed to throw off a cast of death, of resignement, and Virtue felt the cold even through his fur. But he did not move, even as he felt his lungs tighten (ever so slightly, the air now frostily crisped and a fine bluish fog rising from the white field and coiling around the basalt structures).

Sebastian came forward on powerful legs and his blade whickered across whistling and cold to meet the edge of Virtue’s greatsword, and the giant’s instincts took over, gently lifting his sword upwards so that his adversary’s own cut only air beneath it and following up by heaving his arms upwards and downwards in a vicious chop that would have neatly splintered Sebastian’s body into a mess. The ghost-wolf twirled with dancing, unholy grace, his feet sliding and battening down grass with powerful speed, Virtue’s edge snapping to where his head had been in a great whoosh of air, and he again falling into that liquid, solemn grace, dipping his body lifting, arcing, twisting his blade over his shoulders in a downward thrust that neatly sliced into the flesh over Virtue’s right ribcage, finding no purchase and scraping off but drenching the transparent fleece with heavy crimson.

Virtue hissed, Sebastian melted, sliding his wretchedly black sword back to him and crossing his arms oddly so that his sword-arm’s elbow packed into his free-hand and stepping forward with striding might. His palm shot forwards, attacking three-steps in a mixture of adapted Tang-Soo Doo and Shaolin-Ken attack forms that complimented his weapon, bashing his hand into the massive Virtue’s chest three times in such a rapid succession that impacts almost overlapped each other, driving kinetic energy to batter his sternum-area and even thud against his beating heart. Ribs denser than iron crackled like uncalcified bone and suddenly his lungs compressed against his spine and he backpedaled, blood rushing into his throat and spurting between his lips down his chest.

Virtue retched and rested his weight – noting that his opponent had neatly complimented the goliath’s advantage in height by angling his attacks upwards and increasing the impact.

Sebastian did not move – only stared coldly, his body still with his palms out-stretched but missing no stance, trained to improvisation in Shaolin-Ken. Little else was said, and it had begun.

OoC: Christ I hate first attacks. Damn your eyes! [img]tongue.gif[/img]

08-10-2005, 04:50 PM	#5
Erdawn Il Deus Senior Member Join Date: May 2003 Location: Threading the jeweled thrones of earth under my sandalled feet Gender: Posts: 2,990 Thanks: 4 Thanked 45 Times in 39 Posts Points: 23,792.11 Bank: 788.45 Total Points: 24,580.56 Donate	His eyes on the polyphemous tip of the white giant’s blade, Sebastian unclasp his belt and cloak, letting the silky robe of fleece fall lightly to the grass, revealing a narrow body of lithe and dense muscles roped up and down with athletic finesse and networked with the criss-crossing lines of scars – everywhere, scars, penned over veins and arteries, all save for the mortal line over his jugular and carotid – letting scars drawn into the flesh to let blood flow in ritualistic offerings, practiced by the iscarian centurions all their lives until the Last Cut, the mortal and honourable cut made to send the dying or old into peace. The centurion rested his eyes on the white gigas – letting out a long breath through his milky nostrils – cold, sparkling fog gushed from his lungs, rising softly, coldly into the night, and for a brief minute Virtue swore he saw the green eyes go a coppery, metallic crimson. “Hile, Virtue,” Sebastian said. “I am Sebastian, the Ghost Wolf of Iscariote, here to end you in turn.” With a serene scraping he drew his longsword, and Virute observed that the blade was black - a cold and milky black, the steel only reflecting light from the towers of glyphs etched up the groove. He discarded the leather scabbard, wearing only heavy leather belts that swung with gourds and packs. Virtue said nothing, although he straightened, and Sebastian brought that wicked runeblade back off his body, the point behind him, his every muscle settling like fine oils. His knuckles tightened on the long, steel grip, and as it did the blade glimmered – rims of frost snaking up the edge and coldly tracing crystallized arches and branches in sheet-blues and whites, ethereal brush-strokes in eyes. There was something odd about the man – his body was living but seemed to throw off a cast of death, of resignement, and Virtue felt the cold even through his fur. But he did not move, even as he felt his lungs tighten (ever so slightly, the air now frostily crisped and a fine bluish fog rising from the white field and coiling around the basalt structures). Sebastian came forward on powerful legs and his blade whickered across whistling and cold to meet the edge of Virtue’s greatsword, and the giant’s instincts took over, gently lifting his sword upwards so that his adversary’s own cut only air beneath it and following up by heaving his arms upwards and downwards in a vicious chop that would have neatly splintered Sebastian’s body into a mess. The ghost-wolf twirled with dancing, unholy grace, his feet sliding and battening down grass with powerful speed, Virtue’s edge snapping to where his head had been in a great whoosh of air, and he again falling into that liquid, solemn grace, dipping his body lifting, arcing, twisting his blade over his shoulders in a downward thrust that neatly sliced into the flesh over Virtue’s right ribcage, finding no purchase and scraping off but drenching the transparent fleece with heavy crimson. Virtue hissed, Sebastian melted, sliding his wretchedly black sword back to him and crossing his arms oddly so that his sword-arm’s elbow packed into his free-hand and stepping forward with striding might. His palm shot forwards, attacking three-steps in a mixture of adapted Tang-Soo Doo and Shaolin-Ken attack forms that complimented his weapon, bashing his hand into the massive Virtue’s chest three times in such a rapid succession that impacts almost overlapped each other, driving kinetic energy to batter his sternum-area and even thud against his beating heart. Ribs denser than iron crackled like uncalcified bone and suddenly his lungs compressed against his spine and he backpedaled, blood rushing into his throat and spurting between his lips down his chest. Virtue retched and rested his weight – noting that his opponent had neatly complimented the goliath’s advantage in height by angling his attacks upwards and increasing the impact. Sebastian did not move – only stared coldly, his body still with his palms out-stretched but missing no stance, trained to improvisation in Shaolin-Ken. Little else was said, and it had begun. OoC: Christ I hate first attacks. Damn your eyes! [img]tongue.gif[/img]