T E A L I T A

Ervis breathed hard.

It was here, amiss this foul atmosphere, that the creature he had so fervently been 'hunting' over the last few days would meet his end.

The drow could think of nothing more poetic, or suitable, than sending Shamal back to the Haell from which he had come. The demon was nothing more than a nuisance wrought upon the Warrior's guild; a waste of life that didn't deserve to live.

Well, that mistake of the Gods would be corrected today.

This post has been edited by Seasons Wither on May 12 2007, 03:43 PM

Shamal liked this little Warrior. In a relative sense, of course. He wandered (or 'followed') right into the Grey Waste, the perfect Haven for someone dumping bodies. Twilight lent even more murkiness to the mist and oppressive nature of the place; Shamal liked twilight here.

He had known he had been followed by the Warrior from the bar for some time. The use of feeling the tug of those you yourself were going to be hunting was great, and Shamal had to like it.

He came out of the fog like some looming specter, apparently unarmed. “Looking for me?”

"Not anymore," Ervis answered, his voice mimicking the smooth indifference of his face.

He had been following Shamal up until this point, and knew that the demon had been aware of his stalking, but that had been intentional. Aye; Ervis wanted Shamal to be totally keen on what was going on. That way, he couldn't say the drow had caught him off guard, or used the element of surprise to best him, or use any other excuse as a scapegoat for his failure.

"I suppose you know what happens next," Ervis said, unsheathing his swords before he assumed his battle position.

"So draw your weapon, fiend, and prove to me that you are the better of us; that it is you who deserves to walk out of this bog."

This post has been edited by Seasons Wither on May 13 2007, 02:11 AM

Shamal smiled, already able to smell blood. Not a true feeling, but the ghost of familiarity. The behemoth could feel the stir in his veins, and he smiled faintly. He didn't alter his stance in any way, completely at peace. Warriors. So dramatic in their fighting.

Never the less, to humor the lad, he turned his hand, allowing the meager light to catch the sheen of metal. A curved dagger that bore no sign of previous combat; but that was more due to Shamal's sense of professionalism than anything else. Had he been theatrical, he would have immediately responded with something along the lines of 'What's there to prove?' But wasted breath was wasted action, and so he simply waited, smiling softly, eager for blood and confident for the win.

The hand turned away from the Warrior clasped a smaller knife that fit into his palm, emerging through his clasped fingers like some sort of metal claws. "As you say."

Ervis was only too happy to comply.

Leaping forward, he began his assault of intricate attacks. He wielded the estocs well, with solid footwork and impeccable balance. But he took too many overconfident slashes, attacks that left him exposed and unprotected. He was too eager to inflict a blow, forgetting that he needed to protect himself in the process.

Shamal smoothly met the attacks, seeing immediately through the flaws in the inexperienced vigilante's flurried fighting. A pity, for he would have made an excellent Warrior one day.

Every opening given, Shamal scored a mark, but he never went for any serious blows. He wanted to whittle the boy down, tire him out, get him pinned down...and then kill him. Just killing someone like this was no fun. And so he endured small scores of knicks and scrapes, turning the lads blade whenever the blow to be landed was a serious one and in turn working into the openings long but shallow wounds, making ribbons of flesh but never piercing into the main blood stream. Patience, experience, and strength was on his side. And coldness, wherein this lad fought with the heat of anger.

Within the catacombs of his mind, Ervis was well-aware of the fact that he was growing reckless with his assault, and it was no surprise that Shyamal exploited his eagerness to win. Anger motivated the drow's onslaught, afterall, whereas the demon seemed just as cool and collected as he could be. That, of course, did nothing but piss Ervis off even more.

But as the battle progressed, Ervis noticed that he was sustaining more injuries than Shyamal. The demon was obviously more skilled than what Ervis had given him credit for, but the drow would still vehemently deny that the creature was his equal, muchless his superior. It was just a simple mis-judgement; not a grievous mistake. The drow was sure it could be corrected, and so he sought out to do that.

Parrying back what blows Shyamal had sent his way, Ervis stole the first opportunity he got to retreat a little and re-plan how he wanted to do this. The angry, head-on approach wasn't working. He could try and use his speed as an advantage -- something he was sure he possessed more of than Shyamal -- and maybe get in, attack, and get out, but of course there was always the chance that the demon decided to 'shadow-meld', which would render such a strategy ineffective.

Eh, for now he would simply bide his time and wait for an opening, or a better idea. Whichever came first.

"You fight well -- for a thief. It's a shame, really. You would have been quite an asset to us had you aligned yourself with the Warriors."

Well for a Thief, aye? Well, if one insists on bringing Guilds into the fight...Shamal was just going to keep it at a man-to-man, skill-to-skill contest (of which he was winning), but there were those who chose to complicate things, and if Evris insisted....

Shamal smiled ever so faintly in the dim light and then proceeded to step back easily, doing that whole 'shadow-meld' thing that Evris had going for him. Hm. One really should tempt a Shadow to 'shadow-meld'; though it was more of a fog-meld in this place. Whichever. What little noise Shamal did make--to be read: none--was covered up in the thick air that muffled the faintest sound of air escaping lungs. Another reason to like this place. Shamal watched with glittering eyes for only a few seconds, and then 'ghosted' (Erin is starting to love apostrophe words) in a small circle, coming up behind the Warrior and (rather cheaply, though still legitimately) planted a blade solidly into the muscular hollow between shoulder blade and spine, stepping back and leaving the blade in there in the same instant. Now apparentley unarmed (having still kept a weapon concealed), he waited for a reaction. Though he suspected he knew exactly what the impassioned Warrior would go for, he didn't reach his rank and age by living on suppositions.

(( 'kay Erin, chillax with the commas. ))

Ervis fell to his knees as the knife plunged into his back. Shamal had cut him deep, and the wound was definately a fatal one.

He might have said something had he not the forethought to realize that speaking was only wasted breath at this point, so he remained quiet and clung on to his final moments of life. Words would merely render the situation mute, anyway, as there was no need for them. The look he exchanged with Shamal would convey a rather appropriate message for this situation, without the use of any additional dialogue.

With what little strength he still had, Ervis rolled onto his back. His breathing had become labored, and his eyes were tightly shut.

It did nothing to ease the pain, or the transition into death, but Shamal's grinning face was the last memory he wanted.

After a few minutes of laying there, breathing hard, the rising of Ervis's chest relaxed, and then stopped altogether. His expression had softened significantly, and he comfortably slipped into a silent sleep.

((butbutbut...run on sentences are spectacular! ))

Hm. Well that had been ridiculously easy. Shamal kicked the body from its peaceful position and onto its stomach. The knife was still lodged in, and the Shadow pulled it out with a little bit of a contemptuous regard to its holder. Wasn't even really a challenge, now was 'e? Hadn't even gotten a scream out of him, in the end.

At least he could something about that. Just get someone else to scream. Besides, too clean a death. Sure, he had played around with the lad some...but not nearly to the extent he could have. Phoo. A mercy killing.

Shamal grabbed the lovely corpse by its foot, dragging the body easily through the fog until he was able to dump it into the questionable water of the Grey Waste. Not pausing to watch the body disappear, Shamal began setting off for the Bazaar. A woman tonight, mayhap--some prostitute that authorities wouldn't look hard for.

Sounded like a good plan.