[Windward Boardwalk] Contemplation (Open)

[Amondaris]

Spring, Day 43, 511 AV Crunch. The source of the dull crunch lay underfoot,the snow sounding almost as if it were protesting the large boot that descended upon it, the weight of it's owner serving to drive the rugged piece of footwear deep into the frozen powder. Stopping, the man to whom the foot wearing the boot was attached turned his gaze downwards, as if to study his footfall. Extracting his foot carefully, the man's head cocked to one side in a curious gesture, eyes colder than the frost that clung stubbornly to the man's clothing surveying the impression dispassionately. Where once had been freshly fallen snow, there was now a deep, clean-cut imprint of boot treads upon the formerly pristine, virgin covering of white. And lo, witness how a careless footfall can cause such change, the man thought to himself. Melodramatic, perhaps, but then, such things were relative.What if this were on a grander scale? Say a God's foot had fallen upon a city, what then? Would it be as of little consequence to the God? Would the citizens of the city be more worth saving than the few hundred snowflakes I have just crushed? It was doubtful, of course, that anyone would find the ruination of a handful of ice crystals , even ones as unique as snowflakes, as tragic as the destruction of an entire city. If someone did, in this particular young man's opinion, they seriously needed to get their heads checked out. Lifting his head to cease his regard of the footprint, and casting such philosophical thoughts from his mind, Amondaris gazed upon the magnificent arch that denoted the entryway to the Boardwalk. Such thoughts had been bothering him of late, drifting along the winds of his mind like a light fall of snow. Many times in the past Season, he had been waiting for whatever prey he happened to be hunting at the time to show itself, and with little else to do, his thoughts had turned to philosophy. Too much time, he thought to himself, spent doing nothing but waiting. Perhaps I should be the one getting my head examined... It felt like he had been doing nothing but waiting of late. He hadn't even been practicing with his swords, merely using one to put his prey out of it's misery. His hunting hadn't improved much at all, either, relying on the same methods he had ever done. In short, his progress had halted. He was stagnating, and he suspected he would remain as such until he encountered a catalyst to engender some change in his life. What this catalyst would be, however, and what form the change would take, was anyone's guess. Shrugging, the gesture serving to dislodge the light dusting of snow covering the immense warrior's shoulders, he set off once more, crossing beneath the large arch marking the entranceway. Some small amount of time spent walking had passed since his dubious perusal of his own footprint, and the Mixed Blood Vantha found himself drawn to a secluded section of the Boardwalk. He had halted before the lone sculpture in the quiet little area, and stood studying the piece admiringly. Formed entirely from ice, the sculpture depicted a pack of wolves arrayed atop a cliff, all of their muzzles tilted upwards, howling as one. Reaching out with a hand swathed in straps of white fur, the silent hunter caressed the top of the foremost wolf's head gently. Hm. Every wolf desires a pack, in truth. There is no such thing as a lone wolf, merely one between packs. Perhaps I should take a page from their book, so to speak... He tilted his head to the left as he contemplated the lead wolf, this one clearly the Alpha of the little pack. A worthy aspiration, to lead one's own group. Difficult, though. The weight of responsibility can bring one to one's knees, if they are not prepared. Though he didn't feel the cold, in truth, his hands grasped the edges of his magnificent cloak and drew it about himself as he studied the sculpture. The cloak was long, and heavy, made from some large beast that had possessed rough fur of the purest white. The merest passing glance would inform any viewer of this man's colour of choice, for he was clad from head to toe in clothing and armour of the same hue as the snow upon which he stood. Ideal camouflage in the wilderness surrounding Avanthal, and judging from the way the man held himself, coupled with the weapons belted to his waist, it was clear he was a hunter. Hunting is all I do. And I don't even do it that well, shamefully. I have become lax. Rhanor would beat me senseless! A wry smile twisted the youth's lips, a touch of gold brightening his glacial blue eyes as he recalled precious memories of time spent with his mentor. Perhaps he did need some companionship, after all, but..How does one find such, when you know nobody at all? His pale brows drew down, knitting together in a slight frown as he contemplated his current situation in life. His back to the entrance to the secluded little haven, the sight greeting any that might come across him was of the back of a large, fur-clad entity that stood statue still before an ice carving of a pack of wolves, snow beginning to come thick and fast, covering the man in a steadily deepining layer of white powder. OOCBleh. It's been six months since I've posted anything significant, so please, forgive the suck while I try and get the rust off! Anyone's free to join in, be it for talk, striking up some sparring, or whatever. Go nuts.

[Berus]

Berus traveled through the snow in the Boardwalk, using his spear to help support his weight. He wore his wool cloak tied tightly about him to ward off the cold. His low boots sank down into the deep blanket of snow, making movement difficult for the poor sore little bard. He had tucked his pants down onto his boots to ward off the cold but his sore feet complained mightily at any little movement since the bar fight only a few days ago. However, his head had stopped aching and he could see clearly enough again so his extremely bored mind had commanded him to get up and do something.

Logically, the best choice was not lounge around the Red Diamond Tavern and recover nor a quiet stroll through the town practicing his lyre. Quiet strolls were simply too boring after so much inactivity and he certainly did not want to go back to the Red Diamond after the latest incident. That place was starting to attract lunatics lately, people who enjoy throwing fireballs and chairs at the poor bard. So, to relieve boredom and stretch out his bruised muscles, he decided to take his spear and go to the peaceful Windward Boardwalk for a bit of practice.

He silently cursed at his legs as he forced them through the entryway and toward the less frequented part of the boardwalk. He figure that he would go find an unsuspecting tree and run at it a few times with his spear until he’d either managed a good hit or was knocked unconscious. He paused for a moment, considering his options, and then headed off towards the area of the park dominated by a large ice sculpture of a pack of fierce wolves. Generally no one traveled around there as there were too few benches and comfortable places to rest on and he could probably get away with injuring a tree for quite some time before he was caught. He’d have to be quick in his escape if someone did happen along though, as he did not wish to go through Icewatch’s punishment again.

As he trudged through the thick snow towards the generally abandoned area of the boardwalk, however, he discovered that it was occupied. There, before him, was what looked like a massive white wolf or bear standing up on two legs, admiring the wolf sculpture. The wolf or bear creature seemed to shimmer as the snow came down, camouflaging the beast as it covered his giant fur body. Berus stood for a moment in awe, wondering what kind of wolf, he had decided it was wolf fur, had the presence of mind to study the giant wolf sculpture. It was a massive beast, he noticed, far above his height and looking as if it could certainly tear apart a little bard or two.

Berus started to back away from the beast, deciding that it wasn’t worth angering the strange creature merely to practice stabbing things with his little stick, but stopped when the thought crossed his mind that it may actually be a fur-clad human standing before him. It was vaguely human in shape and that would certainly explain the upright posture, yet its mannerisms seemed definitely wolfelike. Could this be some rugged hunter who lived out on the tundra away from civilization, hunting for food and clothing, or is this some particularly unsavory fellow who has come to visit the town.

Berus planted his spear into the ground beside him as he decided to at least call out his greetings to the man. If the man responded in a friendly manner, then all well and good. If he responded with anger and possibly force, Berus was a quick runner and could get to the relative safety of the more populated parts of the boardwalk before the man overtook him. He called out in a friendly tone to the large, furclad man, “Hello there! How are you on this fine frosty day, and what brings you to the Boardwalk?”

[Amondaris]

Though still adrift within the caverns of his mind and deeply lost in thought, Amondaris' instincts, honed from years of training and hunting in the wilds of Avanthal, alerted him to a presence behind him. A quick shiver running up his spine caused goosebumps to come into being along the pale, scarred skin of his back, despite his warmth, stirring the hunter from his reverie. Then, much to his surpise, someone spoke. “Hello there! How are you on this fine frosty day, and what brings you to the Boardwalk?” Being a man who spent the majority of his time away from civilization, amongst all manners of predators and other perils, his reaction to such could perhaps be forgiven. Whirling about to face whatever would-be assailant had come upon him unawares, his twin grosse messers hissed from their sheathes, his white cloak swirling out to billow behind him in an unintentionally dramatic accompaniment before settling upon his lean frame. The twin blades gripped tightly in his fur-strapped hands, the man had sunken into a lowered, defensive posture, the weapons raised diagonally across him in a cautious guard that covered protect his upper body. The gleaming surface of the slightly curved, large swords shone in the reflected light, the glistening metal completely unmarred, which spoke of meticulous, if somewhat obssessive care. Glittering eyes studied Berus from within the shadows of his hood, the man's features completely obscured by a combination of a length of fur that covered the majority of his face much as a scarf would, and the darkness cast by the hood covering his head. This effectively left the man unidentifiable, as well as kept him warm, the only section of his face visible being the two eyes that now bore into Berus, holding all the warmth of a frozen tomb, and possessing the same hue as ice. Amondaris stared at the other man silently for a long moment, first noting the spear grasped in the fellow's hand, held in the manner of a staff, then the man's height. Or, rather his lack of it. Granted, Amondaris was used to towering over his peers, having dwelt alongside the Vantha all his years, but even so, he stood well over a foot taller than this rather unimpressive male that stood before him. Nontheless, underestimating anything was bound to get you killed. Thus, the white-clad warrior remained in his defensive posture. Another long, uncomfortable moment passed, and then, wonder of wonders, the hunter spoke. The voice that grated forth from within the mass of fur and armour was rough and hoarse, clearly having not been used in quite some time, yet the quiet manner in which he used it seemed somehow softspoken. Bizarrely. "I was enjoying my solitude and contemplating things as they now stand, sir, thank you for inquiring. As to what brings me to the Boardwalk, I came here largely to think upon my direction in life." He raised his right blade and gestured at Berus faintly, with a slight dip and roll of the sword's tip. "And you, stranger? Not many walk in this place with a weapon. Did you come seeking confrontation? If so, I will admit I am not particularly fond of it, but I am no slouch. Try me at your peril."

[Berus]

Berus instinctively leapt back as the large wolf-man fell into a crouch, hands defensively putting the spear between his fragile body and his opponent. He had run into too much trouble recently to not jump when someone brought their weapons to bear. He relaxed just a bit when he noticed that the man was in a more defensive stance than offensive. He reasoned that perhaps the man’s survival instincts had kicked in when he saw Berus might be a possible threat. You didn’t survive long in the wilderness if you couldn’t ward off enemy’s surprise attack. To let down your guard meant death.

The large man still answered him kindly enough, though his voice was one who was unaccustomed to speaking the soft, musical language of the Vani. Berus noted that his words, though eloquent, seemed a little forced and took that as confirmation that the man was more used to the frozen tundra than the little haven of civilization known as Avanthal. To Berus, choosing the deadly wild lands over the comfort of home was nearly unthinkable. Only someone who preferred to live in a more natural state or those who were exiled from the city would make that decision, Berus decided, instantly making the choice to err on the side of caution when dealing with this rugged individual.

He slowly brought the spear back to his side but his grip did not relinquish for a moment. His eyes, turning blue as he prepared to counterattack or bolt at any slight movement, did not leave the figure as he tried to nonchalantly glance around and respond in a calm voice. “I certainly did not come seeking a fight with one of your obvious skill and stature, but I did seek to slay a tree or two.” He flashed a disarming smile. “I brought my spear with me in the hopes I could get a little practice in on a couple unsuspecting trees. I mean no harm to you, good sir, and I doubt I could even get my spear near you in that stance anyhow,” Berus said, with an admiring glance at the man’s crouched stance.

He dipped his head a bit, reluctantly removing his eyes for a moment, to hopefully show he meant no harm. “I will gladly leave you to your admiration of our dear statue if you wish. The Skyglow hold would certainly have my hide if I interrupted someone who found their rather unpopular wolf statue to be a work of art.” He smiled a bit at the notion; it was probably true. Skyglow had worked hard on this statue and yet it had seen little popularity among the soft Vantha of Avanthal, who saw that it was indeed beautiful but preferred visions of musicians and the mighty Icewatch to vicious creatures who slew the unsuspecting in the dead of night.

[Amondaris]

Cold eyes remained fixed upon the other man as he leapt back, adjusting his spear into a defensive posture, much as Amondaris himself had done with his own weapons. Peculiar. He did not expect to find me here, else he would have attacked. The man gripping the spear visibly relaxed after studying the white hunter for a moment, perhaps judging him unworthy of remaining in a fully ready combat stance, or perhaps simply coming to the not incorrect conclusion that Amondaris meant him no harm. A tense moment passed, and the youth cautiously shifted his spear from it's defensive position, moving it once more to his side, though the wariness remained in the other male's body language. The tension remained between them as the youth attempted to be nonchalant, yet dissipated, at least on Amondari's part, as the youth favoured him with a bright, friendly smile. The added gesture of removing his gaze from the warrior caused the last of the tension to fade, Amondaris reading such as one would in a canine; a submissive gesture. The hunter's instinct told him this man was of no immediate threat to him, and to Amondaris, his instinct was often all that kept him alive. Naturally, he relied very heavily upon this sense when it came to judging anything alive, be it beast or man. The difference between the two was of little consequence,in the end, really. Relaxing, the towering warrior straightened and lowered his blades, their wicked points directed at the soft, fresh snow blanketing the frozen ground. He performed a peculiarly formal, fluid bow, bending at the waist and spreading his blades out to the sides in a respectful gesture, his heavy cloak trailing down around his waist artlessly. "I am Amondaris, a hunter and would-be warrior. I apologise if I startled you and thusly ruined the peace of your walk, sir. I assure you it was not intentional. You may relax, sir. I do not intend to harm you. If I did, I would have done so by now. Sit, if you wish." The hood covering his head creased minutely, rustling faintly as the man cocked his head in an odd gesture, and one could almost imagine ears pricking up inquisitively. "My skills have become rusty with disuse, unfortunately. You would doubtless have proved a challenge, even if you were as fresh with that spear as the snow that now graces us." He dipped his head, nodding at the long weapon gripped in Berus' hands. "The spear is an effective weapon when fighting a sword, if the one wielding it is versed in it's use. The reach proves a most difficult obstacle to overcome, when one wields a weapon of lesser length. Of course, with sufficient training, a swordsman may overcome such a disadvantage, but it is always, alas, risky." He half-turned his head, flicking a glance at the sculpture behind him, a mild frown marring the smooth, pale skin of his brow. "It is unpopular? Why? Are not wolves animals that we mortals respect, for are they not social creatures, as we are?" The larger man turned his gaze back to Berus, canting his head to one side as he contemplated the man quietly, and the peculiar coincidence of his arrival. He shows just as I dwell upon thoughts of catalysts, and companionship. Mere luck, or fate? Does such matter? His immense shoulders lifted in a slow, thoughtful shrug, the fur shifting with ponderous ripples, and the man's hoarse voice rasped forth once more. "Slaying trees will get you nowhere, in truth. If you wish to garner some skill with that weapon, you must practice and train with another, living being." The light played merrily over the burnished silver of the right sword's surface as it was raised to gesture at Berus carelessly, Amondaris' eyes brightening to a neutral, deep forest green. "Do you not know of any that would be able to instruct you in the ways of combat, or at least spar with you so you may learn whilst fighting, and not die? The Icewatch, perhaps, or a friend?"

[Berus]

Berus finally let his guard down as the man relaxed, finally shifting from his outwardly combat ready stance to one more at peace with its environment. Berus knew those swords could come back up in an instant though, and with deadly precision, no matter what he said about rusty skills. Berus glanced at his spear and, though he agreed that it was a formidable weapon due to its long reach, it would do no good against the quick, skilled parry-and-counter that could easily be performed by the man’s twin blades. In fact, he wondered if the wood would hold up against a nice sharp chop of the man’s fine-edged swords. This was a true warrior, one who fought for survival. Berus felt like he was merely a child who played with sticks in his parents’ back yard. There was hardly a threat at all in all of his encounters up until now and there was next to no chance of death.

Berus grinned boyishly as the man offered him the chance to sit, knowing that it was probably a high compliment and that the warrior had finally let his guard down somewhat. Berus, however, was content to stand leaning upon his spear. However, he was certain to show only friendliness to the warrior. “I’m rather new with the spear, to be completely honest, and my greatest accomplishments with it so far involve encounters with wooden dummies which, though I sorely wounded, defeated me with ease that is quite frightening.” Berus grinned at the ridiculousness, yet truthfulness, of his statement.

“I had hoped to fight with a more uncivilized dummy out here and catch him off guard. Maybe then I’d have more success; the dummies at blacksmith are simply too veteran to be taken advantage of by one as novice as I.” Berus winked at the man, trying not to appear too intimidated by the man’s height and stature. “Most people don’t enjoy the wolf statue, despite its beauty, merely for the fact that they fear the creatures displayed. Some, great warriors and members of the Icewatch, frequent this area in their scant free time, I have noted. Most don’t think of the wolf as a mere social creature, but rather a vicious monster that comes for little Vantha children.” Berus winced as he hoped he hadn’t given away the fact that he was lounging around the area far too often.

“I defer to your expertise on the matters of training, however, and I would certainly like to spar with a living being who is able to respond with their own weapons. But, alas, most of my friends are still injured from a recent bar fight and are away licking their wounds.” He absentmindedly massaged the right side of his stomach, where a horrible bruise graced his slight form. “I’m afraid I’m alone in my need to better my skills at the moment, for the Icewatch has much greater tasks on their minds and most everyone else is away at their jobs.” Berus grinned; he’d certainly given away the fact that he was too lazy to get a job now.

Berus looked at the man, catching his gaze with green eyes that sparkled a bit as he spoke. “Unless you’d like to spar with me a bit? I’m admittedly a very new novice, but I can be a bit of a warm up for you to scrape the rust off of those skills of yours,” he challenged. He made certain to keep a grin on his face, however, for he didn’t want the warrior to misunderstand and take offense to his challenge.

[Amondaris]

Arrogance was, by his very nature, not a component in the qualities that contributed to the makeup of the tall hunter's psyche. Nor was overconfidence, and this was prevalent in how the aspiring warrior saw the world around him, and the people that dwelt in it. He knew that it was very possible, if not downright probable that the young man before him was indeed not at all proficient in the use of the weapon grasped in his hand. Yet what was to say he was telling the truth, or that he was not skilled in other, more deadly arts? He could be a mage, or possess a powerful Gnosis. All of this factored into Amondaris' calculation of how best to approach the smaller man, should he have need to. Defensive was perhaps the most viable stance to take, as he was unaware of his potential foe's combat proficiency, or any powers that he may possess. An aggressive assault could finish him swiftly, yes, but it could also plunge him headlong into some dire spell, or the equally deadly, if infinitely more mundane lethality of the spear tip which glinted in the faint light that managed to filter down through the clouds overhead. This cold, calculating consideration of potential tactics and survival options was a process that was second nature to the white-clad warrior. He had been doing it so long he barely registered it as conscious thought, a practice drilled into him by his mentor, long ago. In complete contrast to this ruthless contemplation was the man before him. The stranger never seemed to stop smiling. Oh, he had been wary, certainly, which spoke of enough wisdom to keep him alive, yet he possessed a friendly countenance and affable manner that Amondaris was faintly envious of. This man would do well in a social situation, a stark contrast to the stiff formality and cold personality that the hunter currently exhibited. Once more, Amondaris sensed himself relax as the spearman flashed him a charming grin, continuing on to inform him of his, if it were true, comically tragic luck with his new weapon of choice. Defeated by an inanimate object? A faint creasing of the brow, accompanied by a flicker of a light seas green tinting the edge of his eyes betrayed the man's puzzlement. How could one be defeated by a pile of wood? Putting his mild confusion aside for the time being, he continued to listen to Berus attentively, his gaze focused upon the man with an intensity of focus and gaze so piercing some might find the regard discomfiting. Nodding slowly in comprehension at the explanation provided for the sculpture's unpopularity, the warrior shifted his weight to his left leg, and then remained eerily still once more. It was as if he was aspiring to become a statue, or perhaps the man was simply far too used to remaining still for extended periods of time. Regardless, he waited until Berus had ceased speaking, the man offering to spar, as the hunter had expected. Ignoring the comment about the bar fight, for such idiocy was common in cesspools such as taverns, the warrior stayed as he was, as if carved from marble and layered in snow. However, the man's rough, yet peculiarly gentle voice echoed forth from within the concealing confines of his hood."Very well. I will spar you, here. I would appreciate being made aware of your name before your begin, but, once that is done, attack me. Do not hesitate or attempt to go gentle. Try your best to wound me, if not kill me outright. We shall see how you fare against a live dummy, yes?"

[Berus]

Berus nodded happily when the large hunter accepted his challenge, eyes flashing a fierce blue as he prepared himself, but he was taken aback when the man asked him his name. Did I forget to introduce myself? flashed through his mind as he barely resisting smacking himself in the forehead for the breach of etiquette. His eyes faded back to green and he bowed, though not nearly as eloquently as the hunter’s bow, as he introduced himself. “I am Berus Snowsong of the Snowsong Hold here in Avanthal. I am one among the many bards and musicians of my hold, if that is of interest to you, though I daresay you have little use for pleasant music,” he said with a grin. “Do not be afraid of my striking a killing, much less a wounding, blow on you, great warrior! I doubt I shall even get past those vicious blades of yours,” he finished with a respectful glance at the man’s defenses.

Then he shifted back into what was sort of a combat stance; his spear held in both hands before him and his legs spaced apart with one pointed toward the hunter. His blue eyes sought any weakening in the man’s defenses as they admired the man’s battle-ready stance. This warrior was not the novice he claimed to be, far from it! However, if Berus judged correctly, the man was more used to nonhuman opponents than those who wielded weapons and could develop plans and strategies to wear opponents down. Then again, Berus was no battle hardened warrior with an array of tricks up his sleeve and the skills to pull them off. He must assume the large warrior would have the advantage.

He waited a moment, heavy snow collecting on his shoulders, before he began his charge all at once. His sore legs complained as they were forced through the thickening snow and his feet threatened to freeze up and fall off altogether, yet he charged on. His eyes still sought that opening and, seeing none, wondered if he’d have to create one of his own. He frowned deeply as he came closer, wondering if the man would simply parry him and send him flying overhead to land hard on his back. Not again. his mind promised as he suddenly slowed his charge and leaned down, scooping up a fair bit of snow.

Hoping to startle his opponent, Berus twirled as he resumed his run, sending a pellet of snow directly for the man’s chest. If the warrior reacted to the snowball, it was very likely his following spear could sneak in and score a hit. If not, then Berus would likely end up down in the snow. The cold, biting snow taunted him as he continued his charge. Please, Rhaus, don’t let me go down! he prayed, hoping that the bard-god accepted prayers.

He stopped right in front of the man and thrust his spear toward the left side of the man’s stomach, hoping that his momentum wouldn’t betray him and carry him right into the tough warrior just as it had with the wooden dummies. The man’s incredulous look at the thought had made Berus almost turn red with embarrassment and he was not eager for that to happen again. He would prove himself, or at least go down feeling like he tried his best.

[Amondaris]

The smaller male acceded to the request for an introduction, returning Amondaris' formal gesture, bowing in a manner that suggested that he was perhaps unused to it. In return, the hunter cocked his head at the bard and spoke, the rust that harshened his voice fading somewhat with his continued use of it. "On the contrary. I greatly appreciate the creative arts, no matter the form they take. Should I win, you will play for me your favourite piece." A short pause, punctuated by the warrior shifting his right foot forward through the snow, creating a minor furrow in the soft powder. He continued, the man's tone hard and flat. "Flattery is for those whom are willing slaves to their egos, and those that pander to them are but snivelling worms. Do not be a worm." His eyes took on a hue reminiscent of sapphires rimed in frost and flicked to the cold iron weapons gripped in his hands. "The blades are of a singular purpose, yes, but it is the wielder's will that sets them to it. Only the wielder may instill viciousness and savagery into them, for without a wielder they are content to simply exist. Your first lessons. Loathe not the weapon, but he who chooses to wield it." After this remarkable bout of loquaciousness, doubtless the most the man had spoken in a very long time, he fell silent once more. Focusing on his opponent, he slowed his breathing, willing himself to enter into a state of absolute calm. A thick layering of snow rested upon the warrior's still form, the white flakes descending from the sky with increased urgency, as if sensing the battle about to commence. A surge of motion drew the hunter's compete attention, focusing entirely upon Berus as the man recklessly charged him. Amondaris had anticipated such from an inexperience combatant, and set himself to meet it, tensing his left leg to take the brunt of the force to come. What the hunter had not anticipated, however, was the bard's rather ingenious tactic of pelting a large handful of snow directly at him. Flinching back from the hurtling projectile as if struck, Amondaris' blades rose to meet it, instinctively seeking to deflect the frozen clump. Miraculously, the weapon clutched in his right hand did indeed manage to swat the roughly spherical object from it's intended trajectory. Unfortunately, the result of this was twofold. First, the shifting of his weapons had served to create just the opening Berus needed for his jab to land true. Second, and perhaps more distressingly, the snowball had impacted upon the flat of his weapon, causing the fragile clump to disintegrate, scattering frozen flakes in Amondaris' eyes. Effectively blinded by the snow, the hunter's courses of action which to choose were slim. With the spear's deadly point aimed at the studded leather covering his abdomen, he reacted desperately. Twisting gracefully aside at the last moment, the razor sharp edge sliced into his flank shallowly before skittering off one of the metal studs embedded into his armour. The wound was merely a scrape, as far as these things went, barely deep enough to draw blood, yet draw blood it did, the finely honed edge of Barus' speartip tinged with vibrant red lifesblood. Reacting with alarming alacrity, Amondaris utilised the momentum of his evasive twist to spin about fluidly, his grosse messers arcing out towards the Bard, the right weapon snapping out well before it's mate. The flat of the swords bore down upon Berus, the right blade blurring out towards the back of the man's head, the left aiming for the back of the bard's knee in an attempt to send him sprawling.

[Berus]

Berus came in hard toward the man and, seeing that his tactic had somehow managed to actually work, nearly laughed aloud at the minor accomplishment. However, his eyes widened as he realized that his blow might actually now land on his opponent! He hadn’t expected that at all! Hurriedly, he attempted to reverse his momentum and turn his spear out harmlessly to the side.

Both attempts were massive failures due both to the fact that he attempted this far too late, in fact, only a split second away from his enemy’s body, and that he had been in a sort of controlled fall since his spin. He had overestimated his ability to keep his balance when in a reckless rush and then now the admittedly effective tactic was appearing to be idiotic. Even if he hit his opponent, he realized, he would end up slamming his head into the man’s breastplate and knocking himself out cold!

Berus gritted his teeth as his blow started to strike, his eyes barely catching the man’s impressive split-second maneuver that sent his spear almost harmlessly aside. The man seemed to sustain only a minor wound, evident by the blood that now marred the nearly spotless tip of Berus’s shiny sharp spear. Berus kept on charging, or rather, falling, forward and hoped he would get clear before his opponent was able to counterattack. He thought it was unlikely, due to the speed of the man’s godlike speed in his dodge, yet he still held on to hope.

That was obliterated the next moment, however, as he felt a sharp pain in the back of his head. The headache he had incurred in the bar fight only a few days ago was suddenly back in full force, though this time it struck with greater effect in his vulnerable rear instead of from the right flank. His mind wend blank, then, a stark contrast from his rather rapid ponderings that had gone on in the last second and a half. However, another smack, this time he could identify it as the flat of a rather hard blade, to his knee managed to evoke one pained thought: Ow!

He felt his knee buckle as his head flew forward. His eyes saw the ground approaching at a frightening pace, thoughts of the snow being a soft blanket instantly swept away. His life didn’t pass before his eyes, though, so he figured that he was safe enough as long as that didn’t happen. However, that thought evoked a long forgotten memory of learning the lyre. Just as he smashed into the snow he knew he was a goner.

He hit the ground headfirst with a loud thud, followed closely by his body and hands that stubbornly held onto his spear as if it would protect him from the ground. As it turned out, the spear served only to cause more pain as the left side of his head smacked painfully against it. His momentum sent him sliding for about three inches in the snow as he barely managed to stay away from unconsciousness. The back of his head ached painfully as if it had been stabbed by his own spear, his body felt as if it had been bashed by a rather massive sledgehammer, and the back of his knee complained mightily. The darkest curse word he could think of slid past his lips in barely a whisper, "Akalak!"

He rolled over in the snow, stubbornly avoiding the safe haven of unconsciousness, and sought his opponent with pained, green eyes. Using his spear and all the strength he could muster, he levered himself up to his feet and temporarily pushed aside the rapidly developing headache. The flurry of snow obscured his vision as his eyes sought out the large man. It didn’t help that he was wearing white with a white background, but he could barely make out the silhouette of the massive man with his vicious blades. It took a moment for him to realize why he was having such a hard time seeing, but he quickly wiped away the tears from his eyes with his sleeve, unwilling to show weakness.

Instead, he called out in a concerned, if halting, voice to the warrior, “Are you alright, hunter? I truly did not mean to land my blow…” The blood at the end of his spear was strangely more frightening than all of what he had just experienced combined.