Merrin drowned in the silence—tense, stiffen, dangerously aware of the energy that lorded now over this space. Like a worm, it slithered into their minds, beckoning the need for violence. To enjoy it. Oh, how they cheered him on. The stadium quaking with the collective roars for pandemonium.
Madness.
What glorious madness…
Merrin chuckled, cupping his mouth against the escaping laughter. I'm being infected too, aren't I? There was precedence for it, he knew. The shamans once recounted how easily humans were influenced by external energies—this was a thing restricted for true mastery of the dance. Merrin could, but chose not to.
Perhaps this would prove to Auwale that he, too, was a hunter. Mist the consequences and inhibition.
This must be done.
Head reared, noting the solemn gaze piercing towards him. Hard. Auwale watched from the special square chamber, his gaze so obvious it seemed banal. Go on, do that. That was the expression. Join them. Show me how you hunt!
Not virtuous at all.
Auwale isn't Auwale; he repeated the created litany against impression formation. Keep an open mind. Drive away the mind killer that comes in form of an impression. Dangerous. A solid enough belief acted more as a bastion for further knowledge. A limiting error for a caster.
He stood, managed a breath. Bootless.
So this is what I do now? Discovered then, the creature of meaningless convictions he had become. How many times those words had been repeated: 'I will never kill again' and yet, repeatedly, the external actions became the culling tool. Almost a parody to observe. The utter definition of madness. The repetition of it all.
Hypocrisy existed in its iteration.
He sighed. And still I play the specious role. I will kill again…It is necessary. That bright one had killed another—should I consider this as revenge?
Ah, that pit of entropy: What link justified the concept of avengement? There was, of course, Merrin thought, but for these ones, no connection existed. Hence, in the end, what this was is pure murder.
Again…I take another life.
I do this for you. He leaped out from the tier, spinning, arching, marshaling the ever-violent wind, listening calmly to its joyous howling. A boom, and dust clouds from the earth, his shadow stretching from the bleached grounds. Menacing, surely. One wondered when fear became such a necessity in his battles. Always, perhaps.
Clarity returned, and Merrin Ashman, sunBringer and El'shadie of the Current era, stood with his knife in hand, ready to cull yet another soul.
"Let the Hunt begin!" Auwale roared.
"I'm sorry," Merrin said and vanished. A moment, and he stood before the Bright one, knife in hand, piercing forward. The terror that elicited in the young warrior—yes, young; the softer features echoed that span. But that mattered little in combat. Fear—swiftness, the motion of confusion and control. That was a battle. And now…Merrin learned too.
He twirled, slicing to the side, meeting the weapon surely fashioned from stone, yet clanging like loud metal. Casted, too. Everything here was casted—a surprisingly annoying realization.
Nothing natural.
The dance heightened the senses; no awesome power permitted for the duration of the battle. A soul was to end today; allow it the dignity of a true battle. Man vs man—or something closer. Merrin side-stepped, the sword cutting down the vacated spot. The ringing of metal. Merrin rounded him, deliberate, and discovered a weakness on the side. This bright one, he noticed—learning. Fought with an unusual dependence on the right leg. A singular source of focused strength. Good for the wielder of such a weapon.
A mistake against one with the shorter blade.
There was a nimbleness acquired from the smaller weapon. Merrin exploited that advantage, fell into the trance of motions, fading the external clamour into mere suggestions, beckoning attention. He could give or not. Not was the chosen.
And this he saw, angered the Bright one, inducing wild shoutings, screaming, and tuanting of various degrees. Show me anything, any source of emotion to learn from. Ah, the pit of a warrior. Indeed, a battle was more of a shared conversation than a singular act. The twitchings, breathings—those spoke louder words.
Merrin, however, had long mastered the silence of such. Ashman had lorded the quietude.
You will gain nothing from me.
Merrin parried a strike. But I will learn everything from you!
The dance rose into an approaching climax, pace surging with a thrilling charge. Move move move. Merrin twirled the blade, piercing forward, metal banging against the face of the sword. He dropped the knife, the bright one halting in brief astonishment. Is he surrendering?
No!
The moment before the knife kissed the floor, Merrin grabbed it with his left hand, slicing hard at the ankles. A scream roared out. No blood, just spewing whiffs of light. Again, this reminded him of the non-humanity that stood before him.
Does that change the fact?
Retaliation was swift, faster than before—the sword cleaving into the shoulders. Stinging. Merrin rolled back, blood dripping, splattering over the earth. Not steaming. For once, the cooled state of blood was seen. Oddly fluid.
Distractive!
The bright one closed in, vociferating, blade swinging from the side. Obvious. Merrin bent. A mistake. A kick slammed into his stomach. Thought-shattering. Ah, that brought the cacophony of pain. Both soul-based and physical. He screamed, a hand cupping his lips before the vocalization; the bright one, sneering down. Like a statue of solid white, how godly he seemed.
"You think you are some special thing, don't you?" A rather bootless question.
On technicality alone, Merrin was a unique creature. But often, the articulation of one's worth was viewed as some object of internal pride. Wrong. The need for correction administration was disparate from the repletion. But what did that matter?
Pain was what he knew now.
It appeared the learning art was not easily absorbed. Hubris. Was that the guiding force of this error? Or a mere innocence of the Naivete mind?
Again, what did that matter?
Merrin was seeing hues--flashes of contrasts across vision. Each time, created by the hilt of the blade smashed into his face. This brought an impression of old memories. He and Davos!
Was this what the blademaster saw whilst being forced to confess? Would I confess also during such circumstances?
Observably, the ultimate teacher of pain was the experience of that pain...
I know pain.
Metal drilled into his thigh, a loud mockery accompanied. "Come on, what can you even do!"
I think we both share the hubris...He thought, found the laughable reality that imposed itself on the moment. Unaware, of course, the bright one saw himself as the ultimate winner. The stronger creature. One would do well not to blame him for that ignorance.
All it would take was a gust of wind--and he dies. There was seduction to do just that, a need to wipe the grin off the luminous face...But this is my punishment!
Merrin had arrived at that conclusion not from mental data, but emotional forces. Guilt, perhaps. Most likely. Here he was, ready to deprive one of their life--how the tables have turned. Well no.
The tables remained the same. The sole difference being the awareness of those who sat on it. A thing about observation. An example echoed from the actions of the bright one: He saw himself as the head chair--a fragile way of thought.
One never considered the outcome of a battle until the end.
That was the basic courtesy of a hunter. Until the creature remained firmly in your trap, dead, never accept yourself as the winner.
Impressions were the pit of knowledge acquisition. The bright one delivered a slap--memories, recollections of Davos' confession.
He heard then the roaring of the stadium. So now, they roar. Perhaps it was always a matter of target, never some hidden elegance. They were, in the end, creatures of habit, more so than humans. And when influenced by their creator--Auwale, the currentness only elicited the need for a roar.
And that they did, quite fervently in fact.
"This was the one that challenged our Lord at the gates."
So they heard of that?
"He thinks himself better than us."
Again with the observables.
"Look at how weak a mere human is."
That is, I suppose, an addition from Auwale himself.
Merrin was learning. He saw this with the new, growing awareness. Auwale had indeed carved these creatures--his force, the soulForce, had bathed them into existence. This proposed a question: Without the mind force, were they sentient enough to be considered living, or were the displayed actions merely a collection of do's and don'ts?
A decided pattern from their creator?
Questions within questions. The mind feintly dulled by the growing pain...More stabings.
Have I learned enough?
"After you." Said the bright one, "I will exercise my right again. This time. I will go for the stone."
Yes!
Merrin compelled the wind--senses alone told of the completion. More familiarity negated the need for observed casting.
He heard the panic in the bright one...More patterns?
This I do for them...