Dancing with Death
Fifth Day of the First Month 294 AC
"Dance with me then," Waymar could feel a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth in defiance of death and ruin.
I've been here before, some distant voice in the back of his mind whispered, and in that fleeting instant before the battle was joined, he caught a glimpse of a meeting more real than the dream of power yet infinitely distant now.
A black-cloaked figure fallen on the snow, blood pooling from its wounds...
The vision passed, but the moment lingered, for though Waymar Royce may have been alone upon the field of battle this day, he was a friend of kings and archmages, the wealth of empires, the lore of the infinite planes borne upon his armor of bronze. A cerulean crystal sang in his left gauntlet and lulled time into slumber. Rushing around his now truly frozen foe, the knight drew a bag of quick-set alchemical sludge forth with one hand and with the other sheathed the cursed sword in Purity's sheath. If he had more time to ponder such things he likely would have worried over the way the enchanted leather smoked and hissed at the touch of the bronze. He summoned forth the power of his belt and wove not lightning, but magic unbound and bright as star-fire into his weapon...
Time stuttered to a start and the enemy moved. Swifter than anything on two legs had a right to be, the Other ducked out of the way of the alchemical bag and turned to face him once more, with one hand conjuring a breath of
bone chilling wind to strip blessings from flesh. One enchantment after another crumbled, though to judge from the flash of anger across the pale too-perfect features, not near as much as it had hoped.
As Waymar's sword descended to strike its collar-bone just above the armor, the fey hissed one syllable more in Winter's ancient tongue and a cold mist rose all around it to guard it from the blow. Bronze struck and sparked as
though against steel. Behind the veil, the Other smiled now, a mirthless
empty thing.
The ward wasn't armor tight against the skin, that much Waymar recognized of its magic, so in a twist of sorcery he
willed himself behind it, too close for the foe to weave that spell between them again yet even as he readied his own blow, the sword of ice moved with impossible swiftness. The first blow was like a brand of fire in his side, the second pierced his armor at the shoulder, a spike of pain to bring tears to his eyes, the third mercifully clanging harmlessly against his side.
Golden light poured from Waymar's wounds knitting them together, but the knight paid the magic no mind. The damned
thing was trying to twist away to work more of its magic, but this time Waymar was ready. Pouring another wave of magic into the ancient sword he feinted an overhand strike for the head then twisted to strike the left arm. Armor of ice shattered and the
Mournblade found at last the purpose for which it had been forged long ago. Bloodless flesh withered and blackened under the blow.
No cry of pain passed the Other's lips, only a single dreadful curse, and though Waymar knew not the tongue it was speaking, he understood that word with cold certainty,
blindness. To have his sight stolen against such a foe would almost surely be death, or at the very least cause for the others to intervene and invoke whatever forfeit the duel held.
Waymar's gaze did not darken, the dream-wrought wards held, and for the merest instant he saw his enemy's eyes widen in something that might have been shock. Then his sword descended once again, not one blow, but two blows one after another, the dead hall filling with the echoes of breaking ice and all its inhuman grace unable to withstand Waymar's vengeful strikes.
Again the
ethereal wind rose to strip away his blessings, three more fell, including his ward against the cold, again the enemy hid behind his
veil, and again Waymar
stepped behind it and paid the price in blood. This time there was no hidden spell to soothe his wounds, but still he fought, his world seeming to narrow to the flash of his enemy's sword, the cold mocking blue of its gaze. Anger rose in him, clean and sharp. This
thing did not belong in the world, in
any world, less even than the worst of fiends
this... should... not be.
Blood pooling in his mouth he cast a
final spell to strike through the ruin of the foe's armor, seeking his frozen heart. Bronze pierced true and with a scream that almost sounded like... relief, the Other crumbled to the ground dead, shattering into thousand thousand shards.
Waymar Gains First Mythic Rank
Vision blurry, probably from all the blood pooling around him... that was a lot of blood... Waymar saw Lady Melisandre rushing forward, crimson pendant in hand. "The Lord of Light does not anoint knights, good Ser, but know that if he did you would be first offered the honor," the priestess said gravely.
As the light of healing washed over him, Waymar had the strangest sense the priestess was not speaking for herself alone. "My thanks to you and to your God, my lady," he replied in like tone, though it had been Dany's spell that saved him from the worst of the curses the Other had actually cast. The gods alone knew what spells it would have woven had he been less well protected at the battle's start.
"Know that you have the thanks of Riwen, daughter of Dovak, bold warrior," a soft voice called from behind him. Turning he saw the specter no longer under the veil of Winter, but was now shimmering white.
"Although it is much too late to fulfill my father's final pledge to wed the slayer of Their champion, I would aid you as much as the dead can aid the living."
What do you ask of the spirit?
[] Knowledge of her people
-[] Write in
[] Aid in protecting the evacuation
[] Write in
OOC: So here we are, your first Other fight and the reason why they are so terrifying. Others, true Others, not just the Winter-touched but the Lords of the Long Night themselves, are all gestalt characters. Such are the blessings of the Void to those who give themselves wholly to it.
