Insomnia (Damien)

[Syril Ænari]

It was nighttime. The stars weren't particularly bright out, nor was the moon particularly full; tonight it was gibbous, the least dramatic of lunar phases. In addition, a few clouds skittered across the sky, blotting out patches of stars here and there. Tonight the setting was very much not beautiful, not dramatic, and not ideal. And yet, Syril found himself outside anyway, gazing up at the imperfect sky with an uncommonly thoughtful expression on his face, in addition to the little ever-present smile.

Syril's head was resting on his arms, which were in turn crossed behind his head , and his right leg was crossed over his left, tapping slowly to a tune playing through his head. The skirt of his robe was splayed out over the grass, and the flared sleeves--the one white, the other green--draped over each other in a haphazard fashion, shifting slightly every now and then in the soft breeze.

Truth be told, Syril was having trouble sleeping. He had tossed and turned for about an hour before giving it up at one in the morning, at which point he had decided to go out and get some exercise. Hence, he had quietly left his dormitory and made his way to the training grounds. For a long while, he had been engaged in energy training, activating the Valdi and going through the seven arts of air he knew, practicing on conveniently located dummies when necessary; movement, barrier, flight, push, strength, bind, and blade. There were more of them; blast, armor, crush, prison, shards, suffocate, clone, scream, whisper, illusion... possibly more. But these Syril hadn't had the time to learn, and now he probably never would.

At any rate, he had succeeded in completely draining his mana reserves, and was now spending his time recuperating, waiting for the energy to recharge before going through the drill once again. It seemed to be working too; although it did not require physical motion, magical exercise was strenuous, and once he finished this round, Syril would probably be exhausted enough to go back to bed. Taking a deep breath of the cool night air, Syril heaved himself back to his feet, preparing to restart his routine.

Slowly and calmly, Syril's arms rose to form an X across his chest, the middle and index fingers on each hand extended and level with his shoulders. His eyes closed, and he allowed his newly regenerated mana to flow to his fingertips, forming a point crackling green light at each of the two tips. With a sudden motion, Syril crouched down to the ground, drawing the mana down and across in twin arcs and whispering a single word into the pregnant silence.

"Valdi."

The twin points immediately dissipated, drawn into the surrounding air as Syril's body began to glow with a faint emerald light. The field of influence, the core technique which was necessary in order to preform any other magical art--with the exception of a select few--was now activated. It was time to get to work.

[Damien Kross]

"Take all of me... The desires, that keep buuuurning deep inside. Cast them all away, and help to give me strength, to face anooother day." I sang along to one of my favorite songs, The Root of All Evil by Dream Theater. For once in a blue moon, I was dressed casually, a mere red T-shirt and black pants completing my outfit. My hair, as always, was tied in a pony tail, letting it swing freely.

*I had decided to walk to the training grounds and work on my magics, mostly Twist of Fate, one of the hardest of my spells to control. However, upon getting there, I found a student practicing... Interesting. I leapt towards the kid, an attempt to startle.*

"Hello there!"

[Syril Ænari]

Syril would begin practicing the techniques numerically, as he had done previously; thus, the first would begin with the first art, Ira Atri, and work his way up from there. Syril took a deep breath, and prepared to dash forth.

"Hello there!"

Smiling as usual, Syril whirled around and faced the older student with his arms akimbo, looking up with bright green eyes full of mirth and entirely void of surprise. Despite not having realized Damien's presence until the moment he spoke, Syril had not jumped; shock was not in Syril's repertoire of available emotions, and this occasion was no exception. He was a tad curious as to what another student was doing up at 3 o'clock in the morning. Ah well, as if he was one to talk.

"And a good night to thee! Could'st thou not sleep either?"

Syril's response was brief, yet his words always had a hint of Shakespearian antiquity to them, probably as the result of learning English as an objective study from a man who hadn't spoken the language for fifty years. Others were often a bit taken aback, but Syril had gotten used to it.

[Damien Kross]

*The kid showed no sign of shock. Interesting. I looked the kid over, and on the outside, he seemed like nothing more than another student, and until he proved himself, he'd be treated as such.

Then, he spoke. His language causing my eyebrow to rise.*

"OoOoOo." I released, a look of small surprise on my features. "A Shakespearian. How fun." I said, a smile spreading on my lips. "So, what brings you out here this early?" I questioned. "Couldn't sleep? Had too good a dream? Drink a little too much coffee and Red Bull?"

[Syril Ænari]

Mildly disparaging remarks aside, the elder student appeared to be friendly, and certainly in good humor, which Syril was more than willing to return. Enmity at first sight was a phenomenon all to common among the Academy residents, students and teachers alike; thus Damien's bright words were returned in kind, broad smile still evident upon Syril's face.

"Not Shakesperian as such my friend, but most certainly English of old. As to the nature of my nightly wanderings, they are neither fantastic nor bovine in nature, but merely the effect of a common sleep disorder, and an infrequent one at that. I thought I might exhaust myself, perchance to combat the insomnia, hence you find me out of doors. May I be so bold as to ask thy name, and thy purpose at this late hour?"

Translated, Syril wasn't directly influenced by Shakespeare, he had insomnia, he had gone outside to train, and he was wondering who Damien was and what he was doing outside. Though of course, in far more florid prose.

[Damien Kross]

*I grinned the entire time he used the old English manner of speaking. It felt good to know some people still spoke like that. When he finished, I gladly answered his questions. I gave a deep, low, sweeping bow.*

"Damien Kross, The Jester, Personal Assistant to Mr. Halsephea, at your service." I said, rising up after. "And as per my presence here, I've just been wanting to get some more practice in while others aren't around. I see that my attempt was... a failure." I said with a small laugh. "And what of you?"

[Syril Ænari]

Once again Damien's actions were reciprocated, as Syril give his own bow in return; elegant, though not quite as extravagant. Upon hearing that Damien too intended to train, an idea formulated in Syril's head, and his smile broadened slightly.

"Pleased to make thy acquaintance, good sir Jester. Seeing as we each find ourselves out of doors for similar purpose, perchance we can help one another out?"

While mental exercise was all that was required to expend energy, a mock battle would accomplish the same purpose, while also being far more entertaining. Of course, since the difference between their levels was so evident, Damien would need to go a little easy on him. Syril would prefer not to be hospitalized.

[Damien Kross]

*I smiled at his words.*

"A marvelous idea my friend!" I explaimed, withdrawing my deck of cards. As I shuffled, I pretended to contemplate the diea of a spar, knowing all along I would accept. Finally, I spoke. "Alright, a spar it is."

*I took a large leap backwards, giving us about thirty feet of distance. With a sly grin, I kept shuffling, looking over my opponent.*

"I hope you know what you're getting into..." I warned.

[Syril Ænari]

Given that Damien had seen fit to provide such a great distance between the two of them, Syril saw no reason to move in turn. At his would-be-opponent's latest words, Syril nodded his head in understanding, replying as usual an his antiquated dialect.

"Perfectly, my dear friend. And given your superiority, I assume you are well aware that it would be quite dull for the both of us if you were to flatten me within a few seconds of the advent; thus, I urge you not to exhibit your full strength during this upcoming battle, lest it be over before it has begun."

Syril was never too proud to show respect to those who deserved it, and successfully making ones way through the ranks of the Academy was cause for respect in and unto itself. At least, Syril was assuming that the other student was of greater rank given his age and presence upon school grounds. The only other option was that his opponent was especially dull-witted, and that did not strike Syril as being likely. It was, however, also worthy of note that Syril was not above using flattery as a means of lulling his opponent into a false sense of security.

Arms crossed and the fingers lit up with emerald mana, then were uncrossed in twin arcs of dissipating light as the Valdi field was called into existence once again. A faint light began to emanate from Syril's body, as mana expended itself uselessly into the atmosphere. The clock was started, and Syril had a maximum of maybe fifteen minutes before the constant expenditure drained him entirely and left him incapable of combat.

Normally at this point, Syril would make a dash and begin the battle as quickly as possible, but faced with an opponent of this stature, Syril thought it better to play it safe for the time being. Instead, twin triangular blades of shimmering air formed over the extended fingers of both hands, extending roughly a foot from each and flowing silently like liquid crystal, emanating a soft green light. This was Ira Sinda, the seventh art, air blade, and Syril's preferred method of hand-to-hand combat. Thus armed, Syril assumed a standard Sylphist combat stance.

This stance consisted of facing the opponent side on with the back leg bent low and supporting the weight, while the front was straight and extended forward. The back arm was then raised above the shoulder and angled toward the the opponent, with the hand hovering close to the Sylphist's ear. The forward hand was raised up and back, forearm parallel to the other and pointing the opposite direction, with about a foot between them. In this position, the one dagger could be utilized for thrusting or defending from above, while the other was in prime position for a diagonal or horizontal slash, while also protecting from below. It was a neutral stance, neither inherently offensive nor inherently defensive, and was ideal for confronting an opponent of which the user had no previous knowledge. Thus prepared, Syril spoke; a simple, three word challenge, politely offering his opponent the opportunity to make the first move.

"Shall we begin?"

[Time remaining: 24 posts]

[Damien Kross]

*My opponent used green energy to produce two air blades. Great... A fucking Protoss Zealot... I shrugged away the thoughts of the old computer game and watched my foe assume an odd stance. Then, he spoke three glorious words...*

Shall we begin?

*With a grin, my free hand slipped into my pocket, and revealed a white betting chip. I flipped it a few times like a regular coin, then threw it on the ground.*

"Ante up!" I yelled with a laugh and a smile. As the chip hit the ground, it began to jump and vibrate, eventually sending out a nova of inescapable energy. This energy would weaken the physical and mental capabilities of my foe, but due to the intricacies of the magic, it's power could only be summoned before any other spells were cast.*

OOC- I update my spell sheet on my bio everytime I cast a spell, so check it to see what the spell does.

[Syril Ænari]

Syril observed carefully as his opponent withdrew a small, white token, roughly an inch in diameter, and tossed it upon the ground. Having a mere three years of worldly experience to his name, and having never shown any interest in such seedy activities as gambling, Syril did not recognize the poker chip for what it was; merely a magical object implemented by an opponent, and thus a possible threat. He could theorize on what that threat's nature was, but seeing as there were so many possibilities, Syril thought it best to hold his ground and observe the attack firsthand, avoiding if possible. After all, what could possibly cover thirty feet of distance without giving Syril, now blessed with his first art, time to react?

Syril found out a moment later as a vast, all-encompassing aura emanated suddenly from the chip, crossing the distance in well under a second and enveloping Syril before he even had the chance to draw breath. Emerald eyes widened in shock, and he involuntarily recoiled from the brilliant light; the sheer scale of the strike amazed him, and the now evident weakening effects of the nova were certainly bad news. And yet, through his befuddled mind, one possibility still presented itself. Syril had completely lost sight of his opponent in the half-sphere of energy which now covered them both--which meant that for the briefest of moments, Damien mustn't have been able to see Syril either. And even in his weakened state, Syril was still capable of taking advantage of an opportunity of that magnitude. By the time the spell cleared, Syril would be nowhere to be seen.

High above the battlefield, Syril soared upward at great speeds, propelled by the equalization of a difference in air pressure between the air above him and the air below. This was Ira Atri: The first art, movement. And in this situation, such a spell was definitely a blessing, given that Syril's already-weak-and-now-even-weaker legs probably weren't even capable of supporting him anymore, let alone making a 30 foot jump. Syril was essentially using the air to animate himself like a life-size puppet, and the strain on his depleted energy was far from pleasant. It didn't feel very fair that Damien should feel the need to further weaken an already inferior opponent, but Syril was hardly in any position to complain. Not until he made his way over to Damien, at least.

As Syril reached his desired altitude, a portion of air coalesced beneath one foot, and provided a platform upon which Syril could gain traction for a second jump--this time directed forward, parallel to the surface of the ground. Ira Fluta: The third art, flight. Given that it was nighttime, and the glow from Syril's Valdi was faint enough to be seen only in close proximity, Syril would appear a mere shadow flitting across the sky, hardly even visible to the figure waiting down below. Chances were good that even an opponent of this caliber would be unsure as to Syril's location. Quickly crossing the distance between them, Syril took another leap in mid-air, this time directed downward.

Syril would come to a halt immediately behind Damien, but he wouldn't actually strike the ground, or cause any noise to alert his opponent of his presence; rather, the air beneath his feet would cushion him, and he would continue to float as he preformed his next maneuver. The movement was quite simple; crouching low, a horizontal slash was delivered across the left hamstring as Syril twisted and straightened up, twirling in place to bring the other blade across Damien's right forearm, utilizing centripetal force in place of his depleted strength in hopes that two consecutive strikes placed widely apart would result in at least one good hit, somewhere. Syril probably couldn't hope for anything better, but the setup had been good; mere seconds had passed since Damien had thrown his poker chip to the ground, and Syril had made all attempts to conceal his presence until the moment of impact. Perhaps he would get lucky.

[Time remaining: 20 posts (reduced by Ante Up)]

[Damien Kross]

*My shockwave did it's job, and it weakened my foe. But in what seemed a mere second or two, he was gone from my sight. Impressive... Either he's very fast, or he's invisible. Either way, I have the cure for that.

With my deck still in hand, I quickly drew a card and used my magic on it. One of my favorite spells was now being used: Gambler's Aegis is what I called it.

The card grew and grew until it was the size of one of Arnold Schwarzeneggar's Hummers. This massive, and now hard as steel, card was now magically kept in close proximity to my right arm, as if it were a shield.

Thinking that the kid would be enough of an amatuer to attempt a back attack, I spun quickly and set up my shield to deflect the blow I was confident was coming.*

[Syril Ænari]

Two things might have happened; one, his opponent had managed to spot Syril's movement before or during his brief flight, or two, his opponent had utilized years of battle experience and made an educated guess. Either way, he had earned some additional respect in Syril's eyes--but Syril would have to be quite the amateur indeed to willingly enter a combat situation without a back-up plan. So went the thoughts through Syril's head as his blades clashed against the enormous... playing card, leaving nothing more than thin scratches. Impressive. In that case, he would have to choose between going around the massive barrier before him, or finding an alternate means of going through it. Syril chose option B.

The previous attack had left Syril full of centripetal motion, and he was quick to utilize that in placing his left foot against the shield's surface. A conduit for the upcoming outpour of mana, rather than any vain attempt to damage through physical force. For the briefest of moments, Syril concentrated--then the air began to flow. All that was located between Damien and the barrier vacated its position. Damien's ears would pop from the sudden change in pressure, and a high pitched squeal would be heard. A bit more intervention prevented the air above, below, to the sides and back of the vacated area from immediately filling the void. This left only one direction from which the vacuum could be filled, and that was forward, through the barrier. The enormous plate of steed-hardened paper would fold like so much tinfoil. Not under Syril's power, but under the combined weight of over ten tons of atmosphere; the forces of nature itself harnessed to do Syril's work for him. Ira Hindi: the fourth art, air push.

Part of the reason behind the spell's potency lay in the fact that the pressure was directed to a certain extent, centered on a single point on the card's surface--near the center, where Syril's foot rested, and also where Damien's arm was raised on the opposite side. When the card buckled, it would smash directly into that extended limb, using the card's hardened properties against it's creator and likely fracturing the arm and throwing Damien backward. After this, Syril would waste no time in darting after him, propelled by his first art, intent on engaging his opponent in melee combat.

Damien had yet to enter close combat, instead focusing on the prevention of his opponent's attacks through magical means. It could be that Damien was simply more skilled at taking the defensive and wearing down his opponent, but Syril thought it far more likely that a mage of his caliber was simply toying with him. That was perfectly acceptable, and something Syril understood completely; rather than being moved to anger, Syril inwardly celebrated their identical views on the nature of combat. That was, a game that one played for the purpose of enjoyment. It was not often that Syril found himself of the receiving end of such a view, but he found it oddly pleasant nonetheless. And if Syril could play along and lull his opponent into thinking he was unaware of such condescension, perhaps he could use to his advantage the moment of surprise. When one faced off with an opponent as powerful as Damien, it was important to take advantage of every little opportunity one was presented--and that was precisely what Syril intended to do. It probably wouldn't win him the battle, but it might earn him a little respect.

[Time remaining: 19 posts]