Dawn and Bloom of the Red Rose [Revised 8/24 (very slight edit 8/25)]

The middle of the summer night, an ebony sky shaded with a hue of purple by the divine pillar. The two moons crossed paths, signaling the depth of the night, and constellations danced brightly in the starry sky.

Gentle breeze spawned under the Weathered Champion’s obsidian wings, whispered through the air from the northern lands. The harmonious melody of the river's current echoed through the grassy lowlands to the east, creating a symphony of tranquility.

It was simply impossible to feel hatred or sorrow with this kind of ambiance circling around you. Anyone would quickly be lost in thoughts, then memories, then fall asleep. No matter how atrocious of a thought the mind conjured up, or how cruel a memory could be, calm and bliss would be the only emotions able to be fostered by a person’s soul.

My train of thought had derailed itself a while ago, and my mind was turning numb. My eyes shut, awaiting for dreamland. Then came the sound of a whooshing blade speeding toward my head. What perfect time for a lullaby. Wait,

Warrior reflex dropped my body down, barely dodging that would be fatal strike. A lock of my brown hair flew into the sky, carried by the wind before slowly raining down. My body was slow from my sudden awakening, or perhaps enchantment magic by that elf.

That blade was rusted, forged with crude steel. Strong, tough but brittle, like a bandit in weapon form. It lodged in the tree, giving me time to move out, not that I was able to after the shock of this whole situation.

It wasn’t until the man freed his sword and gave another swing at me, this time from above, that I was able to gather my senses and hop out of its path.

Hastily took my stance, I padded my left hip. Thank gods I forgot to lay down my sword. Another strike from up left, I beat it off with a quick unsheathe but that just helped him redirect into a round false-edge cut aimed at my right temple.

I barely had time to move my sword from one side to another, no thanks to that magic. When metal clanged, I skipped back a few steps, but not too much, the dim moonlight wasn’t enough to tell me where the river was to me and certainly not enough time to turn and look.

The moonlight peeked in and out of the clouds above, casting glimpses of our exchanges. My heart raced and with my mind tinkered, it was hard to stay focused. Relying only on the moonlit reflections, I counter each attack, though only barely. The wind from his strikes dried up my eyes. The clash of steel and the sparks that flew illuminated the night.

“So this staff is imbued with a god’s essence, no wonder the magic around it felt different.”

Curiosity got the better of me and I turned and looked. That elf had stolen the staff, just standing there at a safe distance, turning it over in his hand. Talking to himself with a mage light haloing him, or maybe taunting me.

“A nameless mortal-made artifact, screaming for one.”

He reached into a pouch, the sound of various materials clinking together filled the air, hinting at the assortment of shapes and sizes within and pulled out a fistful of glass shards. With a wave of magical gestures dragging simmers behind, his feet glowed a magical enchantment, and he walked on water before reaching into that pouch again, this time pulling out bone-dry juniper. The same thing I saw when I felt my mind being magiced.

The serene river surface rippled at the feet of that elf, finally starting to wake my slumbering companion. Her head broke through the moonlit surface, glistening with droplets of liquid silver.

I pulled on the rope tying our wrists down, but there was no response. It was light, with no resistance, the rope had torn. Only to be met with a thrust for my heart. The sword tip dug in, but stopped at my sternum. I twisted my blade inward, knocking off his but that just made it draw a cut across my chest. Another false-edge cut, this time from above.

This man’s move was getting more unpredictable with each strike. His sword art was not of any sword styles, at least not the four true ones.

I pulled my sword up, made it into a bar to stop that hit. But before our swords even made contact, a kick was sent to my stomach, flinging me into the river behind.

With me crashing into the water, I finally got my companion to open her eyes to see what had disturbed her sleep. It would have been me but the looming presence of an elf seemed more eye-catching.

That elf was already halfway through casting whatever spell he was casting. She let out a small scream, throwing her hands down, clapping the water and splashing them up, disorienting the elf for just a second. He covered his face, not wanting to get wet, thinking she couldn't possibly have done anything in such little time. But that was all she needed to cast down a barrier spell, surprising the elf with her quick magic skills.

The elf shook his left hand, making sure he still had hold of the staff.

“Your catalysis is gone, yet you can still cast spells. So you are also a mage that practices circulating anima through your body?”

Her rope shone as the moon passed by.

“Or is that robe just weaved with magic?”

He formed stalactites, hoping they would shatter the barrier, but it remained unyielding. Fire spells erupted, but still, the barrier held strong. Undeterred, he unleashed spells that defied magic itself, yet the barrier stood firm.

The elf continued with different spells until faint cracks started to appear. Then with one last magic empowered strike with the staff, the barrier shattered into countless fragments, showering her with a dazzling rain of shimmering magic shards.

Time probably slowed tenfold in her eyes. Lifting her head, still with hands covering over when cowering in fear. That elf threw the dried junipers in the air, catching them with telekinesis, drawing circles with the staff, preparing for a spell. His other hand reached for his side, the popping of a button rang through the night, drawing out a knife.

His magic over my mind ran out of time, or he had used up his magic. I didn’t understand enough magic to know, but I had gotten my physique back. My sword set ablaze, fire engulfed from sword hilt to sword tip, vaporizing a circle in the river and giving me footing.

My opponent jumped down, sword raised, hoping to finish me off while he still could. That overhead strike was easily parried, the next dozen or so rapid blows were similarly futile.

His swings became a flurry of desperate attempts, each one met with a quick beat away. With each parry, his frustration grew, made obvious by the tightening of his grip and the gritting of his teeth.

His last strike, also his most desperate, was like his first, a top-right strike, a swift swing. A strike desperate enough to be accompanied by a war cry, from a man who was silent throughout this whole battle.

His strike met with mine, and instead of being beat off and followed with a false-edge cut to my face like how it had been, his sword glowed red. Rust screamed and burned off, steel softened and my blade cut, or melted through.

He tried to back off, but momentum wasn’t merciful. My swing followed through, through the screaming air, through his war-hardened sword, and through his face. My sword tip was stained red, blood still boiling off it.

The elf’s casting stopped, the magic on the river calmed for once.

“Disciple of the mind of that cursed false divine. That so called living god, so called war god.”