#lican writes

Spark sits in a church. In a pew, hands clasped, with his head down. He does not pray, but reminisces.

He not only knows, but intimately understands the paths he’s taken to be where he is today; in a dream that feels far too real than any have in the past decade. The weight of the axe in his hand, heavy and with its dulled blade every hit to the rotted wood takes more and more strength out of him. The cold breeze coming in from the broken stained glass that he doesn’t bother to avoid as he aims for a support beam.

Sparks sits in a church, and watches himself tear it to pieces.

In the pew directly across the aisle from his, sits a woman unfamiliar to him. He sits up and turns to look at her. Her posture screams of boredom, from the way her arm hangs on the back of the bench to her boot hitting the floor almost in rhythm to the carnage before them both. Her head hangs low, with her hair obscuring her facial features, one could almost assume she was asleep.

The coat she wears is familiar only because he’s seen it before, on her brother.

He’d call out to her if he’d just remembered what her name was. It’s a choking sensation, a word that sits heavy on his tongue that he knows won’t sound right if he makes the attempt to say it. He knows that he knew it, if only he’d just…

Everything’s gone quiet, from the tapping to the axe on wood, or glass, or stone. There is an immense heat which he cannot find the source for. He can’t seem to find himself either. All that’s left behind is a partially caved in roof and every decorative item denoting what this church was for in absolute ruin.

Spark turns to look back towards the woman, perhaps her tune has changed, but he can’t. His vision of her is mostly concealed by his own form; axe held above his head, eyes closed, and his wings limp. What he can see of her is her hand now grasping the pew in-front of her own and her boots turned towards him and his fate.

The axe swings down, and

Spark wakes up in snow.

This is not a fight between two champions.

He won’t dilute his own capabilities by regarding them as ‘evenly matched’. Spark moving out of the way of his blade, ignoring every chance for a fight head on, and hitting every cheap shot he could get. How could he consider them matched in ability?

Jordan can feel the sting in the cuts and stabs left by the dagger, it must have been dipped in either poison or harming, though lack of nausea makes him lean more towards a harming potion. He understands that he’d been told to bring his best, but this just feels like cheating.

He isn’t sure who misses, as Spark goes for stab and Jordan goes for a slice. No surprise that Spark drops his dagger as Jordan’s sword goes through his right arm.

Jordan’s sword wedged between bone and muscle, and while the injury itself is grotesque, seeing ‘his’ shocked face is worse somehow. They're at a standstill now, not out of strength but shock, he fears moving anymore will worsen the injury.

“You can end this now, you know,” Biting his now bleeding lip too keep from screaming, Spark moves his arm down the blade and grasps the handle. “Call it.”

Spark does not. He’s moved closer towards him, Jordan stands his ground and doesn’t let the look of pure rage unnerve him. The other isn’t wearing his own signature green shades, so every emotion is on full display for everyone to see, for him to see. His breath reeks of alcohol.

His hand over Jordan’s on the hilt, nails claw deeply into him causing him to loosen his grip in surprise, then boot meets abdomen as he’s kicked back soon after. Spark walks back a few feet away and Jordan has to look away as the sword gets removed from the wound.

“You lost, man. Just,” Jordan looks back at Spark’s right arm. It hangs bloody and limp by his side, thankfully mostly covers by his more-red-than-white sleeve, sword now in his left. He grabs to his own arm and presses down into the ghost sensation. “Just call it and get something for that.”

There’s people yelling— screaming for them to rip the other to pieces, voices that distinctly sound like Mot and Tom. He’s uncertain whether they’re rooting for one of them or just bloodshed in general, respectably he’d like them both to shut it. Spark seems to share the thought as he swing his sword out of the obsidian arena towards them, his throw is too wide and he misses them, the act just spurs them on more.

Everyone’s here watching, of course they are. Spark wanted to settle their issues as they would have before, but a purge just for them seemed excessive, and if Jordan really wanted to be honest with himself, he wanted the fight too. It’s hard to garner anyone’s facial reactions from where he’s stood, but it’s obvious that most are anxious and some excited. It’s in this quick glance that he spots her.

Captain Capsize.

He hasn’t seen her since…well since she died. And here she is standing near the edge, away from any groups that have formed, with her right hand on her hip holding a very familiar pair of green shades. She waved at him with her left. She must have been late because he hadn’t seen her when the fight had begun. She leans down ever so slightly and blows him a kiss…

Something feels wrong here. Something,

There’s movement in the corner of his eye, Spark making a run for his dagger that he dropped and was kicked away from both of them.