The Unfinished Tale of the Incomplete Pilgrim – Open Challenge

[Laughing Stock]

It has been… so long…

He gazed upon the chaotic ruin of worn rock and splintered wood. His vacant eyes - once a brilliant white that sparkled with the intensity of a thousand suns, were now tainted to the dull silver of a sombre rain cloud - probed the demolished city for any trace of life from under his dust-coated indigo hood. Sparse vegetation grew between cracks in the hard-packed soil and crevices where rock and land met; feeding on what little moisture remained in the air after the dry spell this region had suffered. Wild animals, as hardy as the vegetation itself to have survived such a season, fed upon either plants or animals, each providing poor fare as sifting through the rubble of this ruined castle, and each relishing their part in the endless quest for survival.

What fragile life that remained in this long-abandoned outpost would not last much longer here. Not at this rate.

How could it have come to this, the man quizzed himself, his pitted face casting an even deeper frown as he raised his withered hands to cast back the long indigo hood protecting his face from the painfully bright and bizarrely omnipresent sunlight. His aged face once thought changeless yet now worn haggard and thin by his despairing confrontation with the fates, pulled back in a painful grimace.

He had never enjoyed this sight, this example of what destruction the war between the stalwart resistance of man-made structures and the timeless onslaught of nature had wrought.

His grim, lifeless grey hair clinging desperately to his sweat which had swabbing his cheeks as a sudden updraft threatened to dislodge the pairing while his sharp yet equally scarred nose quivered in distaste. His thin, reedy lips pulling back to expose brittle yellow teeth as he twisted his head to spit with the direction of the wind, allowing his saliva to be carried off alongside what foul remainder of those who had broke upon this keep so long ago like a thunderbolt stained the once pure air.
This place had been contaminated by a restless evil, its ruined towers dark with treachery and hatred, and its shattered walls forever haunted by the disturbed spirits dead men and broken dreams.

His eyes, troubled not only by the smell but by the curse lain upon them, withdrew into themselves, closed to the world as he once again speculated on his decision. It would have been so much wiser to have tested his new-found strength against an inanimate object or perhaps even during one of the many small skirmishes between the recent Tymernian Republic and the tyrannical rule wielded by Emperor Yegdremal. He could put scores of men to the Blade for the sake of an experiment…

…yet to be able to mould his very soul in such a fashion… it would be nothing short of a waste to, after spending centuries locked away deep within his alchemies, test his abilities on the mindless peons of a fool-hardy despot. No… a true test of his skills was in order.

So, as the logical alternative, he would beckon forth an opponent from beyond his world.

Grey clouds heavy with moisture gathered above him as if to bear witness to the spectacle about to unfold, shouldering aside what had been until then his lone observer who removed itself from sight, taking with it both light and warmth. The scent of blood yet to be spilt drifted through the air borne upon the winds of battle yet to come. The battle would come soon, he was sure… he cared not who challenged him. Only that they provide a spectacle worthy of the Gods.

In a flash, he brandished a weapon unlike any other. A pale milky-white dagger, this weapon disintegrated into a small ball of dust –or, more accurately, sand - and took first the shape of a short sword, then a spear and then a trident. Satisfied, this enigmatic wielder of a strange weapon brought it aside, sweeping the blade in a wide arc as if to test it before propping it upon his shoulder in an almost leisurely fashion.

Sparing a glance for his empty left hand, the strange man noticed he was shaking… but from what? Dread? Exhilaration? Nostalgia?
Was it the sheer euphoria that rewarded the victor what he sought?
Was it the opportunity to, after centuries of isolation, revel in conquest over a defeated foe?
Did he once rejoice in such death and destruction?
Did he still?

The soft rhythm of long-awaited rain upon hard soil shook such thoughts from his mind, returning him to a state of clarity one must always maintain when going into battle.

Hoisting his weapon of choice with a light flourish in preparation of what was to come, he once again brought his massive hood forward, allowing it to droop down past his sightless eyes as he spoke. It was no more than a whisper, yet his voice was hard and humourless, all that remained dry in this weather.

“Come, friend or foe, foul beast or divine one, mortal or ageless. Come, challenge and fall to the Blade of the Ethereal Pilgrim…”

~ The Ethereal Pilgrim – Vanadeil Maneson ~​

I apologise for the dramatic collapse of commitment towards the end, but that is exactly what this RP is for. For you see, I have been trying to complete this characters template for the past six months, and has as such become a chore on par with Sisyphus and his bloody rock. That is not how it should be.

So because of this I had hoped that, if one of you delightful RPers were to bequeath upon me a challenge, I would perhaps be stirred to once again take up the mantle and begin anew. So, as my character stated, ‘Come, challenge and fall to the Blade of the Ethereal Pilgrim’…

Rules:

This shall be a melee battle with a touch of magic here and there. I'll trust in my opponent to know exactly how much to use and how much not to use.

Where I have described. By the way, as I do not believe I have described it well enough, this collapsed castle shall rest atop a hill void of plant life for the most part, including grass, and shall continue as such for quite a distance, leaving the horizon broken by a ring of mountainous terrain. However, if you wish to teleport to several different planets or realms or whatever during the course of this battle, so be it...

I shall take on only one competitor, although that may be anyone, yet if this suddenly becomes hellafun I may consider taking on others. I'm in this for inspiration, however, so don't be ending it in an instant.

THIS SHALL BE NON-CONTINUOM! Just wanted to get that out of the way, as I don't really want to kill my character.

None of the usual: as in no PP-ing, no GM-ing and no someotherthindthing-ing if you know what's good for you.

Remember: this is supposed to be for fun. Let's keep it that way.

I'm not using a template, so I suppose it's only fair you don't either. Also, if you wish for a full and... somewhat comprehensive list of Vanadeil's abilities and weapons, just ask. It won't be much of a problem... well... probably not. >.>

Finally, I have used my post up there as my introduction, so if you wish to battle me, I would advise posting immediately. I wish you luck. You'll need it.

 

[frisson]

Deep within the catacombs of an otherwise extinct and archaic empire, contained by a prison cell… yet anything but incarcerated, was a man. Compared to his surroundings, he didn’t exactly… harmonize. Dressed in a black tuxedo and cape, he was more or less a photo from a fashion magazine smacked onto the canvas of some despondent artwork.

Adjusting his tie and cape, Zenith made the finishing touches, accoutring a pair of alabaster gloves onto his slender yet soon to be recognised as imperious hands, before placing his sombre black top hat over his head. Observing himself from all angles in a non-existent reflective surface, he slapped a yellow post-it on the grimy surface of the wall once content with his appearance, which read: “Gone Recruiting.” before he departed through a reasonably wide aperture in the very same form of encumbrance.

‘Oh yes… this is nice.’

The admittedly barren landscape that subsisted, however arduously, before Vanadeil, soon came to serve a greater purpose, now the surface on which Zenith would stand. Facing his opponent, Zen slid a hand along the rim of his hat, oh-so-delicately, before lifting it ever so slightly, so that Vanadeil’s eyes and his own may become acquainted with one another.

‘We both know why I’m here, friend. You see, I have a knack for sensing that killing intent of yours, from many a distance,’ Zenith announced, glancing from left to right, before commencing with a bow, the polite person that he was.
‘The name’s Ningenteki Zenith, though some just call me Zen. May I inquire as to what your name might be, before we proceed with things?

OOC: I apologise if you perceive this post as rather... miniscule, in comparison to your own. I wanted to get this done before my departure, to the corner store.

 

[Laughing Stock]

OOC: You are oh-so lucky he had his hood pulled forward just enough to cover his eyes… XD Honestly, if you do not wish for this battle to end in an instant, I would advise against a repeat performance. Vanadeil’s arsenal extends well beyond a shape-shifting blade, and there’s much more to his bleach white eyes than just perpetual blindness…

IC: Vanadeil cocked his head to the left as he studied this opponent through sightless eyes, bemused by this abrupt answer to a summons not long sent. Air wrestled with his cloak, pulling it behind him, tossing and turning in the air as if trapped in a nightmare, struggling to escape what subconscious terror pursued it. The light rain developed into a heavy drizzle, each drop growing heavier and faster than the other in the planets haste to quench the thirst of a land long forsaken, a heavy mist of what water the land refused to accept between gulps forming even as he meticulously studied this opponent.

With a grunt which gave away nothing of his mood, Vanadeil grimaced. What he faced was no warrior… unless this fool gentleman masquerading as a man above such brutality proposed a battle of wits as opposed to swords, the mere thought of which was enough to elicit a second volley of saliva to the wind. Vanadeil had not come here to bandy words with an imbecile, yet common etiquette demanded at least an introduction. He must at least abide by the tacit law of battlefield courtesy.

“’Please excuse me for presuming to speak to you without an introduction,’” Vanadeil replied, the faint trace of a smirk revealing itself upon those old mordant lips, “Mikhail Bulgakov… a wonderful writer and true master of political satire. I would implore you to investigate further… if I assumed you would leave this place alive.”
Vanadeil’s sudden shift from composed yet brusque observance to relaxed raconteur gave the impression of a man controlled by impulse; an observation one would be prudent to keep in mind. Rarely a man of one mind, his attention wavered and occasionally broke altogether if it held no use to him or he tired of a particular conversation, causing him to slip into several different personalities at apparently arbitrary intervals.

“Now, to provide the name you seek…” Vanadeil altered his tone, taking a gravely melancholy pitch as he withdrew his hood, casting it back with his free hand, allowing the iridescent silver rain to wash the bitter memories of a life destroyed as he searched his ageing wits once again for the name he had earned for his labours.

“I am known by many names, stranger… more than half I myself dislike, and less than half I do not deserve. Yet…”
He returned his empty gaze to the ruins, his mind wandering.
“If only for the sake of compensate, I shall speak to you my name in return for your own.”

He paused to swipe a strand of hair out of his face before he continued. “So, ‘friend’, you may know me as Vanadeil Maneson, alleged demi-god and supposed champion of the universe. As for what you may choose to refer to me as… I care not.

“Now, my opponent…” setting his sights once again on his enemy, Vanadeil brought forward his trident, clutching in now with both hands as he prepared himself, whether to attack or defend he had not yet decided, “…may we begin?”

OOC: Sorry for the rushed end... gotta go to the dentists...

 

[frisson]

The Russian playwright? Can't say I'm all too familiar with his work. Meh, I'm sure a tad dosage of ignorance won't cost me the duel.

'Pleased to meet you... Vanadeil.'

A barely distinguishable grin crept up the side of Zen's face, and as he lowered his entire form, his arms rose beside him, and collective orbs of matter gathered in his palms. They connected with each other, until they began to take their intended form, two intricately designed daggers.

The rain annoyed him to an extent, his clothes were already drenched, and streams of moisture were seeping through his top hat and slowly running down his cheek. That felt really... weird.

And then... he was gone.

The pair of daggers were all that remained, and they spun several times, before hurtling in the direction of Vanadeil, the first aimed specifically at his right shin, and the second at his throat, though more so to the left. However, they hadn't even cleared the distance between themselves and their target before Zen reappeared ten or so meters directly above his opponent, with broadsword in grasp.

He needn't make a sound, for the blade held loosely in his grip howled malevolently as it cut through the air. Momentum built in his swing as he flipped several times before he came crashing down, undoubtedly with terrible force. Whether it connected, was yet to be determined.

OOC: Forgive me. This post just lacked... so many things.

 

[Laughing Stock]

The first dagger struck Vanadeil’s shin, right on target, dropping him to one knee in an instant as the other sailed harmlessly overhead, disappearing into the void of white shadow an unrelenting storm of howling wind and driving rain had created. A burning intensity shot through his leg, setting a flame within him that no amount of rain could quench. Tears shed both for the pain that smote his leg rendering it useless and for the life he would not fulfil streamed from his eyes, clouding his vision as he lifted his head to offer the clouded sky one last embrace.

But there was no sky. No soft patter of rain upon his broken face, no last howl of the wind in a tearful farewell. There was nothing but the vast shadow of his victorious opponent, looming over him like the sun to the moon, his sword held forth to rush Vanadeil’s ascension to the next world. The sweet kiss of death touched upon Vanadeil’s lips as a final tear, a fond farewell to the world he loved so, rushed from the face of he who gave it birth into the arms of the earth, the final gift Vanadeil offered to the world before the blade of Ningenteki Zenith rushed forward to greet him, and passed through, cleaving the Ethereal Pilgrim in two.

I was highly likely Zenith had no idea of what he had unleashed… for Vanadeil had been forever bound to the mortal realm, his eternal soul doomed to walk the limbo of life… and if he could not walk life within the confines of a vessel, he would have to settle as living on as a truly Ethereal Pilgrim.

He passed through Zen, his misty, barely visible azure form sliding beyond both sword and man like they were nothing as he hovered almost uncertainly for a moment before regaining the poise he held in life, his eyes peering down at Zenith in a scornful imitation of pity. Behind him still yet flowed his great cloak, now a pale blue as it hung lifeless, free of the relentless wind as his hair, formerly a dead grey, now like his eyes returned to a brilliant white. His face, once littered with the scars of battles both fought and yet to come, had returned to its original delicate beauty as Vanadeil raised a weapon, the same milky-white shape shifter he clutched before the death of his thousand year old vassal, and aimed the point of the trident towards his opponent, a mocking sneer curling his lips.

“Look,” Vanadeil bellowed, his voice taking on an eerie, metallic tone, “and weep at your folly! How can you hope to kill that which has already died, my friend? How do you hope to overcome the wrath of the man you have slain?”
Twisting the Sand Blade into a whip, Vanadeil howled with mirthless laughter, the wind joining him in a harsh shriek that would sting the ears of mortals.

Yet Vanadeil…Vanadeil had long ago become something more, much more, than ‘mortal’.

Just as his final chuckle faded away, Vanadeil brandished his whip, snapping it in the air with a crack like lightning. “Now come, Stranger,” Vanadeil whispered to his opponent in a voice barely audible, yet clearly heard, “Come and in your folly face the true might of the Ethereal Pilgrim!”

A wild crack of thunder accompanied the bright flash of lightning, a vertical beam of electricity lancing forth from the skies to strike where Vanadeil had only moments before stood.

“Face him and die…” Vanadeil whispered with a deathly chill as he once again emerged behind Zenith and, floating back several paces, lashed out with his whip, swiping horizontally at his opponents head as he brought himself around in a full circle. Then, with but a flick of his wrist, Vanadeil drew forth the Blood Blade, a small dagger seemingly forged from the flesh and bone of an unfortunate human, and cast it at his opponent, aiming specifically for his heart.

Again, Vanadeil lashed out with the Sand Blade, now transformed into a morning star as he danced, striking first with a horizontal swipe at the head and then, after another elegant twirl, brought the spiked ball hurtling downwards to clash and likely shatter Zeniths skull into several blood-splattered fragments.

OOC: I truly hope I caught you off-guard with the first two paragraphs... XD
Don't worry. You can still win. You just have to figure out what weakness the ethereal remains of a man bound to the world of the living would have. Can't be that hard.

 

[frisson]

OOC: Maybe if I destroyed all life in existence... then he wouldn't be bound to anything?

IC:

It actually hit?

Zenith's malevolent grin soon formed into a frown of disappointment, the blade had cleaved straight through this Vanadeil character, with little effort for that matter. Almost, no effort at all, as if effort itself became a mere concept that Zenith could no longer grasp.

Not really, now he was just exaggerating.

A tingling sensation crept up his spine, as the sudden realization that this man, Vanadeil, was no longer man, but a spirit, and had more or less anticipated the release from his earthly vessel, most likely with earnest. Oh how Zenith despised the earnest, with such a passion, to the extent that he could do nothing, lest he too become one of them in the whole seriousness of the ordeal.

Not really, now he was just lying. To who?

Was it a good idea to ignore the fact that this Ethereal Pilgrim had just passed straight through him, and that an assault from behind was imminent? Zenith found himself wondering, as he fell to the ground, avoiding contact with his opponent's whip altogether. Rolling forward, Zen rose once more, adjusting his bow tie, as an exotic blade almost came into contact with his back, more specifically his heart, before it disintegrated into a cluster of particles no longer visible to the untrained eye.

Turning to face his less than friendly adversary, Zenith was greeted with the less than friendly end of said opponent's morning star, which apparently tore through Zenith's skull with ease. Unfortunately for Vanadeil, Zenith could present no evidence that such an incident occurred. Again the morning star made an attempt to bereave the magician of life, this time descending from above, much like a falling star. However, the damage dealt was nil, unless you count the small crater it formed in the earth beneath Zenith's feet.

'Be that your true might, then I must confess my disappointment,' spoke Zenith, imparting his thoughts on this otherwise damned incarnation of spiritual matter, his tone a slight indication to his boredom.
'Dead or alive, exempt from the laws of existence you are not.'

Zen had dealt with gods, let alone misguided spirits. There are greater means of destruction, and greater powers that allowed it. Then again, it was not Zenith's intention to utterly destroy this... man. How was he to establish Ordinis Sanctimonia if he were to eliminate each potential candidate?

Removing his cape and top hat, he hurled them effortlessly into the stormy sky as rain finally made contact with his hair, and ran down his face. Physicality had been restored, but for as long as Zenith wished it. He merely had to weaken the electromagnetic properties of his structure to avoid repulsion altogether, but it felt rather... incomplete? He definitely preferred the sensual experience of life opposed to the empty immortality of death, but it did little to phase him.

Snapping off his bow tie, Zenith undid the button on his collar, and ran his gloved hand gently along his neck, before allowing the bow to land in a muddy puddle beside the small crater of Vanadeil's morning star. And then, gazing back at his opponent, the world seemed to slow for a very brief second as his cape came drifting back down, and obstructed the view of one another.

When the cape had finally landed in the same puddle as his bow tie, it became quite obvious that Zenith was nowhere to be seen. The top hat soon followed, but unlike the cape and tie, it made itself comfortable over the spiky sphere of his opponent's mace.

Now you have a choice, a chance. Join me, join Ordinis Sanctimonia, or embrace the eternal absence of thought in the unchartered voids of chaos and non-existence.

OOC: Blueh. Join or die? No, I'm not going to use magic to utterly obliterate you... this is a melee battle after all. So far I've simply mimicked the ability to avoid physical harm and manipulate weapons. Zenith is capable of much more however... I'm just thinking of how to harm you without magic, so Zenith disappearing was a chance to ponder. xD He'll return after you've made your decision.

 

[Laughing Stock]

“Bah, amateur illusionist…” Vanadeil laced the last word in poison as he spat it out, his eyes cast towards the invisible boundaries of this makeshift arena in annoyance.
“I have not come here for a petition, stranger,” Vanadeil replied to the disembodied voice of his elegantly dressed opponent, “nor have I ever had any wish to become the grunt of a power-hungry ignoramus, much less the puppet of a coward.”
The calm exhilaration of a death long awaited having passed him now, Vanadeil reached within his cloak, searching each of his deep pockets as if for something in particular before frowning, despairing of his fruitless search in irritation. Unfortunately, unlike certain other objects, his favourite brand of cigars had not been bound to his soul.

For indeed, like his soul which had been forever bound to the realm of the living, so too had particular objects he held a close affinity to become chained to his soul, his fate. The Three Blades he wielded were one such example, having become to close to him one would think he thought of them as close friends. They meant everything to him, more than the entire world, more even than his own life… for they would be his key to freedom.
They would make him a God… and for that reason, he had taken every precaution to ensure they remained safe.

A small, glowing orb of crimson red materialized in the palm of Vanadeil’s left hand, pulsating with an eerie dark glow. The rain, the wind, even the very light itself seemed to be sucked into this lustrous ball of red, with each small addition the orb growing larger until it eventually began to take shape and even grow texture.
It appeared as a small dagger, seemingly formed from the flesh and bone of some unfortunate human.

Curling the Blood Blade for but a few moments in his hand, Vanadeil swiftly retired the weapon, depositing it once again within its leather scabbard before noticing, with no small amount of bemusement, the top-hat resting precariously atop his Sand Blade.
Remaining puzzled as to how it got there, Vanadeil shook off the stylish item of clothing with but a flick of the wrist, abandoning it to the destructive whim of a storm still in the making and, as if fond of the trinket, the wind twirled it in mid-air as if to admire the craftsmanship before sending it spiralling off into parts unknown.

Sparing a final moment to transform the Sand Blade into a hulking Warhammer, Vanadeil returned his now wavering attention to this rather… tedious duel, revolving the brutish weapon in both hands as he patiently waited for this imperceptible gentleman to make a move.
“You face an enemy as old as time,” Vanadeil went on, that harsh ring to his voice growing deeper as Vanadeil’s mood fouled, “an enemy with might and patience as deep and vast as the abyss. An enemy who does not die, does not sleep, and does not eat… you face an enemy that should not exist in this world, in this universe.”

Vanadeil pounded his weapon into the ground with almost comforting ease, creating a small ripple in the earth below. “I grow weary of this pointless banter, stranger. We are here only to test the physical strength of the other, not their way with words. So, if you would forgive my impertinence, would you kindly rejoin our battle so I may destroy you?”

OOC: You may assume I have opted for death.
Regardless, destroying the universe would do little to halt Vanadeil, the reason why you may discover if you so wish, and I must also confess Vanadeil is much... much greater at manipulating the elements and a few other things than at swinging about a mace or tossing around blood-splattered daggers bound to his eternal soul, although he does display a reasonable amount of skill in that aspect...