Fighting Phantoms (Vanator)

[Irriari]

Irriari knew that soon, she would fall to the ground if she did not rest her wings. Her whole body ached from the training and she knew that if the warrior hadn't caught onto the signs he would soon. Falling out of the air would lend little credence to her races reputation as fierce warriors. She willed her wings keep her afloat for a little bit longer, focusing all her spare energy into an attempt to make sure that they did not waver and that her arms did not shake.

It amazed her that she was still speaking to him, and Irriari knew that if she lived to make it back to the colony the Elders would flay her alive if they found out about any part of her interaction with the drykas. To them, her descriptions of him would not matter. Her weariness and lack of ability to fight at her best would matter even less. To the male warriors of her colony, a fight was simply that and the lack of action on her part was both a show of how weak she was, and stupid as well. Their opinions did not matter, and they hardly ever had, even when she was younger. She did not subscribe to the belief that one should fight a stronger opponent simply because it was a principle. If that made her a coward, she would remain trembling her whole life, because this man and his ax did worry her.

She pondered his statement, and acknowledged the truth in his words as he spoke, and the man echoed what nearly any of his kind would say. They did take from others. From the slaves, they took the livelihood of those they captured. From the akalak, they stole the very air out of their chest and the movement in their hearts whenever they could. Yes, her race did take what they wanted, needed and sought. Somewhere, deep within herself, Irriari empathized with the human, and could see his point. If the tables were turned, she could truly understand why the Zith were hated. But that part of her was buried too deep, under memories of her own kills and slaves she owned. This was the life she had lived and known for years and to anything else seemed foolish.

Irriari flew down to the ground and lightly let her feet hit the grass. She prayed that the move looked as graceful as she wished it would, and that her eyes held fire, not the bone tired sensations that were coursing through her body. She looked at him and then spoke.

“I suppose we could coexist, if such a thing were ever to happen. We were not made to do such things though. You know that I can see you in the dark, and that the light burns my eyes. How would we farm? How would we develop a 'civil' society when every part of our bodies craves that edge over our fellow den mates by violence, or whatever means we can manage? Do you think that humans and the blue warriors are the only ones who die by our claws?”

She laughed as the memories flooded back to her. Bodies were everywhere during the mating of Death and Pestilence. Zith had killed their brethren as easy as a cat would destroy a mouse. She continued speaking,

“No, we kill each other as well, and probably more than you would expect. It is written in our veins, human. We are chaotic, and we are killers. I cannot explain it to you any better than that. Maybe one day, if you felt the blood sight, you would understand.”

She waited for him, knowing that he could trample her now. He wouldn't expect the poison, but it hardly mattered, as the potency of the plant based blend she had used would not kill him.

[Vanator]

As the she-zith drifted to the grass, Vanator gaver her credit. He knew she was straining to maintain flight. She was not so haughty as to drive herself to exhaustion just to feed her pride. But it was also a great risk, for she lost the advantage over him, and now she was vulnerable to the mounted drykas. Perhaps, the zith saw within him the same kind of curiosity he found in her. Enough so that they had not immediately gone for one another's throats. Vantor knew, in his head, that not all zith were the same. Some colonies were said to actually have some interactions with humans, limited trade and such. This one, apparently, possessed some greater cognition, to see past the instincts that drove their kind to such violence and cruelty. Indeed, he was not so blind as to recognize there were some of his people that would severely rebuke him for holding this conversation. He himself, before that evening, would have done the same, chastising himself for not slaying the creature outright. But the wisdom of his father prevailed, and the human restrained himself for the moment, for there was much insight that could be drawn from this unique encounter. As the zith spoke, Vanator was taken aback by the eloquence of her language and perception. Zith were not all growls and hisses and snarled threats after all. The mare fidgeted as the zith settled to the ground, and Van leaned down to soothe it with a pat and soft whispers. Then his gaze fell again to the ebony gaze of the she-zith. he could see her more clearly now, able to define the fine, silky fur covering her body. She was nearly as tall as he, Van surmised. Had she been a human, her form would have been pleasing, lean and well muscled, especially in the upper body. She bore curves like a woman and the man wondered for a moment how anatomically similar she was to human females. Probably most startling was the features of her face. They were sharp and exotic, but not inhuman. A wave of nausea washed over Vanator. He felt as if he were betraying Tamar by speaking with the zith, conceding some civility towards her, finding a vestige of humanity in the beast. They killed Tamar. Yes, logically both human and zith agreed it was the way of things, the nature of the Sea of Grass. But the drykas wrestled with the deep personal aspect of this engagement. He fingered his battle ax as he shifted in his leather armor. She was weakened and vulnerable, he was sure he could kill her, and rather easily. But he hadn't. Deep down he knew slaying her would not ease any loss. The fight at Din had proven that. Was it enough to kill her simply because she was zith? The warrior, the hunter, the master of the plains said yes. But the leader, the veteran said no, not yet. "I have no reason to boast before you zith. We both come from a race of fighters, warriors and survivors. You know what I am capable of, just as I know what you can do. You know that you are disadvantaged. Weary and on the ground, a mere click to my horse and you are under her hooves, the biting blade of my ax following. It is not bragging, you know it is fact. I am not a fool though, you could rip out my horse's throat in the process, leaving me stranded. You may even rend my flesh enough for me to bleed to death." His gold-flecked gaze detected the intelligence in his opponent's dark eyes. Vanator weighed the zith. She had earned a measure of respect from him, not for her ferocity or prowess, as one would expect, but rather for her intellect, perception and restraint. Of course he did not trust her, and killing her was always an option to end the tense stand off. "I have a proposition. I do not trust you zith, but you are unlike any of your kind that I have met. You intrigue me, and I believe you are equally intrigued by me, or you would have tried to kill me or flee by now." He paused, glaring at the creature. "We are warriors, both, in our own way. What better training for a warrior, than to practice against one's own foe?" Without taking his eyes off of the she-zith, the drykas slid from his yvas to land lightly in the grass, just feet from her. "I propose a sparring match...between you and I." Vanator's heart pounded, surprising even himself at his offer. He stood with feet well planted, ax at the ready, should she choose to attack him outright. Doing the same to her was not out of the question either. "I am Vanator", he announced proudly.

[Irriari]

Irriari felt immensely better now that her feet were among the soft grasses again. While her fear of being killed had not lessened, the enormous strain on her back and shoulders had been plucked from her body. Her wings lay at rest now, though she knew if she had to she could be airborne again, though it would have to be as a last resort. Her vast wings could only hold her body for so long before the pain became too much and she risked falling from the sky. While few of her race ever had, she had listened to whispered stories of the those that did. Depending on how high they were above the ground, the bones either snapped on impact, or they died, nearly instantly. Neither choice was palatable, but she had felt safe and protected in the air. She had learned early, through many hard lessons that pain was preferred to the unknown- one could wrestle with pain, or suppress it if need be as pain was a daily occurrence. However, if one lost fight with the unknown it could easily end a life.

The drykas did not descend upon her the second her clawed feet touched the earth as she had expected. Instead, the man stayed on his horse and spoke to her as he had the whole time. It was unnerving, and every muscle had been tensed and prepared for the fight. Now, her body and mind were unsure of how to react, so she watched his movements and listened.

While she was loathe to admit it to the tan drykas, he was right. He could take her down now, and having the horse to contend with made the fight all the more dangerous. While he wore tough leather armor, she was clothed in only her skin and pride, which hadn't gotten her far. While Irriari would have loved the chance to slay the horse and land a killing blow on the man if he attacked, logic told her that she would be beyond lucky if she could damage just one of them. The odds were stacked against her, but still he spoke, and offered her something she would have never guessed.

The man wanted to train against her. He would learn every move and maneuver she had as they danced in battle, and she would memorize each turn and punch he threw at her. It was so much better than fighting the phantom warriors she had dreamed up. This was a true fight, with real consequences, and a challenge that no made up illusion could ever match. While every part of her body screamed at her to say no, she knew that she had to say yes. Something about this man was interesting and intriguing. He had failed to kill her when he could, and now he offered her the chance to spar against him, as an equal.

Vanator. The name sounded odd in her head, and Irriari had to acclimate to the unusual combination of sounds before she got it right in her mind. The drykas name was far different then her original name in Zithanese and she knew that the concession of his name was a big step for the warrior. On the battle field the enemies were nameless- each and every opponent was just a faceless statistic.

“Vanator, I am Irriari. If were are to fight, then let us begin, without weapons, and only our bare hands to show each other what we are capable of.”

Irriari moved her feet, with one slightly in front of the other for balance. While few Zith fought superbly on their feet, they all knew the basics of stances that would improve balance and stability. Her hands were curled loosely to her sides, in a way that she could easily pivot and strike out with her claws in an instant.

It was finally time to see what this heart-sore drykas man was made out of.

[Vanator]

Was he mad? Sparring with a Zith? Vanator was not a young buck, bent on proving himself or full of drykas bravado and false invulnerability. Not many were the male drykas who even made it to his age. In the civilized cities his age would be rather average, among the men of the horseclans, he was a veteran. So why the daring proposition? The questions bounced around his head even as he slid from the safety of his mount. Maybe it was simply drykas pride and the need for challenge. The past few seasons he had begun a family, spent the days in the arms of his new wives, forging strong relationships that would strengthen the pavilion. Kashik's womb was already swollen with his first legitimate offspring. Van had put his energy into starting his family, and he had enjoyed it with great pride. But the man itched for more, the rush of battle, the thrill of the hunt. To spar with a Zith, though he loathed her kind, was the ultimate experience. Madness or not, Vanator's blood coursed with a sound thudding, his soul aroused for the fight. Yes, his decision may have been clouded by his hatred, by his memories of Tamar. But they were tempered by his curiosity and years of learning that negotiation and diplomacy often got you further than shedding blood. The drykas laughed at her statement. "No weapons? Are not those black talons on your hands and feet the very weapons you employ to disembowel your foes, I am not so well equipped, Irriari." his last word oozed out with distaste. In a bold move, Vanator tossed the battle ax aside. It appeared more concessionary that it really was, for a hand ax remained thrust through his belt. Vanator and Kashik often wrestled, at least before she got pregnant. Though smaller and not as strong as her husband, Kashik was a warrior, clever, relentless and without mercy. Those matches proved challenging, and they were not without scratches and bruises. This would be different. While he was careful enough not to seriously injure his wife when they sparred, he had no qualms about doing so to the female zith. Van adjusted his posture in an almost mirror stance as the zith. his hands, however, were raised to about shoulder height and to the sides, held open loosely. His knees bent slightly. The human peered into the zith's black eyes, but was unable to read them, her features too inhuman to interpret. But her body would speak to him, and his eyes dropped to her chest. In his mind, he drew a T on her torso. The down stroke drawn from her upper chest dropping between her breasts, the cross stroke reaching from shoulder to shoulder. By observing the mental T, how one shoulder dipped, or another raised, or both dropped, he could get a hint of how Irriari was about to strike. In the tense moment that followed, the few shreds of clouds that shaded part of the full moon passed, and Irriari became even clearer to the horseman. Her gray hide appeared tinged with silver, her white mane like platinum. Dull, ebony claws adorned her hands and feet, and there was a glimpse of pearly fangs as she breathed. All the while her large bat-like wings flexed around her. Irriari's appearance was the stuff children's horror tales were made of. Vanator worked to regulate his breathing into deep even breaths. He could smell her. It was not an evil smell, as he would have anticipated. It was the scent of fur, sweat and something he could not identify, but was not unpleasant. With the intent of gauging Irriari's reactions, Van shot out a hand, open, towards her chest. It was not meant to make content, pulled and withdrawn quickly, hoping to see how quickly she moved, and in what way.

[Irriari]

She could kill him now. If he truly fought her hand to hand, her claws could shred him to bits before he could reach any of his other weapons. The poison that coated her claws would make him lose his agility and strength 15 chimes after it entered his blood stream. The effects would have lasted for six hours under normal circumstances, but the poison had lost some of its potency sitting in her kit for so long. Also, some of the paste would have inevitably come off during her movement but Irriari knew that the poison would effect him enough to be useful, if she had a chance to claw him. Would the drykas be surprised? Shocked? Did he think her race was capable enough to use something as complex and disarming as poison for a weapon?

She looked him up and down and waited for him to make a move. Her arms tensed lightly as she waited for him to rush her. Many other fighters thought that because of her size, it would be simple to overwhelm her and then pound her into a useless mess. Though her stature was short, the move was not as easy as it would seem. Her claws had disemboweled men who had used the tactic in the past, and she had laughed as she threw their very insides onto their faces.

Vanator spoke and his words echoed her thoughts.

“I will not use my claws against you, at least not excessively. I promise the wounds of your flesh will not require a healer. They will only need bandages”

That statement would be one she would live to regret, and she knew it, but she had to keep her promise to the drykas warrior. Her race had honor, if nothing else.

Vanator mirrored her pose, and she could now see his full height. The man had to be at least a foot taller than she, and his broad armored shoulders were tensed and she knew that they both were ready for the fight. Irriari breathed quickly now, trying to fill her lungs with the oxygen she knew her body would need in the minutes to come. While many of the warriors in her strategy thought it was a silly strategy, it was what she had always done, so it continued.

Suddenly, the human's hand darted out towards her chest. Instinct told her to move away, but she paid no heed to it. She lunged forward, propelling her body weight from one clawed foot and grasped for his hand, hoping to roll him to the ground in the process, if she managed to clutch his hand. It was the only way she could poison him with all of his armor. She swore in Zithanese as she reached out. No matter if she took him down, or she simply fell to the ground, it would hurt her left wing and shoulder. Such was the way of battle.

OOCSerious surprises in store. ^^

[Vanator]

When Vanator made his initial move to get a reaction, he had anticipated Irriari would attempt to block his testing strike, or simply dodge it. He did not envision zith as grapplers, so he was unprepared as she shot her own hand out and laid hold on his wrist. The she-zith's grip was surprisingly tight, and the simple act of stealing his control for a moment turned his momentum against him as his balance was compromised. Irriari twisted in line with the direction of the drykas' momentum and the both spun, the zith's guidance taking both opponents to the ground before Vanator could regain his equilibrium. "Petchin' zith bitch!" Vanator growled between clenched teeth. His adrenaline was now in full release, increasing the rate of his beating heart and quickening his breathing. Rolling across the grass, the human wrest his wrist from the grasp of the zith, shooting his other hand out in front if him, palm open, in an attempt to strike her in the chest and move her beyond her shorter reach. Her wings flapped and moved around them, threatening to distract and confuse him. His legs scrambled to move away from Irriari's, attempting to get them under him so he could either return to his feet, or leap on top of her to gain an advantage on the ground. OOCMy combat posts tend to be rather short

[Irriari]

OOCNeither are mine, so no problem. Let the human killing games... I mean sparring, begin.

Irriari hit the ground hard and her bad shoulder slammed into the dirt with enough force to make her eyes water as she struggled to keep her hold on the drykas. It was like riding a glassbeak, only more fun. The drykas cursed at her in common and she snarled loudly in response as she attempted to draw air into her lungs before he had the chance to slam her face into the ground, or worse.

It was a precarious position, and she hated having her wings so close to the ground. One roll to the side or ill timed flip and her wings would be caught underneath her and the latticework of bones would be at their breaking point. Such pain was nearly impossible to overcome, and the threat of being flightless stopped many of her race from such daring and stupid maneuvers. Fear flooded her body as she struggled to retrieve the hand that the drykas had pulled away with one forceful tug. The mans leg were moving, and she could tell he was intent on placing distance between them. Once her element of surprise was gone, the man would surely have an advantage over her.

The humans hand, which she had disregarded while focusing on his windmilling legs, shot towards her chest and he could do nothing but stare as his palm hit her sternum forcefully. The air was gone from her lungs as her body was propelled backwards from the sheer power behind the blow. She coughed as the world danced in too many colors in front of her. Irriari tried again to lunge forward, intent on clawing his hand or any bit of open skin. It would only take one scratch for the poison to set in, but if the drykas got any more of an advantage her one saving grace would be lost and the sparring match would surely be his.

[Vanator]

Vanator felt the heel of his palm connect with a satisfying thud against Irriari at her sternum, and for the first time in his life, he felt the silky lined skin of a zith. He did not have time to explore the texture. His blow had pushed her back, but his tenacious foe lunged forward, even as the human scrambled for some distance between them. A small, black clawed hand lashed out at him, her sharp tipped fingers grazing along his forearm as he withdrew it. There was a sting as the talons opened up several thin, shallow lacerations across his skin. Vanator winced only slightly, his adrenaline drowning most of the light pain. He had no time to see the small beads of blood oozing from the flesh wounds. It did spike his fury, and as he struggled to get upright, the drykas lashed out with a poorly aimed kick, meant for the she-zith's leg. Getting himself to his knees, Van took a fraction of a breath to assess his opponent. He had always considered a fight with a zith to be with weapon in hand. Brawling with one required a closer engagement, and the clawed hands and feet of his foe were a fine deterrent from such an intimate attack. But it was what he had agreed to. A few good, solid blows, if he could land them, would end the sparring exercise, he was sure. He cocked back his arm, balled up his hand, then lifting one knee, readied to launch himself at Irriari and beat her with his fist.

[Irriari]

Irriari felt her claws sink into the mans flesh slightly. It was not enough to cause more than a week's worth of annoyance, if she discounted the effects of the poison that would be working it's way through his body. The poison had taken a fair amount of time to make, and was a combination of hasale'ith'savanht anchor roots and a poison that had started losing its potency due to age. Together, the mixture would cause the drykas to lose his strength and speed for six bells after it set in. Irriari balled her own hands into fists as she fell on top of Vanator with the loss of her momentum. The gesture was unnatural and painful as her claws curled up into her palms and fingers and cut both her fingers and hand. She had promised the man that she would not harm him with her claws too badly, and so far, he had not attacked her with any of his weapons, so she stayed true to her own promise. Blood flowed from her hands as she twisted around and felt the mans kick graze over the top of her back, missing her right wing by a few inches.

Irriari moved her legs around behind her, intent on quickly facing the human and getting her wings out of the reach of his flailing arms and feet. Her breathing was heavy and she knew that her body had only just began to recover from earlier when she started pushing it to the edge again. She would pay for this later with bruises, swollen hands and exhaustion, but she had known that from the start. The faint tingling of the poison entering her hands started slowly, and she wondered if the drykas could feel the same in his arm. The mans had decided to forgo kicks in favor of punches again. She had only a split second to turn to protect her sore sternum before the weight of the warrior connected with her middle ribs and hip. She swore loudly in zithanese, cursing both his mother and his father before she swung her upper body back around. Her own fist was already balled similarly to the way his had been and she swung forward, aiming for his shoulder or anything else she could hit.

The pain from the exercise and hits he had landed sung to her body in a sultry voice. The pain from each replaced the last, like a torch being extinguished in a different part of the den. It was a beautiful feeling, to know that one was alive and fighting against a worthy opponent. She bared her teeth into a grin as she snarled at the drykas, hoping the gesture would egg him on, to heighten the intensity of their dance.

[Vanator]

First blood had been drawn, and it had been his own. Vanator, in a detached thought, wondered if the zith had truly held back when she clawed him, or had she intended on sinking her talons into his flesh deep enough to rend muscles and blood vessels. Regardless, the result was a flesh wound and, aside from a peculiar tingling at the site of the injury, he was no worse for the wear. As he scrambled to gain a better position, Irriari had avoided any real impact from his wild kick and began to right herself, her broad wings flexing as she shifted to meet his stance. They still remained on the ground, the drykas having to resort to his less reliable brawling experience with the abandonment if his ax for this exercise. Determined and not willing to wait for the zith to strike out again, Vanator closed in with several punches, aimed at breaking what would have been the floating rib in a human, whether a zith had one or not he could not know. The blows landed against Irriari's side soundly, and he expected to see her crumple, or cry out. On the contrary, the vicious creature twisted around, a feral grin on Irriari's face that seemed almost pleased was planted on her demonic face. A balled fist followed, swung wide, glancing off off Vanator's shoulder and catching his jaw as it made its round. A flash of white sparked in his eyes as the pain of the impact resonated in his skull. The she-zith's blow was a solid one, and packed more power than the human had anticipated, nearly dislocating his jaw. A breath of recovery cleared his vision, already hindered by the waxing and waning light of the cloud-shrouded moon. The pale locks of the zith's mane were always visible, a platinum halo around her head. It swayed back and forth across her face, even as the thin dirty blond braids on either side of his face shifted as the combatants jockeyed for position. The throbbing pain in his jaw lingered as the horseman struggled to steady his balance after her strike. He hissed his own Pavi curses at the female, accusing her of mating with swine and repeating a particularly ugly rendition of 'wretched bitch'. Get her down. Van heard his own voice in his head advise. With one hand outstretched, the drykas lunged forward, hoping to lock his strong grasp around Irriari's throat and force her down as his fist, already raised again, readied to pummel her. The drykas had no doubt he would have to endure some pain with his move, but the zith seemed disadvantaged on the ground, and once she was pinned, he could force her submission.