He hasn't really fought anything or anyone that could be considered a worthy opponent since he died. He thinks that perhaps he's gotten a little rusty, in the absence of such things.
Perhaps ambushing him would be the practical thing to do, but when it's just the two of them - sparring, nothing serious, he remembers - it seems pointless.
"I don't have all the time in the world," he says, as they stand in what was likely once an arena. Today, it fulfills its ancient purpose once more. "So you'd do well to make it count."
He holds a spear loosely in one hand. His old one had been broken in the fight that killed him; he hasn't gotten around to repairing it yet. Perhaps he doesn't need to.
Avery does a double take. "Wow. Really? I promise not to bring my sword along and you bring in a weapon? Gee. Thanks. I appreciate you making sure we're on equal footing."
He should have seen that coming. Maybe if he had studied law he would have caught that particular little loophole in time.
He rolls his eyes. "Whatever. At least I'm going to stick to my word."
He takes a deep breath, narrows his eyes, and then thrusts his hand forward, a bolt of blue flame--significantly bigger than it should have been--leaping from his fingers toward Ekkehardt.
"You broke my staff in two the last time we met," Ekkehardt says irritably. "We are on equal footing."
Normally he could cut or deflect such magic, but he decides it's wiser to dodge instead. He points his spear as he leaps out of the way, and the air whistles as it sharpens into knife-like projectiles that hurl themselves at Avery.
Avery doesn't have much time to think about how much he disagrees with Ekkehardt's statement before he's forced to leap backwards away from the projectiles, one nearly scraping the sole of his boot.
They look sharp--too sharp--and he wonders just how much damage they would have done to him if they'd hit.
Enough that he shouldn't bother holding back.
Fire has always been the only magic at his disposal, never too flashy and powerful, and certainly never once the brilliant blue that flies from him now. It's like comparing a candle to a bonfire, and though he knows he should try and keep some sort of hold on what he's doing, the power at his fingertips brings forth a sort of brilliant exhilaration, nowhere near as horrifyingly intoxicating as the soul had been that day, but thrilling nonetheless.
He grins with an almost manic sort of glee as he thrusts both hands before him this time, spirals of flame snaking around his arms only to split and converge in a sort of pincer.
"Oh, is that how you want to do things? I see." His voice is an ominous rumble, his eyes alight; he can feel the searing heat as it manifests. So much for 'nothing too serious'.
He's scorched by the flame, no matter how fast he moves and twists to avoid it, but clothing can be repaired. He launches himself straight towards Avery, the air in front of him rippling as he launches a near-invisible blast of force directly at the other man.
He's surprised, even at himself, how much he's itching for battle again. Or perhaps it's just battle with this one particular person, something he doesn't think too much about.
He should probably be more afraid, but somehow it just feels nostalgic, more like coming home than the soup in that cottage could ever hope to be. What that means, he doesn't know. He doesn't have time to think about it as he braces himself for impact, boots leaving grooves in the dirt as he's knocked back.
Ekkehardt casts aside his spear - now that he's close, it's only a hindrance - eyes burning with intense focus. He lunges to close the last of the distance between them, the air whistling around his right hand as he aims a sharpened blow towards Avery's shoulder.
He remembers just enough about their agreement, and the fact that it would be a waste of his effort so far to actually kill the other man, to not just grab him and attempt to cut his throat.
He tries to dodge, but the blade strikes the side of his shoulder, sending scarlet splattering to the earth below. It's not a deep cut, but it's not shallow by any means, either, and the pain only serves to sharpen Avery's senses.
An urge overtakes him, either insistence or an instinct caused by his new passenger, and with a flick of the wrist, blackened brambles burst from the ground, flailing about in an uncontrolled, unpracticed attempt to grab at Ekkehardt limbs.
The ability is new and unexpected enough that it manages to snare Ekkehardt's legs before he truly realises what's happening. On the other hand, he's more than close enough to drag Avery down with him, so he makes a spirited and viciously cheerful attempt to do so. His grip is hard enough to be painful.
"Interesting new trick you have there," he says at last. If he wasn't dead, he'd sound breathless. He still does, slightly, out of habit.
Avery laughs. His shoulder throbs, tunic already staining dark red, the arm in Ekkehardt's grip protesting it's situation, and yet he sounds positively thrilled. "I know, right? I didn't even know I could do that until now!"
He has to duck his head to dodge a particularly eager vine's lashing, and he fixes it with a brief, admonishing glare before returning his attention to Ekkehardt and trying to pull his arm free. "Meanwhile, I'm not sure you ever needed that staff at all. Just as skilled as always!"
"I'm not supposed to get this close to most enemies, that's why," he replies in an almost admonishing tone. Though, really, he could easily cut apart multiple attackers. The staff had been a reminder not to get too carried away.
There's a pulsing excitement in him that's not entirely his; it's hard not to surrender to it, to slip into raw fighting instinct. The moment of distraction means he loosens his grip as he tries to free himself from the vines without just cutting them apart, his mind temporarily devoting itself to the puzzle of outmaneuvering them.
It would be so easy to set the man aflame. He wouldn't die from it. He couldn't die anymore, really, so if Avery did go that route, Ekkehardt had no reason to complain. Even so, the magic doesn't go any further than a spark at his fingers, not even close to the roaring flames he's thrown before.
The thrill of the fight continues to pump in his veins, more intense than he had ever felt it before, like lightning under his skin. He's not sure if it's the promise of more that stays his hand, or the truce they'd only just forged, or that part of him that's always strived to be a good man that ultimately stays his hand.
Hell, it could even be as simple as the fact that he's still having to dodge the very thorns he's summoned.
One manages to smack him in the stomach and he growls and swats it away. "Okay, so summoning these may not have been the best idea."
That draws a laugh that's practically a cackle from him as he extricates himself. They're determined to keep him locked down; he supposes it's a reflection of their master's determination.
"They're unruly, but I didn't expect anything less from you. You'll just have to teach them who the leader is, so they stop getting in your way."
The burning, coiling presence of the beast locked in his ribcage physically stirs, just a little. Even that simple motion is enough for fever-bright heat to radiate outwards for a brief moment, making them shy away from him entirely.
He's not one to let Avery get away with getting so distracted, though. As soon as he manages to free himself enough, there's another shifting movement in the air; he exhales uselessly and leaps on Avery again, aiming to get both of them away from the thrashing plants.
Maybe the man will realise what he's doing, and dodge him. Either way, it gets him out of range - hopefully.
The heat catches his attention in an instant, his focus on Ekkehardt narrowed enough that he manages to dodge with ease, then leaps at Ekkehardt himself. "Too bad you don't have skin!" he taunts. "These claws would be way more useful if you did."
A part of him recoils in horror at his own words. The part still in battle thinks nothing of it. But there's an unease growing within him now, swallowing up the bloodlust little by little.
"Oh, we're moving onto skinning, now? You really are vicious, aren't you?" His voice is dark and amused (and maybe a little displeased, all the same. It veers too close to old encounters and old scars).
Rather than try to flee, he seizes the opportunity to try and lock the other man down. He twists his body and lunges, aiming to strike Avery in the chest with his shoulder and knock him down. He might even wind him, if he strikes precisely enough.
It hits true, and the growing doubt within Avery is glad it does. He coughs and hacks, trying to catch his breath. The movement of the vines nearby begin to slow, the electricity within starting to fade away.
He doesn't bother getting up once he can breathe again, his gaze fixed on the sky above. "You actually want me to practice after all that?" he murmurs.
The vines nearby finally disperse, dissolving into tiny motes of darkness that disappear.
"I've never felt like that before." He wants to feel it again, and that alone is terrifying.
"Of course I do. If I kept having to leap in to defend you to prevent all of my hard work from going to waste, I imagine your pride couldn't take it." He inspects himself for injury, wincing a little as he touches a spot where the fire had burned him even through his barriers. Heat radiates from the spot as he does something to it, though it's unclear what.
He lifts his head to give Ekkehardt a strange look, then finally starts to push himself into a sitting position. He winces, the cut in his shoulder making itself known. "That's it? That's all you have to say? I said I would tear into you with my own hands!"
"You say that like I've never been threatened before. And if you really wanted to do it, then you would have at least tried harder."
He reaches out, stopping short of touching the other man, and there's another burst of heat as the injury seals itself near-instantly. It still hurts, but the bleeding has stopped, leaving little more than a scar.
There's a pause before he speaks again. "I could have cut your throat instead of your shoulder, but I didn't. So we're even, I would think." The admittance is casual.
Avery was lost to the fight, neck deep in bloodlust, more monster than man. Sure, he's always enjoyed battle. Vanessa had always been his number one goal, but he had never once shied away from a fight or adventure, searched it out even.
But this... This had been different. And Ekkehardt shrugged it off as though it was nothing. Healed him. Called them even.
He just didn't get it.
"Right," he sighs out, and rubs his forehead. "Um. Thanks." He waves a hand. "Not for the whole 'not slitting my throat thing.' Pretty sure that part's obvious. The shoulder. Healing it, I mean."
He waves a hand again, his tone casual. "This is hardly a fight to the death, so it would be irresponsible of me not to fix what I've caused." At least, for him. For others, it's more a battle of incapacitation.
"You seem a bit confused," he says, looking him over. "Though I suppose you didn't expect me to be a healer, so I forgive the assumption."
He opens his mouth and closes it again, repeating the action several times before he's finally able to speak. "Well... yes but that's not the biggest thing here.
I just don't get you. How are you okay with how I acted? I was hardly better than some... some bloodstarved beast there! And you blow it off like nothing happened?"
He merely shrugs. He's taking this whole thing much better than Avery is, apparently. "What's done is done. Making you feel guilty for it is foolish. And it's not a sin to enjoy yourself in combat."
He shakes his head. "Put another way...does thinking about all those you killed in defense of your kingdom feel better if you stained their hands with your blood without feeling anything? Death is death."
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FIGHT CLUB FIGHT CLUB
Perhaps ambushing him would be the practical thing to do, but when it's just the two of them - sparring, nothing serious, he remembers - it seems pointless.
"I don't have all the time in the world," he says, as they stand in what was likely once an arena. Today, it fulfills its ancient purpose once more. "So you'd do well to make it count."
He holds a spear loosely in one hand. His old one had been broken in the fight that killed him; he hasn't gotten around to repairing it yet. Perhaps he doesn't need to.
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He should have seen that coming. Maybe if he had studied law he would have caught that particular little loophole in time.
He rolls his eyes. "Whatever. At least I'm going to stick to my word."
He takes a deep breath, narrows his eyes, and then thrusts his hand forward, a bolt of blue flame--significantly bigger than it should have been--leaping from his fingers toward Ekkehardt.
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Normally he could cut or deflect such magic, but he decides it's wiser to dodge instead. He points his spear as he leaps out of the way, and the air whistles as it sharpens into knife-like projectiles that hurl themselves at Avery.
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They look sharp--too sharp--and he wonders just how much damage they would have done to him if they'd hit.
Enough that he shouldn't bother holding back.
Fire has always been the only magic at his disposal, never too flashy and powerful, and certainly never once the brilliant blue that flies from him now. It's like comparing a candle to a bonfire, and though he knows he should try and keep some sort of hold on what he's doing, the power at his fingertips brings forth a sort of brilliant exhilaration, nowhere near as horrifyingly intoxicating as the soul had been that day, but thrilling nonetheless.
He grins with an almost manic sort of glee as he thrusts both hands before him this time, spirals of flame snaking around his arms only to split and converge in a sort of pincer.
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He's scorched by the flame, no matter how fast he moves and twists to avoid it, but clothing can be repaired. He launches himself straight towards Avery, the air in front of him rippling as he launches a near-invisible blast of force directly at the other man.
He's surprised, even at himself, how much he's itching for battle again. Or perhaps it's just battle with this one particular person, something he doesn't think too much about.
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He remembers just enough about their agreement, and the fact that it would be a waste of his effort so far to actually kill the other man, to not just grab him and attempt to cut his throat.
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An urge overtakes him, either insistence or an instinct caused by his new passenger, and with a flick of the wrist, blackened brambles burst from the ground, flailing about in an uncontrolled, unpracticed attempt to grab at Ekkehardt limbs.
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"Interesting new trick you have there," he says at last. If he wasn't dead, he'd sound breathless. He still does, slightly, out of habit.
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He has to duck his head to dodge a particularly eager vine's lashing, and he fixes it with a brief, admonishing glare before returning his attention to Ekkehardt and trying to pull his arm free. "Meanwhile, I'm not sure you ever needed that staff at all. Just as skilled as always!"
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There's a pulsing excitement in him that's not entirely his; it's hard not to surrender to it, to slip into raw fighting instinct. The moment of distraction means he loosens his grip as he tries to free himself from the vines without just cutting them apart, his mind temporarily devoting itself to the puzzle of outmaneuvering them.
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The thrill of the fight continues to pump in his veins, more intense than he had ever felt it before, like lightning under his skin. He's not sure if it's the promise of more that stays his hand, or the truce they'd only just forged, or that part of him that's always strived to be a good man that ultimately stays his hand.
Hell, it could even be as simple as the fact that he's still having to dodge the very thorns he's summoned.
One manages to smack him in the stomach and he growls and swats it away. "Okay, so summoning these may not have been the best idea."
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"They're unruly, but I didn't expect anything less from you. You'll just have to teach them who the leader is, so they stop getting in your way."
The burning, coiling presence of the beast locked in his ribcage physically stirs, just a little. Even that simple motion is enough for fever-bright heat to radiate outwards for a brief moment, making them shy away from him entirely.
He's not one to let Avery get away with getting so distracted, though. As soon as he manages to free himself enough, there's another shifting movement in the air; he exhales uselessly and leaps on Avery again, aiming to get both of them away from the thrashing plants.
Maybe the man will realise what he's doing, and dodge him. Either way, it gets him out of range - hopefully.
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A part of him recoils in horror at his own words. The part still in battle thinks nothing of it. But there's an unease growing within him now, swallowing up the bloodlust little by little.
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Rather than try to flee, he seizes the opportunity to try and lock the other man down. He twists his body and lunges, aiming to strike Avery in the chest with his shoulder and knock him down. He might even wind him, if he strikes precisely enough.
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He sits back instead, letting the other man catch his breath.
"You need more practice, if someone as rusty as I can catch you out like that."
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The vines nearby finally disperse, dissolving into tiny motes of darkness that disappear.
"I've never felt like that before." He wants to feel it again, and that alone is terrifying.
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He reaches out, stopping short of touching the other man, and there's another burst of heat as the injury seals itself near-instantly. It still hurts, but the bleeding has stopped, leaving little more than a scar.
There's a pause before he speaks again. "I could have cut your throat instead of your shoulder, but I didn't. So we're even, I would think." The admittance is casual.
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Avery was lost to the fight, neck deep in bloodlust, more monster than man. Sure, he's always enjoyed battle. Vanessa had always been his number one goal, but he had never once shied away from a fight or adventure, searched it out even.
But this... This had been different. And Ekkehardt shrugged it off as though it was nothing. Healed him. Called them even.
He just didn't get it.
"Right," he sighs out, and rubs his forehead. "Um. Thanks." He waves a hand. "Not for the whole 'not slitting my throat thing.' Pretty sure that part's obvious. The shoulder. Healing it, I mean."
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"You seem a bit confused," he says, looking him over. "Though I suppose you didn't expect me to be a healer, so I forgive the assumption."
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I just don't get you. How are you okay with how I acted? I was hardly better than some... some bloodstarved beast there! And you blow it off like nothing happened?"
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He shakes his head. "Put another way...does thinking about all those you killed in defense of your kingdom feel better if you stained their hands with your blood without feeling anything? Death is death."
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