The densely forested hills gleamed in the ferocity of the sun, which was an irregular visitor to these parts. For once, no wet blanket smote the hillside with its overwhelming greyness. All the trees seized upon this chance to burst forth with their brightest colours, lending the panoply an almost otherworldly aesthetic. An onlooker with an eye for detail could be held, mesmerized, for hours by a view of such splendour.
However, this particular visitor showed no sign or inclination of even noticing his surroundings.
Clad in Asiatic garb, Matthias’ protective equipment consisted solely of a leather vest and a metal-plated shield, announcing a quiet confidence in his own abilities. At his waist sat a sabre, slotted into a sturdy, reinforced metallic sheath. His provisions contained dried meat and a few plucked berries, indicative of a short trip. His step was light, but steady.
His face, beaten down by many suns harsher than this, was coarse, dark, and leathery. Its lower half was covered by a bramble almost as dense as the forest itself. His frame and gait betrayed a life spent in execution of deeds requiring physical prowess and elite athleticism. His eyes, almost entirely obscured by the heavy overgrowth of his eyebrows, sat deep in his face, always glowering with unwarranted levels of intensity.
The region he found himself in was not suited to him or his kind. The locals were a pygmy race, being on average 4.5 to 5 feet tall. More than a foot shorter than he was. Though this did not concern him directly, it did result in the architectural proportions being far too diminutive for his comfort. The stairs he had been climbing for the past four hours (for the paths everywhere in this region were ascending or descending stairways) had steps too shallow for his liking. Furthermore, their dwarfish size did not allow him to place his foot straight on, as he preferred, but forced him to step sideways, wreaking havoc with his rhythm and tiring him to an unusual degree for a mere half a day’s trek.
His beard, matted with sweat and dust, glistened, as he glared at the sun like a reluctant host would greet an unwelcome visitor. The sweat trickling down his legs served as no deterrent to the resolute and ravenous ants. Most that made the assault met a swift end, but, as is the way with ants, the numbers won the day and the itch afflicting Matthias’ legs distracted him from the weariness in his legs.
Curving round a particularly dense patch of shrubbery, he glimpsed a path running off into the forest, diverging from the main stairway. Wishing for some respite from the relentless sun, he decided to take the detour and have his meal at a suitable spot.
The path ran only a short while before it ended abruptly at a weird formation of rocks running up the hillside. The placement of the boulders made Matthias feel uneasy. It seemed symmetrical and deliberate, almost in the way obstacles and challenges were placed in gladiatorial arenas for the entertainment of the audience. Drawing his sabre, he began climbing over the boulders, picking a path across them, trying to see where they led. The going was tough and often treacherous, but a pernicious curiosity almost forced Matthias onward, until he found himself in a spherical hollow carved into the side of the hill.
It seemed almost like a semi-formed cave, sheltered from above by a combination of overhanging rock and an assortment of vines streaming down towards the ground. The entire area was almost exclusively green. Even the rocks, overgrown with moss, showed no hint of their original colour.
As a cool breeze struck the back of Matthias’ neck, he realized that the sun had taken its leave. All about him a gloom resided, and the sky was blotted out by dark, brooding clouds that threatened deluges. The hollow took on an ominous hue, and every warrior’s instinct warned Matthias that the fight he had traveled far and wide to seek had finally come to him.
However, this particular visitor showed no sign or inclination of even noticing his surroundings.
Clad in Asiatic garb, Matthias’ protective equipment consisted solely of a leather vest and a metal-plated shield, announcing a quiet confidence in his own abilities. At his waist sat a sabre, slotted into a sturdy, reinforced metallic sheath. His provisions contained dried meat and a few plucked berries, indicative of a short trip. His step was light, but steady.
His face, beaten down by many suns harsher than this, was coarse, dark, and leathery. Its lower half was covered by a bramble almost as dense as the forest itself. His frame and gait betrayed a life spent in execution of deeds requiring physical prowess and elite athleticism. His eyes, almost entirely obscured by the heavy overgrowth of his eyebrows, sat deep in his face, always glowering with unwarranted levels of intensity.
The region he found himself in was not suited to him or his kind. The locals were a pygmy race, being on average 4.5 to 5 feet tall. More than a foot shorter than he was. Though this did not concern him directly, it did result in the architectural proportions being far too diminutive for his comfort. The stairs he had been climbing for the past four hours (for the paths everywhere in this region were ascending or descending stairways) had steps too shallow for his liking. Furthermore, their dwarfish size did not allow him to place his foot straight on, as he preferred, but forced him to step sideways, wreaking havoc with his rhythm and tiring him to an unusual degree for a mere half a day’s trek.
His beard, matted with sweat and dust, glistened, as he glared at the sun like a reluctant host would greet an unwelcome visitor. The sweat trickling down his legs served as no deterrent to the resolute and ravenous ants. Most that made the assault met a swift end, but, as is the way with ants, the numbers won the day and the itch afflicting Matthias’ legs distracted him from the weariness in his legs.
Curving round a particularly dense patch of shrubbery, he glimpsed a path running off into the forest, diverging from the main stairway. Wishing for some respite from the relentless sun, he decided to take the detour and have his meal at a suitable spot.
The path ran only a short while before it ended abruptly at a weird formation of rocks running up the hillside. The placement of the boulders made Matthias feel uneasy. It seemed symmetrical and deliberate, almost in the way obstacles and challenges were placed in gladiatorial arenas for the entertainment of the audience. Drawing his sabre, he began climbing over the boulders, picking a path across them, trying to see where they led. The going was tough and often treacherous, but a pernicious curiosity almost forced Matthias onward, until he found himself in a spherical hollow carved into the side of the hill.
It seemed almost like a semi-formed cave, sheltered from above by a combination of overhanging rock and an assortment of vines streaming down towards the ground. The entire area was almost exclusively green. Even the rocks, overgrown with moss, showed no hint of their original colour.
As a cool breeze struck the back of Matthias’ neck, he realized that the sun had taken its leave. All about him a gloom resided, and the sky was blotted out by dark, brooding clouds that threatened deluges. The hollow took on an ominous hue, and every warrior’s instinct warned Matthias that the fight he had traveled far and wide to seek had finally come to him.
And just like that, Matthias caught his first glimpse of his adversary.
Standing atop a boulder, was a man similarly built to Matthias, but leaner and more lithesome. He wore a dark cloak around his shoulders and a wide brimmed hat pulled low over his face, so that, though he stood in plain sight, Matthias could guess little as to the manner of his arms and armour.
That is, until Sigil unsheathed his sword with a flourish, casting his shroud aside in the same, fluid motion. The sword was the standard longsword, with a magnificent finish lending it a pristine countenance.
This revealed a garb strange to Matthias’ eyes. Over a coal-black woollen, full-sleeved shirt, he wore chain mail armour, apparently painted over with tar to give it its midnight hue. His wrists bore vambraces of leather reinforced steel, and his legs bore greaves of similar design. Under his hat, he wore the mask of a bird’s beak, obscuring his face, of which Matthias could see naught.
As the first rumblings of thunder began to sound, Matthias drew his sabre, cursing his luck at having used up so much of his energy already. He stood there, still panting from his exertions, as the first droplets began to splash upon him. They were heavy droplets, laden with foreboding and auguries of impending doom.
It did not take long for the rain to begin pouring down with Biblical vehemence, and Mathias’ fatigue-ridden limbs were piled on to by the weight of his water-logged armor. The longer this fight lasted, Matthias realized, the higher were his chances at being vanquished. And so, it fell to him to make his first move.
Circling to his left, he sought to test the technique of his adversary, trying to find an opening he could exploit. Crouching into the Posta Breve La Serpentina, Matthias sortied forward with a series of lightning jabs and prods, testing, but was avoided with ease each time. Sigil was evidently well trained in swordsmanship. However, his stance and technique was unfamiliar to Matthias. This made him reconsider, and he decided to switch to a riskier, more unpredictable style to counteract his opponent’s.
With his sabre aimed at the ground at an angle, its point facing Sigil, Matthias feinted left, drawing a defensive swipe from his foe, and immediately spun the other way, bringing down toward Sigil’s left arm. The block came, but almost too late, and the sabre’s curved point sliced into the woollen sleeve.
Matthias smiled. There were holes in this technique.
Gaining confidence from this little victory, Matthias used all his years of experience, unleashing volleys in a flurry of combinations, each one wilier than the last, prodding Sigil into more and more of a defensive stance, and forcing him into positions that never let him take the upper hand. Within ten minutes, Sigil’s armour, formerly pristine, bore scuffs and scars indicative of a losing fight, and his sleeve showed many holes, though Matthias had yet to draw blood. Sigil always seemed to be able to fend off the killing blow at the very last moment.
The rain did not relent, and Matthiass’ stamina began to show its wear. His lunges began to betray a hint of desperation, and his twirls were not so much precise pirouettes as hopeful heaves. He realized, soon, that he had been drawn in to expend as much energy as he could without causing any significant damage to his opponent. Those last second blocks and close shaves were not holes in Sigil’s technique, but lures for unwitting hotheads.
The bile rose in Matthias’ throat. He spat at Sigil’s feet in disgust, though his rage was aimed more at himself. Thirty years of field-tested combat tactics lay at his fingertips, and here he was getting played like an adolescent pretender. Any more of these shenanigans, and his legs would give out and he could retire from this world.
Drawing a deep breath, Matthias collected himself. Switching up his stance, he lunged low, this time, aiming at Sigil’s forward knee. The incoming block brought Sigil’s upper body forward, which Matthias anticipated, and he promptly elbowed Sigil in the face. Though the bird beak protected his face, the blow stunned Sigil nonetheless, staggering him temporarily. Matthias, exploiting this, swung the sabre diagonally upwards from left to right, across Sigil’s body. Meeting Sigil’s broadsword, Matthias faked a spin to the other side, and brought his sabre back down towards the same knee. Once again, Sigil lunged forward to block it, but in a much more unbalanced manner. Matthias reared forward and struck Sigil with a vicious headbutt to the face.
The blow sent Sigil to his left, exposing his right shoulder, at which Matthias aimed a push kick, following the tottering Sigil with a leaping lunge, bringing the sabre down with all his might towards Sigil’s head.
The Sabre went clean through, missing Sigil’s face by inches. Matthias noted with grim satisfaction that he had sliced through Sigil’s wide brimmed hat and lopped off the entire beak, leaving a misshapen wreck of a mask in its place. The face was still not visible, and this irked Matthias. If he could only glimpse the face, he would know his opponent’s frame of mind.
Steam spewed forth from his nose as he panted in the downpour. His legs quivered with fatigue, and his hands gnawed in frozen discomfiture brought on by their long and strenuous ordeal.
One last heave ho, he thought to himself, grimly.
Resuming his initial stance, Matthias inched forward, looking for any sign of nerves at his near miss, but seeing none. Sigil stood unaffected, as he had through most of this fight.
Matthias struck at Sigil’s chest, and the blow was parried. The follow-up counter-swing and the three subsequent attempts were also warded off with ease, until a swift job caused Sigil to turn his outside foot at an angle to allow him to block the strike. This was the opening Matthias was waiting for, and he immediately launched into a roundhouse kick aimed at the back of Sigil’s head. This was anticipated, and Sigil promptly ducked under it. This, however, left his back exposed to Mathias’ downswing, and only a quick evasive roll prevented an abrupt end to the fight. But Matthias, on his last legs, was in no mood to relent, and gave chase.
Sigil’s attempt at getting to his feet was aided by an upward knee to the face courtesy of Matthias’ left leg. A whirling sabre next forged its path towards the right temple of Sigil’s head. The blade was stopped, not by a composed parry or block by Sigil’s sword, but by the greave on Sigil’s right arm that was raised in a desperate ditch attempt at defence. This left his entire body defenceless, with his sword dangling harmlessly behind his head, and Matthias gratefully brought the curved sabre’s thirsty blade and sliced all the way through Sigil’s advanced leg. Just for good measure, he followed this with a hard kick across Sigil’s face, finally knocking the hat and the mask off his face, and swiftly followed that with a sideswing of sabre right across Sigil’s neck.
And then he stopped.
No blood showed on his sword. No lopped off leg lay convulsing on the floor, No headless body writhed amongst the moss. Sigil stood, composed and serene, faceless, single-legged, armor torn to shreds, sullied by mud, rain and moss. But unchanged.
As Matthias’s legs gave out, he gawked in horror as he realized that where a normal human head resided, Sigil’s was only an ethereal smoke, a mist, a vapour.
Before his eyes, Sigil evaporated, armour, sword and all, into a wispy trail of smoke. Accosting Matthias’ prone body, it hissed at his ears in mocking mirth, clouding his last view of the world before he was taken into the darkness.
