"Ah!" Msonus exclaims. There would be no accusations of cheating from this god, but no sagely understanding of Logos either. Merely... enthusiasm. Enthusiasm for the fantastic force that displayed itself here.

". I should much like to see another question posed, little riddle-maker, by your death. Answers too, I suppose, but no one wants those. Won't you die quickly for me?" Msonus mutters. He laughs.

A strangeness struck Maxillita, looking into those maddened eyes.

She laughed, a high, silvery laugh. "You do me too much honor, Wyrn! A commoner is executed with an axe, a noble with the sword- and you would use the Logos, the finest and grandest weapon of the Golden Emperor, the manifest power of the Conclave to slay me! I had thought that I must win this battle, because I am the Hero. I see now that in my arrogance I have strayed from the Path of Valor. I am not worthy of that title. I stand naked, no blade in my hand, so guardian to shield me. I am humbled."

For the first time since she that day when she had faced Osiris-Ra, there was joy in her heart, a sense of purity. How had she fallen so far, to fight an ally to death over a petty insult? She had become so selfish. What would his people have thought of him? Sophie? Balverstus?

Her arms fell to her side.

"Strike me as you will. I will defend myself as best I can." She said. She had dismounted from her high horse, dissipated the airs she had put on. She was keenly aware of whom she really was- and the discrepancy between that and whom she had thought herself to be.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:30, Sun 25 Apr 2010.

Wyrn smiled, and -

- Max was sprawled upon the floor, the taste of blood in her mouth, her cheek ablaze with pain. She'd been struck. Fast. She hadn't even realised.. she was one of the greatest warriors she'd ever known, and yet this God punched her clear in the face without a second thought.

"Get up. Strike me."

Wyrn stood over her, grinning.

--

There was similar amazement, applause, in the crowd. They'd seen the blur rush towards Max, and then the heroine on the floor, Wyrn cracking his golden knuckles menacingly. Such speed!

lines of lightning danced across Maxillita's eyes, everything was blurry- expect for the form of Wyrn. The Arena- the sound of the crowd- everything was gone but him.

She didn't feel the pain, didn't feel the ground below her. She was guided by instinct, not knowledge, as she was in everything. She dodged, she flowed with what Wyrn did, countered it fiercely with a blow to the solar plexus, skipped back to avoid retribution..

It was almost a perfect strike. Max's fist slammed against Wyrn's abdomen with a large crack, as the considerable strength of the heroine hit solid flesh. Wyrn was thrown back by the strike, his eyes wide, the smirk still caught on his face. Max fell back, wary of another attack, and -

- her right arm, the arm she'd struck Wyrn with, was at a strangely odd angle. There was no pain, but she saw the blood, and the bone, and saw that it was a clean, if gory, break.

"You can't hope to win," said Wyrn. "That hurt, I'll admit. You show a fire that is rare in your kind," he huffed, "But there is only one single Logos in existence, on further advancement from Divinity, and it belongs to.. the Golden Emperor, to me."
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:09, Thu 29 Apr 2010.

Maxillita, as soon she she figured he wasn't going to counterattack, snapped right back in to slam her armored knee into  his crtoch, then headbutted him in the face, then slipping to the side to drive the elbow of her broken arm into Wyrn's ribs. Drawing that back, she grabbed his wrist firmly, and in conjunction with her knee and elbow she attempted to snap his left arm in the same manner hers had snapped. She did all this fluidly, keeping herself guarded as she could.

"If it is yours, why must you beg like a mongrel for permission to use it?"
This message was last edited by the player at 13:28, Thu 29 Apr 2010.

With a muffled grunt, Wyrn took the attack, bucking forward and then back and then back again. He did not retaliate as Max attempted to break his arm, but the heroine found that the God of Shadow couldn't be moved in any particular way; as she gripped and attempted to snap the arm, it was heavier than she could have comprehended -

- and Max was on the floor, screaming, as a bloodied, viciously-eyed Wyrn held her hand, breaking her fingers, one by one, four down..

He stopped.

"I know you have it," he said, in a hushed whisper. "I know he gave it to you. Show it to me. Show it."

Ruse's sentry construct looked on with great interest.

"Are you mad? I have been given nothing! All I have- My power, my realm, my blade, myself- I owe to Yggdrasil."

 Attempting to sweep Wyrn's feet out from underneath him, she took a few steps back.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:17, Wed 05 May 2010.

Wyrn was a clever fighter, an adept warrior, but he seemed obsessed beyond reason. Max's attack took him by surprise, and there was a satisfying smash - like the breaking of china - as she felt her foe's leg break under the force of her own. Wyrn stumbled back, eyes wild.

The Councilman spoke a Word.

The Word.

The Logos.

There was an explosion of golden light -

And Max saw them. Hundreds of them, for now. Soon to be thousands. The valley, hidden somewhere the Conclave's enemies couldn't find it. Steep, jagged walls to the valley, on which machine guns and barbed wire were based. The camp's tents were of a dark, stained canvas, surrounded by the soldiers who held their guns so high. The prisoners were naked, filthy, scarred, battered. There was a violent rage in some, a hollow emptiness in others. Some had vision. Some had zeal. All of them were enemies of the Good, the Order, the Conclave.

There was a single well-guarded camp in which a very certain piece of machinery, powered by exactly six Callisti, sat. It was a twisted, shining thing, panels and silver and plastic, strange laser-scalpels and esoteric buttons, a shining altar to peace and horror. There were straps and bindings below, where the patient - victim - would sit. There was a man there. His eyes were filled with fear.

The light of six Callisti shone through a single, thin beam of light. It penetrated the man's skull. He tried to scream, but could not. There was no sound. Only light.

This man was killed, as his mind couldn't handle the PURITY of the thing, the endless numbers, pure rationality, extreme logic.. but there would be others. There would always be those who dissent against the Conclave.

Within the darkest corners of the machine-room stood the Councilman of Shadows, smoking as he examined the corpse.

- and a rush of silent sound.

The Logos had ripped through the courtyard, shattering stone and shriveling what weeds there were between the cracks. Max had been flung across several feat, and awoke seconds later face down on the floor, her hair wild, her naked body slashed and grazed, her fingers broken and blood in her mouth. As she picked herself up heavily, she saw Wyrn, on the opposite side of the arena, grinning.

The vision, Max realized, had nothing to do with the Logos.

"You cannot hope to match even the tiniest fragment of the Logos," cried Wyrn. "If you have what I seek, then show it. Your death will be quick and merciful. If you do not, then I will kill you joyously. Perhaps I was wrong about you."

Max felt nothing - no stirs of power from within her. Only the sudden vision. What did it mean.. ?
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:25, Tue 11 May 2010.

She, somehow, stumbled to her feet, spat out the blood and whatever else clogged her mouth, snapped her bones back into  place.

"Oh, I know that. I also know that have allowed yourself to become a monster. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupt absolutely. What is your LOGOS but corruption of the spirit? What is it but the latent strength of those afeared? I pray for your soul."

"Hah," cried Wyrn, his eyes suddenly a blazing gold. "It is obvious that you hold no understanding of that which you profess to comprehend. Perhaps I was was wrong to accept this duel, in the hope..;" He stopped, smirked. "Perhaps I should have killed you outright. Even now my broken leg has healed. It was a vain effort, Max."

"A vain one on your part, perhaps. By challenging you I avenged my honor. I intended to die, you fool. Strike me down, and you will face an enemy as fearsome as Osiris-Ra. And one that serves the Tree you profess your alignment to. The Fates guide this battle, not the action of fickle fools such as we. The wickedness you allow to occur, Wyrn.. how could you watch them die, helpless? How could you allow those deathcamps to exist? To execute prisoner is such a horrific way.. do the rest of the Council know of this, shadow-god?" Maxilita said.

"Death-camps? What in Odin's name are you talking about, woman?"

To Wyrn's credit, his eyes did not widen, his voice did not stutter, he did not feign surprise in any way. But Max felt the lie, knew the lie, saw the lie as plain as day.

Max saw the bombs rock the death-valley, saw the barbed wire twist and disintegrate, saw the calculation-zombies, automatic rifles in hand, collapse under the weight of gunfire. He saw the masked dissidents strike the camps in secret, though their methods were all but that - he saw the soldiers that had only been following orders beaten to death or consumed in fire, saw machine fire and the destruction of artillery in holy flame, saw those held prisoner set free, to flee or to help the attack - and those that the terrorists had been too late to save shot humanely.

The Low Lords involved were beaten horribly, beyond recognition, and finally beheaded. Worse was reserved for the High Lords. The Valley was overrun, though Wyrn and his eight-legged cco-onspirator, face obscured by shadows and yet immediately recognizable, gave up a good enough fight. They were captured alive. They would be trialled for their crimes. EQUILIBRIUM, too, was captured, but would not be handed in. No, they'd keep Equilibrium caught in the power of the Crimson Logos, until they could figure out how to force the Councilmachine into giving them the secret to reversing the process.

The air was heavy with black some. Cheers filled the air, as did the roaring flames of sweet, victorious anarchy. True heroes were killed that day - and a Conclave was redeemed, not fully, but redeemed just enough to make it something worth fighting for once again.

The God of Order, trapped in shining silver and gold, shimmering blade in his hand - also recognizable - threw himself at the chief of the insurgents, silver blade against the primordial deadliness of the read saber that had carved it's way through criminals and worse. The God of Order's hands were red with the blood of Ruse, and then his own blood, and then it was done.

The red blade was dropped.

The Crimson Logos lay in this dreamscape, which Max knew not to be the past - but yet a possible future. An offer, of sorts. Just as the Golden Hand, the Emperor, and much of the Conclave was the physical incarnation of the Logos of Low, the Logos of Anarchy manifested through the Red Sword, through bombs and laughter and wild music and, perhaps, the future Conclave. Perhaps.

A voice was speaking to Max, now. It was a familiar voice, and yet Max could not place it. He could not understand the words, and could not understand the offer..

"Ahah," said Wyrn. "Ahah. Ahah!"

Moving swiftly, Maxillita slammed a shapely, armored leg and a sturdy boot into Wyrn's face, or at least that was her intention. She'd become quite used to voices and unseen images in her head- what with Fierce, and Ruse, and her Sword, and Kaie, and her own intuition,  and now whomever or whatever this was- and could maintain her concentration as the images flitted through her mind. Her favorite colour was red, though, and that sword would look smashing with her hair and her old scarlet cloak. If Logos was in sword form, could it be used in the duel? Hrm. Wyrn was pretty fucked after the duel though, anyway.

She adopted a different style, one related to the her first, but meant for blades- Arnis. The same movements could be used in unarmed combat.

Wyrn adeptly shifted to the right, quickly and without fuss, and dodged Max's blow. He did not retaliate, and Max saw that there was a glimmer of entertainment in his eyes, a fire which hadn't been present before. Something he'd guessed at had been confirmed. But what?

"You're going crazy," said Wyrn. "Seeing things that aren't there. Noticing strange details which couldn't exist. Voices, premonitions. You're going mad."

"Mad? Well, that's alright. All the best people are. There's a problem with your assessment though."

The light in the world seemed to shift, everything aside from Wyrn becoming black and white, and Wyrn himself seeming to be surrounded by a nimbus of azure light.

Knowing the action was truely foolish, and knowing that most of her actions were, and trusting to whatever it was that watched over her- she accepted the offer in her head that she couldn't understand. She closed her eyes, and in her dreamscape attempted to revisit the scene, envisioned herself retrieving the red sword from where it lay..

"Without law there can be no peace. Without anarchy, there can be no freedom. A middle path must be followed. The apparent duality is sign of weakness, a sign of lacking proper insight."

She began walking calmly forward.

"The Fierce God and I. I was blind before, but now there is clarity."

She was confident. The look in her eyes- the one that so intimidated the Friar, the one of courage.

"How many deaths have you suffered, Wyrn? Is this life your last?"
This message was last edited by the player at 04:34, Sun 23 May 2010.

Without law there can be no peace. Without anarchy, there can be no freedom. A middle path must be followed. The apparent duality is sign of weakness, a sign of lacking proper insight...

The vision within Max's mind seemed at once utterly real and entirely dreamlike, mystical in nature and esoteric in scope. He saw the blade perfectly within his mind's eye, but when he tried to reach it there was a shimmer and it was gone..

"This death is my last," said Wyrn. "The last of my own, at least. I am guaranteed Unearthing. And yourself, Maxilita? Third life, and sick, aren't you, outside of EQUILIBRIUM's field? I can read it. It's the sickness. The entropomagical poisoning. It's making you see things, feel things, things that couldn't possibly be there.."

His voice was smug.

"In the Realms Supernatural, facing a Goddess of Fantasy.. you act so, Wyrn? As if what you see and feel is any more real than my own perception?"

When the blade shimmered and disappeared, she knew it was over. The Fates had deemed her unworthy.

It seemed she would be facing her final death soon. She had failed.

Quietly, she made peace within herself.

"Finish this, Wyrn."

Pitcarn returns to the duel arena, but doesn't bother sitting; the sight that meets his eyes leads him to think that he may not have to be standing for very long.

It was only one shining punch -

- Max felt it tear through her body, through armour and skin and flesh and bone and then, finally, armour again -

- the crowd roared as they saw Wyrn's fist, shining as it did with the aura of gold, slammed through his opponent, wailing in delight as the white stone behind the heroine was splattered with gore, blood, bone shrapnel and guts -

- Max felt a hole within her, an emptiness, but felt no pain, only confusion as she slipped and fell to the ground -

- and there she died.

"COUNCILMAN WYRN, THE MOST ANCIENT SHADOW IS THE VICTOR." That was all EQUILIBRIUM said, and it was enough. The crowd went berserk. The Callisti ring rose, shone brightly, and then left. Dozens of people stepped over the body of the dead to shake Wyrn's hand, to congratulate him, to wipe his brow. Only a small amount of supporters, proud in their own way, took the trouble to remove Maxilita's body and bring it to the pits below, where the stasis of EQUILIBRIUM would keep it for an eternity. It was to be Wyrn's property, soon enough, a reminder of his victory.. but for now it would be respected, the sacred words would be said, and it would be allowed to rest.

Banjners flee, whistles cheered, and the people were happy to dance in the gore and the violence.

Ruse's construct looked on dispassionately, the outcome being what he expected.

Pitcarn shook his head, sighed, and left.

"How dirty. Or clean? Oh, I don't know, " Msonus says.

He leaves.

The arena was now filled with people, a small handful of Councilmen congratulating Wyrn.