Alright, this is a tad late(if you can call 16+ days "a tad") due to some admittedly minor complications on my end, but we've got another battle coming on up!
This time we've got the demon keeper himself, Zhelan(Lobotomizer), pitted against the man with an unhealthy obsession for stick figures, Winston(Kamiroo Wolf)!
[Spoiler=Zhelan(Lobotomizer) Story]
Zhelan stared at the man before him. Around him lay a crumpled mess of stick-like figures, black ink flowing freely from their motionless bodies.
“Do you intend on avenging every one of your fallen?” His voice was cold and hard.
Winston was silent, but there was a new emotion emerging from his expression. Anger. “What if I do?” He answered quietly.
In response, Zhelan tossed his blade away, folding his sword arm behind his back. “Then do as you will.”
The man must have hid a blade in his clothes, for when he threw himself into Zhelan he could feel a sharp pain deep in his abdomen. He crumpled wordlessly, as Winston staggered back in fear and disbelief.
He opened his eyes, catching sight of the nondescript plaster white ceiling. For a time he tried to return to sleep, yet it seemed as though every time he closed his eyes they sprung back up more alert than ever. He could do nothing to still the visions that passed through his mind. Strangely enough, he could only recall the few moments before his death, like a fleeting dream one woke up from.
Resigned to this fact he arose from the bed, idly glancing through the shoulder high window beside him. Dawn had only just arrived, and a chill autumn wind breezed through the room, leaving a comfortable chill that he did not quite dislike. Wispy clouds hang above the line of two storey buildings across the street, coloured an orange hue by the rising sun.
He turned his attention to Ilen, who slept soundly by his side. The dim light that filtered through the window was just enough to make out her delicate, childish features. Her cream yellow hair was spread across her sleeping face, unmarred by the dark mischief and condescendance that she was wont to hold. A slight frown emerged, for he could not withhold a begrudging appreciation of the sight. Strangely enough, it was her twisted nature that reminded him of her deeds, and when it was absent he could feel no hatred for her.
He brushed away a wispy lock from her lips. If she changed, perhaps he could have lived the lie her told her as truth. That she meant more to him. But would she ever, if he did not bring her close to him? A wry expression crossed his face. Though he knew nothing would move if he did not make the first step, he could not bring himself to.
A muffled murmur, and Ilen stirred. Her eyes opened a tiny crack as she blindly groped for him. He grasped her hands together, waiting patiently for her to be fully awake.
“Zhelan,” she yawned. “You are early.”
Once more, he noted that she no longer addressed him first the way his childhood friend had. “Only a little,” he answered simply.
She flashed him a smirk, lopsided from her drowsiness. “Died lately, have you?”
“Maybe.” He returned with a typical unsatisfactory answer, eliciting a frown from the other. He ignored it, reaching out for the brush at the dresser.
“Turn away, please.” He waited for her to comply, and began to brush her hair lightly. The strands parted smoothly from the teeth, and the knots he gently undid with his hands. They did not speak for a time, but eventually Ilen did break the silence.
“You have been pampering me, Zhelan.”
He decided to be dense. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You would say that, when you have never cared for my hair until now?”
“I thought it would be a change of pace.”
She gave a small hum, one that held both thoughtfulness and mischief.
“Do you love me, Zhelan?”
His hand stopped for but a moment, but he caught himself in time to reply. “You would ask this so frankly?”
“Why would I not?”
He shook his head slowly, but as the silence drew out he knew he had to answer one way or another.
“I would not go so far as to say that I do. Perhaps in time.”
“In time?” She eased closer to him. “You wouldn’t mind, then?’
There was a long pause. “Apart from the fact that you have murdered my kin a decade before, no.” He answered as dryly as he could manage.
She did not answer immediately, but when she did it was in a mock indignant tone. “I thought you better than this, Zhelan. They willingly gambled upon their lives to seal myself. They lost, and that is all there is to it.”
“And I?
“You?” She smiled. “The irony in your assistance amused me. I was willing to keep you as...a plaything. But I too was careless, and so the fate I yearned to escape from...befell me once more.”
A light hearted shrug. “Ten years is a long time for humans, Zhelan. I have long forgotten my sealing, is it not time you did the same? Or is reminding me of what I’ve done yet another part of my punishment?”
Her voice seemed to wither as she finished, but he could not quite tell why. His throat was dry; as much as he needed to say he forgave her he could not, not with the way she worded her question. “Did you have kin?” He finally managed.
Ilen shook her head lightly. “No, never. Those similar to me we speak briefly, but we do not bond. Nor have I cared for many humans, if any. Perhaps…” Her voice grows silent. “Perhaps I do know little of your pain.”
“There is more to a bond than the pain of losing one.”
There was a drawn out silence. “Then, do you pity me, Zhelan?”
“It would be condescending of me to.” He answered plainly. “Our worlds are different beyond compare.”
She let out a laugh, but it was weak and dissonant, devoid of any vigor. “There you go, always giving the safe answers, avoiding questions where you cannot do so. “
“I-”
“Thought I would not notice?” She cut in. “Just like the times you spoke to placate me, to treat me well when I deserved none?” She did not wait for an answer, but motioned to leave. “I will see you downstairs, Zhelan, whenever you are prepared.”’
“Ilen…!” He stood to reach out for her, but his leg had yet to fully heal, and in his haste he found himself stumbling toward the floor. Only, he found himself caught just before he reached the ground, and when he looked up he saw Ilen’s crimson eyes, reddened and teary. She must have noticed too, for once she pulled him to his feet she quickly departed, the door left ajar behind her.
He almost chased after her, but stopped as soon as he took a single step. Nothing came to his mind that would salvage the situation, he knew, neither could he apologise for deceiving her, not without confirming how much she had already deduced.
Mentally, Zhelan slapped himself. That is the very thing she saw through, the very thing that caused this to happen - placating. He decided he could only prepare to leave, taking just enough time that may give Ilen time to recover, and without her thinking he might have abandoned her. He brought his blade along in a cloth bag as an afterthought, knowing that there will be an encounter soon enough.
Why now, of all times?
He found her at the ground floor of the motel, and whilst she seemed to have recovered her face was devoid of expression. There was no trace of the twisted bemusement or childish enthusiasm she always bore. He worried, but there was nothing he could do nor say. He guided her to a nearby eatery, and she said nothing throughout their breakfast, save ordering her food. Neither did she once look at him, her eyes always averted to the scenery outside. The serving girl had offered him a sympathetic look, one he did not care to respond to.
Abruptly, Ilen began to speak, her tone clearly terse and unwilling. “You may have a visitor.”
He followed her gaze to the view outside the eatery. It took but a moment for her to understand her intentions, as he picked out a figure in the crowd loitering in the vicinity, clearly searching for someone. There was nothing to say he was not just an ordinary passerby, but Ilen had learnt to pick people out over the months by instinct or simple observation, and most of all, Zhelan recognised him.
“He can wait.” Zhelan said, and almost instantly regretted his words.
“Is your food so important to you, Zhelan?” Ilen asked, her tone just slightly different from her her usual hostile tone, yet equally chilling in effect. He opened his mouth to explain himself, but promptly closed it. If he should not placate, then what else could he possibly say?”
“I will be going, then. I trust you will stay safe.” He finally managed, and though he waited just briefly for a reply, he did not hear one before he left the eatery.
The man was a black bespectacled individual, of lanky build that suggested he trained a little less that he should have. Neither his hair or clothes were particularly well kept, nor were they too dishevelled, and that and his lopsided smile gave to a cheery but careless demeanor He did quickly spot Zhelan emerging through the crowds, but his smile faded just somewhat knowing he had been found first
“Seems like I’m not cut out for hide and seek, eh.” He gave a short laugh and held out his arm. “Zhelan, was it? Name’s Winston. Heard good things about you. Something about people not living after you’re done with them.”
Zhelan did take the hand, if with the slightest of pauses. “You must have known what to expect when you chose to meet me, then.”
A second laugh, this time noticeably uncomfortable. “Easy there cowboy. Someone ever tell you you’ve got a sharp tongue? I’m not out for blood. Never tasted good.”
Zhelan stopped himself abruptly, realising how quickly his words had become caustic. It felt as though his once solid composure had worn thin. “You are right, I apologise. What are you here for, then, if not to fight?”
“Huh,” Winston raised his brows and adjusted his glasses, as if not expecting an apology. “Maybe you’re really just misunderstood, huh? Well, I’d say the fighting bit is a tentative, not-so-confirmed kind of thing. I was just really looking to see what kind of a man you are. You kill, but you don’t look like you care for it. What’s the story here?”
“There is none,” Zhelan replied simply. “They knowingly gambled their lives , fighting and killing for their own reasons, and their deaths only a consequence. I...have no reason to risk my own to spare them.”
His voice became ragged at the end. He would have no trouble saying those words months back, but now Ilen’s earlier words hit him hard. Did she not think the same as he?
“You don’t sound to sure of yourself there, buddy.” Winston looked at him with a raised brow.
“...Perhaps I do feel some regret.” He lied with some finality. “But ask yourself if you would risk your life to spare your assailant. I am not as willing.”
“Well, yeah.” The man’s cheerful demeanor seemed to evaporate somewhat, replaced by a deep thoughtfulness. Briefly, he flasted the other a wry smile. “Bit hard to hold back on someone wanting your head on a platter, huh?”
“If you believe it merciless, then you can only choose to run. That is a braver solution that many would think.”
There is a long silence as Winston stared into his eyes, searching for some truth or reassurance, and he returned the gaze evenly without emotion. Finally, Winston broke free with an uneasy smile and a barely masked shudder, instead retrieving what appeared to be a notebook and pencil. “You’ll have to help me understand here, Zhelan, I’m not exactly convinced of your little argument. You won’t mind if we try this out real time do you?”
“You needn’t be convinced.” He gestured a hand to the opposing street. “If what you believe serves you, then I have no reason to change your mindset. You can be on your way now.”
“It’s less about convincing me that you’re right and more about convincing me you’re telling the truth, y’see. And I can’t go back without an answer.” He tapped the end of his pencil against the flat of the notebook. “How about we take a little spar, buddy? My creations against you.”
For the longest of moments Zhelan averted his gaze, seemingly hesitant, but when he does turn back his expression was more severe than before, marked with determination and a near imperceptible sorrow. “You will, then, recognise that your ‘creations’ will likely fall?”
Winston took a step back, convinced of the other’s reluctance, yet firm resolve to follow his principles. But the defensive smile he flashed showed that he was equally reluctant, yet had no choice in the matter. “Guess I have to, huh? How about we move on to somewhere a little more secluded?”
There is no preventing it, it seems.
“Then, lead the way.”
They found themselves in a quiet corner of the city, in a dead end of the streets that offered just enough space. There was no fanfare, no build up of music like in the movies. Yet in the silence the tension was almost palpable. Winston appeared to be less than enthusiastic, and the earlier intimidation had done no favours for him. His carefree demeanor gave way to an unease that he failed to hide behind a weak smile.
“You know, you could really stand to look a little less serious,” he joked.
“I have no intention of waving away the severity of this, and neither should you, as the one who began this all.” Zhelan’s voice was rigid and merciless.
He mock rolled his eyes, but the action belied the impact those words had upon him. “Bet you’re real fun at parties, bud.”
He withdrew a set of sketchpads, flipping the topmost one open before scribbling into it. Zhelan simply pulled his blade from its scabbard, placing the latter against the wall. The tearing of paper echoed in the enclosed space, and as he expected, several stick figures materialised brandishing light bladed weapons, varying between what appears a gladius to that of a spiked truncheon. He did not give pause, closing the gap between he and the figures with two solid steps. A flick of the wrist sends one head flying, and by the time they could react he had their numbers cut to three.
“Jesus…!” Winston exclaimed, only managing to look up at that instant, the truth of what transpired quickly dawning upon him. “Well don’t just sit there, folks, get him!”
The three encircled Zhelan for a tense few minutes, whilst he settles into a balanced stance, crouching slightly on his back leg with the other placed just lightly on the ground in front of him. The first figure came to him on his right, and he sidesteps to the left avoiding a vertical swing. He caught his momentum just in time to parry two attacks on his left by the remaining figures, and at the same time threw a frontal kick that sent it staggering backward.
The figures attempted to overpower power him, but he quickly stepped back from their blades, his sword slipping from under them only to cut horizontally at their necks. Black ink leaked onto the cement floor, a grim reminder of their fate. The final figure, having recovered, charged in a last ditch attempt. Zhelan simply parried the strike and let its momentum carry forward, before crashing his pommel onto its head. It collapsed lifelessly, joining the rest of its brethren.
“You’re a real piece of work you know that?” Winston’s voice was half-joking, yet awash with frustration. “You know i only needed one of them to take down the sun of an ancient god.”
Zhelan watched him scribble furiously into paper with little more than a disinterested expression. “Do you mourn for them?”
“What’s it to you? You're not going to play the pity game, are you?” Again, Winston failed to hide the accuracy of Zhelan’s words.
“You struggle to sacrifice your creations in place of yourself, for a cause that you are not even sure of.”
“Don’t talk as if you know me; I know damn well what I want!” Winston almost snarled, the tearing of paper growing violent this time. Four more stick figures materialised and quickly take positions around Zhelan. From his left to right, they were red yellow green and blue, the first and last handling staves, and the other two thick club like weapons. A mix of rea
