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There were times, before his mind returned, that Ruuvan thought a good gun and a decent enough knife counted as weapons. He could shoot the wings off a fly - so the saying goes for crazy-good sharpshooters - and he could get close enough to stick someone with a short blade. Times change. He used the bow for range, delivering arrows across the rooftops to his targets, slicing his way up close with his swords. Bullets were all well and good, but dormant abilities rekindled in the modern world sure gave you the edge in terms of surprise. Digression.

Ruuvan grunted as his attack was pushed away, spinning around with the kicks momentum and finishing facing Maximos again. He was ready to strike again, but there were words now. The sound resonating off their blades made a pleasant backing choir.
"There is a lot I don't remember, friend." He knew his past - his real past - but memories since were harder to grasp, "Enlighten me?"
Of course this was combat, not really the time or place for banter, but the mind was a curious thing that sought answers.

Never let your guard down when facing your opponent, even if that opponent is an old friend; sometimes they can be the worst. Ruuvan flexed his grip on the swords during the momentary lull in combat, realising he was tensing far too much to be able to fight effectively.

He too cocked his head as Maximos did, listening to the voices that now rang clearly above the rooftops. He recognised the voices, at least part of him did, but he did not understand what they were talking about. A monster? Screaming? Maximos the Destroyer, perhaps? The old shadow, born of darkness and remorseless to the core.

Suddenly his side twinged with pain of an old wound, one which never fully healed. Ruuvan remembered drawing his bow and releasing a bolt of pure light against a shadow, piercings its shell and harming it in ways no blade ever could. Then the searing agony, that of darkness piercing his skin and organs, tearing and ripping although it was nought but a simple stab; darkness held such power over the light, just as light did the dark.

Memories vanished as Maximos leapt forward, thrusting his blade towards him. Ruuvan stepped deftly to the side and sliced the blade away from his body with his own, though it still felt as if the blade hit its mark. Memories were sometimes as deadly to him as physical blows, it seemed, but he remained composed. He had pushed the blade away as Maximos spoke.
"This is where it all began, Ruuvan" The voice seemed to boom in his head, almost deafening.
"It began, but it never ended." He smiled through the pain - his side and his hearing - as he leapt at the shadow.
Both blades were poised to strike; an all out attack, leaving him defenceless against a counter-attack, but he was ready for the pain Maximos could give him. Part of him wanted to feel shadow cutting him again, almost screaming for it.

Feral rage started to undermine the stoic Elven nature as he bared his teeth in a snarl; he wanted blood, the dark stuff, and he was willing to shed his own to get it.

Not too far away from where Vaginaman/Betty stood, looking utterly lost, another man appeared through the mists, who was not lost. He was never lost. He knew EXACTLY where HE was.


It was just that, at the moment, he didn't know the position of anywhere else.


He sported clothing a bit less . . . ordinary. He wore a blue t-shirt, over which he had donned a grey flak jacket with several pockets and pouches. He also had a pair of military fatigue trousers, urban camouflage, and a pair of standard black combat boots. Elbow pads, knee pads, and no-finger gloves completed the ensemble.


Oh, and the combat knives strapped to his right thigh, his lower back, and behind his shoulder.


The man, measuring at well over six feet and packed with muscle, caught sight of Vaginaman, and started strolling his way toward him.

The 'army man', as we shall refer to him forthwith, started to raise his hand and smile to greet V/B as the latter began to approach. He faltered, though, as the other man broke into a run at him. Either this man was about to attack him, or he was setting up for a glomp.


Neither was something that army man looked forward to, and he immediately assumed a defensive stance -- right foot forward, left foot behind, knees bent, left hand closed in a fist and held near his face, right hand open and extended about two feet in front of him -- ready to put the incoming glomp down. Or maybe it was an attack. Whatever.


When V/B came to a halt and swung his weapon, army man's reaction was to take a couple of darting steps forward, putting him much closer to his opponent, and inside the staff's effective range. Long weapons like staffs and spears became difficult to handle properly when the other guy was getting up close and personal. The end result, rather than the tip of the weapon giving army man a mild concussion, would be the 2/3 area of the staff, right around V/B's forward hand, bonking against his right shoulder.


Army man would also take the opportunity to grab at the center portion of the staff, holding on to it as best he could to complicate things for V/B further, as he lashed out with a left kick at V/B's closest shin to let him discover that the man wore steel-toes. His aim was to give him a nasty bruise, and make him a little less maneuverable.

Well, Army Man was not The Flash (though he sometimes wished he was), so the affectionate little love tap struck home, leaving Army Man momentarily dazed when it struck his temple. His hand paused . . . but only very briefly, as it made a second grab the staff, in order to prevent another such attempt. Rather than trying at another shin kick should he be successful, he would this time yank on the staff, trying to make his opponent stumble forward and off balance, and follow up with a single, swift soccer-kick to the groin.


The members of Gaia's proud armed forces were nothing if not dirty fighters!

Wind was all that answered Damarius for a short space of time, causing an eerie whistling effect through the ancients. Small screams dumbed down by the ravages of time.

A banner snapped and flashed outwards, causeing an avalanche of bones and scored armor to roll down a small incline, pooling at Damarius' feet.

Then one of the skeletons sat up, stretched, and proceeded to scratch the back of it's bony head. After a few headturns to get itself aquainted with the surroundings, it hauled itself up by the pole of the banner, wrenching it upwards and out of the dirt with a shower of gravel and smaller bones.

This was pointed down at the blond man, while two bloodred pits glared from the depths of the skull.

"The hell are you?! And how did you get me here?!"

The skeleton reeled back for a second on his heels, coming to grips with what Damarius said.

"Death?! Ah! So that's where this is." Carefully the dirty strands were rolled and tumbled up at the end of the staff as the being seemed to contemplate this.

"I accept."

And the animated skeleton slid down the incline with a few ragged crunches, skidding in towards his opponent at the back of what would become another small wave of dead, and a massive cloud of dust, flies, and the odd crow.

To Damarius at the bottom, it would be a near suicidal charge towards the point of what was obviously not a childs play sword.

And rip it's face apart it did, because though a very certain trail had suddenly appeared before the creature, it showed no signs of stopping its forward movement.

Bone exploded as the point of the furthest spike impaled through what was the cheekbone, launching the skull straight off the shoulders of the being bearing down on Damarius.

Success would be short lived for the blond, however, since even without the bony cranium the skeletal warrior seemed...strangely whole. And now with enough purchace and momentum on the polearm he had to plant the end in the earth and launch himself over the rest of the line. Damarius would feel two very firm feet plant themselves upon the broad, outstretched hand and left arm used for the magic that had appeared.

Blood, fresh and bright red dripped onto a grey jacket sleeve in the pause as the body curled in for the second spring, and while the eyes that smiled at Damarius were anything but human, it was certain that they were as alive as he was, as well as the rent that had opened up from jaw to temple.

Of course, what might have been a simple cut, mostly blocked by the skull, was treated to the acidic nature of the spike, hense a far greater wound then even this man had accounted for.