Welcome to Gaia! ::

Cabin fever was setting in, and it was only midway through winter, if one ascribed to the old pagan ‘yule’ traditions and feasts. Whether that holiday was the actual midwinter in Destiny City or not he didn’t know. Björn had been staying out of the dorm later and later as the weather had slowly turned cold enough that morning runs in the park some days was actually not a good idea because of how harsh the air would prove to breathing and proper oxygenation. It meant seeing less of his roommate in the day, but Colin had so far been completely understanding of the winter-born claustrophobia. The dorm room was just too small.

So he was out on the campus, dividing time between the campus library when it was open or the various small park-like areas that served as buffers and meeting places between the buildings. The cold outside didn’t bother him just to sit in with a cozy jacket and a picnic blanket, whatever book and notebook near that he needed to complete his assignments.

No, the cold didn’t bother him. But he’d heard the odd metal shiftings and had looked up from his work. It was too late, getting dark, for anything good to be meant of metal clinkings in the dark. Especially not on Hillworth campus. Had some fool cassmate finally decided to try their luck and pull a knife on him in a brawl? The answer was quick in coming. And it wasn’t a classmate. “Who-…”

He stood up, abandoning notebook and pencil to the ground to land with an awkward clatter. “You’re being sarcastic.”

Clever statement of the obvious. This guy was carrying a SWORD? Who even did that? Björn gave a surreptitious glance around – no, he was both awake and not on a movie set. Where was campus security (even if they were generally only useful for keeping troublesome students IN their rooms, not keeping anyone OUT)?

Björn back-stepped a few paces as the other approached, trying to guess at what was the length that this man’s reach was with that blade and to stay out of that reach. Why was some random guy wanting to attack him with a sword? Maybe that was a moot point. Whatever the why was, he had a sinking feeling from the way the man’s face was split that attacking was going to happen whatever else went on. “What do you want. Who are you.”

It was flat, not really a question. An old reaching of agreement, being at sword-length, a challenge. He felt his pulse quickening, more fight than flight. But he needed a weapon. What was near. ? There was…..a …bench? Pour-mold Iron with bolted planks for students to have someplace to sit. That could work. He could…break a plank off? Would he have time to do that? He didn’t know.

Dropping a weapon like that, while it did hopefully even the odds unless this asylum escapee knew kung fu, was a slight. He didn’t answer with a name. This small one was confident, and taunting.

As much as he really adored knights and nobles and honor and all that….well, he wasn’t a knight. And this wasn’t a story. And If he was a sword, or a warhorse in his mind, than honor wasn’t the focus of his battlefield necessity. Practicality was. The most practical way to impair a guy for a battle, however long it lasted, even if it was against all ManCode, was ‘where-it-hurts’.

“You will regret this.” ::: I think we both will. Injury is unavoidable, but can I make it less severe? If he can’t easily stand, he can’t easily attack me. Whom strikes hard first may not have to strike a second time. May not. Is he like the Valravn? Is he a sorcerer? He’s wearing armor, anyway. ::: Björn wasn’t going to be confused if he got hurt. As soon as a blow landed, they’d be committed.

He took the gracious invitation of the finger and closed distance, but he feigned the a weak haymaker just to set up a pendulum of his own weight to come around and just kick as hard as he humanly could right into the fancy uniformed crotch.

The good news was that this person was as much a man as they appeared to be, and he seemed to at least feel the blow. The bad news was that as strong as Björn was, it didn’t down him. He had been hoping that the other would be incapacitated for a moment, like most men, hell, any guy hit by someone who could feasibly pull a mac truck with a shoulder harness. Any –human-. And humans, even an Olympian gymnast, couldn’t jump three story buildings at a bound, and that was just the Lieutenants.

He hadn’t been about to take chances. Whatever he had been expecting the outcome to be, and had been bringing an arm around just slightly lower than the height of the man, to compensate for the crouching over in pain part, planning to backhand him and hopefully knock him out cold. But the psychotic still had more than enough in him to bear pain and come right back with a punch of his own. Björn’s try never had a chance at landing.

The sound was dull in his stomach, inside his ears so-to-speak, but outside he could hear his own breath leave him. It was like spending a moment at a remove, heat and the deep ache promising the bruising to come. It spread out like a blooming rose. Eyes focused again from a bleach of white, he found the force of the blow had driven his own footing back a few feet, back to the sword length apart where they’d started. The runnels of his footmarks in the frost on the ground were dizzying. Björn grimaced, breathing through his teeth, “Declare yourself.”

It was a demand, growled half in his throat. He wanted to know who this small but ridiculously strong opponent. An elf in disguise of man? Who must be secondary again to what. But it was an old tradition of old wars to declare oneself. The other was laughing, smiling still. A warrior might grin grim, satisfied of battle and black humor, but there was nothing stern about the red-head's expression. It was still toying? Björn rubbed a hand over his stomach, as he tried to side-step.

He'd play. He wasn't going to run, it just meant taking damage to the back. 'Dying tired' if it came to that. Either help would come, or it wouldn't. His own mouth turned at the corners, smile defiant.

He knows my name.

This was the single most disturbing aspect of this whole encounter. But he had a name, longish and elegant syllables for someone who looked possibly feral. And he expected something? The jab did sting, not sidestepping or bringing a guarding forearm up in time to prevent it. Another bruise and no worse than a split lip.

“We haven’t met, but you have plenty of answers.. My name, expectations of my strength. “ He drew the meat of his thumb over his lip, checking the swelling and if there was blood. Just a little. “I have thought about just so much. I have wondered why. Solutions aren’t usually so easy to find as a pretty face in the dark. “

“Or a sharp tongue.” Getting riled up over being told he was a jock, or had no brains had gotten old about four years back. Still, outside of the context of the drama of a fight, he’d been wondering a LOT lately about what was going on in this city. Especially with the whole ordeal of just being and then not being a cat. And where DID the Valravn come from? There was sorcery and war and the sushi’s all about and no one seemed to have any answers or explanations. Not that they were offering explanations to him. Colin was always…..guarded talking about any of it. And he had begun to wonder why. “Kjoetthue? Meathead?”

“I don’t have time for insults. I would be a sword in the hand of a wielder. A worthy one. If I could find forge to hone me and a cause to blood me. I do not claim to be more than that, except that I DO seek to be steel instead of iron. I know who and what I am. Can you say the same?”

He tried a stepping in with a cross jab, but the smaller man was lightning fast, even having a conversation. There was a flash of red and glint of epaulet, and Obsidian was well out of harm’s way. And he knew about the sushis? Was he one of them? That made no sense at all, unless they were not friends? Colin had said there were bad sushi. Was this one of them? There was no telling unless this one opened up more. If he would. If he would tell him more than Colin did, instead of trying to keep him safe in ignorance.

That sort of shield, if this was any telling, was one made of paper, easily soaked and made useless by a coming storm. “I know they protect the innocent from predators of the dark, instead of walking out of it. You have another story to tell?”

The hand on his jaw was inexorable pain. He lifted his hand to grip onto the smaller wrist, would have tried to pull the hand off or break that slender limb, but the grinding in muscle and bone in his face was too addling. He only gripped loosely and held the wrist and was forced to take a knee.

This man was claiming lordship of him? The implications were staggering. Was that an honor? Or appalling? Was he eager or confused? That the other was stroking his hair was part of the confusion – taking the battle from a confusion of danger or play to a muddle of danger or arousal. His hormones were already enough trouble as it was at his age, and so far as he had experienced in his young life, competition and battle weren’t comfortably far enough away from making out and other play. Still, he didn’t break eye contact, glaring challenge up at the other even as his teeth felt like they wanted to shatter inward. He wasn’t used to pain in his face, the essential center of human awareness, but he wasn’t going to let it cow all of him.

When the other backed off, he brought his hand up to cover his mouth, supporting the bones like his jaw might just fall off. “What kingdom, it hasn’t spoken to its subjects? Of course I don’t know. “

“I’ve not seen news from either side. I have been saved from death by one. She would not speak with me. Another I see that does not say much except to protect lives. I would hear if there is purpose to this war. To any of this. If will have titles you claim, ‘Hersir’. If your will to wield swords, you claim. What of your jarl, of your court? This…Negaverse. I have heard the word. I have not heard the story. ”

“The sushi have not murdered from what I have seen. My eyes don’t lie to me. But they are not poisoned. “

“Prove your jarl, and I will be your sword. ”

“’Change your opinions, keep to your principles; change your leaves, keep intact your roots. ‘ “ It was from the pocketbook of quotations his uncle had sent him when he turned 13. Words from a man named Victor Hugo, and had felt long ago to be worth memory. “A sword does not fit every sheath. Opinion put to side, I look for the fit of principles. It is nothing to do with my worthiness. “

“That is proven after. When wielded. “

They will not think to turn on you if you prove to know too much.

The words struck a chord with worries already long ago established. What was the reason colin kept silent? It usually did just seem that Colin didn’t know the answers. It wasn’t generally his place to question his betters, but he had established some time ago that while great, Colin was not a lord. Here…..here was one who might be. The power in his hand alone, in so small a frame, was like that of the earth. It was the fulfillment of the Wounded King mythos- here was a lord who was strong as the seeding of his land, wherever that may be. It was in his speed, in his mien, in his swordarm.


“Metallia.” The naming had seemed almost flippant in delivery. Still, it was more than Colin had offered. Names and kingdoms, and explanations. Brief, but a start. And Obsidian didn’t seem entirely like one with patience for book-learning, or just giving out lectures. That left the obvious - “How do I earn more answers.”

How did he prove himself worthy to hear more? To gain closer to steel from iron. Colin had flat out told him he had no place in the war…that this one was even talking to him…maybe it was a lie. But there was now only one source to learn if it was or wasn’t. Obsidian was willing to talk, both verbal and in warrior’s language.

Björn wiped the still dripping split of his lip from that jab, lifting the bloodied hand like a chalice in Obsidian’s direction, “You’ve earned my hearing. I’ll listen. “

Too much time talking…it was as he thought. Lectures were not often suited to those who bore swords, but rather pens. Both were high and needful things, but otherworldly in a way to him. He was not the bearer.

“There will be another time.”
“I do not want to beat you,Obsidian,” some of that bravado though, that battlefield spirit and instinct was pricked, “Not without reason of winnings, anyway.”