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Statistics

Name: Malikai
Stage: Adept
Class: Warrior
Level: 17

Stats:

INT - 15
ATK - 46
DEF - 19

LP - 230
ENG - 230

Die Results

Malikai rolls __ for initiative - goes __.

ATK = __ damage (at full power).

Sand got everywhere.

Into clothes, into armor, into beds and boots and hair. Into one’s eyes and one’s food and between the pages of books if you let it. After several weeks stationed on Eowyn after a lifetime — his entire childhood — spent in the relatively temperate and amicable climate of Serenia, Malikai was still far from used to it. He disliked the sand that grated on his skin and gritted everything, wore holes and made all parts of clothing itch. He disliked the heat which made him sweat embarrassingly only to dry and leave him sticky and caked in salt mixed in with the sand.

But this was his job.

With the shifting climate of impending conflict between the races, several platoons of Lady Aevah Avi’s soldiers had been sent to man in greater numbers previously all but abandoned posts. He was one such soldier at one such post, in one of — surely — the least hospitable locations of the bitter desert imaginable. It was late morning, judging by the angle of the blistering sun and the length of shadows it cast over the sand, but it might as well have been high noon for all that he could tell the difference in heat. Being that his current position was guard duty — “Man the front wall, private.” — there was not a great deal of difficulty to it: stand, keep an eye out, and slaughter anything that looked vaguely oblivionite or hostile.

But the orders themselves still itched at him. Despite all his training thus far, it was the first opportunity he had had to be out in ‘real’ conditions, with real soldiers. And real enemies. For all his dedication to the concept, he had never killed — or even hurt seriously — any living individual, aside from dragons and beasts. He hoped, when the time came, that the concept came more naturally than it sounded. And that it didn’t cause him to lose his lunch, literally or metaphorically.

It was difficult to miss a body approaching at a hundred paces across a flat desert. More difficult still to miss one that was dark and stood out starkly against the pale sand. And yet, after hours of heat and nothing but the hot wind dusting over endless dunes of yellow rock ground fine, Malik found himself drifting and his gaze dormant, his attention unpredictable as a fog in a Serenian autumn.

So it was that a voice jerked him to proper attention. Immediately, he straightened and stiffened his posture, hand moving near to his blade even as his eyes sought out the source: a girl, older in her teen years, perhaps into her twentieth summer, narrow boned, dark, but scaled and horned. At first, in the gleam of the desert’s heat, he thought her to be dovaa.

“It has been,” he said. “An’ I would advise you t’ stay clear. We aren’t on orders t’ take well t’…” Then, he noted her eyes — or lack thereof. Between the ripples of light over the sands he thought at first that he imagined it, since he had never seen anything remotely like it, but no. She had no eyes. His gut chilled and knotted, his fingertips touching to the hilt of his blade. What sort of unnatural magic made the light glint so, in her sockets, like the ghost of fires? “Gonna have t’ tell y’ to be on your way…now.”

He ought to have attacked.

That was his order. He knew it.

But surely, if she just left — if she departed peacefully, immediately, he could avoid that complication?

“Don’ ‘ave eyes, so can’t be ‘th’ eyes’,” Malik murmured beneath his breath, though the words were lost on the wind as he rolled his shoulders and drew his blade, frowning. Louder, he said, “You’ll find trouble from a whole of a lot more’n me iffn’ y’ tryin’ see fit t’ pass through ‘ere. I recommend y’ step clear an’ get wherever y’ need t’ get by some other path, mm? These parts ‘re guarded an’ y’ won’t find friendly faces.”

It was true enough. However little she looked like a significant threat given her stature and lack of armor or visible weapon, there was no telling what powers a wild hybrid might harbor. He had never met one in person — only heard tales — but she couldn’t be anything but that, given her appearance. So, he would not underestimate her. Still, regardless of her strength or lack thereof, she was only one fighter, alone in the desert, and no single person — hybrid or not — would wisely take on an entire camp of trained soldiers.

Unfortunately, that still said little about his own chances of dissuading her personally.

“Could make this real simple by steerin’ clear now while y’ve still got yer head about yer shoulders…I’d really rather ‘ave no trouble…”

Malikai’s shoulders dipped, stiff, and he sighed as he settled his stance, expression pinched. “I don’ ‘ave authority t’ give you permission for nothin’—only t’ tell you your best route is elsewhere. I do think, though, standin’ at th’ entrance t’ an army encampment filled with the folk whose orders I’m here to take an’ carry out is a better position to be givin’ instructions from than whilst standin’ alone with nobody an’ no authority an’ no reason not to just git.”

He stretched his wings, all four furling out and casting their shadows on the sand as he adjusted his grip on his blade. Kiandri or not, girl or not, and whether or not he ‘wanted’ her about in the dark where not grounds upon which he could make any decisions. He had very simple instructions, and they would be followed.

He hoped, though, for her sake — for better or for worse — that she took his advice in the end, because no matter how well or not she handled him, an army was another matter and no friendly place for a hybrid to be stuck in the midst of.

Malikai frowned, watching as the girl stood her ground. Hybrid or not, he couldn’t help but think that it took some very special variety of insanity to be so insistent on putting oneself in danger in front of a multitude of armed soldiers when an easier path around was offered. That thought never made it very far, though, because a moment later, his attention was diverted to her—hands? It looked almost as though they were vibrating.

Between her horns and scales, he knew enough to pin her as at least a large part dovaa—if not half or more, and as her magic built, he felt the ripple of it in the air. Foreign. Electric, and alive. Dancing like dragon magic did, and sharp. Like the sting that built when friction amped.

He drew his sword into an open sweep at his side, preparing to lift off as his wings stretched, and—

Electro…ball…?

The split second that it took him to shoot a pinched, ridiculously confused look at his opponent cost him more than he was prepared to admit, and as he grunted, knees hitting the ground while magic shocked his system, his mind spun and his consciousness rapidly slipped, he couldn’t be entirely sure what was most prominent in his mind.

The bewildered musing in regards to this hybrid’s apparent…‘spell word?’ Was it a dovaa thing? Or a hybrid anomaly? He wasn’t certain he knew enough about either to be sure.

The thought that she had certainly hit a very fortunate, perfectly landed shot?

Or the conclusion that all hybrids were most definitely.

Certifiably and demonstrably.

Insane.

He wasn’t conscious long enough to pick.