When Legends Fall

10,000 Years Later

The two figures stared in all their smouldering hatred, coiled like snakes ready to strike. They stood roughly five strides apart, and could only just make out the outline of each other for the darkness of the wood in which they stood. Each were of immense power and honor in their respective fields, Mage and Melee. If either lost, it would be the end of his life and career.

It would be epic.

The first was Captain Starc, acting figurehead of the warrior class. His armor shined bright in the light of the moon, silver with bronze interwoven into runes. For all its flash it was easily discernable as built for function as much as a symbol of status. His gauntlets were similarly designed, each knuckle tipped with a thick spike. His weapons were two wicked pickaxe looking instruments which hung crossed along his back, loose in their holdings. He had no helm to be seen, only a thick metal collar.

The second was Mage Tyren, a figure just as powerful, though less flashy to the eye. He wore a recognizable dark blue cape and cowl, clasped shut with a delicate silver catch. Silver was sewn in patterns along the hem of his cloak, he wore tall brown leather boots and grey breeches, and his lips were drawn into a thin line of anger.

Starc's rough voice barked out suddenly, making several birds take flight,

"You cannot resist me, warlock! I had my alchemists fashion a dampener!" He smiled and raised his gauntlet. The center wrist-piece spiraled outward, forming into a bronze buckler-style shield. Inscribed in impossibly small script was row upon row of strange writing. "Your trickery is worthless here!"

The mage's eyes narrowed further, and he muttered quietly, "We'll have to see about that, now won't we?"

"See we will, warlock," sneered Starc, "see we will!"

They circled, nearly invisible to each other in the shadow of the wood, and charged simultaneously. Starc drew one of his weapons with the sound of winter ice breaking, snarling as he ran. Tyren nimbly took three steps forward, stopping and tucking into a roll. Starc's momentum carried him three steps forward, but he quickly recovered and pivoted. He saw nothing. He frowned before calling out, "Coward! It was you who arranged this little get-together, was it not?" He heard no reply, but under the shadows of a tree two paces into the wood Tyren spoke, "It was indeed." He drew a completely black metaled dagger from a sheath on his hip, breathing softly onto the tip, completing the first type of magic, and the only one available to him with a dampener nearby: Infusion. Pure energy flooded into the dagger, and Tyren linked it mentally with himself. He slithered around the edge of the tree, throwing the dagger at the same time Starc's weapon embedded itself three inches into the bark beside his head. It flew unnaturally, flying straight instead of end over end. It started dipping dramatically as it neared Starc and came into proximity of his dampener, but still hit with enough force to drive itself deep into the Captain's shield. The runes on the shield began to melt, and Tyren felt a flicker of energy run through him.

Tyren charged, and Starc lowered his shield and rammed forward to slam him back. Tyren jumped up onto the shield and vaulted upward, flipping while at the same time drawing another dagger and infusing it with energy. He brought it down above his head, aiming towards Starc's shield in a crushing overhand blow, trying to disable the dampener. Only when he struck, the shield wasn't there. Instead, A pickaxe moved to intercept his blade, twisting it suddenly out of his grip and jarring his arm up to his shoulder.

Using his momentum, Starc whipped his weapon around in a tight circle, plunging it towards Tyren like a fist. Tyren was forced to dive under Starc's arm, a movement that left him exposed to another blow. Still, he was nailed with a glancing hit to the shoulder, sending fire up his arm. As he watched the killing stroke descend, Tyren knew what he had to perform: Expulsion. A method that would take every ounce of his concentration with the dampener so close. He closed his eyes, raising his legs and sending energy through them like lightning through wire. With a small explosion of bluish light, Starc was sent stumbling backwards, arms pinwheeling as he tried to regain his balance.

Coated in sweat, Tyren rose shakily to his feet. With his last bit of energy, he sprang towards his discarded dagger, infusing it and throwing it before he hit the ground. It bit into the edge of Starc's shield, barely puncturing the surface. Nonetheless it was enough to break the efficiency of the dampener.

Tyren felt pure ridiculous energy course through his veins, making him laugh out loud as ecstasy overtook him. He smiled a terrible smile. He laughed a terrible laugh. With hardly any effort, his hands burst into dark purple flames. Starc's eyes reflected no fear, and he grabbed his second pickaxe, swirling them around in mesmerizing patterns.

Tyren loosed the balls of flame at Starc in quick succession, sending them hurtling at a tremendous speed. Starc cooly deflected them both, ricocheting them skyward. It took a substantial amount of energy, but it was worth it to see the expression of surprise in Starc's eyes, if just for a moment. Starc whirled his shield around and threw it like a discus towards Tyren's face. As it approached, Tyren infused it, then laced his hand in energy to absorb some of the blow. He caught it, pulled it in, and released an explosion of magic behind it, launching it forward violently. Starc barely raised his pickaxe in time, and even then it glanced off, knocking him square in the forehead and onto his back.

Tyren conjured two more fireballs, launching them at Starc's weapons, knocking them out of reach. Tyren started feeling weak in the knees, but he disguised it well, summoning one more and advancing slowly--and dramatically--towards his fallen fiend. He brandished it threateningly as if to throw it, making Captain Starc flinch slightly. Tyren smiled. "Give me...your chain," he spoke slowly, steely rigidity in his voice.

"My chain?" Starc replied, feigning bewilderment.

"Your chain." he repeated, "I will not ask again."

Starc paused for a moment, realizing half a second before Tyren that his gauntlets were still intact. He lunged, snarling, putting all the power of his considerable frame behind the punch. It hit Tyren square in the chest, knocking the air out of his lungs. Tyren heard at least three of his ribs crack, and let out a soft moan as he struggled to catch his breath. Starc stood over Tyren, spat blood to the side, and asked, voice full of gleeful hate, "Give me your chain."

Tyren sighed in mock submission, procuring a golden chain from seemingly out of thin air, and waved it mockingly under Starc's nose, "You mean, this, chain?" It was the Chain of Office of the warrior class, its intricate pattern forming a helm emblazoned on a flat square of lead was evident even in the dim light. Ten seconds ago, it had been tucked safely away under Starc's shirt. Starc gasped, before making a clumsy grab towards it. In that time, Tyren had infused it three times, and swung it lightly around before crashing it into Captain Starc's forehead like a stone from a sling.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Tyren struggled to his feet, just noticing little wounds. He knelt beside Starc's corpse, and used two fingers to close his wide eyes so it looked like he was sleeping. Sleeping while bleeding violently. He whispered, his voice shaky but regaining strength, "You are but the first, brother," he sounded like a different man, full of ice and iron and hatred, "and you will not be the last."

He turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadows of the wood, leaving the carcass of a legend to rot unattended.