Who: Itachi Uchiha & various.
When: Throughout Maiuril.
Where: Several locations.
What: Catch-all.
Warnings: Probably some violence in at least one thread, will update as necessary.
[ooc: Feel free to send me a PM if you'd like to plot something! Open to 4th wall characters.] 
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@sephiroth, end of month
If you have any time to spare tomorrow evening at dusk, I will wait for you here.
Attached is the image of a map, a section of green space highlighted in a tight red circle. It is located on the edge of territory the Coven has barricaded off for both full and new moons; however, they're certain to have it to themselves so late in the month. Perhaps it isn't the safest place to choose. He doesn't think there's reason to be concerned.
And true to word — as the Wilde's cold winter sun sets over the canopy of trees — Itachi is waiting here, eyes on the path between him and Aefenglom. His crow overhead is wheeling lazily through the sky with an occasional, shrill bird call.]
i'm HERE, ty for waiting!
Itachi reaches their meeting place first, a vast clearing surrounded by the high, shivering branches of trees, cast in cold light. Sephiroth's approach is easily seen, just a darkly-clad man amongst the treeline, the steel of Masamune glinting int he light with each step. The sharp call of a bird echoes overhead.
Nearing, Sephiroth offers his brand of greeting, which is never really much of a greeting at all.]
You had the foresight to choose someplace isolated. That's good. A SOLDIER's fighting style is rarely suited for close-quarters.
[It's half the truth. They are far too eager to take control of the space in which they fight to limit themselves.]
i will wait forever
I assumed that was the case, from what little I've seen so far.
[Not enough to make any sweeping assumptions about the SOLDIER's fighting style, not from that brief shred of memory, but still. The sheer reach of Sephiroth's weapon is a tell.]
I prefer privacy regardless. [Above head, the crow swoops down and alights on the bare branch of a nearby tree, beady eyes watching. Itachi stands still across from his opponent, slighter by comparison.] What are your terms? I have magic at my disposal, and you likely have additional advantages as a Monster.
In the past, [and so long ago now it feels distant and strange,] when I would spar with someone else... we would not stop until the other had either willingly forfeited or been incapacitated. Does that satisfy you?
no subject
Eyes flick up to the barely-there movement of a branch quivering under the weight of a crow, the only observer of their brewing sparring session. He’s soon to return his feline gaze back to the other man, who stands directly before him and offers conditions not dissimilar to what he’s used to. SOLDIERs often clashed in ways that skirted the line between what was basic training and what was a war of wills, a test to see who would yield first. Itachi touts nothing new.]
That’s acceptable.
[He cants his head, intrigued.]
I would like for you to use whatever magic you have at your disposal. There’s no point in issuing a handicap for either party without knowing where our strengths lie. Don’t hold back.
no subject
[This is as much an effort to learn the man in front of him as it is a need to exercise his own abilities in combat. It will be the first serious test of his magical capability in the last few months of day-and-night training, and there isn't anyone else he can imagine a better choice than Sephiroth in this regard, except perhaps his brother.
After a small measure of silence, Itachi extends one arm out—the sharp, electric sense of magic threading the air—and manifests a long black blade into his hand. Slender as a katana, it is a lightless and colorless weapon, shorter in length than Sephiroth's sword but no less formidable.]
Then let's begin.
[Where passive waiting was once his modus operandi, this time Itachi lashes out first. He teleports in a flash to the place at Sephiroth's left flank, swinging the blade in his grasp at an abrupt angle, intent to cut across the other man's back.]
no subject
Almost.
He receives a three-world preamble before his opponent is gone, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, and it is only Sephiroth’s alien sense of hyperawareness that has him registering his appearance at his flank. It isn’t enough time to even fall into a proper defensive stance; barely enough time to twist his torso with his heels dug into the ground, bringing up Masamune’s edge vertically to block the attack.
It isn’t the first time he’s pushed back an assault without bothering to fall into form — but that had been, admittedly, to tease at his opponent. To illustrate just how little effort he needed to dance around their assault. Sephiroth would like to afford Itachi a small amount of respect before doing that much, and so he pushes back before Masamune’s steel can even stop ringing, meeting Itachi’s speed with blunt-force strength.
He follows up with a leap backwards, filling the space left behind with a strong sweep of Masamune to discourage pursuit.]
Fast.
[—he utters, more observation than a compliment, landing on the ground, then springing forward in a straight lunge of his blade.]
no subject
If he is fast, so is his opponent. As to be expected from a Harpy. Perhaps there's no competition against an animal's innate reflex, especially paired with Sephiroth's talent and learned skill.
Itachi doesn't respond to the comment. That momentary window is rapidly shrinking, and he's forced to dodge away, then dodge again, successive movements to put as much distance as possible between them — all too soon it will become a battle of gaining and losing ground. It feels as though, no matter how he moves, Sephiroth will always be right there with the gleaming line of his blade prepared to strike.
In a sudden flicker — another electric ripple of magic in the air — the image of Itachi's silhouette is tripled. There are now four Itachis ringing him, all with the same black cloak hanging off narrow shoulders, all holding up the katana one-handed. Mirror illusions.]
Can you tell? [It isn't obvious which one speaks, but the tenor of the voice is the same low and quiet volume.] Which will you choose to attack?
no subject
It’s only a few seconds in, and very few could ever make it past this point, could ever see those darting edges of Masamune flying towards their frame and not immediately yield. The 2nds and 3rds would freeze, overcome with trepidation and alarm; even his fellow 1sts, burdened with more bravado, could only falteringly stand against the assault, pushed back inches at a time.
Yet Itachi is not from Gaia, and certainly not fostered with the training of a SOLDIER, and to expect the same result would be a critical flaw. There is an innate quickness to him, too, an ease to each step planted into the soil, even as he darts quickly away from his weapon’s bite. The ozone crackle of energy again, the unknown variable of magic coming into play.
And then four of him stand around Sephiroth, the question heard as clearly as though all of them were speaking. Cat-like eyes narrow, but not out of consternation, only an assessment that is knife-like in its intent to differentiate them.
A moot point, perhaps, when he realizes that the intent is to buy time where Itachi might have had no breathing room before. Sephiroth deigns, then, not to worry about which is real and which is faux; the one on his leftmost is met with an attempt to cut it through with his sword.]
One by one, why not choose them all?
no subject
Yet it has bought him time. It's the time he needs, invariably, to decide how to approach an opponent of this caliber. Were they in Itachi's own world, this is not someone he would ever come near enough to taste the lick of that blade. Instead he would lever sharingan between them, if only he had it now. The illusory magic he's practiced isn't comparable to the devastation his eyes were once capable.
So he considers what he does have: practiced spells and knowledge.
Harpies have hollow bones and are prone to electricity. Lacking the ability to produce the latter, Itachi's strategy will need to hinge on the former.
As soon as the first copy is destroyed, the other two fall in obediently, black swords raised in overhead strikes from either side of Sephiroth to attract his attention. The third (far more real) Itachi teleports instantaneously behind the other man. As those illusory swords pass harmlessly through whatever they touch, he funnels a torrent of sudden flame at Sephiroth's back — and uses this curtain of fiery heat to disguise a final strike, which follows shortly after from a very real and substantial katana.
Only the weapon isn't held normally. When he swings it down, he has the blade turned, its flat side against his forearm to transform it into a blunt, brutal instrument more like a hammer than a sword. He pours all of his strength into this hit. However it makes contact, he ensures it will jar even the most untouched enemy.]
no subject
He raises his blade at a horizontal tilt to catch the one at his left again, expecting steel to ring through the bones of his wrist if the target is true. That, too, dissipates into nothing, and so he twists his burgeoning momentum in a half-moon arc. Sephiroth meets the Itachi at his right with his weapon’s hilt, only to watch the same result.
Which means there is one target remaining — and one threat to whom he has given undue time to seek an opening.
A rush of heat at his back. Sephiroth’s boots are already kicking up soil for as hard as he turns to meet it, attempting to angle away to miss that veil of fire. But in the end, it isn’t the singeing heat that presents the threat, but the hard hit of a turned weapon used as a blunt force instrument, punching through that fire like a serpent striking hard. It’s too fast to avoid — he has no choice but to let it connect, brace against the blow.
If his body hadn’t been changed — his physiology slowly transforming to fit a harpy’s mould — perhaps the strike would not have felt so intense. But Itachi puts all his strength behind it, so much that it careens hard against his upper chest and shakes the whole frame of his hollow bird-bones, and Sephiroth feels pain blossom angrily at the point of impact. Hears the snap of something fragmenting across the collarbone, or the usually sturdy anterior of his sternum.
It takes the air out of him, stuns him into speechlessness, rattled less by the pain than the surprise of its severity. Jaw tight and teeth grit, a foot is thrown back by instinct to keep him upright.
(How long since someone has landed a blow on him like this, has come even close forcing him to feel this lancing pain? The nerve endings of bone and tendon sizzle like burrowing needlepoints, but all he can hear against the static is Hojo’s pervasive patronization from an age past, Too slow! Backwards progress! Pay attention or we’ll run it again! and he hates how his mind is so quick to betray him in moments of the unanticipated.)
And it’s instinct, too, that has him pushing through it, adapting to the lessened degree of rotation in his left shoulder by switching his sword to his right hand and darting forward again — his eyes like embers, malachite-hued.
Itachi has brought himself close with his assault, and though it connected, he’ll chase that proximity, never intending to let it grow wide again. Surely he cannot cast magic if he does not give him the time or the room; not if he fills the space with his weapon, aggressive in his pursuit if Itachi tries to flit away. A single swipe, then two— then more, strung together successively, eight lunging his way.]
no subject
The eyes draw Itachi's attention first. Luminously bright, they turn on him with the precision of another weapon—and the counterattack comes.
He's given no room to breathe, let alone form the hand signatures necessary to cast magic, but if that were the only issue then perhaps he could bear it long enough to slip loose of the assault. While those ceaseless lashes are met by the black katana in deflection, over and over and over, each one chips away at his own reserve of strength and stamina. The metal of Sephiroth's sword rings up his arms; his heels skid backwards; his head begins to pulse with pain. A tickle alerts him to the smear of a nosebleed above his upper lip, ignored for now in favor of keeping pace with the continued onslaught.
Adrenaline is hot in his body, an exhilaration of peril he has not felt in some time, not even confronted with his own death—more deep-seated relief than terror or dread. His skin is slick with sweat. There seems no end in sight.
Until at last Itachi is confronted with his own limits in this world. The final slash cracks against the katana, and it disintegrates like soot in wind, momentum carrying Sephiroth's attack all the way through its full arc without disruption.
And just like that, he collapses to the ground on his knees, panting, head tilted back and up to expose the long line of his throat. A dizzy spell has him blinking to see through spots in his vision.]
... I concede.
no subject
He can see it, and feel it, too. Each contact made with his weapon is like carving away at his stamina, layer by layer, until nothing is left. His opponent seems to pale, skin glistening with exertion. In the midst of another strike, he notes the ribbon of blood eking from his nostril, and he knows that it must be only a matter of time before he falls.
As the last strike shatters Itachi’s katana like ash caught in the wind, he wonders — for no real reason other than idle curiosity — what he feels in that moment. There’s no fear in him, hardly anything more shown than exhaustion, and even as he crumples to his knees to utter a concession of defeat, Sephiroth looks down at him and sees dignity in the resignation — his enervated state only throws it into clearer relief.
He lowers his blade, and Itachi’s features are near enough to reflect off the steel. His cat-eyed gaze lowers to meet the other man’s dizzied look.]
...No one has been able to strike me like that in a very long time.
[It’s as much compliment as oddity. A grounding moment, as much as one that his mind has difficulties processing.]
no subject
When he opens them, he's looking up at Sephiroth's height. It towers in their given positions now. A dark gaze lingers on that steel blade, inscrutable.]
I had the advantage of knowing the weaknesses of your form here. That isn't knowledge everyone holds, and wouldn't even apply in your own world. [Body loose, he wipes his hand across his nose to clear the sticky blood from it, smearing it red down to his wrist.] But with practice I could extort it if I chose.
[He rocks up to his feet, frowns, and peels off the cloak around his shoulders. His skin is too feverishly hot for it.]
I'm afraid I don't know healing spells. How severe is the injury?
no subject
It’s a rational reply, of course, and he isn’t surprised to learn that he’s done his research. But regardless of the disadvantages inherent in a harpy’s body, the experience is still unnatural to him, illustrating the foreign nature of this world away from his own. The question, despite himself, causes the corners of his lips to briefly turn upwards.]
It hurts. [It throbs hotly, will probably bruise angrily. Aches like a knife cutting through bone.] But it will heal in a day or two at most. There’s no need for magic.
[Brushing aside concern is equal parts logic (he doesn’t reasonably need it), and the result of a flaring pride (he doesn’t necessarily want it). Instead, he shifts the focus, wondering just how steady the other might remain on his feet. Itachi still looks pale, grimed with sweat, with blood smeared above the lip. Sephiroth's smile fades as quickly as it arrived.]
Are you able to walk? You’ve exerted too much effort.
no subject
As it is now. Itachi shakes his head at the question.]
It's all right, I'm accustomed to this—
[And yet the moment it's said, another dizzy spell strikes him, and Itachi wavers on his feet. Except on the night of the new moons, he hasn't attempted a flurry of magic in such quick succession; the battle itself required a physicality—particularly the final blow he landed on Sephiroth—that is not his usual tactic.
His weight won't stay up. Itachi stumbles, and crashes back down to his knees with a heavy gasp of breath.]
no subject
He has the option of taking him at his word despite the evidence to the contrary — much like the unquestioning manner in which he accepted the state of his own injury — but it’s hard to do, seeing him in a clearly struggling state. That gasp of breath, proof of the toll his body had taken, is further discouraging, so the choice of leaving him here to recover is dismissed, too. There’s a difference between being trusting of another’s capabilities, and cold callousness. For all of Sephiroth’s reticence, he does not naturally trend towards the latter, despite what many think.
With a note of mild disapproval—]
Maybe not accustomed to it enough in this world.
[Did he have contingencies back home? People to aid him should his stamina give out like this? The abilities now stolen from him, once able to ensure he avoided this kind of result?
Either way, it’s obvious that none of that currently applies.]
I can carry you back to the city, or at least until you have strength enough to move again.
no subject
Then again, this experience isn't new. He'd once suffered similarly due to illness and the vast amount of chakra most of his abilities required. Still, he knew his own body's limits intimately. Rarely did he rely on Kisame after a battle; he was loath ever to allow that weakness, even in front of the one deemed his 'partner'.
Itachi presses both palms into the cool earth, and tries again to lever himself upright.]
Here. [One hand extends, catching Sephiroth's broad shoulder.] It may be slower, but I will walk, if you allow me to lean my weight on you.
[Better than being carried, which might have caused him to evaporate in shame on the spot.]
no subject
But he offers his shoulder — and the crook of his arm, if needed — after Itachi stands and places his weight upon him. An easy enough compromise. The trek will be slow, but at least he’ll be escorted the entire way back.
It’s not as if Sephiroth has anything pressing awaiting his return, anyhow.]
That’s fine, then. Take it steady for now.
[It would be easy to fall into a guiding, military step, but Sephiroth can reel in this tendency for someone else’s sake.]
no subject
Somehow, his own loss of their battle is inconsequential compared to asking for such help.
Itachi says nothing else until they reach the city and pass through one of the the Bright Wall's gates. He keeps his mind decidedly blank of thought, concentrated away from Sephiroth at his side. Perhaps he should have told Sephiroth to leave him in the woods; it's too late now.
As soon as they reenter Aefenglom from the area barred off for the moons, he attempts to lean away.] I'll be fine alone from here.
[His bird has followed, and suddenly it swoops down to land on... Sephiroth's shoulder. The very one he'd had his weight placed.] ... Apologies. It has a will of its own. [Itachi reaches out one hand, and the crow hops forward, transferring to his wrist.] Sephiroth. I enjoyed our match, as it's been some time since I've trained against another, and never with magic. I'd be willing to try again in the future, if you're amenable.
no subject
When they reach Aefenglom, he allows the other man to lean away, having no intention to press the matter of aid further, much like he promised. His reply is cut off by the sound of beating wings, a fluttering in his periphery, and a— crow, the one he remembers seeing wheeling in the sky before their spar, landing on his shoulder.
It hops off of him in the next moment, and Sephiroth shakes his head.]
Your friend [pet?] doesn’t offend me. It would be hypocrisy for a Harpy to be put off by a crow.
[To say the least. To the rest, he nods, eyes moving casually from the bird back to Itachi.]
And I would be amenable to another match. Once we’ve both taken the time to recover. The last thing I want is for my skills to grow dull, and if you can promise to challenge them in ways unexpected, I see no reason to decline.
no subject
No use lingering.]
Magical familiar. In the absence of a Bond, it assuages some of the pressure as a Witch.
[Temporary, which Sephiroth may or may not know, but effective enough in the meantime.]
Very well then. [Dark eyes drop, briefly drawn to the area of the other man's collarbone where earlier he'd swung the full and heavy weight of that sword. Searching for a mark, or some sign of damage—seeing none.] I intend to take advantage of your willingness.
[His own skills must stay sharp, after all. With a nod of his head (and one last, lingering look), Itachi turns away to begin up one of the streets in the direction of the Haven, intending to sleep the rest of this exhaustion away. Perhaps stamina practice will be his next project.]