[closed] august catch-all!

[ua_duibhne]

Who: Diarmuid & Zelda, Diarmuid & Berserker
When: Throughout August.
Where: Around the city
What: Reluctant modelling during Lúnasa, failing to drink unexpected emotions away, and other good shit.
Warnings: N/A!

Comments

'3-

[ua_duibhne]

[There's that smile. Sunny and effortlessly charming, truly befitting of the Child of Light- and it heartens the Lancer far more than he could have anticipated. The only tension to be found is in Diarmuid's own expression, something that fades as realises that things between them have settled once more. Gods, it's a relief- and it shows in the drop of his shoulders as he lets out the breath he was holding.

In fact, Caster seems different to the last time that they met. Subtly, perhaps, but different and the pulse of magic within him feels more stable. Could it be that he finally Bonded? Or did he find another outlet? Either way, it's not his place to ask; if he wants to reveal what changed, let him do it on his own terms.

Besides, there's a battle that needs fighting. They can talk later.

He flashes his fellow witch an equally cocky smile. It's a shame they won't let them do this with actual spears; he'd give anything to test his own skills against the greatest spearman Erin ever produced.]

Well, you did promise me a challenge, Caster. [In an unabashed display of showmanship, he lets the staff play across his fingers before elegantly spinning it back into his grip.] Don't tell me you've grown rusty with a weapon...? If you need to warm-up, I certainly won't deny you.

[a little bit of playful smack talking never hurt anyone]

[futhark]

[ Caster whistles, also taking the staff. It's true that they would frown at them using actual weapons, but he isn't concerned about a frown or even about a bit of disobeying the discipline. What's the worst they could do to them? ]

I don't need the warm-up but since you're the one who chose the staff— I promise to go easy on you. [ Friendly smack talk is a Celt thing. Art of flyting, at least they're not doing that in a verse. Caster is a show-off as well, but his twirl of the staff is shorter because he immediately falls into a stance and zips in a low dash, mud, and dirt miring him down enough to give a bigger window for reaction than intended. He uses the full length of the staff to bridge the distance between them even faster, aiming a wide swipe at Diarmuid's ankles. It's just a poke, a test, friendly greeting.

Fortunately (?) neither of them can be as obnoxiously quick as they would as Servants. ]

[ua_duibhne]

[Those few seconds the churned up ground beneath them buys Diarmuid the time he needs to react but not to respond. The head of the staff slices through the air where he was standing just moments before as he dodges backwards, the soles of even his hard-worn boots sliding across the mud and bringing him further away than he would have liked. Quickly, he adjusts his stance, spreading his legs wide for balance as he swings the staff back forward. Still on the defense, it seems.]

Damn-

[It's barely even a whisper but there's a new glint in the Lancer's eyes. Now this is interesting. Diarmuid flashes him a cocksure grin.]

We never did settle on a wager, you know. [Though his grip on the staff tightens, he leaves room for it to slip across his palm and giving himself the chance to switch up his form.] Are we still game for three rounds of drinks and a story for each night?

[futhark]

[ Cú Chulainn was never the one to fight like a disciplined soldier (but then he never was one, he was a knight, not a footsoldier)— when Diarmuid breaks off, he lets him, letting their weapons clash once on the goodbye. Instead of pursuing a silent admiration of graceful display, as graceful as their battleground lets them (shut up, mud) ]

That— sounds just about perfect.

[ A beat ]

Just to make sure; anything goes or is there a hard no on something? [ And to better explain what exactly he means by that, he hooks his teeth into top of the long glove on his left hand, and starts to pull it off. As the fabric slides off it uncovers strings and swirls of shapes and runes painted onto Caster's forearm. He throws it away with a shrug. His all too relaxed stance being an opening ] It's a Witches training, no?

[ While most of Witches here require training in weapons first since they know magic, they don't need to train their spears skills— but how to use them along with their new spellcasting knowledge. ]

[ua_duibhne]

[He watches with great interest as Caster removes his glove, eyes widening just a touch as he finds himself looking not at skin but a canvas of runes. Ah, so that's it. It's an ingenious idea and, for a moment, he's furious for not thinking of it sooner; he's been experimenting with enchanted wraps to strengthen Gáe Dearg but painting the spells directly onto your skin? That's something else.]

No holds barred. I'd be offended if you were to pull your punches, Hound of Ulster. [He chuckles.] Magically speaking, that is.

[Rather than taking advantage of the relaxation of Caster's guard, Diarmuid focuses on flexing his own magical prowess. As he lets the staff slip back through his fingers, he mutters something- and even if the Lancer-turned-druid doesn't recognise the specifics, he'll certainly feel a shiver of arcane energy in his words. For just a brief moment, the whorls of the wood's natural grain glow, as though filled with light from within.

An enchantment.

But there's no more time to waste on talk. The only signal Diarmuid gives of his advance is a tightening of his grip on the staff as he propels himself forward. Not a deflection this time but an entirely offensive swing aimed directly at his spear-arm.]

[futhark]

[ Caster had thought about setting enchantment on self, but he quickly found out that just writing or painting things on yourself gives no results. It was one of the Dreams that tipped him off it was something doable, but he perhaps was using the wrong approach.

His studies focused nearly only on Enchantment since then, and he found someone to teach him the trick of enchanting living flesh. It's been a work in progress since then, but gave him something to focus on.

Just this practice makes him realize that Diarmuid just had cast an enchantment on his weapon, but he is unable to tell what kind of spell exactly it was. Oh well, soon he will find out—

Caster's reaction is instant— he takes the staff, rolls it in a tight spin over his wrist, before gripping with both of his hands. That's trading force for maneuverability as he's focusing on blocking the incoming strike. No dodge, no twirl on his feet; Caster figures the sooner he figures what Diarmuid's spell is, the better he will be able to adjust his strategy.

The block naturally, keeps him occupied, keeps him on the defensive. Just for a second or two.

What happens when their weapons collide? Is the staff heavier? Sturdier? Will it release some kind of effect on hit? ]

[ua_duibhne]

[Wood clashes with wood- if they still possessed the same strength as they did as Servants, no doubt they'd be standing in a rain of splinters but as things stand, their weapons simply clash with an impressive, sharp crack. Diarmuid disengages immediately, hopping backwards once, twice, and then recovering his posture.

There's no obvious change to his staff at first. Perhaps in that hit Caster might have noticed that it felt more solid but nothing else- that is, until he swings it back down on the retreat and scrapes the tip along the stone edge of the ring.

It sparks.

Like a flint hitting rock, flashes of yellow-orange light burst and fade around his staff as he brings it back up into a more combatitive stance. In the absence of a real lance, it seems Diarmuid has imbued the wood with the properties of metal.]

I hope those markings aren't just for show, Caster.

[futhark]

[ That earns him a wolf whistle. His admiration towards foster son of Aenghus Óg only grows. If they were Servants (and if he was a Lancer) they would have fought a most glorious battle, and no matter who'd win the match would leave him satisfied.

Gaerdagas pits them in a fight that is more of the battle of wits, rather than pure power, and these circumstances while not preferable, are interesting as well. —is it transmutation here at work? That would change the staff into metal. So no, enchantment with only giving it properties of it. Not permanent, but easier to cast ]

They make me look good, so we can compete on all fields— [ Sorry, not sorry pretty boy. ] Get ready Lancer, here I come.

[ A heads-up on an incoming attack is but a courtesy. Magic electrifies the air once again albeit there is no reaction from markings on Caster's arms. It's focused on his legs instead, and when he takes off he leaves a shining trail— another set of runes is painted on his feet and they grant him increased speed and range. He zips around their battlefield jumping up and bouncing off a tree— a choice that is both over the top as it could be confusing. The leap is intended to end on Diarmuid (even if he fully anticipates a dodge) and from there a flurry of increasingly aggressive attacks.

Though it's only his legwork that is enhanced and obnoxiously fast ]

[ua_duibhne]

[He should have known that Caster would have a few tricks up his sleeve. Rather, he would have been disappointed if he hadn't. All of his senses are on fire as the other Servant springs into action and, the second Diarmuid notices that glow of energy around his feet, bright even through the dust, he realises that he's been looking in entirely the wrong place. Not that he has long to figure out how he's doing it. Caster is a blur of movement, his sheer speed and dexterity forcing him to go on the defense before he's entirely ready. Though he just about dodges backwards, he's not prepared to handle the full force of his assault.

Jabs are blocked or parried- but a lightning fast swing catches him unawares and bites into his cheek.

Yes.]



[This is what every warrior truly lives for. Heart pounding, every inch of his body tense, blood roaring in his ears- it's been some time since he last had a duel so evenly matched and his excitement is palpable.

As soon as he sees an opening, though, he seizes it- but not so that he can counter. Instead, he goes for a feint, gracefully ducking another blow and darting to the side for a moment's relief. A few steps and he's out of reach again. Diarmuid wipes his cheek with the back of his hand, unintentionally smearing the blood in a way that almost looks like war paint.]

That's quite the spell. You'll have to share it with me once I've bested you.

[futhark]

｢ ooc: to make up for the ungodly wait, i bring a tribute ｣



[ First blood.

The adrenaline rush has Caster, no, Cú Chulainn fully in its grasp. A duel with a warrior of this caliber is a pure pleasure. No barrels held— is it dangerous? Of course, it is. But that's what their skills are for. Exchanging blows with full force, being ready to counter them. That's a form of trust, to go all out and know that the other warrior can handle it.

It's reckless— it's exactly what courses through their veins.

The feint is so well-timed it knocks one of Caster's hands off the staff. Not that he can't swing with just one, that's what he does, but Lancer must have anticipated exactly that, reflexes honed in endless battles and ducked right under it.

A second to breathe, a moment to exchange another banter. ]

Rising up the stakes already? What do you offer in exchange to make it even?



[ A twirl of the staff is as much a show, as it is a movement to get him into a different position. He does prefer the low stance, close to Earth— feral. This time it's the markings that light up, muted color glowing with the warmth of living magic. But here is the interesting detail—

As enchantments on Caster's arms are activated, the faint glow that marked his steps fades. Tuning different spells on different areas of the body are not as easy as one would think. A skill he has to yet fully master. ]