Thunder

[Zadown]

He brushed the rusty metal with his bare fingers criss-crossed with scars.

 

These pipes were meant to conduct more than just matter. I can feel planar energy humming through them, right under the surface.

 

The Dreamer frowned, his deep blue eyes staring through the red-brown surfaces at the invisible flow of power. Unbidden, that energy turned towards his fingers and leaped past the thin layer of metal, dancing on the chaos armor as an army of electrical sparks that illuminated the cold, dark subterranean tunnel with temperamental lights.

 

This must be a connection to some elemental plane nearby, some place of great power but little direction. So this is where he siphons his power from!

 

“I see ye found my secret, m'lord.”

 

Removing his hand from the pipe did not sever the connection and thus the planewalker was illuminated by the electrical aura as he first moved as if to draw Pain, then realized it would be almost useless in the cramped space and took a general ready stance instead.

 

“Heya, Earl Shakho Zan. What an unexpect'd pleasure.”

 

The voice the Dreamer used was as cold as the one he had been greeted with. Now that he concentrated, he could sense the other planewalker whose cloak of concealment was slowly dissipating, unneeded. The need for secrecy gone, Shakho tapped into the flows of raw energy coursing inside the pipes and flared into view, a young-looking man enveloped inside a violent blue cage of trapped lightning. He wore little clothes: loose dark purple pants, a white headband, wrists and forearms wrapped in black cloth, ascetic metal sandals. Only three scars were visible on his muscular torso, none on his scowling face. Shako took on a martial arts stance, a transparent bolt of bluish energy tearing through the fetid air from his one open palm to another.

 

“I must admit I was expectin' a more imposin' figure, Duke Wodzan Xe Chanima o' Chaos, th' Grail Marauder. Th' stories circulatin' around paint a picture of a devil so formidable he can turn th' tide of th' war alone.”

 

“Those stories might be exaggarat'd, Earl, but I confess I was under th' illusion I had, indeed, turn'd th' tides of war.”

 

A smile appeared on the Dreamer's face, or a grin – it was hard to tell with his hideously scarred countenance. As he spoke, his eyes turned deeper blue until they were two black holes in his white mask of a face. Some unspoken agreement was reached just then, and the pretense of civilized talking was gutted and left in a ditch to die. Shakho changed into a more aggressive stance in a blindingly fast maneuver, then ran forward keeping his two halo'd fists in front of him, the Dreamer responding by grasping the pipe again and draining its energy into a star-like point of light hovering over the cup of his left hand. With a flick of his wrist, the Dreamer threw the painfully bright ball of energy towards the charging Shakho. The Earl eluded the destructive spell with a supernatural alacrity even the Dreamer was barely able to track and struck with one of his fists. The explosion thrust the Dreamer backwards and vaporized his outmost wards, the rest of them coruscating wildly with emerald hues.

 

Unfazed, he dragged long, jagged lines of electricity forth from the pipes with his right hand and threw the rotating blades of energy at the Earl. Shakho batted them aside with seeming ease using his still-glowing left hand and grinned, but did not waste time speaking before leaped forward. This time the younger of the two planewalkers was foiled, a massive fist of force catching his leap and crashing him against the walls of the tunnel, the Dreamer miming the motion with his right hand to aim the spell. The fist dissipated as quickly as it had formed, being just a hasty incantation, and the Earl was faster than the Duke's next spell – he discharged his other fist right into the Dreamer's wards, knocking several of them off and thrusting the older planewalker back again.

 

The Dreamer stood up from amidst the metal wreckage with a red flame in his eyes and a pair of conjured force daggers in his hands.

[Zadown]

Phacyra leaned back, bringing his chair to be supported by the wall.

 

“And then what, ye Scourge of th' Planes?”

 

The planewalker thus addressed lowered his glass of angel's blood down to a stained desk with a dry smile.

 

“Then he proceed'd t' remind me of th' old planewalker adage 'Do not strike a dragon in its lair', that's what then.”

 

Phacyra's head leaned further back as he laughed heartily at the words. He was still grinning when he spoke again.

 

“Hah, that must've been a grand fight. 'Tis been said that Shako Zan 's a terrifyin' force in any battle, if a bit too focus'd t' really tear through large numbers of enemies. Ye should've talked with me 'bout th' lil' details I know of Law's planewalker captains before clashin' with half of them, neh?”

 

His companion's voice was as dry as his smile had been but lacked the bitterness of a sore loser.

 

“I was somewhat busy at th' time, brother. There was th' Grail, an' my ward, m'lady Jankiize, an' th' endless intrigues an' tactical complexities of waging a war. I 'ad t' ally even with Sir Owiric t' get anywhere – without him, I'm not sure there'd been any Grail Wars t' wage. Ye know most of that, an' we both know that. Now, if ye'd come t' me with yer information, then...”

 

The younger-looking and less scarred of the two planewalkers turned serious and leaned forward, bringing to chair to rest on all of its four legs on the floor again.

 

“'Twas a low blow, th' Dreamer. Ye know far better why I can't than I of yer affairs of war, ye havin' been there when all that happen'd, whereas I have unfortunately miss'd experiencin' any of yer recent adventures.”

 

He took his glass from the desk and sipped it morosely, while the Dreamer closed his green eyes and nodded slowly, acknowledging his faux pas, then saluted Phacyra with his own glass and sipped it in turn.

 

“'Ave ye consider'd breakin' this deadlock? I have time now, my brother – just ask an' I shall help, as ye should know I will.”

 

Phacyra savoured his mouthful of liquid as he looked slightly past the Dreamer, deep in solemn thought. When he finally spoke, his words were slower and more firm.

 

“Thank ye for offerin' yer hand, m'lord Wodzan Xe Chanima of Chaos, my brother, an' I appriciate th' offer. T' say I haven't been considerin' ending my imprisonment would be folly; 'tis inevitable anybody in my position would dwell on such a subject. Perchance I shall accept yer offer sooner rather than later, ya, but not right now. For even if ye are becalm'd an' without a wind o' Fate to sail with, my affairs are on motion under th' surface, no matter how immobile I myself am. 'Tis not th' correct time, yet.”

 

The Dreamer nodded.

 

“Very well. Ask me anon when th' time is correct, then.”