[center][h3]Knight Sylvestre vs the Cereal Killer – Round 4[/h3][/center] The haze surrounding Cyril grew dark and gray—dust in the air. He let the force of his swing peter out, knowing it would hit nothing, then with a last, explosive burst of energy lashed out in a silver spin attack. Away from the whirling knight the dust peeled away, but it left behind a man who, after coming to a halt, could scarcely stand. A short distance away, the bloodied pirate stood with the barrel of his flintlock trained on Cyril's unprotected skull. The pain on his face mixed with pity, for he knew as well as the vanguard that adrenaline cured fatigue as well as determination cured agony. Cyril's ruinous stance told Runch of the near-fulfillment of the prophecy in his journal; that after extended periods of berserk fighting that the knight would reach his limit. The act of carving that hideous gash into himself did not erect a mental barrier to keep back the exhaustion -induced by both his frenetic style and by the pirate's gaseous subterfuge- that plagued him, but instead revealed that after that last strain there remained no more adrenaline in reserve. “Uuuugh....” On the sidelines, Juniper clenched her fist. While both combatants sported terrible wounds, only one stood fighting-fit. The other leaned on the shaft of his halberd with both hands, legs splayed, the potent cocktail of agony and fatigue that coursed through him clouding his mind almost as badly as it wracked his body. His bold declaration moments ago rung hollow now. Could he really be the man who beat her before? He looked so pitiful. Yet, for reasons she couldn't quite place, the shrine maiden felt like he could still win, like one more inch of strength remained in him, one inch of nobility in the face of defeat. “Hey! You're not looking so good. I better not get my soul taken again.” The Cereal Killer said nothing, though his hesitation to fire upon Cyril suggested that his ultimatum from a moment ago still held, despite the dreadful injury he received. Cyril, glaring at him through beads of stinging sweat and strands of thick hair, thanked him for that in silence. He knew that he hated this man, and would never concede to him, but he knew also that this pirate harbored a strain of that chivalrous honor he once admired. His body, alive with spasms, felt close to numb. It wouldn't be long now before he could not fight, and the pirate would have his soul. The idea infuriated him, and for a moment his mind slipped, making him wonder if Juniper felt the same rage. To have a part one oneself owned by another... [color=turquoise]”How do you do it?”[/color] Taken aback, Cyril gave a coarse sputter. Runch could see the questioning in his foe's eyes, and elaborated. [color=turquoise]”That determination. Pardon me for saying so, but you don't seem driven by heroism or honor, and you don't see the type to draw power from friendship and camaraderie. Even before we fought, you sounded weary of whatever war it is you're waging. What drives you on?”[/color] More precious seconds to try in vain to rest suited Cyril, who decided to put his battle focus on hold and answer. In fact, he felt compelled to, for it stung him that after all this Runch didn't understand. “I keep fighting,” he uttered, voice guttural, “Because my life is worthless. One body...weak and momentary...dead, buried, forgotten. But an idea...to banish evil...to bring safety and freedom.” Breathing deeply, the vanguard fought to steady himself, and to stand a little higher. “Peace. It can't be broken, or killed. Peace is stronger, more important...than pride.” He brought his shield up. “Or pain.” He turned his glaive upside-down. “Or death!” Silver overtook him, picking him up and yanking him, puppet-like, at an angle. Runch's shot whizzed by as he zigged to the left, and the next instant he zagged to the right, approaching in a path shaped like a lightning bolt. Then he blasted left again, and instead of a thrust to the shoulder as he expected, Runch took a solid kick to the hip and flew backward. “Rrrah!” Cyril hurled his shield like a disc after the retreating body that struck him in midair and bounced off. Sent spinning by the hit, Runch twisted about just in time to raise a Bori Bori Pillar to lift him up out of the way of his enemy's thrown polearm, and once inside the cereal tower the weapon caught fast. Without waiting a moment Runch threw himself from his perch toward the vanguard, holding out his hand as he fell. [color=turquoise]”Bori Bori Hellberry Blast!”[/color] A plume of fire exploded in front of the haggard knight as he snatched his shield, staggering him. Runch landed and rushed forward, striking with an upward Bori Bori Greave kick that carried him two feet into the air, which he followed with a second kick just like it. [color=turquoise]Bori Bori Cannon: Mush Mellow Recipe!”[/color] A giant white blob shot out of his palm and stuck to the ground where he expected Cyril to land. Sure enough, the vanguard plopped square in the center and sunk in. [color=turquoise]”Bori Bori Jet Insta-pop![/color] The pirate's cereal greaves exploded off him, propelling him into position. He thrust his spoonsaber skyward and cried, [color=turquoise]”Set sail! Bori Bori Emergency Oar!”[/color] A stream of water-resistant oats snaked out across his weapon, building up and extending until he gripped a giant version of the spoonsaber, barely balanced above his head. From there, the slightest effort sent the tremendous weapon on its way, and gravity did the rest. [i]WHAM[/i] Marshmellow splattered in every direction. When Runch landed, he could see the damage. Curling up into the fetal position with legs held close and shield across upper body preserved the vanguard's upper half, but neither leg seemed quite right, and though Cyril stirred, he did not stand. Biting his lip through the pain, he hefted himself into a kneeling position atop his useless legs. [i]It is finished.[/i] Runch began to walk forward, reloading his pistol with a new cereal bullet as he did. “I suppose I don't need to ask,” he said through a smile. A gesture of respect, in this moment of all moments. In reply, Cyril yanked the throttle on his shield again, starting the saw. He then held his hands to his head, obscuring it with his shield. [i]One chance. Can't miss this[/i] There came a clicking noise, and a flash of silver. Though he thought himself ready, Runch did not anticipate the shield thrown vertically at the cobblestone to bounce back up and slam into his bloody chest. [color=turquoise]”Kuh! Not again!”[/color] The return angle of the shield sent it right back into Cyril's clutches, and like a gleaming comet he shot forward, sliding on his armored shins as he span. The blade whirled around, a cyclone of death, until its wielder came into striking distance of the Cereal Killer's calves. Instead of tearing into cloth, flesh, and bone, however, the glittering sawblade met rock-hard cereal, and ground to a halt. Cyril stared with wide eyes. [i]Armor!? I saw his greaves blow off![/i] He glanced up, jaw slack, just in time to see Runch swing the flat of the spoonsaber into the side of his head. Then, he saw nothing at all. [center][h3]The Murder[/h3] Location: Street Mall [@Propro][/center] The moment a dread aura began to stir, the corpulent merchant screwed his eyes shut. His grin, never pleasant, grew even more leering as Samuel's venom filled the air. Malevolence began to flood out from the nightmarish man, despite the lack of eye contact he aimed for, but if the vendor felt as much of an ounce of it he appeared frustratingly discreet about it. Moments passed, guilt and darkness undulating in a wretched miasma, but the ghoulish trinket seller did not react. “Huh huh huh!” He chortled. “Wondering why I am not grovelling? Huh huh! Make no mistake, Mr. Raven, you are quite the terror among men. This Horror of yours is potent indeed. But there are deeper fears still, fears that seldom occur to man. Perhaps one day I will show you.” When the merchant opened his mouth, there came a whiteness. Without a luster of its own, it did not seem to be light, but rather a simple, stark nothingness. It rippled across the Street Mall, wiping away every brick, every fiber, every mote of dust. For a second, there was nothing at all. Then the scene remade itself, returning to the way it was before, albeit with two anomalies. Two puddles of dull whiteness lay on the pavement a short ways away, one next to the other. As Samuel watched, their surfaces stirred, and thin strands like roots or stripes of paper rose from them. Over a span of mere moments the two groups knit themselves into two identical shapes, which after a moment recolored themselves to make two pale women, cloaked in black and bearing three pairs of arms. Each held a sniper rifle, a pistol, and two knives, and as one they aimed at Samuel, spread apart, and started to back away.