SoF Round Two: The Lichter Legacy and the Knightfall Heiress.

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Jean_Knightfall

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Though it was perhaps unlikely, for a variety of reasons, the landscape was somewhat of a cliche. Fluffy, white clouds that added a slight bounce to each step, in every direction, as far as the eye could wee. Ambient light, as bright as a clear day on the Prime Material Plane, shining as if it were noon, but from no obvious source. An aura of calm. Heaven, or an equivalent.

A deep, distinctly male voice boomed from the white landscape. “Welcome, challenger! Prepare yourself.”

The mage prepared her spells. First, she drew over herself a shield, like a curtain of shimmering light. A haze, the only thing marking that she was protected magically. Then she cast another, this time not a general ward but an injunction against energy discharges. Next, she cast an abjuration protecting against spells that conjured physical objects. She continued in this fashion for some time, while the voice spoke to her challenger.

“You now face the Lady of Wolves. The Keeper of Time’s Conflux, Protector of the Realm, 327th Chief Warlock of the International Confederation, Holder of the Line of Merlin, Tender of the Black Garden, Binder of The Black Goat with a Thousand Young...”

She layered the finishing touches on her shields and telekinetically drew her helmet over her head. In her mind she retrieved a spell’s incantation, and began it. Thirty-fourth path. The invisible sun. Sixth path. The shackles. She held the bone-paths in her mind, ready to cast, and focused on her Sword Logic, drawing the blade forth from her mind. Her fingers twitched, feeling as if it was in her hands already. She knew the thought was silly, that summoning the blade required bloodshed. Soon.

“God-Butcher, Champion of the Nine Realms, Celestial Crusader, Wielder or the Five Flames of Tiamat, Voidwalker, Faerie Queen, ”

She traced the Monas Heiroglyphia in the air with an armored finger, and a latticework of energy spilled from it. When it was finished, it resembled a wall, which slid open, a crack in reality. She entered, the musty smell of dusty tomes by now familiar to her. WIth a wave of her hands she summoned a collection of artifacts from the walls, completing her full repertoire of mystic relics. To an ordinary person’s sight she would have seemed... not mundane, but distinctly non-glowing. But to a mage’s sight, if he looked on the other planes, she would seem wholly different. Her aura would be almost invisible, hidden by the horrible white glow of her Corrupted Angel Armor, the rainbow sheen of her shields, and the auras of the staves, wands, blades, orbs, amulets, and other instruments hidden in otherspace pockets around her. The Heart of Praxic Fire, the Staff of the Archmagi, The Duel Blades (The complete set, something no Supreme had managed to collect since Dee), the Line of Merlin, the Crown of Fae, the Hood of Stars, Gruumsh’s Eye, the Scrying Eye, the Staff of Knowledge, the Tome of Thoth Trismegestus, The Book of Ma’at, the Monas Herioglyphia, her Sword Logic, and many more.

“The Mistress of all Magics, Queen-Guardian of the Realm, Sorceress Supreme, Madame Jean Knightfall!”

She descended.

No Caption Provided

Well, I wasn't expecting to see him here. What the hell, he needs to be taken down a peg anyways.

"Inferorum ignis!"

The four arms of the armor, two animated, two her own, moved in synchrony, drawing a circle. The movements of her hands traced it, glowing and red, and the two-dimensional circle became a sphere, spinning until it's center ignited, into a miniature sun. The pyromantic spell, bolstered by the Heart of Praxic Fire, rocketed forward, hot enough to turn solids to gasses at thirty yards. The Sorceress Supreme stood unaffected.

She didn't wait to see if the attack struck home, instead tracing a different symbol with each hand. She fired off an invisible scrying spell, intending to rip knowledge from the Delver's mind, feeling him unprotected by his accursed anti-magic field. If it succeeded, she would gain at least a rudimentary understanding of how his 'magic' worked, as well as his true name, which he had concealed from her multiple times.

After launching the second attack, Jean, with the second actual hand, set her shield's harmonics to rotate, meaning that any reflected attack would not pass through her shields to hit her as it had passed outwards. A relatively simple defense, and almost certainly pointless against someone who barely counted as a novice mage, at least in terms of refined skill, but it was standard dueling form, and she had to keep in practice for other opponents.

Using the next limb, this one mere metal, she pulled a weapon out of otherspace, arming herself for melee combat with the Archmagi's Staff. In her other hand, the Line of Merlin. A magical 'key,' used for opening locks set by any other Sorcerer Supremes. If she lost this tournament, she would give it up to the victor, but she expected not to do that. Not overconfidence, simply past experience, and the knowledge that she was better at this than any other. The Line held no utility at this moment, but any number of future plans might hinge on it being there, and it was a sign of status, even if it would hold no special significance to one such as the Architect.

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Lichter

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#2  Edited By Lichter

@jean_knightfall:

The Empyrean

The contrast could not be more stark. From infernal hellscape to outer heaven, the Delver of Secrets had clawed his way into the sky. The stone-set face atop his visage glared menacingly at the majestic white figure descending from above, divine arrogance made manifest. He scowled; of course she would make their locale a facsimile of Heaven. Yet it was so convincing, he was almost swayed from his resolve. The softness of the cloud beneath his silver boots almost tempted him to sleep, relaxation after his last ordeal begging him to stop on his quest. He shook the thoughts from his mind.

"You now face the Lady of Wolves. The Keeper of Time’s Conflux, Protector of the Realm, 327th Chief Warlock of the International Confederation, Holder of the Line of Merlin, Tender of the Black Garden, Binder of The Black Goat with a Thousand Young. God-Butcher, Champion of the Nine Realms, Celestial Crusader, Wielder or the Five Flames of Tiamat, Voidwalker, Faerie Queen. The Mistress of all Magics, Queen-Guardian of the Realm, Sorceress Supreme, Madame Jean Knightfall!"

He cocked his head to the side, letting a small smile play across his lips. Such over-compensation; he would reply in kind.

"You face death," he retorted simply, fingers twitching beneath the folds of his flowing verdant cloak. He exhaled, staring unblinking at Knightfall's new form.

"INFERORUM IGNIS!"

Latin? he thought, cloak blowing back over his shoulders. The years spent studying under Otto's orders had unexpectedly paid off once again. He knit his brow, thinking of the translation -

Hellfire! he realized, gritting his teeth. Knightfall's arms moved languidly, an esoteric circle traced from her fingertips. He inhaled, throwing his arms down and to the left. The palms of his gauntlets roared, ambient mystical energies gathered and blasted through his limbs. Lightning-like tendrils of power lashed from his fingertips, accompanied by a sudden burst of violent force. Where he'd stood moments before, there was nothing but a green blur, the Architect soaring to the right in a desperate evasive maneuver. Knightfall had circumvented his Octarine before, and it alone wouldn't save him from the heat...

The star-like energy expanded as it approached, as thermal energy tended to. The light was unbearable, the heat even worse. The edge of his cape was singed away, black tatters replacing the regal trimming. The clouds, once gentle and inviting, had turned gray and hard. Violence had come to the Empyrean.

No Caption Provided

He rose from where he lay to a knee, then back to his feet. At that point, the second segment of Knightfall's initial assault now made itself known. The Oscillator whined in complaint, taxed already by his improvised dodge; quietly, the scrying spell picked away at the carefully-constructed telepathic defenses. One of his eyes twitched, a drip of blood running from his nose. He tasted it, and scowled. His mind had been attacked before, and even with an inferior model of the Oscillator, the attempt had spelled doom for his assailant; now, he would attempt the same counter-maneuver. He sensed what she sought, picking through his consciousness. He winced, before focusing his will. He would give her what she wanted...with a probing response of his own. Telepathy was a two-way street.

It was as though Heaven fell away, replaced by the gray room of his mind. He peered back through the tunnel she'd made through his psychic barriers.

The name is Von Lichter,he stated, straightening his back. You'll choke on it.

A defiant battlecry, like a horn stolen from Hell, would sound throughout his psyche in retaliation. Knightfall had his name, but along with it would come the migraine to end all migraines. Were she to maintain the link between them and siphon more information, it would be accompanied by pain so severe it would be as though her skull had been sundered from top to bottom.

Shall we begin?

Maintaining with effort the aggressive psychic counterattack, he moved the battle back to the physical plane, clenching his fist to gather more power from his surroundings. The gauntlets hummed with deadly power, flames springing from his hands; he bent his knees.

A split-second later, he blasted himself forwards, the sudden acceleration enough to dispel the cloudy arena on his side in its entirety. A series of sonic booms heralded his approach, the air before him superheated by the rapid blastoff. A cone of red energy surrounded him, the oxygen ignited-

- and then he vanished. He'd employed this technique in Iceland as well, referring to it as the blink-step; it was a multi-step teleportation-based approach designed to maximize injury upon his target. His violent acceleration would be maintained, but his rapid vanishing would result only in exponential increase to the force behind his blow - essentially carrying him closer to his intended target without losing any speed. Furthermore, as he had in Iceland, he would use this power to appear within his opponent, a clenched armored fist erupting inside their form rather than a refined blade. At that point, were he to succeed, the power built within the knuckles would disperse outwards, a devastating explosion of mana-energies accompanying the physical dismemberment of his pretentious foe.

This attack, coupled with his magic-weakening Octarine Oscillator, would be an utterly devastating one to face...one reserved only for an enemy of humanity as persistent as the current Sorcerer Supreme.

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Jean_Knightfall

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Jean's mind burned. Psychic feedback pouring from the link she had inadvertently created almost caused physical pain, but her multitude of healing spells and artifacts stitched her up before she could even show weakness. Mentally, closed off so that Klaus would not hear it, she began a mantra. My mind is my castle. My fortress. Unassailable, walled and defended. None may pass into my castle. As she repeated this phrase, she hovered, as impassive as ever, for a long moment, steeling herself mentally of the attack. But the connection was still there, and she had his name. So she severed the connection, rolling her eyes beneath the helmet. He's so damn melodramatic. The thought triggered something, and she set a spell to 'search' through all known databases and all of her library for any reference to the name Von Lichter, though it drew power from an auxiliary source, and would not drain her as she fought. The results would await her after the battle, one way or another.

Then, he attacked physically. Rocketing forward like an ICBM charged with mana, he attempted to manifest his fist in her skull. His Octarine field passed through her shields easily, for the most part. She cursed herself, and resolved to find more shields that could nullify it's effect, or simply destroy it after she finished him. But that was all long-term concerns, the tele-frag she was about to experience was immediate. However, the Octarine Rouge's accursed device could not nullify her armor.

On another plane, one much like the one they fought on, that world's equivalent of a resident deity decided to take a heavier hand in mortal matters, for that Earth's technology had gone wrong. So it sent down an army of angels. But they were not able to withstand the corruption of that Earth, and they fell. They ruled that plane like gods themselves, until the Sorceress Supreme arrived. She slew them, and made their leader her armor. As it happened, one of the properties of those angels was that they were an immutable fixture of their reality. So when he attempted to bypass her armor and blow her head up from the inside, he was simply repelled. Wether his arm was blown clean off or simply experienced for minor pain from being rebuked depended on the kind of attack, but it mattered little. She had struck a blow, and that was all she needed.

Raising the Line of Merlin telekinetically, she slid it forward slowly, as one would to with a key and a keyhole. And as it moved, it disappeared slowly, much as a key would, though the keyhole was invisible. Once it was gone, she raised an arm. Above it, a pinpoint of light appeared. It traveled slowly downwards, and as it went, it went from blindingly brilliant to darker than the void between the stars, which was exactly what the hilt showed. And when it was fully formed, her first blade had been formed in her hand.

No Caption Provided

"Allow me to tell you a story," said the Sorceress Supreme. "Once upon a time I had a brother. He called himself king, and we fought. For our father, though he loved us, he knew that we were weak, and he wanted us to become strong." She tested the blade's weight experimentally, as if she hadn't used it in some time. It's form wavered slightly, as if part of it was not in that reality. She was unworried of an attack, as she had silently cast a miniature, localized Time Stop around her. If any attack, physical or energy, came within ten feet of her, it would freeze. Costly to maintain, but she only intended for it to remain until she had finished monologuing. "I was only an apprentice mage, then. I had about as much magical... artistry, as you do now. And far more talent, infinity more raw power, but that should go without saying. Anyhow, I digress. We fought, my brother and I, and we were evenly matched. But for one thing, He had an ethos, a theory, that he called his sword logic. It was quite brilliant, and he used it effectively both in strategy and in the social. So I decided, in my childish arrogance, that I would create a ritual, to even the scales. Now, rituals are always sacrificial in haute, so attempting them is costly, and creating them is even more so. Most magi never try, and those that do usually create only one. Those with true power, in this realm, are not the innovators, but those who find the innovator's lore, and use it more effectively. I have created over thirty rituals, but I'm what they call exceptional. I'm getting off-track, though. My first ritual was simple, and it required one thing. The blood of an enemy. I took my brother's blood, and I attempted the ritual. I created a weapon, a powerful one. And I thought to make him fear me. But I failed to realize that the blade, this blade, has another property. It doesn't kill. It erases. Merely cutting with this sword wipes the victim from the timeline. So I erased my brother, and his sword logic. And all that remains of him is this sword."

Dispelling the Time Stop, Jean raised the blade back as if to thrust it forward, and teleported behind the Delver of Secrets, completing the move. However, the Lady of Wolves was no fool, and quickly moved away, far out of the Octarine's range, her next salvo, should he survive, imminent. If he was fool enough to resist her lore and power, he would have to deal with that of Merlin himself.

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Lichter

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His strike shunted unexpectedly to the right by some unknown mystical boundary, the Octarine Knave spun past Jean, shining boots drawing sparks from the clouds where he landed. He pivoted before his momentum vanished, digging iron fingers into the wispy floor to halt his forward movement. More sparks curled up his arm; Heaven did not take well to bloodshed. He rose, knuckles smarting 'neath his gauntlets. Knightfall was in the process of completing another ritual, lethargically moving her gentle fingers through the static-filled air. He breathed, relaxing his muscles. Focus was key.

No Caption Provided

A blade rested in her hand, drawn from ætherunknown into the quasi-physical realm that was their battleground. As she prattled on, he regained his energy. Small cracks in his psionic shields repaired themselves, his back straightening further. His posture was once again perfect, even in spite of the growing soreness in his forearm. The regal cape flowed behind, coming to a rest over his shoulders. In the minute it'd taken her to monologue, he'd fully regained his composure. He crossed his arms derisively; Knightfall had made the very same mistake she had before, in Los Angeles. Every wasted syllable from her mouth was a boon to his mental energies.

React-! he thought, instincts kicking in the moment her speech ended. Her blade was raised, yet would she try a forward approach? Time seemed to stand still, not a wild guess driving his reaction, but tactical analysis built in to his psyche since an early age. He'd started fighting dogs, then wolves, then snakes; people were much the same. Vicious, and with a tendency to attack from behind.

He spun, raising two metal fingers. The tip of the omni-lethal blade stopped an inch from the tips of his digits, held back by a focus sharper than any sword. Sparks emerged from nothingness, resistance to the slash offered only by telekinetic power generated from the inner workings of his suit. Sweat rolled down his forehead. His eyes were wide, yet determined. An inch closer, and he might very well have never existed. There was no time to ponder paradox; his pupils dilated, pugnacious soul burning for retribution. Perspiration rolled from his hair down his face.

When you have to kill, kill, don't talk, he reminded himself, eyeing the tip of the weapon.

She'd retreated, dashing backwards in anticipation of a rapid counterattack. Yet the Legacy was not one to deliver a speech before a blow - that was better saved for distraction during a maneuver. And maneuver he would, shifting slowly to the right, then the left, his feet sliding slowly across the clouds. He hovered inches from the ground, mental energies refined and now put into overdrive. The cape billowed behind his back as he shot towards Knightfall, a speeding blur rather than an armored scientist. He approached once again, this time in a parabolic arc - he'd be far to Jean's left at one point, then instantly upon her.

The first strike would be not from fist, but from the elbow, propelled directly at Knightfall's armor-plated neck. This was not the end, though...far from it. The next strike would come from the opposite side of her body, a quick teleportational jump transporting him to the optimum location for a strike to the body in the opposite direction. The sudden stop that would occur would devastate an unprepared foe. Subsequently, he'd follow up with his other fist, a blow to the stomach - then, an energized strike to the forehead, a brutal finisher to his blackhearted blitz. He anticipated a teleportational dodge...were that the case, he'd follow, appearing wherever she may retreat to. If possible, he'd repeat the cycle over again.

And throughout the barrage of blows? The cold voice of the Lord of Light, rasping from his mask between strikes.

"You're only my second opponent, Knightfall. They said the Sorcerer Supreme would be the last in the tournament to be faced. I wonder...did someone simply suggest that you held the title, and you just...rolled with it? You seem rather mediocre, if I do say so myself..."

Et cetera, et cetera. Similar mockeries would be repeated ad infinum. He'd had lots of time to think of them, after all, staring in the mirror at the red gash on his once-symmetrical face.

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Jean_Knightfall

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#5  Edited By Jean_Knightfall

@lichter:

Like blows from a hammer, they came. The Hound's Hound striking with augmented force against her hard-won armor. She began pouring energy into her shields to keep from being destroyed by the mere force, though she gave no outward sign. But to one with he eyes of a mage, she was a whirling confluence of energy, spells being cast, dismissed, or redistributed madly. Asher didn't attempt to flee through teleportation, saving her energy for more powerful spells, as she planned to go on the offensive next.

Quick as a bullet, she moved, thrusting her multiple arms outward in a burst of telekinetic energy. She aimed simply to push the Delver away, giving her time to prepare her next attack. As she did, she responded to his barb. "Far from it, Lichter. I requested you specifically. After your last opponent simply left in disgust, I figured I'd kill you and save the actual entrants the work of fighting you. Murdering pretenders is one of my many jobs as Supreme. Which you'd know if you were a real mage." She grinned.

No Caption Provided

The armor around her burst open, parts flying off of her and hovering around the Protector of the Realm. The blade in her hand was transferred to her, as well as another sword, in the other. It was simple, steel, with a skull motif at the hilt. Her garb was lighter, and the same skull emblazoned on her chest. She mentally cast another spell, one of enhanced speed and flight, and dashed forward in midair, slashing with both blades. If he was touched by the Sword Logic, he would simply be erased from existence, but the second blade was the one he'd need to watch out for. it was enchanted with the fire of a god she had dulled, whose physical manifestation she'd slap. Tiamat was metaphysical, of course, and could;t be killed, but felling the aeons-old five-headed dragon form she had favored for millennia had granted the Sorceress certain powers, such as a blade imbued with five kinds of elemental fire. If Jean's ideas on the Octarine field were correct, it could burn directly through his shielding and into his flesh.

As she moved, with the intent of neatly bisecting the Lord of Light as he stood, the Corrupted Angel armor, with multitudes of artifacts spelled to it in otherspace, moved with her, a glowing white field connecting the floating pieces. It flew with eh same speed as Jean herself, and when it hit Klaus it would pass through him, not harming physically but conferring mental pain, before it turned, as Jean did, and flew back into place protecting her.

Jean didn't fully expect this attack to work. by all her reasoning, it should, but she'd had a protracted battle with Klaus before, and it had ended in stalemate. She had, however, planned for this. The Line of Merlin had been used, opening a breach into Merlin's trove of artifacts, lore, and power. She reached out and retrieved the line, stowing it once again in otherspace, and found what she was looking for. Once again, an attack based through Time, but instead of erasing him, she would simply trap him. She pulled the artifact from Merlin's hoard, and clocked it as quickly as it came into view. Placing it behind her, she cast another set of spells in quick succession, verbally, sacrificing secrecy for expedience. It was all in a long-dead Elvish dialect, so there was little chance of him hearing her, or even understanding, but it pained her. The ultimate effect was that the artifact, the Mirror of True Reflection, would float behind her, invisible, until the Fencing Prodigy came within a certain range of her, close enough for any melee attack to connect. Then, the spell of concealment hiding the Mirror would be transferred to the Lady of Wolves, hiding her, but showing the Diabolical Duelist the Mirror.

The Mirror of True Reflection, like all powerful relics, has many uses. In this case, only two are relevant. The surface use, the obvious enchantment, is wherein it derives its name. Any being that gazes into the mirror sees reflected, their truest, deepest desire. Not whatever passion inflames them at that moment, but a truth that even they rarely know of until seeing it play out before them. It has a hypnotic effect both in the standard psychological sense and the magical one, making it diffifult for those watching the Mirror to break their gaze away from it.

The second use, that which Jean triggered with a quiet incantation and a discreetly traced rune in Sanskrit, is that which Merlin used it for, the Mirror's power of Sealing. Those who gaze overlong into the Mirror, once this is activated, are Sealed, as mages do to horrors, outside of Time itself, trapped in an endless void, unable to every escape or be freed. Once the young von Lighter attacked, he would see the Mirror, and he would never be able to escape.

Once this all happened, of course, Jean would teleport away. In fact, she would, still invisible, move all the way across the arena, the moment she became invisible, dismissing the incantation that made the Mirror follow her. Too many users of the artifact had had their places switched with their opponent, and thusly trapped themselves. Having come from a sane, Enlightenment-culture home, she tried to avoid being defeated in such a cliched manner.

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Lichter

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#6  Edited By Lichter

@jean_knightfall:

The satisfaction of steel knuckle meeting foreign armor was overpowering. Somehow his knowledge of fencing had extended beyond swordplay, deft sidesteps replaced with instantaneous teleportational jumps. The flurry of blows, too fast for the naked eye to perceive, had connected. Across the now-dreadful heavenscape they'd fought, the battering barrage reaffirming Klaus' own self-confidence. With fist alone, he'd bring she who had held humanity under her manicured nail to her knees.

The successive jabs and elbows were interrupted, a whirlwind of mental power rebuking Lichter's lightning-quick blitz. The afterimages caught up to him, heels once again drawing electricity from the blackened clouds beneath as he came to a rapid halt. He caught his breath, winded after the physically-demanding salvo. Knightfall's armor crumbled, drawing a wicked smirk to his face. He cracked his hands, angling his head to the side. He was about to open his mouth with a retort when she dashed towards him with far more speed than before. Teleportation was out of the question, after the recent blink-step barrage. He inhaled, squinting and raising his hands to erect a psionic barrier, the gauntlets whining as they obeyed.

The twin blades seared through the sphere of focused power in an neverending instant, rupturing his carefully-established shield with only a casual cut. The edges passed through him, not physically, but on another scale, burning away at his psyche and life-force alike. When the blade dubbed Logic passed through, he expected not death, but nothingness. The sensation of existence before birth was how he expected it to be; unremembered, unremembering. Instead, however, for a reason unknown to the Architect, he remained stationary, falling to a knee. The metal plate on his leg dipped into the clouds, his brow furrowing. He'd expected death. Yet there was one persistent constant - one idea, a hypothesis he'd once theorized about then promptly forgotten - which kept him steady in the universe. He was perhaps unique in this regard, and for this reason, peculiarly foul to Knightfall; it was a quality which, to a romanticist, would leave him devoid of love and compassion forevermore. In a sense, he was already dead, though still alive. The truth, sad and simple.

Lichter had no soul.

No Caption Provided

It had been that way for a year and a half, and it left him little more than a simulacrum of human life. An eidolon, bound to the world by flesh alone. He had a mind, a psyche with which to project himself in the astral plane; yet with regards to existence, he was but an undying man who'd meddle irrevocably with the laws of existence. Yet it had made him stronger.

"Is...that all?" he asked, rising from where he knelt. He chuckled, amazed at his own continued existence. The chuckle grew to laughter, a booming echo of victory. He raised his hands, energy pulsing from them, a smiting blow ready to power through the now-unprotected Jean Knightfall's flesh. He lifted his arm, intent on obliterating his foe...only to meet with a reflection of himself.

Sociopathy is a personality disorder, often born of childhood abuse, manifesting in an extreme lack of conscience and antisocial attitude. Sociopaths are apt at imitating the behaviors of ordinary people, emulating what they take in from interaction as well as the media. Often, they are fond of quoting various songs...often specific lyrics. They develop themes for themselves, waiting years for a particular plan or reference to finally and absolutely pay off. And inexorably, utterly, they live in the moment, without long-term goal or desire. Thrill-seekers, impulsively pursuing an individual passion in order to try and live. They might be mundane and even humorous one day, and the next, vengeful and sadistic, taking glee in causing others harm.

Von Lichter was the ultimate sociopath, and as such, he felt nothing, gazing into the mirror of introspection. He could see no deep desire, for he had no deep desire; he simply was. Forever, and always.

"Let us end this farce," he said, turning from the meaningless glass. He rose his hands triumphantly, prepared to smite Knightfall and leave her corpse for the crows. Only her secrets, and her title, would he take.

A crackle of electricity sparked from his right wrist, then the left. A small pop. He wrinkled his brow, jaw slack. A look of worry played across his features. The luminous gauntlets died, green flame-like power extinguished. The Octarine Oscillator, the siphon for what wizards referred to as mana, had been overloaded, utterly burnt-out by Knightfall's last blow. He looked from hand to hand, adrenaline fading to be replaced with fear. The shields around his body cracked, then disintegrated, his power faded.

No Caption Provided

Impossible! he thought, turning his hands over. Rain drizzled down his mask, undeflected by the shields. Pieces of his armor cracked, the reverberating force of his failing technology disrupting the integrity of his suit. Where bits of armor fell away, the magenta undersuit was visible, only the translucent nanofibres overtop offering any protection against the hostile elements of heaven. He was vulnerable - about to die - and all he felt was sheer dismay. He'd failed humanity.

No...no! he thought, shuddering with sudden rage. He clenched his fists, glaring at Knightfall with a stare so intent it drew thunder from the clouds above. His entire body convulsed, seething with contempt; adrenaline flowed through his veins, knuckles split beneath his gauntlets. Blood mingled with the suit atop his hands, the murderous intent focusing through his mind. The ground shook, clouds swirling around his feet. His technology was dead, yet the wind picked up, his pupils dilating dramatically underneath the lenses of his helm. His cape blew backwards, a whirlwind surrounding him as rune-like numbers carved themselves in a Fibonacci sequence around his feet. Mathematical theorems.

He was unarmed, without technology. And he would exhibit, using bastardized mysticism drawn from memory of a war-torn island, ripped from the bloody psyche of a novice magus...why he was no pretender.

Magic, true magic, rippled from his fingers. Unrefined mana energies, drawn into the Empyrean in which they fought. He was the center of an esoteric typhoon, a nuclear explosion expanding from the point at which he stood. Passing through his soulless form, this was not the mana Jean, or any other wizard, would be familiar with. Just as there is anti-matter, this was anti-magic, stolen from the Icelandic wizard and perverted by Lichter's soullessness. It ate away at the walls of Heaven, disintegrating everything it touched. It approached Jean with utter finality, turning every color negative.

And as it did, as it were, the voice of thunder would echo through her mind. It spoke but two words, amplified, reversed, slowed, sped, and even normally. Two words which would not be unheard.

"G̹͚̬̜͚̻̟̞͓I̼̙̩̯̭̻̮V̰̺͎̩̲̤̳͍͖E̜̩̼̣ ̯̮̲͓̟͓I̝̙̦͉̭̠̦̩̫̯̪̰̼̞̭N͉̟͙͕̤͇̖͉̜ͅ."