A Challenge Howled.

[Angel]

Kirib Unleashes a throat rending howl at the freshly rising moon. Its familiar, silver face is reflected in the mirror smooth surface of Lake Infinity. Living up to its name, the water sits oily between its shores and reflects the great expanse of sky, looking more akin to a hole in the world that water.

Kirib's howl rips through the air and disturbs the glassy surface, the stars trembling in the infinite vault. The rich sound spreads over the land, sending a challenge and announcing his presence, as his lupine ancestry dictates.

He is at his best in the rising moonlight, sliver hair shimmering and fluid. His clothes ripple in a faint breeze that brings scents of city creatures and forest from far away. His eyes blaze with gathered moonlight, picked out by the silver light, as he watches and listens, furred ears pointed and searching.

An answer to his challenge,

[Skald of Storms]

A dancing glimmer of moonlight flickers down the reflective surface of the lute's strings. Their rapid vibrations creating a harmonious melody that drifts fadingly into the night. A relaxing melody is pierced by a throat rending howl.

'How irksome, some dastardly creature is disrupting me, I'll have to deal with him, deal with him well, I was just getting to a good part...' Thought the shady silhouette as he slowly placed his lute over his back and tightly drew the leather strap securing it.

With a fearsome scowl and a spring in his step he loped towards the source. His dirty tunic making him almost invisible against the dark backdrop of the young night.

Skidding to a halt before the waters of a lake he stands mesmerised by the rippling of the waters. Sighing wistfully he races his face to look at the moon, moonlight floating softly to light up his features, his quite pale skin standing out now amongst the darkness of night.

Suddenly taking a dramatic pose he raises his head lightly and without much thought or care for what it was that had made that interrupting noise he sang;

'Come ye then, ye beast of evil,
Dastardly did ye harm my tune,
And now I come to call you out,
Face me craven fool,
For I shall laugh at you,
As I lay down your defeated self!

The song drifted softly and melodically over the rippling waters of the lake. The Skald of Storms stood on the edge and awaited a reply to his song. And he hoped that the reply would come likewise, in song.

[Angel]

Kirib's ears swivel towards the sound and he stares along the shore, his heart thudding in pleasant anticipation. The words and harmony pull at him like the wolf-song of his distant home, so sung to the night sky. Only it is softer and more delicate, he raises his head and replies in his rich tenor;

"I grow hungry for a taste of speed,
My fangs for lack of blood!
Your voice falls on waiting ears,
But lay down I shall not!"

His voice, used to shouting orders over the bedlam of a battle, is strong and wild. The simple chant rises over the water with a wolfish ring. Before the waters have stilled he begins to move.

Each step is fluid and contains no excess movement, his lithe muscles ripple over a bare chest and calves. Silver hair and tail stream out in the wind as he runs with only a bare hissing of grass as his furred, paw-like feet part it and are gone before it can really notice.

He approaches the singer and begins to slow, intending to show every courtesy to the one he has challenged.*

[Skald of Storms]

His hair rustles in the gentle night breeze as his ear leans away from the wind to better hear the reply. And as he wished it came back, not really a song though, more a chant, it was kind of catchy, in a barbaric sort of way.

With practiced ease he slowly loosened his sword in it's sheath and turned along the shore. His keen ears picking up the sound of movement coming closer, with a slight almost feral smile he raised his head to look upon the creature that had come into his sight, his sight as keen as ever picked up that this creature, though man-like was not a man.

Taking one step forward he raised his hand above his head and began an elaborate sweeping bow in it's direction. As he rose from the bow he puffed out his chest and in a deep rumbling voice began to speak. "Well creature most craven, to disrupt my nightly musings with such an awful ruckus, would you be most kind as to get on thy knees and beg for forgiveness, or at the very least, give thy name so that I might know who I am about to lay low. For I am the Skald of Storms, a fearsomer foe you shall never lay your eyes on, nor a better one who walks the path of the muses."

[Angel]

Kirib's keen senses pick up the little details before he can fully see his opponent, the faint 'shing' of a loosened sword and the hum of wind through strings. A musician? that would explain the music in his voice and his unspoken request for a reply in kind.

The smell of unwashed clothes and sweat comes of him, if only faintly in the cool air, mixing with sword-oil and catgut. as he comes into sight, however, any misgivings about how well a musician could fight are blown away in the breeze. That feral stance reminds Kirib of his brother and he grins in anticipation of a hard duel.

Skald's uncouth words only manage to damn his elation slightly, rudeness he can cope with. A this streamer of anger makes his hair spike slightly and his hackles rise, figuratively. Discourtesy, however, he cannot.

"By responding to my call, you have accepted my challenge, and by the full moon this night I will fight with honour. But i will not go easy on one who disrespects the wolf's howl!
As a man of... refinement, i would expect you to know, to hear the complexity therein! A walker of the path? You make my fur crawl, a leech in the belly of a muses horse, and no more, I see before me!"

The exchange of insults, while not necessary to uphold the forms, is not disallowed and he continues after,

"You have the right to leave now and i will not pursue. If you accept though, I will hunt you till your defeat, or mine! choose wisely, Leech.

[Skald of Storms]

He chuckles at the words, tilting his head he grins more openly. "A fine retort there wolf man. A fine retort indeed. Let me repay you in kind though..." With this he slowly unfastens his lute and spins it from his back into his hands and begins to strum happily, a jaunty tune.

'What do I see here, what do I hear here?
A dog that’s lost its way,
with the bark of a pup,
A rabid flea-bitten mangy dog,
a dog without a home,
The lowest of the low,
the runt of the litter,
The crap-eating dog of the lake!

And with that he bows quickly as if to an admiring audience. And swiftly striking up a dramatic pose with an unmistakeable smirk across his pale face, he then replaces the lute strapping it back over his back and his hand flows gently to the hilt of his sword, a feral look entering his eyes, his left foot sliding backwards, his body twisting slightly. He then half-chants "Come to me dog, come to me cur, come and find death on my blade..."

[Angel]

He listens attentively, liking the tune immediately. the bow at the end rounds the whole thing up and Kirib laughs, his excitement making his mood change with little warning. He bounces lightly on the balls of his feet with his tail swishing out behind.

"No death here, tonight for me! I've seen that day, far more fearsome than you it was!"

The shimmer of his eyes seems to flare as adrenalin races through his system, making his heart speed up. The loud racing noise is like a warning to him and he is a little shocked, he begins to calm himself down and warn himself.

A quick dip into the pouch at his waist and he pulls out two hand-length knives with narrow, curved blades. with one held forwards in his right hand, and the other reversed in his left, he sinks into a slinking fighting stance. A strange shimmer in the air about his throat glints when the moonlight hits it and seems to become more solid as it soaks up the moons radiance.

The invitation to advance seems to have fallen on those pricked ears without notice but after a moment of strange stillness, Kiribati, once Heir to the Mountain Stream Pack, flows forwards like a raging torrent.

His speed is a little under that of his approach but his blades flash out much faster, striking for the sword arm and one kept in reserve to defend against attack.

[Skald of Storms]

His eyes widen slightly at the speed of the daggers snaking towards him. He breathes deeply as his hand falls from his sword and he falls fowards with great speed narrowly avoiding the opening blow as he lands on his knees his right hand pressed firmly against the floor.

He chuckles softly, "Quite fast, quite fast indeed..." his voice trails off as his left fist comes sweeping up in an uppercut aiming for the jaw of his opponent. "But my friend, not quick enough this time!" His mouth twists into a feral grin once more.

[Angel]

Kirib's reservation seems to have been wise and he is forced to lean back out of the way of the punch. He makes this to his advantage and balls his fists tightly around his weapons, thudding them into the ground behind his head as he gathers speed backwards.

His back foot lashes forwards and over, in a half circle as Kirib flips over. The solid pad of his foot aims to connect with the underneath of Skalds punching arm,

"you aren't so bad yourself!"

[Skald of Storms]

He rolls his eyes as his punch was dodged, not that he hadn't seen that coming. He blinked as he saw the foot flying towards him, and almost sighed as it connected with his still swinging arm. And with predictable results he was completely off-balance and the added momentum turned that off-balance into a backwards tumble.

He eventually came to rest nearly five feet away and with sudden care and grace sprang to his feet, with a worried look in his eyes he loosened the leather strap of his lute and swung it around, luckily it was almost undamaged. He sighed with great relief, having almost totally forgotten he was in the middle of a fight.

Turning and gently shoving the lute over to rest near a pile of rocks he once again spun to face Kirib. His face suddenly overcame with rage, his eyes glinted dangerously in the moonlight, his lips curled into a snarl. His hand shot down to his sword and he drew it with one graceful, but very sharp movement.

The sword came free and flowed in a semi-circle to point at Kirib. The moonlight ran down the edge of the blade. It was dead straight and much thinner than your average blade, the hilt was a dark shadow in the night. After a few moments of stillness he burst into life, his blade moved in a flowing movement like water, he spun towards Kirib. The force of his forward movement coupled with his spinning motion and the flowing of the blade created an almost ghostly sound. But there was no mistaking the deadly intent as it brutally went for Kirib's neck.

[Angel]

Kirib's improvised back-flip lands him safely on his feet again, immediately ready to bring home an attack. He is balances on the balls of his feet and already moving back to close the distance when he sees the attention lavished on the instrument.

He straightens, feeling it deserves an informal break in the duel,
"Is it undamag- ahh!"

He begins to move backwards at the look in the musicians eyes, that wild glint reminds him of something far more sinister that his brother. The way his moon light, kiribs moonlight plays on the blade strikes a sudden lancing fear in him. A flash of red-silver accompanies it, signalling a vision.

The heavy and whistling slice comes fast and unexpected, while Kirib is still slowing his charge. It is barely visible but for the thin gleam of sliver that denotes the edge, where the light catches. He throws himself down and back, avoiding the slice to the neck and earning himself a gash over his temple. The jarr to his skull sends his senses reeling and he is sent sprawling to the floor. The gash bleeds profusely, as head-wounds are wont to do, and blood trickles into his eye.

He cries out into the darkness and presses the inside of his wrist to the wound, unwilling to et go of his blade against this sudden anger. He slashes almost blindly, allowing his other senses to guide the blade and slashing as Skald's knees to give him time to lead a decent distance away. He stands panting a few meters from him, poised on the brink of movement, though weather to attack or flee is unclear.

[Skald of Storms]

As the blood pours from Kiribs wound, he throws back his head negligently and laughs shrilly. He had lost himself again, as one who was very reliant and close to his emotions was, he lost himself whenever emotions overwhelmed.

And as he brings his head back to look at Kirib, he sees him standing further away and about to move. He let's out an almost musical growl and lopes forward, but as he does he notices something wrong, in the back of his mind where thought still remained it whispered words of warning. His legs, they weren't moving as they should. He came to a stop but a three feet from Kirib. Looking at his knees, his trousers were cut on both knees, and barely he could distinguish the difference in darkness, there was blood, his knees felt sort of weak now.

The feralness began to fade from his eyes and face, his body seemed to relax more. He took a few steps backwards still looking at his knees. He was in trouble. With these cuts he couldn't risk fighting how he normally did, he couldn't afford to twist his knees much at all. He snarled a curse under his breath before looking up at Kirib. Hoping the fool would flee, this would no longer be a fight to his advantage, despite the wound he had inflicted on Kirib. He now held his sword at an angle the blade pointing up from his waste towards Kirib.

[Angel]

Kirib watches intently as he gets over the physical shock of the blow. The idiot doesn't even realise he's injured until... He straightens and brushes blood out of his eye.

A steely glint comes into the silver orbs and his body settles into the solid fighting crouch of his race. A glint of red-silver catches his eye, the edge of Skald's blade, and he growls at his own abilities for a moment. The hammering of his heart is slightly painful and he works hard to force it to slow from the humming bird purr to something more reasonable.

To his lupine nose, the scent of blood is heavy and rich with salt, and a bitter taste rises in the back of his throat. His opponent is far more dangerous now that the reasonable man that answer his challenge with a song, he is maddened and blunted to his own wounds, putting them both at risk.

Kirib grips his blades firmly, the blood on one making it slightly slick. He will not surrender, as no clear winner is shown, and so he stands his ground. Stepping sideways softly, he circles until his back is to the moon for the slight advantage it gives him.

[Skald of Storms]

He watched now with a much calmer mind as Kirib circles him, the moon silhouetting him. He blinks briefly and then smiles softly, during his travels he had often found it necessary to run from wild animals, rather than kill them. And he had something he used to mess with their noses; an animal couldn't track as well once its nose was filled with a rather nasty scent.

His left hand snaked around to his satchel, deftly loosening the strings he reached inside and pulled out the most unusual wrapped object. Sliding it under his right armpit he retightened the satchel and then once more taking the object he grabbed one corner of the cloth that was wrapped around it and yanked. The cloth pulled away and the object was left spinning rather sloppily in the air. Letting go of the cloth, it floating away in the wind he grasped the object. A putrid aroma filled his nostrils and he made a displeased face.

"Well doggie, time for you to smell the rotting fish!" He shouted and ignoring the pain took two steps forward swinging the fish at his utmost reach nearly slapping Kirib in the face. The lovely smell of rotting fish left hanging in the air. He grinned and took one step back. His sword trembling in his hand.

[Angel]

Kirib's eyes widen and focus on his opponent as he readies to bring out ...something. whatever it is, it causes Skald to radiate confidence and Kirib hold his ground, watching his every move.

As he pulls the package out, he get the first scent of what it is and sniffs tentatively to identify it. As a result, when the musician flourishes the putrid wrappings at him, he gets the full stench of ammonia and decay. For the second time that fight, his senses reel and he staggers, his hand over his face. He gags and moves back and back until his fur-clad feet touch the shingle beach.

He winds the arm not covering his face up and flings the knife at Skald, not paying much attention to his aim. As the fish swings round with a terrible slowness, he ducks under the attack and moves away up wind with speed bought of disgust.