It was not hard to give some attention to the passage of time. Seconds transitioned into minutes, minutes ticked away toward a ten minute spawn. Adam would eventually receive some alchemically produced medicine and his burns would be mended to the point that they didn’t even leave scars. Miataea had already received similar, though she would not be leaving the hall of Healers any time soon given the brevity of her actions.

The lingering annoyance of the nurses and healers aside, it was all a rather mechanical affair; altogether very quiet when whispered incantations were factored out.

Outside, birds chirped and students made idle chat or sauntered about. Time moved on smoothly and unnoticeably. Inside, the lackluster sameness marking one moment to the next made Aoife want to proceed with bashing her head against the wood plank walls of the Hall. Fortunately, sanity regained its grip and better judgement retook its hold and, to the thankful, if unrealized, concerns of those around her, she didn’t do quite as much, instead opting for a much safer sigh.

Deep and drawn out, the sigh was strangely very satisfying— even calming…

May as well get some light exercise done… Aoife thought, realizing a way to pass about ten seconds. Anything to keep the insanity at bay.

Idly, Aoife stretched her right palm out just clear of her seated lap and held her hand parallel to the ground. Without a word, she began to casually shift through a display of the basic elements, each with a different gesture of her hand.

She turned her palm upwards.
A tiny candle of flame floated above it to bob about with liveliness.

She turned palm over once more and balled her hand into a fist, the flame was enveloped and extinguished.
A marble of ice coalesced out of thin air in front of her knuckles and shifted between smoothness and spikiness.

She lifted one finger to point, the ice shrank and disappeared into the nothingness from whence it came.
A distance away, a crack in the tiled floor closed itself.

She took a small breath then snapped her fingers, the crack reopened and so too did the rest of her palm, making a small waving motion resembling a swimming fish.
A light and all too unnatural breeze was produced as the air set itself in motion.

Finally, she softly clapped her hands together, the wind moved in the opposite direction to put the air back where it once was.
In a radius around her, all the metal items in the room not being used by healers, and the items adorning her clothing moved in a full circle.

Aoife nodded to herself, satisfied with the tiny bit of work. To the casual onlooker, a magestrava creating some small elemental effects out of seemingly nothing appeared simple and paltry enough, as did the act of returning the summoned effects to nothing. Such things were, after all, the basic and fundamental purpose of spellcraft: to create “miracles” by manipulating the outside elements.

However, to do so without a single incantation, without much effort, and with such fluidity in transition was actually an impressive feat; it showcased Aoife’s strict adherence to fundamentals and highlighted her ability to affect elements at the micro scale. Where the typical Magestrava would whisper an incantation and make a torch of flame, she merely lifted a palm and made a candle of a hotter temperature than that torch. This kind of thing showcased the type of spellcaster that Aoife was.

Spellcraft required practice and vigil, as well as reverence to the elements that a Magestrava wished to control. Any less would result in nothing or spell backlash. Aoife would repeat this exercise when time and situation permitted, so that her body did not forget in the slightest how to manipulate Karma.

Of course, she was also doing the modified spell stretches as a slight ‘take that’ at Adam. The investigator’s lips briefly curled in a nigh unnoticable fashion, into a mischievous grin. Doing more with less was something of her specialty.

After a brief moment of pause, she considered performing a few more rounds of stretches. A few taps of her foot upon the ground echoed through the relative silence in the facility as she deliberated. The answer came about half a second later, clear: Of course. Aoife held her palm to face the ceiling again and anew, a candle of flame appeared on her palm. Again, the flame danced about in bobs, but she chose not to transition to the next element.

Aoife smiled amusedly as she increased the size of the flame a bit more, then moulded it into the shape of a very tiny humanoid.

Little amusements like this, she supposed, were an effective enough way to pass time. Aoife’s eyes took on an unfocused look
as she idly stared at her little flame enacting ballet moves upon her palm. Her body and the forefront of her mind relaxedly entertained by the little effigy, letting the rest of her mind begin to lose itself in thought over her latest case.

The Lich Case had little in the way of detective work, promising more of a fight or some strenuous dialogue than actual investigating. She already knew the Lich’s location, the culprits behind its creation were part of the case file, and what she had to do was already outlined. It had all been served up to her in a package, like a quest in some kind of tabletop game.

Still, it remained under the purview of her abilities, and also sort of adhered to a loose definition for her job. Detective work was that of looking into the past to protect the present, for the sake of the future… or something poetic like that.

“Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm——” Aoife dragged out the tone for a bit, gaze still locked upon her spell, and her mind still trapped in contemplation over work.

Part of her just wanted to go blow up zombies and decimate the Lich without a word, but the more reasonable part of her called for… well… Reason. And the only way she could reason with the Lich would be to get the help of a certain someone, of whom the detective found her thoughts directed toward.

Diplomacy and intrigue, such things were a bit more fitting of the Investigator title. As if agreeing, the flame doll bowed at its emulated waist. Afterward, the seemingly unbreakable silence would continue for but a scant more moment.

FWOOOOOOM!

The redhead jumped, rattling her chair during her reflexive reaction of surprise at the sudden loud noise from outside. Simultaneously, her little flame doll positively exploded in her hand, dispersing in every direction. One could almost imagine hearing a tiny scream of futility as it "died".

WHOMP! WHOMP! WHOM! Fwooooooooosh....

The cacophony of noise was shortly followed by a few surprised yelps. From what Aoife could tell, the sounds were either the beat of large wings or some kind of wind spell... Another wind spell? Adam was right in front of her. Aoife took another moment to listen for more sounds outside: no terrified screams or rushing footsteps, so Aoife convinced herself that no one was hurt and settled upon the erstwhile conclusion.

The front door of the Hall opened before Aoife had a chance to get up. The heavy wooden door let out a loud creak as it yawned open, causing Aoife to give a reactive wince at the sound before she could finally look at the threshold, an inquisitive expression written on her features.

In stepped someone she wasn’t quite expecting to see just yet…

Ren’s footsteps were light, and not in the stealthy sense of the word; they imparted the impression that she was lighter than she looked due to her visibly sickly nature. What passed for head hair was mussed as far as the little tuft adorning it could be, presumably from riding atop her griffin.

"Now then, where..." the swarthy Ouramancer girl tossed some dainty looks about the Hal, an uncharacteristic smile across her perpetually ill features, her expression brightened further when she made eye contact with the detective. "Aoife! Just the girl I wanted to see." Locked onto her target, she walked toward Aoife with a brisk hurriedness to her walk, "How is my very best friend in all of Lismos today? Feel up for some, uh..."

The Ouramancer's more usual mousy personality broke through the friendly facade, and in a way much like Desmond some minutes before, Ren took a pause to cast some curt glances about her surroundings. Unlike Desmond, she immediately got to the topic at hand, leaning in closer and lowering her voice. Ren's smile dropped as if saying 'it would be business from here'. Aoife decided it better not to interrupt, and Ren continued, "Look, I really need your help with something."

Aoife nodded along interestedly, turning one ear toward Ren and lifting her head so that her friend could speak even lower, sometimes simply whispering was better than the measures taken earlier. She motioned for Ren to go on, "Uh huh?"

"It's a sticky situation, not exactly a 'case', but your skills are definitely needed. I don't have much time to explain, but suffice to say, your timely intervention will be the difference between six idiotic criminals and six corpses that I have to deal with..." As if sensing the incoming displeasure at the mention of six corpses getting created, but knowing that her detective friend still wanted more, Ren added, "And I promise, if you help me, I'll owe you one. The next time you need me to talk to some dead people for you, I'll waive my usual fee. A favor for a favor, okay?"

There stood Ren, a girl of which Aoife hadn't the faintest idea of how to explain in any concise way. No amount of words would really satisfactorily summarize that eccentric with her band of eccentricity. Not to mention all of those discussions—or debates... arguments?—that the two got into over the source of Ouramancy. Still, she was precisely the person Aoife needed to see, and now she was standing there, asking for a favor that somehow couldn't just make use of the Guard Corps.

Aoife couldn't help but crack a fleeting smirk, knowing full well that Ren absolutely abhorred the likes of liches; yet here the eccentric Ouramancer was, volunteering a favor for a favor, unwittingly signing herself up for something she so despised.

Ren jerked a thumb back towards the door, her impatience with the matter readily worn all over her expression. As if to highlight her urgency, she continued, "Now, I'm afraid there isn't much time for thought, as they're probably already at the gates. Is it gonna be option A or option B?"

It was Aoife's turn to be displeased, her smirk transformed into a frown. Option A: Aoife would go and beat some criminals into submission so that their incapacitated bulk could be turned in; Option B: Ren’s pet griffin, Corin, would get his next meal, something that tasted a bit like raw pork. To spare the pithy rationale, the offering of those options was a thinly veiled, if unintentional threat. It had been indirectly said earlier in a different way: 'Do this, or I'll have to force my hand and make some people dead.'

Aoife rubbed her temples with her middle finger and thumb. This was one of those things where people would be getting hurt either way, unnecessarily so. On one hand, there was some unexplainable and implicit imperative for Aoife to get herself to the Opening Ceremony— not to mention the grating urging of the nurses to ensure Adam would be coming with her. On the other hand, Aoife held the belief that human lives were precious and not to be taken without highly justifiable reasons. Unnecessary killing was certainly undesirable; justice had to be meted out in a way not disproportionate to the crime.

Of course, she didn't know what these criminals she was being urged to beat up had done. They very well might deserve to get the gallows, but trials were created for that kind of decision. In summary, the decision was obvious.

"Option A," she said matter-of-factly, and stood up from her chair, "I suppose this is equivalent exchange for the return favor. I already have something in mind to ask of you, but later." Out of her seat, she looked directly at Adam with a bit of a spurious smile, "Well... Urgent matters. I know you prefer taking care of yourself, anyway."

Without waiting for his reply, she began to make for the door with haste to her steps. A stern glare shot at Miss Tea Drinking Nurse spoke enough that the investigator wasn't going to take being held in. She was out long before the headmaster had gotten into the Hall.

※※※※※

At the pace she walked, it didn’t take too much time to arrive at the Academy’s Gates. The threshold was blocked off by a row of guards, facing toward the outside, their number a sizeable fraction of the ones not assigned to the opening ceremony.

Aoife stood far enough from them that she was unable to properly hear what appeared to be a back and forth dialogue between the guards and some people outside. It was safe enough to assume that the criminals that Ren had forewarned of had already arrived.

“Not getting out through there,” she thought aloud, looking about for alternative routes out of the grounds. “Let’s see, let’s see, let’s see…” the investigator repeated to herself, tapping a foot on the ground once as she spotted a convenient perch overhanging the wall, not too far away and accessible with the aid of some spellcraft.

She nodded to herself. All war and conflict was dominated by information and the perch awarded a significant advantage. It provided the equal opportunity to scope out the belligerents and a convenient method to bypass the gate security. With a few words of incantation, she arrived three storeys above the ground and crouched down on the wooden beam.

Briefly, a stiff breeze passed and rustled her cloak, lifting her hood and placing it atop her head. For whatever reason at that moment, Aoife felt herself being likened to an assassin of some sort. Fittingly, an eagle rounded in a circumference about the building, just above her.

True to Ren’s account, there were six of them, each distinct from those around them, yet collectively discernable as thugs. The bunch kept up the shouting match with the guards, apparently not yet willing to make an attempt at breaking down the gate. A moment of curiosity struck the investigator, reinforced by the sense to learn as much as possible about her upcoming opponents.

Aoife extended her senses both visual and auditory.

"Look 'ere!" a massive mountain of flesh and muscle yelled, his voice a booming bellows that could wrench compliance from anyone tinier. His speech was heavily accented and rough, even foreign, "Ya see, all bruvas here,” he made a motion to his motley crew. “We're 'eres ta visit our sister! Da gurl we'z lookin' for is Ren, sees spiritz and fings like dat."

Apparently, a sense of cunning wasn't exactly under his repertoire… There was a momentary, stunned pause from the guards.

"Do you take me for an idiot!?" a guard all but yelled back in retort, "It's well known that Ren's of darker complexion. None of you look anything like her! Now stop wasting our time, back away from the gate and remove yourselves from this property."

"Or what? We'll get a slap on our wrists?" mocked a smaller thug, this one clad in leather and some conservative helpings of steel plate. Where the giant was massive and armed with naught but his brawn and melon sized fists, the other was armed with what looked to be a duelist's sword at his side and a focused, purposeful gaze. "We have business with Ren, and aren't displacing ourselves from this gate for anything." He grinned cockily, his words were laced with an implacable rebelliousness and and insulting sort of politeness—the kind that spurred a less patient individual into action. For added effect, he challenged, "What do you say, maybe if one of you can best me or Bonesaw here in a duel, we leave?"

Luckily, the Guard Corps was, by necessity, a rather patient lot. They did have to deal everyday with children and teenagers whose rebellious phases were punctuated by the ability to make someone's heart explode with just a few words. Snidely, one of the guards sent the rogue's words back in counter, "What do ya' say? How abouts we just stand here at this spell reinforced gate and you lot get hungry and slash or thirsty?" There was a cocky sort of laugh from the other guards.

A physically unfit thug with a shortbow and peg-leg looked to the giant in deferment, "This is gettin' nowhere, boss.” Aoife's eyes strayed from peg-leg to the giant; as far as group hierarchy went, the phrase 'might meant right' immediately called to mind.

Around him, the others nodded in seeming agreement before their conflicting opinion was pacified by a grunt from Bonesaw. They were all armed in some way: with several knives, a hefty axe, and a whip, respectively. The back and forth would be going on for a bit longer. With a breath, Aoife recalled her senses to their usual levels, satisfied that she had surveyed enough.

With a slight motion, she slid lazily off the wooden beam and onto the wall below. As she fell, she gave some attention to her surroundings, devoting some attention in search for Ren. Above her, Corin the Griffin fancifully darted through some clouds, seemingly at play; to the keen-eyed, however, his pattern belied an unbroken vigilant watch of the scenery below him.

※※※※※

Aoife tucked herself behind some trees in a small, forested area outside of the school’s walls, just a short distance away from the road. In the shadows and brush afforded by the foliage, the muted colors of Aoife’s garb proved an invaluable asset. She could see her prey without worry of reprise from all but the most thoroughly perceptive observer.

Information was the lock that held victory in a battle, and deception was the key to snatch victory away. With a smooth motion, the detective reached to the side of her thigh and unfastened a holster from within she produced a wand. She held it firmly in her hand and the twig-sized wand grew to the size of a long staff. In a murmur, Aoife began to recite a long incantation.



Fire, water and earth. Wind and metal. —— Red, blue and green. White and Black. Three primary colors and two shades were able to create any other color that an artist wished for. So too, with all five elements can a spell take its shape. The inspector was merely painting the picture that the thugs wanted to see, with elements as her colors, spellcraft as the brush, and the world as her backdrop.

Just near the thugs and inside the treeline appeared an illusion made of Karma, an illusion that looked like Ren. The illusion all too conspicuously let out a coughing noise like a sick child, and jumped as the thugs turned to look. It began to run loudly through the forest, toward Aoife.

She had provided the thugs with what they were looking for, and made it out in a way that they were expecting, like putting a ripe, sliced fruit out for flies to lure them into a web. They took chase and followed the illusion’s limping flight. With the criminals approaching closer, the redheaded magestrava hugged herself against the tree, still keeping up with the incantation.

The poetic verse was host to a whole mixed bag of spells, not just restricted to the illusion.

In a sense, incantations were merely devices used for a sort of battle meditation; spellcraft was the act of manipulating energy by reaching out with the light of the soul, taking hold of the energy while observing them using a Magestrava’s innate senses. Incantations provided a mnemonic effect to help the limited trappings of the human psyche remember how to manipulate the energies around them.

There was a whoosh of air as the duelist passed Aoife, followed closely by the mountain, the dagger user, and then the axe user. The thug with the peg leg was expectedly behind, and with him was the one with the whip, himself bound by the limitations of age. They were a suitable distance away from the rest of their group for Aoife to decided that it was time to strike. She took one more glance at the pair she was about to wail on, and put away her staff. It made a strange hissing sound and shrunk as it was once more reunited with its sheath.



Aoife counted to three in her mind, then separated herself from her cover. She flicked her wrist toward the peg-leg; the dry old wood of the highly abused prosthetic shattered into so many splinters. Aoife smoothly took the opportunity presented by his fall and shifted herself toward him.

All in a single motion, the redheaded Magestrava grabbed at the bowman’s shoulder and yanked him around in an about face, elbowed him in the nose, and stomped on his foot. He could only let out a garbled cry as blood bubbled from his broken nose before his mouth clamped shut as he clenched his teeth in pain.

Just a few feet away, a panicked shout to the effects of, “Greg!?” signalled that it was time to finish this one off decisively. Aoife slid herself forward, transitioning herself to Greg’s side. A swift and upward kick to the back of his ankle brought his upper body low as he was swept off his remaining support. The limb hung in the air for Aoife to grab, and the Magestrava moved forward once more as she took the leg and ducked down.

Greg’s foot was forced to meet the side of his head, and his hip let out a sickening crack as the connected bone shattered at the joint. Perhaps the pain was dulled by adrenaline and utter fear, that the bowman was able to utter out a cursing plea, “Papa Reg, y-you fucking idiot…! H-h-HEELP!!”

It appeared as if ‘Papa Reg’ was already obliging to his comrade’s plea for help; a nearly unnoticed whoosh of air presaged the passage of Reg’s whip through the air as it flew for Aoife’s face. Keeping up her momentum, the criminals’ assailant rose up from her crouching position and yanked Greg’s bow from its sheath, then threw the weapon in Reg’s direction.

She stepped sideways and pivoted at the heel of her rearward foot and her hip. A distance behind her, the leather cracked in a snap, marking the cessation of its flight. Aoife continued to twist, grabbing at the whip and yanking, pulling Reg’s face into the path of the flying bow with a meaty thwack.

Just below her, Greg writhed about, down for the count. The Magestrava continued her incantation as she held onto the whip, tight enough that the leather groaned from her iron grip.



From her hand to his, the whip engulfed itself in red flame. Momentarily, Aoife could see as the criminal’s eyes widened in fear, the panic as he tried to let go of the whip. It would be too late, as the flames consumed his hand and most of his arm. The old man screamed and shouted curses into the air for a few seconds before consciousness ceased, and the tiny conflagration extinguished itself just before he hit the ground.

Two down.

After this, the others would have to be deaf and dumb not to notice the commotion. The Ren illusion was gone, and Aoife could just barely hear one of the criminals yell, “It’s a trap!”

The thump of boots on the ground was enough to tell Aoife that the others were under way. She looked up from her most recent victim to catch sight of the axeman, yelling an unintelligible litany of curses and raising his axe high above his head as he charged. Between the verses of her incantation, Aoife’s frown curled upward into a predatory smile. She lowered her hood to get a better sense of her surroundings, and her freed red hair over her pale skin and dark cloak gave the impression of a freed demon.

—Forward—

Forward, forward, forward. Aoife answered the axeman’s charge with her own. Unlike the unrelenting and breakneck speed used to assault the previous two, this time she went at a much more believably human speed. Each of her steps was almost like a lunge as she darted between trees and over brush and root, searching out the shortest route to the enemy. Her evenly paced and purposeful footsteps were in stark contrast to the rampaging stomps of the bull-rushing axeman.



Aoife's smile grew, feral now.

The axeman had thought her measured, her speed seemed to be the extent of her ability. Greg and Reg were easy pickings for anyone who wasn’t completely incompetent, he thought. This little witch girl would go down, now that she had him as an opponent. Aoife burst forward, closing their gap at ridiculous speed in a single bound that kicked up a clod of dirt. At their distance, her speed made contact seem overwhelming and instantaneous.

Surprisingly, the thug was almost inhumanly quick to react, and began to cleave down with his axe to bisect the girl in front of him, in an adrenaline fueled battlecry, he decided to ham it up a little, "You shall fall, to Bob the Sloooooooob!"



Even further did the redheaded Magestrava’s speed increase. Bob got a knifelike jab of the fist for his efforts, a vicious straight punch to the nose that took advantage of both combatants’ combined momentum. A satisfying crunch and little gobbets of blood flying out of the thug’s nose was information enough that it had shattered. For an impressive battlecry, he hadn’t yet gotten to the downward cleave of his swing, the axe floated above his head in wind-up.

Internally, Aoife pondered why these tough types always lead their attacks with their chin. Externally, she was recoiling for the next attack; her arm bent at the elbow as she shifted her forward leg toward her target’s side, elbowing Bob in the cheek before he was even able to properly register the first attack. He let out a “GURK!” in response, and his grip on the axe only tightened as his rage increased.

Still not down, was the Magestrava’s assessment, casting an upward glare at her opponent. She pivoted on her forward foot, kicked off with her back foot, and rotated at her waist to deliver a full power—if unassisted by spellcraft—left-handed blow to Bob’s lower right rib. There was another, duller crack as the ribs gave way, and a squelch as Bob bit his lower lip, power draining from his body in reaction to the terrifying liver blow.

Aoife reared back to stop her radial momentum and kicked the ground again with her back foot, bashing the side of her hip into Bob’s groin area. A soured expression escaped his lips and the axe finally loosed itself from his hand. The close combat Magestrava transitioned herself behind the newest victim and grabbed the axe in mid-air.

She let out a deep breath as she held the axe upright and grabbed its metal head.



The axehead melted into slag at the end of the incantation’s stanza, leaving Aoife with a makeshift wooden club; there was a dull thud as she pressed the tip of the axe-shaft to the back of Bob the Slobs head and pushed, the man merely slumped over and didn’t get up. Three down, three to go.

A twig snapped in a loud report behind Aoife, holding every cliched implication that it could. The investigator looked down at Bob, still hanging onto a thread of consciousness, delirium holding just as much sway as some sort of faith in his comrades. His gaze was focused behind Aoife, and a whisper escaped his lips, “Go get ‘er.... Tommy… Two-Face…” With an ‘ugh…’ sound, his eyes closed and he finally let go of consciousness.

Tommy Two-Face, for his apparent failure at stealth, had actually managed to get within striking range. He let out a nasal yelp as he lunged with one of his daggers, his aim to drive the blade into the mysterious witch girl’s back. He managed to get the tip of the weapon into contact with her. Tommy’s snide grin grew tremendously at the thought that he had succeeded where three of his crewmates had failed.

“Hippogryph feather dress,” Aoife said definitively, as the dagger pathetically deflected off her upper body, ripping some of her cloak off with it. Aoife spun around and delivered a punch to Tommy’s bicep, axe shaft still in her punching hand’s palm. Spellcraft reinforced, a disgusting crack resounded from the epicenter of the punch as Aoife’s fist drove into the man’s arm with enough force to break his bone and dislocate his shoulder.

The Magestrava put some distance between the two before she smacked at the back of Tommy’s knee with the axe-shaft, forcing him to kneel. With another blow, she struck his cheek with the shaft and sent him flying in a comical twirl through the air, he landed a foot or two away in a crumpled heap.

Four out of the fight. Aoife took another deep breath as she scanned her surroundings for the remaining two.

“Oh?” one of the investigator’s eyebrows perked up. She took a few more deep breaths, steadying her heartbeat and running a mental checklist of her status. The fight had been one-sided so far, but it did not mean that would remain to be the case.

Aoife was well versed in duplicity, and familiar with violence. She knew to be wary of anyone, even any two people that could see those around them get so utterly beaten, yet remain calm. That they didn’t charge at her wildly also told her leagues of their personalities.

It was an affirmation for her building theories, then, as the swordsman bowed courteously at the waist, facing the giant and holding a killer’s smile. He made a motion as if urging his massive friend to go first, at the same time turning his gaze to Aoife. His eyes seemed to stare straight into her soul and out her back, a piercing look that made the younger girl grasp tightly at the axe-shaft in her hand.

A boisterous shout like that of a gladiator broke the silence. “Ere we go!” yelled the giant. He nodded and smacked a balled fist to an open palm and grinned toothily. Aoife took another deep breath and righted herself, she took a combative stance as the giant continued, “Bonesaw, riiiiiiiisin’ to da challenge!” He let out a hearty, jubilant laugh, clearly excited at the prospect of some stompin’—or in other words, a good fight.

Familiar… Distant, but familiar… Aoife’s stance slackened and her eyes narrowed. She studied the monstrous man: all muscles, sinew and flesh. She could see tattoos over, and under, old scars; shackles and whip marks, even a few burn marks. It was clear that Bonesaw had once been a slave in some other nation. ‘Once been’ being key.

Deep thumps marked the beginning of Bonesaw’s roaring rampage toward Aoife, clods of soil and bits of rock flying from his every footstep. His arms were outstretched, palms open. The intent to grab Aoife was clear enough, but what concerned her was his speed. Tree roots, sapling trees, and bushes all but yielded to the seven-foot-tall man as he went just short of a beeline for his target. Holding her ground would be a ludicrous waste of energy.

Aoife ducked low, ready to dodge the attack. A second later and the giant was upon her, all too closely resembling a bear about to maul a hapless victim. The Magestrava shifted to the side, under a sweeping arm.



Putting all of her muscles to work as she reinforced them, Aoife lashed out with the axe shaft, aimed at Bonesaw’s Achilles tendon as his foot was raised into the air following a step. Between all her strength and Bonesaw’s bulk the shaft was utterly destroyed, snapping off right at Aoife’s hand, the rest of it pretty much a bunch of wood chips.

Then, the sound of dirt being pounded upon. Aoife eyes opened wide and her pupils dilated as Bonesaw made a rapid halt to change his facing, somehow managing to completely redirect the direction of his momentum. His feet dug into the ground, aided by tree roots as he grabbed Aoife in a sudden flying tackle before she had time to recover, a loud grunt of exertion escaping his mouth and stinky breath billowing into the Magestrava’s face.

“WRRRRAAAAAUUUUGHHHHH!!!!” he let out a guttural roar as the two hit the ground. His hands were large enough to actually envelope Aoife from shoulder to shoulder, and the momentum aided in robbing her of the leverage she needed to escape. She had underestimated Bonesaw’s persistence and speed, and was about to pay for it. Aoife quickly recited the lines of an incantation through clenched teeth; for what it was worth, she bravely faced Bonesaw’s incoming fists without flinching to look away.



Her body reinforced itself to the limits of her spellcraft ability, recalling the energies used to provide strength in order to utilize them for defense. Above her, Bonesaw’s eyes glowered with a primordial glee. A punch to her jaw, then a backhand. Two more lashes with his fists got her in the face as he began to rain down hard punches all over her upper body. He got up just enough to give her a knee just below the rib.

Then, there was a loud sound like the tearing of linen cloth. Bonesaw all but flew, recoiling away from Aoife. Patches of blackened skin gave off faint wafts of smoke, and whatever hair he had sizzled. He still stood, managing to look even more threatening. Aoife wiped her mouth with her sleeve as she got up. For all of Bonesaw’s strength and Aoife’s tiny size, his punches did not even rate the sensation of pinpricks.

She grinned. That Bonesaw had jumped away as she shocked him was a sign that he had a semblance of intelligence… No. It was instinct impressed upon him from his slave days: the determination to survive at all costs, and the instincts to carry it out. Slowly, the investigator gathered the information she needed to defeat her foe.

The two wasted no time to spring back into action.

Another ripping sound echoed through the forest as Bonesaw tore a sapling out of the ground, wielding it like a club. Aoife went back to her stance for a moment, then abandoned it as she charged straight for her opponent. A small incantation had the ground swallow one of Bonesaw’s feet as he swung the tree sapling down, enough to throw him off balance and allow Aoife to close the gap.

In quick succession, she delivered a stomp to Bonesaw’s free foot, and two knifelike jabs to the giant’s belly sent him reeling. Aoife had been fighting long enough that she knew any lull in the engagement would only return the initiative to the human bowling ball. She slid back just enough to gain the distance requisite for some stronger punches, making sure to keep up the tempo lest her opponent regain his footing.

Eyes narrowed, her back foot kicked off the ground again, pushing her with enough force that a rock below her feet shattered. Bonesaw caught a glimpse of crackling energy dancing about Aoife’s fists and elbows just as she stomped down on his tree sapling, managing to rip the wood out of its bark sheath and out of Bonesaw’s hands. Quickly, Aoife followed up with two downward elbow strikes to his biceps before she slid back again, coiling her arms backwards before shooting her fists forward in two explosive strikes to the face and just below the ribs.

The giant staggered backwards, a jovial laugh escaped his lips as a small trail of blood trailed from the corner of his mouth, disturbing Aoife with the prospect that he was enjoying the fight. Aoife shook her fists, her hands and wrists aching from punching the steel wall that was Bonesaw. His durability, strength and speed forced her to constantly switch her reinforcement between her own durability and striking power, and the electric shocks she delivered would have taken out any normal man in a single blow.

She let out an exhalation of breath as she pressed onto the offensive again, narrowly ducking beneath a fist like a boxer. She sprung upward to deliver an uppercut to Bonesaw’s chin. The path of her fist left a trail of white smoke like unrolled yarn, the contact between her knuckles and his jaw was accented by a small explosion, sending the giant flying a few feet off the ground.

Aoife inhaled and recentered herself, her punching hand currently on fire. Immediately after he landed on the ground, the giant rose again, now unsatisfied and angry. His eyes fixated balefully upon the flaming fist before it extinguished itself, then he was running again.

Upon his target, he raised both fists into the air and struck downward while letting out a snarl. There was a loud fwoom beneath him as he put most of his weight into the attack. The giant’s fists met the ground in a titanic strike, literally leaving a tiny crater absent of the blood from his intended prey. Aoife had whisked away beneath the attack again, and before the giant knew it, his legs involuntarily gave way as Aoife grabbed at both ankles to deliver a shock.

Bonesaw let out a gurgling sound as every muscle in his body spasmed. He would not go down, not yet. He could fall, but he would get right back up. Aoife continued to inject electricity from her palms to his body, determined to take him down. The little witch girl yanked at his weakened legs and pulled them from under him, he began to fall face-forward before a strange series of motions flipped him face-up.

Information and theories began to connect in her mind. A gamble formed in her plans, and an incantation parted from her lips as Aoife initiated a large-scale spell.



And then the world was on fire, with the witch in the center of it all.

Spiked shackles burst out of the ground and bit at Bonesaw’s ankles and wrists, a collar even suddenly wrapped itself around his neck. He was on fire and Aoife stood above him at the center of the sudden conflagration, her blazing red hair complementing the red and orange flames that licked all about him. She seemed the master of the inferno, unbothered by the flames she bathed in. Baleful green eyes glowered as they gazed down upon him with a singular purpose: that he would be broken.

For the first time in many years, the giant knew true fear. That it came in such a comparatively small package did not matter.

Fire was a fickle element; hard to control, hard to summon from nothing. With enough of it, it was very easy to just destroy, destroy, destroy, and create very little. Due to its destructiveness and power, sheer and unabashed, fire was feared at a primordial level by nearly everything from base beast to humans who thought themselves so clever.

Sounds and feelings he thought distant became fresh once more. The giant gritted his teeth nervously, thinking his senses barraged beyond mere pain. Everything felt dull. His mind was flooded, his heart threatened to choke him. What little stable psyche left flickered in and out as memories of slavery, whips, and fire flooded back into his mind. To him, to feel like a small child again was torture of the highest degree.

Fear is a potent weapon, in that it was flexible and basic. The best equipment, and consequently the best weapons, were those that were simple yet effective—and hard to break once deployed. At some length in his life, the giant had been a slave, where all manners of collars and whips had been used. The greatest collar one can put on a human being is that of fear, used to extract obedience where loyalty could not be contrived.

Fire was one thing the fearless giant couldn't ignore with complete certainty. It didn’t help that he was suddenly shackled in the litteral sense, too.

Fire's appearance and light was derived from the energy being released. The illusion of a blazing fire couldn't be created without energy, so she couldn't just fake fire. She could, however, direct most of its energy elsewhere without affecting its overall appearance. She shocked a certain whip user some time before through a similar method, making think his entire arm was on fire with what was actually about a candle's worth of flame. Yes, he got burnt, but not nearly as much as one would have thought from seeing him scream as he did.

Yes, fire and fear were almost synonymous. Two gold pieces to the one who remembered whose strongest element was fire. Aoife wasn’t a very skilled Insorceror, so mental illusions were beyond her, but it did not mean that illusions were outside of her capabilities, as the convincing Ren effigy from before so told.

Without even having to strike Bonesaw anymore, he fainted from the fear and the belief that he had just gotten burned to death. Steam rose into the air from what little burns Bonesaw did receive, as most of it was electrical in nature.

Her gamble successful, Aoife counted five down.

Only one remained.

“Scottie Quicksword,” came a voice from the left. Aoife turned to see the swordsman giving a curt bow, a grin on his face. “An impressive display,” he complimented before adding, “Nothing I haven’t seen before, though.” He even boredly took a glove off and looked at his nails, sword not yet drawn.

For a moment, Aoife felt angry enough that her thoughts left her, leaving her grasping for words.

Scottie Quicksword, more like Scottie Silvertongue, his words seemed to hit the Magestrava in the face. She rubbed at her cheek as if they really were tangible objects, and a few breaths returned her propriety and eloquence, “Aoife… Aoife Halloran. It seems a group of base individuals have given my friend a measure of trouble.” She smiled, “It has been requested that I clean this up.”

“Ah, so dear Ren has a powerful bestie,” laughed Scottie, “And here I thought she just had the pet bird.” A pause, he looked Aoife up and down, as if measuring her, “Well, seems I get to complete two duels, today.”

Momentarily, the two locked eyes for the first time. Aoife's glare was contrite. Her target was a murderer, a criminal of the second highest degree and a mockery of what it meant to be human. Scottie's gaze only looked through her: the loose and mocking grin on his face was betrayed by the sharp and calculating glare in his eyes.

The two measured each other for all their strengths and shortfallings, formulated battle tactics and predicted the battle tactics of the other.

Aoife clenched her fist tighter still, in knowing that Scottie might have gleaned more of her than she him. But, as much as it had made her insulted and indignant, it also remained to tickle at her curiosity. She hadn’t a doubt that he was a surmountable challenge, but just how much of a challenge would he be, that he was someone perhaps more keenly analytical than her? It bothered her to go into a fight with a strong opponent without the surety of some pre-battle intelligence, but she would have to make do.

Her grip loosened and her body’s tension relaxed as she reassured herself. It was uncharacteristic of her to feel shaken, likely it was just fatigue from her magic usage. It was not an overstatement to say that she felt surprised, but it went too far to say that she was anything beyond a fleeting moment of feeling unbalanced.

On the other side, Scottie had a sudden moment of hesitation. A frown twitched on his face and his eyes looked off to the side. For all the confidence bubbling out of him, the rational parts of his mind were trapped in a raging debate of their own.

One part of his mind implored him not to fight with the witch girl. Another, louder part of his mind took note that she was weakened after her fight with Bonesaw, and his twisted sense of honor was agreeing. For all it was worth in the future, he would likely have to cross his sword against her magic again, if he didn’t finish her off now. The padding effect of Bonesaw wasn’t guaranteed to always be there.

Scottie couldn’t allow himself any hesitation now, he couldn’t be intimidated. The monster of a witch would fall, and by his sword she would be broken. He regained his composure, and his smile with it, and unsheathed his sword. Since he had been able to watch her fight Bonesaw and Bob, he had an idea of the extent of her abilities. But, he couldn’t discount the possibility that she may have been holding back.

It began as a flurry, Scottie moved with quickness and precision enough to impress anyone, he pressed forward with the ruthless determination to gut the enemy that had been placed before him and was upon Aoife before she could put up a spell. He thrust his blade forward with unerring accuracy, the gleaming silver of the dueling sword glinting as Aoife focused her gaze on the tip.

Her body reacted while her mind still set itself upon reassessing the potential speed of her opponent. She ducked the blade in a diagonal direction and simultaneously prepared her left hand to strike. Aoife’s arm began to coil, the entire scene playing as if in slow motion, her fist clenched tightly and magical energies began to collect at her knuckles, within a fraction of a second she lashed out at Scottie’s solar plexus.

Then her arm stopped and everything from her shoulder down felt as if ablaze. Pain had graced her body; Aoife couldn’t help but gasp in surprise, “Eh?” The little witch ducked even lower again, a small trail of blood running down her arm. The magic to her knuckles seeped back into its source as she cancelled the spell.

More attacks came from Scottie. These, Aoife had successfully blocked, swatting away at that silver sword with her arms. She paid careful attention to push at its blunted width, rather than risk the rank stupidity of trying to parry the blade. Still, he was fast, ridiculously fast— truly living up to his nickname of Quicksword.

Scottie continued his assault, his dexterity was completely outside the scope of Aoife’s predictions, practically inhuman in its speed, strength and accuracy. Each of his strikes was as a machine-gun of stabs and tiny slashes, though almost all of them were deflected by a swat of the arm or dodged.

He pressed forward, giving her no time to look at the wound on his shoulder, much less take a breath and examine how it had been slashed. His attacks would be a waste of effort if he couldn’t get through, but he was confident that the weight given to him by the ridiculous speed of his strikes would eventually get through.

Strike, strike, strike, strike. Pang! The duelist blinked, the tip of his sword suddenly embedded in the trunk of a tree, through an illusion of his target

Aoife had managed to spin herself around the wooden barrier while tricking Scottie with an illusion of her. Three feet away, she could hear the blunt sound of the blade getting yanked out of the wood.

The mobility afforded to her by her reinforcement magic and her own natural close combat abilities were her most reliable defense, as she could still press on the attack while evading or deflecting damage. Illusions provided a useful utility to aid her agility, and speed itself contributed to force.

She had enough time to come to the realization how she had received damage. Meanwhile, a short incantation escaped her lips and her shoulder glowed white for a moment as the flesh stitched itself together to leave a small scar.

Another spell was cast, and Aoife went on the offensive. Scottie, having just taken his sword from the tree, blinked in surprise and jumped backward at the last moment, unable to raise his sword as Aoife’s right foot nearly grazed his chin. He backstepped just enough of a distance to avoid the left foot aimed to crush his collarbones and neck. By the time Aoife’s right hand traveled for his chest, he brought up the pommel of his sword and bashed at the wrist.

He caught a glimpse of a wicked smile just as the wrist ceased its forward motion. The pommel of his sword met air and he just narrowly avoided a dagger-like blade of rock aimed at his shoulder, hitting a tree behind him and gouging a hole in the trunk. With a grunt, he stabbed at the side of Aoife’s head with his sword, simultaneously stomping at her foot.

Aoife forced a huge breath to steady herself, then slid her foot forward as a boot stomped down onto the ground where it once was, and a swift headbutt enabled her to dodge and attack at the same time. As Scottie reactively moved to protect his face from her headbutt, she swung her leg to meet his side. A whispered incantation escaped her lips and her knee glowed the orange of flame, the same spell that she had used to knock Bonesaw down a bit earlier.

The explosion would deliver a distributed force to Scottie’s side, the sudden trauma to his kidney and surrounding organs would knock him unconscious— or at least that was supposed to happen.

There was a whoosh of air as Scottie pressed forward, smothering closer to Aoife. While her thigh still struck, the explosion set off behind him and did little more than heat up his leather chestpiece. He grinned as he hooked onto Aoife’s supporting leg with his foot, and she was taken off her feet. She managed to catch herself mid-fall, and rolled out of the way as a sword stabbed down at the ground where her head used to be.

“Going to have to do better than that, girly!” he taunted as he pulled his sword back for another stab, “Don’t you remember that I said that I’ve seen better!?”

A moment later and the two were separated from each other again, another moment and Scottie surged forward in another attack. Much as before, his bladework was as a flash, the tip of his sword struck at multiple places with every second. Aoife could feel Scottie’s intent to kill her, and displayed it on her face.

But… Something was wrong.

She began to smile again, through lips that were moving unintelligibly as she recited some kind of incantation.



Scottie continued to strike, but every one of his previously accurate stabs missed their marks. His eyes narrowed, before a sudden punch clipped him in the cheek, seemingly out of nowhere.

Confusion flooded over him as he spun about on the axis of his feet, his body propelled backwards by the haymaker. His consciousness flickered, not helped by the utter confusion. Lethargy hit his body and mind as a reaction to getting hit on the head by what felt like a strike just short of a horse’s kick.

‘All war is deception’, was the phrase. Aoife was just up to her tricks again. She had realized earlier why Scottie had been able to strike her even as she dodged. Where the Giant’s will to survive enabled the determination and instinct of a rampaging beast, Scottie’s intuition was like a finely sharpened knife, that the weight of experience contributed to his instincts. His body moved to correct his strikes, even without him having to see the target properly.

She smiled with satisfaction as she glided forward to meet Scottie again before he could recover himself. Her fist clenched tight and drove toward him, just as the brown-haired duelist’s spin brought his front to face the red haired witch, Aoife added more force into her punch with a step.

The ground beneath her boomed from the amount of force, and the power translated from her legs and the twisting of her hip, all the way down her arm and to the fist. The strike slammed into Scottie’s stomach like a boulder, crunching into the studded leather of his chestpiece before the strike sent him flying straight backwards with a new vector.

Saliva mixed with blood in his mouth as he flew through the air, spraying out as he coughed upon impact with the ground. Scottie rolled a few times, before coming to rest at the side of a tree. Though he had no chance to defend from the attack, Scottie did manage to instinctively move his body enough to throw off Aoife’s aim. He was still conscious, in the face of an attack that could have killed a lesser man.

Slowly, he got up with a stagger, his entire body aching and breathing coming in heavy heaves. He blinked a few times and looked down at his sword hand, thanking his instincts again that he had held tightly to the sword and managed not to stab himself with it when he rolled on the ground.

Haughtily, he grinned again and stifled a cough, “That’s—— That’s a lot better.” He wiped some blood from his mouth using his sleeve and moved tilted his head side to side to give it a few cracks.

His attempt to charge back at Aoife was met by the dazzling flash of lightning. Simultaneously, ice gathered at his feet and a patch of ground in front of his charge opened like a mouth, ready to swallow him whole.

Even then, that wouldn’t be taking Scottie Quicksword down. There was the ‘fshack!’ of sound as Scottie dug his sword into the ground and pushed backwards on it. The Lightning attracted itself to the metal blade and surged down into the ground to melt the ice, the hole was useless if no one fell into it, and the Steam that billowed up from the suddenly melted water obscured his movement.

But it was enough. When the steam cleared, Scottie had to pinch himself to check if he didn’t actually go unconscious earlier. Multiple copies of Aoife stood before him, some hidden partially behind trees, though most in plain view. Simultaneously, every copy sprung into action, and Scottie was pressed into fighting them.

He swung once, and met only air as the illusion was destroyed. Simultaneously, he received a kick to the back, pushing him forward and through another illusion. “I see,” escaped his lips as he slashed a few more times at nothing but air and bent light. This continued for a few more moments, as light strikes hit him from every which side.

Then, a clash.

Aoife had barely managed to defend the sudden strike. The blade had sliced through the cloth of her sleeves and left a nuck upon her skin, where only by luck or instinct she was able to reinforce her flesh. She was in a compromised position, leaned back as far as balance would allow, with Scottie towering over her.

Both of them let out heaving breaths, sweat gleamed across both of their bodies. Where Aoife suddenly looked cornered, Scottie’s grin and gaze remained. All of the illusions disappeared as the pair of combatants locked themselves in place.

“I just didn’t care,” he said.

“What…?” Aoife looked bewildered. What was he getting at? How had he located her among those illusions? Surely his instincts weren’t that good.

"Do you..." Scottie kicked at Aoife's vulnerable thigh and slashed down with his sword at her now exposed neck. He kept talking, "Know the definition of insanity?" His grin was cockier than ever before, his eyes looked at Aoife as like a demon that looked at its next victim.

Aoife rolled to the side, hardening the flesh and skin of her neck just in time, and using the force of the blade swing to help propel her.

She whispered to herself an incantation, and hid her true trajectory again. It did not matter.

"It's doing the same thing over and over, and expecting a different result every time!" Scottie cackled, "So I just cut through the illusions!" He took duplicity and answered with utter violence. His movements weren’t as smooth or flashy as before, but were that much more powerful, and terrifying.

Another whispered incantation as Aoife swatted the sword away. Sparks flew from the silver as she struck its width with her palm. Rather than the blade melting as she had intended for it, it merely kept going. She clicked her tongue at her arrogance.

Scottie spoke for both himself and for Aoife; himself in that he had attacked the illusions before, again and again and again while only taking damage himself, and Aoife where she thought that making more illusions would eventually lead her to victory. The small speech also proved to slap her in the face with another fact. Her main strength in combat was in fighting other Magestrava by diffusing their attacks, then delivering her own attacks with explosive force.

Her opponent was clearly abnormal, but at the same time so very human. He only had one sword and his wits, and the willingness to take advantage of Aoife’s reluctance to use the full extent of her powers on him, that he and his group would make it to a proper trial. She slowly increased the distance between herself and Scottie, by now used to his pattern of attacks. She backed away with a deliberate slowness and patience, conserving her energy and exhausting Scottie’s own.

An attack sliced through the air, a hair’s breadth from her nose. Then she took one step forward, just grazing near his blade. An explosion rang out behind her, propelling her with extra speed even as her reinforcement spellcraft kicked in to add strength. A moment before contact she closed her eyes, and a bright flash of light exploded outward from her, accompanied by a bang of sound.

The duelist could only recoil from the sudden flashbang-like explosion, he swung his sword out wildly to hit nothing but some low hanging twigs. A dull pain spread up his leg as he felt Aoife’s heel pin his foot to the ground, and more pain spread through his body as she delivered three rapid punches to his face, and two more two his chest.

No more illusion, no more play, she thought. She still wouldn't be nuking the forest, but she began to consider the fallacy that she was putting herself to: The rest were cowards and fools who abided by a larger thug's every whim. The giant only meant to survive through the only means he had ever been thought, means of violence. Scottie was an unrepentant murderer, a duelist that took lives unnecessarily, the retribution is equal to the crime. No more holding back. Perhaps she wouldn't kill him, but she no longer cared if she did.

"And I don't care, either," Aoife's lips cracked up into a feral grin. She was holding her powers back because the bunch weren't Magestrava or Sepcarim, and because she didn't want to kill them. Scottie thought her measured, and found himself wonting. Because of the variety of spells that she was throwing out, he had honestly began to think she was using the full extent of his powers.

He was wrong.

“Nngh…!” he grunted as he received a shoulder to the middle of his chest. If he could feel it, every one of his ribs strained as Aoife shouldered his sternum to push him away. Scottie staggered back, unable to recover his balance. He felt so tired now that his moment of adrenaline earlier was denied. Wearily, he raised his sword in front of him, and glared at the Magestrava girl.

Aoife put one foot forward, and adjusted her other foot. She held one arm back as she pointed her shoulder toward her opponent. From her mouth, a declaration as much as it was an incantation:



The ground cratered beneath her feet as she slid forward, the air behind her alight with the flames of another explosion. Scottie chuckled before he was hit, outright laughed as Aoife bypassed his sword, and smiled as her shoulder drove right between his arms and into his trunk, her palm also smacking right into his face and shattering his nose as they propelled into a tree. He was flattened against it, and she continued to press him into it, her side smoking from the burnt material of her explosive acceleration.

Scottie Quicksword’s sword finally fell to the ground with a clang.