What a place of exquisite sorrow, the landscape as grey as humanity’s prospects, shaped by the senseless violence which had scarred it. One crystalline drop of water welled beneath the snowy-white mask, dripping into a shirt collar, and the crunch of ash sounded beneath the figure’s feet. Another step, carefully placed, making effortless the traversing of an area many would fear to tread. Why had the man come to this place some may have asked, what possible motive could one have to put themselves in such a situation?

The Weeper drew himself up in his shabby brown trench-coat, though it was not from the bone-chilling cold, surprisingly. In fact, his simple white shirt and black trousers, along with the black boots he wore to protect his feet, seemed more than sufficient for the man. It was rather the intense sadness emanating from the long dead, the earth around him even, which forced a flood of adrenaline to hasten his step, and an involuntary shiver to course through his body. One could see only the sadness written on his operatic-mask, so fitting in such a dark place, perhaps it would be enough to suggest something of his motives for being there after all.

Melancholy.

The blade at his side gave an odd twitch, and despite the sudden urge to draw the simple pistol he had holstered underneath his jacket he passed it off as nothing, at least for now. Though a chill was permeating the air like nothing he had felt until then, and the darkness somehow loomed more completely in that grey, lifeless land. It seemed as if it was naught but an overcast afternoon, yet he was more deeply intone with such things than many more powerful individuals currently stalking the world within the everlasting arena. The question was, would The Weeper find another lost soul, on which he would be forced to bestow the gift his blade provided?

Sitting atop one of the higher ledges within the valley, Mikael idly studied the treacherous paths that swept and turned below. It gave him a sense of discontentment, watching over the smeared history of destruction laid before him; the barren and tarnished earth felt vaguely reminiscent to his home town, if given another century's weathering. A more complete town, perhaps, but a decidedly less intriguing one. The stains of recent battles crossed with the old, leaving no distinct spectacle to be found; a land which once held many battles, now told the stories of none. All that remained was the clouded air, the aged chills of battle that no longer held to their meaning.

"Ah..." the young man merely smirked to himself, almost pitying the souls that were surely long forgotten before his arrival. Wrapped in a brown bomber jacket, the icy atmosphere phased his temperature no more than his emotions. It was not that he was apathetic, but rather that he did not care for what no longer stood before him; his business only concerned the living, for the dead were no longer able to entertain. With this mindset, he had perhaps situated himself in the wrong place -- but Mikael did not expect to leave without finding something of worth.

He raised to his feet instantly, and his body shivered in alertness. He was going on a hunch, but he could tell he was not alone here. Sitting beside him, half of a canned beverage was snatched into his coat pocket, and seven emptied cans were kicked out of his way.
In no time at all, hastened strides carried Mikael further down the uneven valley, in search of someone who may share his abstract appreciations.

"It's time that I left my own mark."

Dressed in a brown jacket strode a young man, he emanated sorrow, surely he had been forsaken the idyllic life everyone deserved the opportunity to live. The thought that any he ran across would be marked with the same misfortune caused The Weeper to pause in his descent down the ash-strewn cliff. He shook his head with sudden disappointment, staring intently at the unfortunate who strayed into his path.

He knew of course that he was a ludicrously easy target to spot, standing there all theatrically in his cloak atop a rocky slope. Though he couldn’t tell if the man had actually turned to look at him yet, stealth wasn’t something The Weeper was interested in at that moment anyway. He kicked some loose rocks down towards him, to ensure he’d definitely been spotted, and then set down with an icy determination. However, about half-way down the rocks he was distracted by the sudden dim illumination of the clouds above as one sometimes finds on an overcast day. This kept him transfixed for a little while, standing completely still, like some grotesque human statue. The mask on his face only heightened this image to the outside eye.

He shook himself angrily from his reverie, shifting his weight slightly as his hand strayed to the sword at his hip and grasped tentatively, before he settled his eyes once more on the young fool.

He wondered then if he would talk, if he could talk even. Would the young man answer he wondered. Could The Weeper remember how to form words? Would it overcome him? His mouth moved unseen beneath the white-mask, struggling with every breath of anticipation.

There wasn’t much distance between them now, maybe twenty paces, the ground was uneven and rocky and particularly steep behind him, though they had some relatively flat ashen earth around them. It would be an ideal place to die.

“This would be an ideal place to die.” The Weeper said suddenly, concurring with his own thoughts, and shockingly spoken in the open air. For a moment he stood transfixed by his own words, remembering the last time anything had been uttered from his so very aged mouth. He was overcome with a shuddering, awe inspiring excitement, which quickly shifted into an irritating trembling. He didn’t want to look afraid, his head tilted and the sorrowful mask was displayed in full view for the human to stare at. Maybe he would be afraid, perhaps he wouldn’t.

Mikael's sights did not change, but his direction veered slightly, letting himself be guided by that which broke the valley's silence. Having chosen his paths earlier, his agility carried him over steep slopes and crevasses without needing to hesitate. Hopping up and over a ledge, he quite abruptly found himself within speaking distance of his first encounter.

The other individual appeared distracted, entranced even, as he motionlessly watched the clouds in passing. Mikael found himself pause as well, but felt no inclination to mimic the gesture. Rather, his dilated eyes observed the man's figure, noting his long trench coat and unrecognisable mask. If all else, it appeared he was a man who concealed things -- a lone trait which made him the opposite of Mikael's ideal opponent.

Having judged his sort of character, it came to little surprise that his words were ridden with double-meanings; but while most fighters would intend such as a threat, his voice and mannerisms suggested otherwise. The almost involuntary nature of it was found especially discomforting, and little was done to hide this from his expression.

"...Wouldn't be an ideal place to kill." Mikael said bluntly after a pause, finally breaking a smile and shaking his head. His stance was more rigid than his voice suggested, and his left hand rested upon the sheathed knife at his side.
"No-one would notice it here." With another shrug, his reasoning was given with complete nonchalance. "Isn't much of an accomplishment, y'know?"

The Weeper seized upon the words of his fellow human with an eager excitement barely displayed under fabric, something he paused a moment to consider sagely. He stood somewhat straighter then and let his thoughts fly to each word with a rapid but intense exploration of the wonderful music of oration. It would have seemed a slightly uncomfortable pause in a normal conversation, but such a pause was necessary to The Weeper and he did not lament it.

“You are right. To die here would be as if you fell as a single raindrop into the sea, your passing would be like your very existence, meagre and unimportant.” He sounded oddly happy about such a dire observation.

Then, The Weeper made another huge leap in conversation, going so far as to ask Mikael a question, something one may consider unprecedented.

“Are you afraid to die?” The Weeper asked ominously, taking one step forward, intending to walk closer to the man. He could have drawn his pistol and fired right then and there, but the sword wouldn’t allow it, or so he told himself. Perhaps there was more to it, perhaps some small part of the man The Weeper once was wanted to give this young man the chance he deserved. Perhaps The Weeper sought his own end.

"Oi, now." Mikael released his blade, to point an accusing finger at the man belittling his personal value. "Big words, coming from a man with no face. If lives weren't worth anything, why else would we consider taking them?"

All the while, his child-like grin only widened after The Weeper had spoken his query. His voice held more certainty than before, but his irksome mask made it just as difficult to be sure. Still, the very mention of death was enough to make Mikael's heart thunder, and his entire frame quivered by the beat.
"Idiot," the young man scoffed, "Only the broken can have thoughts like that." In time with his opposition, he boldly advanced a pace forward, but saw no need to approach further.
"We only fear death if we fear fighting. If you're telling me you're afraid to fight, then you're wasting my air."

Upon these words, a series of sparks scattered from Mikael's right palm, circling beneath with an unnatural magenta hue. A split second later, and the sparks conjoined and swelled, forming a sphere of pulsing energy within his grasp. It looked incredibly volatile, the way its luminance shifted and flickered with total irregularity. In no time at all, the sphere had reached two feet in diameter, and appeared to be growing still. Mikael himself made no sudden motions, but the clear emergence of his power would surely broadcast his intents.

The Weeper looked on with something close to a melancholy amusement. Of course he would enter the fight before he understood. Why were they always so willing to test The Weeper? Had they not learned that one so old must have killed so many?

Perhaps they had all learned in the end, but it was not a lesson one could survive.

Sparks in his palm, signalling that he fought one with magic. Oh how The Weeper had hoped this would be a difficult conflict, yet even as he watched the strange power grow in his foes hand he felt no fear. His arrogance would consume him yet, that was certain. Waves of debilitating aura shot from The Weeper, intensifying with each sonar-like pulse. Unfortunately for Mikael the effects would feel all too personal to notice, until it was likely too late. His eagerness to fight was to be his first elevated emotion, would he resist the tendency to surrender to adrenaline and blood, to go beserk as it were? Time would tell…

The Weeper moved with an unnatural grace, drawing his sword across his body with his right hand as he ran forward on nimble and sure feet. The ashen ground at his feet provided a number of dangerous pitfalls he avoided with apparent nonchalance, as he closed the distance in a second and a half he noted the man’s magical object had grown slightly, though he had certainly reached him faster than expected and so it was unlikely it could be complete in time. Regardless, The Weeping Blade swept across the man’s left side, with the deft slash of a shortsword aimed to incapacitate one’s arms with sharp, and more importantly incredibly quick, cuts.

Regardless of the outcome of his attack The Weeper was planning to use his momentum wisely, cancelling it out with his left foot coming forward, the sudden halting motion allowing him to swing his right leg across in a quick follow-up kick to the outside of his opponent’s knee (provided he was still within range.)

"Not as broken as I thought..." The Weeper was smart enough to come at his blind side, and fast enough to get there before he was fully prepared. Until he could do something about that sword, he could not afford to stay within reach for too long.
Thinking fast, the Plasma Sphere was slammed down ahead of him, in the fashion of a smoke grenade. Its glass-like shell fractured upon the terrain -- and burst apart with a violent flash of light, releasing its charge within a 4-foot radius. Being a smaller sphere, its inflicted heat and knockback would be painful, but ultimately superficial.

Mikael himself was caught within the explosion -- but unlike his masked opponent, he had nothing to fear. As a living anomaly of science, his body's altered genes held the effect of converting plasma energy into raw momentum. In sync with his natural agility, the blast swiftly accelerated him out of The Weeper's reach, avoiding the blade while retreating five yards from the swordsman's left.
Even on poor ground, Mikael's prior observation made his landing trivial. A low cliff face spanned a fair distance behind him; short enough to climb atop, but too tall for him to jump. A second retreat would be made difficult here, but if it stopped his foe from flying past him again, it was all he needed.

The Weeper had scored one mistake past him already, but Mikael's pride dictated that it would be his last. Using the little time he had, his own weapon was drawn in a reverse grip, brandishing the 5-inch knife in his left hand. His other arm was held out in front, and already a second Plasma Sphere had begun to materialise.

The sudden eruption swept him up and off his feet, though a lifetime of combat gave him the ability to twist while in the air and avoid the worst of the heat. His momentum had transferred itself to a crashing impact with the ground which spewed ash into the air and over his body. Still, with a natural agility like his own it was simple to come rolling up onto his feet and once again face his wily foe, though not without gaining a small measure of respect for him.

The only noticeable change from his encounter with his opponent’s strange power was a smudge of ash, stark against the whiteness of his mask, and a scattering of small burn holes in his jacket. He shrugged off whatever minor impact displeasure he felt as his stance shifted and he drew the pistol from his jacket with his left hand.

Unsurprisingly, of course, The Weeper was not satisfied with the results of his frontal charge, and had decided to test his opponent’s ability to so nimbly escape bullets. The satisfaction of his blade would have to wait, tiding itself over with the suffering the bullets would rend from Mikael, for he levelled the firearm at his opponent’s chest and fired three rounds in quick succession, presuming to trail them at centre of mass in whatever direction his foe chose to try and dodge. From their distance apart (perhaps fifteen feet) there was little chance in his mind that the attack should fail. Though he couldn’t help noting the hastily drawn knife and the energy ball seemingly beginning to materialise.

It would be a bitter sweet and all too soon conclusion to another pointless skirmish.

Mikael's first hit barely granted him time to generate a second sphere, of a size identical to the last. However, his once-arrogant grin was waning, as a problem surfaced at the back of his mind.
Mikael's bio-enhancements could let him outlast any opponent, methodically breaking down their combat style before flawlessly ensnaring them. For a well-concealed foe, this would be the most certain way to break them apart; but if he was fully aware of this, why had he seen it fit to stay within aggressive distance, even going as far as to corner himself?

The younger man shrugged off the thought as quickly as it occurred. He would not have chosen this at all unless he knew full well he could pull it off, and having doubts would only get him killed sooner. He was perfectly aware what he was trying to bait -- even with the mere half-dozen yards between them -- and there was but one thing to be expected when The Weeper was seen retreating a hand into his inner coat pocket.
In nothing short of brazen recklessness, Mikael lunged straight at his foe, leaning in with with his explosive reaching in front. He could be glad that his enemy had good aim, as the first shot ricocheted cleanly from his Energy Sphere's surface, rebounding away from his vitals. A second shot clipped past, scraping deep along his right shoulder blade, and a third breached his inner left bicep.

Pain ran profoundly through Mikael's expression, but adrenaline muted his cries. Interestingly, the shoulder bullet landed a mere ten feet away after cutting against him, and the one in his arm left no exit wound. At a size of two feet, the sphere he held stopped its swelling abruptly, and a large glass-like crack vividly marked where the first bullet had made contact. Still, his movement remained mostly unphased; In two uneasy, zig-zagging paces he would overstep The Weeper's current position, unless his foe had other plans.

The Weeper had far less time than he would have wanted to lament the pain he had caused the young man before he found himself in a ruthlessly precarious position. Despite the bullets striking true at least twice Mikael was hardly slowed as he barrelled towards the swordsman, albeit zigzagging, and so the masked man was forced to retreat a step and lower his pistol, useless at such a range.

As he skipped backwards and settled low, almost crouching on his back left leg, he swung his blade across from right to left in a vicious horizontal cut, which would hopefully make contact with his foe’s rapidly approaching hips or lower torso before he could bear down on him with his energy ball.

If the shortsword was insufficient in at least clearing space, let alone levelling the charge, then the Weeper would have no choice but to take whatever attack his foe had in store with such a close range approach on him. Though if he had simply tried to launch his projectile The Weeper wouldn’t be standing still for it, that much was certain.

The Weeper paced back in preparation as Mikael approached. His gun had been withdrawn in favour of his sword - a considerably lesser threat, but nonetheless one which he would have trouble dealing with up close. Even before his approach, he had kept it in his best interests not to let such a situation happen.
His Plasma Sphere was released from his right hand, carefully timed as he made his final step. His left knee swung outwards, effortlessly volleying the explosive mass straight towards the sword-wielder's lower.

The sphere would not detonate upon contact, unless The Weeper were to contest it with his strength. Regardless, Mikael's transfer of force had considerably slowed his travel; combined with the size and density of his projectile, he was certain to have interrupted any chance of being attacked from the front. Should the swordsman happen to evade, the sphere would roll ten feet past his prior position, primed to detonate precisely two seconds later.

As Mikael had obviously decided to launch his explosive as a projectile, albeit at particularly short range, The Weeper was not standing around to meet it. His backward step, covered by his slashing sword, turned into a full back-pedal and a neat skip to the left, just narrowly avoiding the explosive Orb and allowing it to trail past him. The unusual method of projecting the ball had been smart in some ways, but it had only lengthened the necessary time before the ball could travel the fairly short distance while providing ample suggestion to Mikael’s intent to the hyper-reactive swordsman, so its necessity was questionable.

However, like any trained swordsman, he attempted to follow up hoping to catch his opponent unarmed and off-guard. Technically it would have been exceedingly unlikely that Mikael would have survived that nimble side-step that dragged The Weeper’s body and his sword into his oncoming path. Fortunately for Mikael his explosive decided that moment was prime for it to erupt, and the ensuing explosion caught The Weeper off guard and unbalanced, it crashed into the swordsman with enough force to spin him full body. He actually landed just off to his foe’s right hand-side, his gun clawed from his grasp, though his sword remained at hand.

He allowed his momentum to carry him into a messy backward roll that furthered the distance between him and his opponent’s original position by about ten feet, though he had yet to see if the close proximity explosion had also thrown his foe like it had thrown him.

He came to his feet with his sword at the ready, surprisingly none-the worse for wear save for a few more bruises and a buzzing in his ears from the repeated explosions. With his pistol no longer at hand the Weeper couldn’t help but sigh inwardly, this fight was going to be more irritating than he imagined.

The ground quaked, and the Weeper was tossed from his second Plasma Sphere, caught within its outskirts. Mikael came to a standstill at the explosion's border, needing not fear his own calculated weapon. He landed low and uneasy from his earlier pace, straining himself a little as he misjudged the impact. Parkour may have been a second nature to him, but it was apparent that his pain threshold left much to be desired.

Trails of an inconsistent, murky red trickled ever steadily from his puncture wound, barely reaching down to his elbow. While not his first time taking a bullet, it was a feeling he could never get accustomed to. His shoulder and fingers could move, but much to his irritation, his middle joint would not cooperate.
"B*stard." Mikael was sure to make his curses audible, despite his weighted breathing. Indirect hits hardly phased his opponent at all, and with that mask he wore, he couldn't even tell if they were trying.

Having little choice, he snatched his knife into his non-dominant hand. The scrape through his right arm was more excruciating, but it remained functional at the least. With the next opening he made, Mikael did not intend to hold back in the slightest; if The Weeper could not be whittled down, he would simply make sure his next attack shattered him whole.

His opponent seemed to have remained mostly stationary, settling into a readied stance with a knife at hand only ten feet or so from him. The Weeper couldn’t help but find the sight slightly amusing as he brought his blade to point down, his arm straight, and tilted his head.

“You’d pitch your knife against a sword?” He asked quizzically, taking in Mikael’s obvious discomfort with a glance as he passively sent another wave of near debilitating emotional stimuli. He was expecting despair then, but who knew, maybe Mikael would just get angrier.

The Weeper paced forward, it was a short distance, two steps and he raised the blade, tilted forward his elbow bent, his last step on his right foot blurred as he wasted no time striking with all the speed he could muster. It was a simple slash, effectively aimed at beheading his foe before he could use his knife, relying on the fairly significant reach advantage his sword-sword had over the smaller weapon.

"You're annoying." Mikael vented through loosely clenched teeth, with eyes sternly affixed to his foe's mocking mask. "What does it matter? Your sword won't break me."

Though annoyance was all he dared to show, his thoughts were in complete disarray, almost bringing him to doubt his own words. However, The Weeper made it clear to Mikael that now was not the time to meditate. His monstrous speed was able to close the gap instantly; although Mikael could follow his movements, it left him no room for options, cornering him into a single action. His right leg switched back as the swordsman swept close, and a falling crouch pulled him narrowly under the lethal blade. His knife was raised high to his right, holding his balance and only defence; even if he was able to counter, the difference in reach made it unwise.

Steadily, the realisation began to sink in. The hasted breaths, his impulsed actions, his unsteady heartbeat; recognised not from personal experience, but from familiar observance. For the first time in memory, Mikael was experiencing the very emotions which he lived to inflict.
He was not fearful, nor did he consider himself disadvantaged by his injuries. But somehow, his foe had broken into his psyche, far more effectively than he was able, and even without his awareness.
Even as he tried to deny the notion, what lingered was a distinct feeling of reverence for his assaulter, and confusion in his own ability and judgement. Combined, the two of these instilled fear, which led to restrained alarm. But as long as Mikael was conscious, he would not give in.

A third Energy Sphere materialised in front of him, hanging from his limp arm. In his vulnerable state, he would surely not get a chance for another.

The blade swept narrowly over his opponent’s head, though only a complacent swordsman would expect his first blow to land. He drew the blade back and stepped forward, thrusting it forth with his all his might aiming to catch his opponent before he could withdraw, and without a shield his options for escaping were limited.

He fully expected the shortsword to pierce at least an inch into the middle of his opponent’s chest, likely allowing him the chance to finish him off with a twist of his hand. However Mikael’s speed was nothing to be scoffed at, and his strange explosives were formidable, which forced the Weeper to take note of the new one forming in his opponent’s off hand.

He was committed now, time would tell what his piercing thrust would do should it be blocked with the explosive.

The Weeper continued his assault without pause, reeling back for a lethally placed thrust. In his lowered state, Mikael pushed away from the left, forcing his upper body opposite. Timed alongside his foe's movements, his dagger swung across to parry the blade; however, by vast underestimation, it was not enough.

The sword pierced cleanly through leather, flesh and bone alike. Exiting through his back, the vile equivalent of Mikael's blood was reluctant to separate from its tip.

As fate would have it, his strength was nothing to The Weeper's expertise, and even less in his injured state. His actions had served only to redirect the blade to his left side, running through his respective lung in favour of his heart. His face was flushed with agony beyond description, and every repeated attempt to scream was cut short by impulsed ventilation. There was no doubt that what stood before The Weeper was a dead man... and yet, he was standing.

His footing held firm upon the jagged floor, even as his resistance caused him to impale himself further on the blade. In sheer instinctual awareness, his knife swept outwards and across, aiming to slash the wrist which caused his impalement. Due to the nature of Mikael's vitals, The Weeper may have unexpected difficulty retrieving his sword in a single motion.

Reddish purple sparks surged violently along his form, glowing within his veins, blazing through his fleeting life fluids. Paused at a two-foot diameter, his Plasma Sphere barely clung beneath his fingertips.

The Weeper tried to wrench his blade free soon after it plunged satisfyingly into his foe’s vitals. Unfortunately, it stuck, which was not so unusual that the Weeper was completely surprised. Still, his options were limited, and with an action of pure cruelty he twisted his hand, drawing the blade further through flesh and bone. Most opponent’s he had faced would have succumbed instantly to the blazing pain, but with some alarm the masked swordsman noted Mikael had instead committed to a desperate counter attack.

The Weeper couldn’t see himself pulling his blade free in time to avoid the knife, and with an instinct born of unnatural reflex and experience he released the grip and pulled his hand clear in time to avoid having his wrist badly mauled by the quick slash. Still, the blade did shear through his sleeve and bite into his flesh, causing him to yelp in sudden pain before stepping back and away. His opponent was no doubt dying to his eyes, it was only a matter of time, and with the Weeper’s own blade in his chest he was sure to be impeded.

Still, even during all this, he was not unaware of his opponent’s magical explosive, though it was only as he gained a small measure of space that he noted how much larger and more dangerous it had grown in a startlingly short period of time. Weapon-less, his sword trapped in his foe and his pistol lost somewhere behind him, the Weeper had to somehow survive long enough for his opponent to bleed out.

“Let go of the suffering.” He said, even as he backpedalled as far as he could before the blast that was sure to come was unleashed. Even then he played with his opponent’s mind, though if Mikael had any intentions of giving up he wasn’t showing them yet.

Mikael stepped after The Weeper, his knife rallied to slash down upon the swordsman as he made distance -- or at least were his intentions, as his hasted movement brought torment upon him like never before.
He held frozen on the spot, needing the entirety of his strength just to stay standing. To make a sudden motion with a sword going through him was an act which he instantly regretted. His blood was running more freely now, as an inch-thick puddle of the vile substance encircled his feet. Every involuntary movement only widened his wound, causing anguish beyond his comprehension.
His knife was tossed to the side such that he could take hold of the sword's hilt; alas, he had not the focus to steady it, nor the strength to extract it from himself. His consciousness had not faded in the slightest, and the trauma only drove him further towards a state of helplessness. Against his will he crashed onto one knee, and succumbed to a kneel soon after.

Three fingers held limply from a monstrous mass of destructive energy, overshadowing its caster with its foreboding purple haze. The sphere had grown to twice as large as Mikael was tall. It made him smirk at the very sight of it, despite how much it pained him to do so. It was a shallow consolation, but perhaps he would leave his mark after all.
Still he watched the fleeting victor, for this was simply all he could do. He glanced down with contracted eyes, observing the simplistic instrument of his undoing. Perhaps his actions had been justified, but to Mikael, there was but one deduction which bore importance to him.

'He fears death as much as I do.'

His body jolted, accompanied by abhorrent groans and splatters. His arm withdrew against his chest, as if the action had the slightest chance of prolonging his life. It was not an end he was content with, but neither one he could be completely ashamed of. Inevitably, his parting breath took the form of a single word, uttered with the same pitying tone he used upon meeting his killer.

"...Hypocrite."

The ground quaked with a violent uproar of shards and dust, bellowing in abundance above the valley. A magenta blaze lit the very clouds, and a crackle of residual sparks showered upon the stony battlefield.