Endless green stretched onward in all directions, interrupted only by pocket marks of trees and brush. Cian turned his eyes towards the blue skies, trying to find a single cloud among them. He smiled. Content.
"...Yer gonna go blind starin' at the sun, ya big dolt."
The dark-haired boy looked like a younger, scrawny version of his brother. Unlike Cian, Connor never did exercise much restraint on his tart tongue. Clothes in needed of a washing and ironing, and face streaked with dirt from the day's menial labors, Connor stopped alongside his brother--on the crest of the hill--and looked beyond the treeline, over where the village lay.
"Mag is gonna give you a smack or two with your face looking like that," Cian snorted, cuffing his brother gently on the shoulder. "'Course, no amount of washin' will fix what the gods gave you, boyo."
"Come off it," Connor spat. Of course, he wasn't about to challenge his much stronger brother.
The two brothers walked down the slope towards the grasslands. Only a ranch enclosure, some distance away, proved to Cian that he Connor weren't the only residents of this great, green sea. A regal, white horse ran inwards from the edge of the gate.
Connor noticed it too. "What a beauty," he said. "Hey, what was that story Mag used to tell us about the magic horse?"
Cian tried to recall. Mag, when she wasn't on the sauce, cold spin a yarn that would make even the gruffest of the men in the caravan sit down and listen for a spell. She still believed in the old gods, and had passed this down to Cian, who likewise discretely practiced the ways of worship.
"Aonbharr Mhanannáin," Cian said, recalling the name in the old tongues. "Or Enbarr. The steed of the gods. Could gallops across the skies and the sea, and was faster than the wind."
"Would make a good spellbreaking name," Connor suggested.
"Eh? Would it? I dunno. I think I'd just keep my name as is. I'm not some showboat loser like most of those arseholes. I take fightin' seriously." He didn't want to admit out loud to his brother that it wasn't a half bad idea.
In any case, Cian nodded towards the path up ahead. "Mind how you go when you get down there. I hear Willy's Boys have been jumpin' folks as they go to and from the village."
"Aw, as if they'd try to pull a stunt like that on us," Connor said. Connor had a bad habit of getting into fights, expecting Cian to end them on his behalf. "I hear Powell's been going hard on you in battling."
"The bruises didn't tip you off?" Cian looked towards the heavy stones on the side of the dirt road—menhirs, engraved with circling spirals, just like the subtle tattoo on Cian's thigh. Vestiges of 'Those Who Came Before', so they said. Didn't look like any bandits hiding behind them today. Then again, the faebrand was common in bloodlines around here. They could easily be disguised, invisible to the mind's eyes. If they could hold their magick for that long, that is.
Connor yawned, not a care in the world. Perpetual bliss. "Can't you just hide your bruises with your magick? If I were you and had your powers, I'd make myself a whole lot more good looking."
"Don't work like that," Cian sniffed, resisting the overwhelming urge to pick his brother up and toss him down the hill. He looked down at his arm, concentrated, and made it look as if the composition had turned to stone, just like the menhirs in the valley below.
"Woah!" Connor said, too late to catch himself. "Er...I mean, I guess that's impressive."
Cian smirked. He didn't want to show off too much, aware of Connor's feelings towards magick. As the seventh child of a seventh child, the faebrand—or the glyph Cogito—was supposed to be passed on to Connor. Instead, it showed up one child too early, with Cian inheriting it instead. As their father, thankfully long gone would have slurred to both of them, both of their births were cursed. An inconvenience.
Of course, if there's anything the O'Rourke boys knew by now, is that life seldom worked out as planned. On the contrary, it had only seemed to get more difficult the more of it they'd lived...
"You gonna teach me how to box or wrestle someday?" Connor asked his older brother. "Since spellbreaking ain't in the cards..."
"Sure. Once we're in a better spot."
"Agh. And when will that be?"
"Heh. Always around the corner. Speaking of corners, Powell wants me to go up in a bare-knuckle style match against one of the Sullivan boys from the other caravan."
"Lady Leithe and Mother Aethrin almighty, Cian! Mag is gonna do at lot worse than knock your teeth out if you come back home with a shiner, ya know! But...I guess if you use your magick, you can hide it from her, huh?"
"Hmm. Yeah. Speaking of which, maybe we can curry favor with Mag and pick up some milk on the way back," Cian said absently, turning towards the west. "How much did the foreman give you to..." he stopped.
The sky had changed, in a flash, from cerulean blue to ominous dark. A red, angry hue ran throughout, like veins of blood in the linings of the clouds. Where rolling fields of uninterrupted green had once spread out moments ago, the grass now drank the blood of hundreds and hundreds of naked corpses--some clad in rudimentary armor--strewn about the battlefield. A bloody light glinted off the hilts of spears and swords. In the center of the corpse arrangement, a lone—nigh inhuman—figure stood.
He was naked, like the rest, but a covering of bear or wolf hide ran the length of his broad, muscular back. He clutched a long spear, dripping crimson, in his muscular arm. The warrior turned, revealing himself from the font. He was white as marble, unblemished save from the scars of battled, and looked to be be carved from white stone as well. Knotted muscles. Sculpted abs, and a chest that ran with coarse, dark hair. Nary a thread on him save for the fur, his manhood swinging firm between his legs, something that could rival the length and girth of the spear he clutched. His hair was coal-black and matted. His face, unusually beautiful, in contrast to his hard, masculine physique, with eyes like rubies in fire. He breathed heavily, like a beast injured, or primed to dig its jaws into a fresh kill.
Cian gasped. He couldn't compel his legs to move. All he could do was stare at the war god, a primal yearning in his chest. He was overcome with the most basic of instincts: fear, but underneath that, something more shameful. Desire...for something distinctly forbidden.
"Connor," Cian said, suddenly remembering where he was. His brother's safety, always his top priority, he regained control of his senses and turned to where Connor still stood. "Thank ye gods."
But there was something wrong. Connor, pale and wide-eyed, choked out, "Cian..." He looked down.
Cian's eyes followed Connor's to the ring of red mushrooms that encircled him. The grass beneath wilted in rapid time, transitioning from blood-stained red to dark brown, crumbling away and revealing solid granite. The great spirals of the Shining Ones ran the length of the stone landscape.
A fairy ring. Cian's heart jumped inside his chest. "Connor...keep your eyes on me. Take a step forward."
"I'm sorry," Connor said, before a swarm of solid, black shadows peeled off the ground around him. They swarmed.
We will take this one. Yes! We will take this fair one. Fear not, brother dear, we will keep him forever young...
"Connor!" Cian shouted, as the shadows became like hands, clawing down onto Connor's arms, legs, and face, and pulling him into the pool of solid black.
Gone. Nothing. Not a trace.
Cian stood in wide eyed horror. "This...this can't be happening."
"Oh, but it is, boyo."
Cian swallowed, in cold fear, and turned to see the crowd of haggard, tough-looking men gathered around. Their leader, the bald one with the solid gold tooth, sneered at Cian.
"Poor, little fairyboy," Powell said, spitting onto the gray stone. "Not strong enough to save your brother. Not strong enough to escape your pathetic situation. Not much of a man at all, really!" Powell laughed cruelly. "Have ye learned nothing?"
Anger boiled inside Cian's chest. He made to move forward and show his battling coach what-for. Suddenly, the hefty man's body burst into tongues of fire. Charred clothing and flesh peeled away, revealing the form he hid underneath: the dark, grinning façade of Vahni Rage. Behind him, one of the other boys contorted into the distinct, ghoulish shape of Semyon Grigorivich, Cian's old boss. Next to him, most distinct, the sunken, yellowed eyes of Cian's drunkard old man.
Now Cian only thought of running as fast as he could from the men who had brutalized him, all in their own poisonous, distinct ways, physically and mentally. Instead, he found his legs immobile. He looked down. They had turned to stone. Worse, the stone transfiguration was spreading, slowly consuming his knees, and now his hips, transforming him into solid rock.
"Semyon!" Cian shouted. "Da! Powell! Help me!"
The twisted forms, chittering with distorted, mocking laughter, all conglomerated as one. An abominable shape. A monstrosity. It spread itself across the spiralling landscape, like a cancer.
As the stone corruption paralyzed Cian up to the neck his eyes turned, pleadingly, to the figure in the distance―the red-eyed warrior. But he remembered what he was capable of. All that violence and all that rage, untethered, as to soak a whole countryside with blood...
"You can't even help yourself," the evil mass buzzed, in the guttural voices of Cian's guiltiest abusers. "Try to, and create more suffering for yourself! Pathetic. You should do us all a favor and--"
A new light pierced Cian's eyes. He found himself somewhere else, being shaken vigorously by familiar hands.
"Hey, son!" the gentle, masculine voice (with a distinct twang) said. "Cian. Cian, c'mon now!"
An opulent room. White carpeting. Gilded wallpaper with golden olive branches. A ceiling painted like a stormy sky. A suite fit for a king.
Or rather, a cowboy king and his young knight.
Cian's fluttering, freshly woken eyes darted towards the white curtains and the tranquil morning light from the city outside. "Colt?"
A handsome, long-haired man―mid forties―smiled down at him. He drew back, pulling his white bathrobe over his tall, muscular form.
He gave Cian space. "Sounds like you were having a real nasty one, kid." He sighed, gesturing to a darker corner of the room. "I know you were, because I woke up and suddenly I was in a damn field."
Blinking with confusion, Cian pulled his head up from the pillow and looked towards the edge of the room. A creep of grass and moss, the after-effects of Cian's illusions, faded into pristine, white carpet.
Cian looked over at the opposite bed, loose sheets and all. His magick, or his distressed sleep-talk, had likely roused his teacher. Thank the gods for it.
"Your magick was doing its thing," Colt explained, yawning. He fiddled with the coffee machine on the table. "It's okay. Always did want to see the rolling, Irish countryside."
Fear and adrenaline subsided into profound embarrassment. Cian fell back onto the bed in defeat. "I'm sorry, sir." Gods, kill me now.
"Don't apologise," Colt said with a wave of his hand. "Pre-match jitters happen to the best of us." He grunted, trying to get the coffee brewer to work. "Stupid machine! How the hell do they expect us to work these modern inventions? I just want a damn espresso!"
A flash and a sudden spark opened Cian's eyes again. He looked over at this boss and teacher, grimacing down at the smoking (and sparking) machine.
Colt gulped. He cleared his throat and attempted to fix his face. "Errr...see! Magick is all mental. Especially yours. You just need to control it better." He pursed his lips together, grabbed a white towel off the desk, and draped it over the fried-out machine. "We'll...just put that on Salim's tab. He'll understand."
Whether or not Colt's haphazard antics were unintentional, or a deliberate comedic distraction, they did the trick. To this day, Cian still couldn't fathom that one of the most feared men in spellbreaking was such a goofball out of the ring.
"Still up for tonight's match?" Colt said, dipping into the stately bathroom. Fitting that he'd chosen the Zeus sweet. Apparently, Colt demanded a roommate, 'to keep him on the straight and narrow.' Cian suspected it was because Buck had given his father a stern warning about misbehavior. Word was, Colt was a real 'pant's man' back in the days.
"I'm fine," Cian lied. He sat up in bed and took stock of reality. Vahni Rage wasn't in the room, ready to burn him to ashes. There wasn't a battlefield of dead bodies. His dad was still dead (thank the gods). Connor wasn't kidnapped by the fae.
Granted that fate would have been preferable to his current situation, Cian thought grimly.
"Thanks, boss." Cian looked over at his pants and 'Dropkick Banshees' t-shirt, hung over the chair. His black singlet, branded with his logo, sat folded next to it. Tonight was the night.
Mist flowed from the shower to the bedroom. Colt, still in his bathrobe, poked his head around the door. He looked ever like the concerned dad. Ironically, this man―who Cian had only known for just under three months―had already acted more like a father than his own.
"Hey, brawler boy, I was just thinkin' about things. Do you want me to talk to Nurse Wheeler about your rubedo withdrawals? That stuff is nasty, I hear. Lingers in the system."
Cian picked up what Colt was getting at, the elixir that Firebird had forced into his system, and allegedly pumped into all their fighters. It made you stronger, tougher, but at the expense of your humanity. It had awoken Cian's innate 'Blood Frenzy', a divine power granted to him by his bloodline, well before he know how to control it. Rubedo had, for better or worse, also given him his muscles. He knew that, without it, he wouldn't be as strong as most of the others on the GSA roster.
"I don't think it's bothering me anymore," Cian said. Even he believed his own words. That was the thing about having faeblood. One didn't need to possess mental magick to wield a silver-tongue, something that had served Cian (and by extension, his brother) well during his toughest years unhoused. Cian had gotten this far in life on a mix of his stoic demeanor and sly, unexpected charm. He was dead certain he could sell ice to an ice fisher if he had to. Or, more accurately, charm his way out of stealing bread...
And he gotten this far in spellbreaking on a mix of being a technical, confident grappler abiding by traditional combat law...as well as by being an absolutely merciless warrior who didn't mind bending the rules or two when the ref wasn't looking...just to hurt his opponents. Well, only if they pissed him off that is. And no wailing on rookies. After enduring Firebird's brutal hazings, he refused to seriously hurt newcomers.
Cian Enbarr, always his own evil twin. Most guys in this business were other babyfaces or heels. He thought of himself as both, all in one.
Cian pulled the strap over his bulky shoulder, rotating his arm for good measure. His singlet felt a bit more snug than usual, but then again, he'd been bulking. He didn't want to lose any mass, even if a good most of it had been as a result of the rubedo serum. Cian nodded at himself in the locker room mirror, confident enough. Still, he couldn't help grab some of his belly. He'd definitely put on a bit more weight than he'd initially expected. Eh, so be it. He was no prettyboy underwear model. He was a real, thick grappler.
And, at least the locker room was nice. Complimentary water bottles. Little bottles of prosecco. Cian wouldn't drink before a match of course, but it was nice to see he'd actually gotten to the point in his fledgling career where the progress could be measured (albeit in complimentary champagne) Mag would be proud. Connor would too, but he would never admit it.
Cian's pre-match ritual was practical in nature, a combination of hydration and stretching. As usual, he preferred not to mix it up with the other spellbreakers in the locker room. They would only be a distraction.
"You see how fuckin' brick it is up here in the sky? Brrr! I swear, I cut glass right now..."
Case in point, Cian's most loathed distraction in the GSA―a certain blond, twinky muscleboy who went by the porntastic name of Spike Waterford. Cian could always tell when Spike was around for two reason: his shrill, feminine, New York drawl, and the reek of his cheap deodorant, which he applied liberally to every inch of his body.
Cian looked up at the mirror and saw his nemesis over his shoulder, the 'Pinup Prince' holding court over his two favorite stooges: Dragon Azul, and the kushti Earth mage, Sanjay Chaturvedi. Granted, Cian held no bad blood against the later two spellbreakers. The Blue Dragon could be a bit spacey and slow on the uptake, but Sanjay was smarter than anybody ever gave credit for, even if he could be a bit fussy. Besides, as a follower of traditional grappling, Cian respected his style.
But Spike? Like gum on the soul of his shoe, the brat was unwanted and impossible to shake. Had a habit of turning up in the most inconvenient situations.
He wasn't even supposed to be in the lockroom at all! Spike's match was tomorrow, and Cian was looking forward to seeing Iggy Astro―a spellbreaker he admired greatly―re-arrange his rival's adorable face! Until then, Spike talked and acted like he didn't have a care in the world. Wearing his anchor-embroidered varsity jacket and jeans, the blond bombshell regaled his audience with tales of his idiocy.
Like most New Yorkers, Spike couldn't go five minutes without name-dropping his city of origin, or some sordid tale about a crazy thing that happened to him while he lived there.
The stem of a lollipop hung out of his porn-star lips like the trail of a cigarette. All the while Spike gesticulated wildly, narrating his anecdote.
"So there I was outside Alfredo's―that's the bodega on fifth that does the best baconeggandcheese this side of Myrtle-Wyckoff―and I'm sitting there with half a turkey hoagie hangin' outta my fuckin' mouth just living my life, right?"
"You are talking about a sandwich, right, bro?" Blue Dragon jabbed, slapping his own knee.
Spike rolled his eyes. "Very funny, Blue Dingus! Yes, I'm talkin' about the sandwich, you putz. Anyways, this shady guy comes up to me clearly sauced out of his mind and is like, 'Hey fella, you got a loosey on you?' And I'm like, 'Do you mean a cig? because ain't nothin' loose about this!"
Spike pulled up his shirt, showing off his six-pack, diamond-cut abs for the amusement of Sanjay and Blue Dragon. Cian looked down at his own belly and glared.
"And so he tries to grab my arm, right? So, I pull back of course, and he gets all defensive saying. "Hey, I ain't gay!" And he stops, looks me up and down, then says, 'But I sure as shit have fucked a lot of guys who look like you when I was back in the Navy!"
The locker room erupted into raucous, boyish laughter. Cian wanted to puke.
"AAAHHhh!!" Blue Dragon yelled, wiping a tear of laughter from his eyes. "Bro, did you even know him?
"In what way?" Spike winked. "I mean, I guess he did look kinda' familiar! Like hey, maybe I seen you down at the pier—but I ain't so good with faces; pull down your pants and we'll see!"
"Hahahahaha!"
Enough. Cian was on soon anyway. How could anybody stand listening to 'perfect' Spike and his stupid little stories? What an attention whore. The boy couldn't go five minutes without making something about himself. Cian only wished to grab him by his hair―his long, curly, angelic, beautiful hair―and punch him in the face repeatedly. Maybe even kiss it―
No! Cian shook the thought from his head. That stupid pretty boy, always getting inside his head! Cian threw back his bottle of water, wrapped a towel around his neck, and walked out into the locker room of incessant banter. You'd think someone had suddenly died, with how quickly the atmosphere changed as soon as the other boys laid eyes on him.
Spike's reaction was always the same. A doe-eyed stare (what was that about?) followed by the least intimidating glare/pout combo he'd ever seen. It was too easy to give him a smug look, followed by a sharp, "heh." You could practically see the steam coming out of the blondie's ears!
Cian's attention was focused on the battle at hand. Still, he'd be remise to forego a little bit of mischief. It was in his faeblood nature, after all. He noted Spike's water bottle, perched dangerously near the bottle of baby oil Dragon Azul was using to rub onto his glistening pectorals. Cian had observed Spike long enough to know he hydrated after every stupid anecdote, while his audience guffawed at his so-called humor. As soon as his back was turned, Cian subtly moved his fingers in the direction of the bench. His illusion magick 'switched' the bottles.
The mental space between locker room and ring, the gap of tension between anticipation and action, drove most spellbreakers crazy. Cian thrived on it. It built up his blood lust. Got him excited. Free of Firebird's talents, and encouraged by better men, the Faeblood Brawler walked confidently towards the backstage.
As he did, he heard his rival spit and wretch. "Blech!" Spike shouted behind him. "Ew, what the hell? How..."
The pause. Green-eyed Cian smirked. Wait for it...
"GAHHH!!! CIAN!!! YOU DID THIS, YOU JERK!"
"Hehehe." Cian laughed wickedly under his breath. He wouldn't trade the GSA for anything.
Now, to make Colt―and Connor―proud.
The buff fighter had to be in his mid twenties at best. 5'7", stocky, tan, and handsome, the spellbreaker with the slicked black hair, pink and blue blazer, and thick, pink-rimmed glasses stood sheepishly in the center of the ring as the ref patted him down.
"Oh geez," the spellbreaker known as Usagi said, blushing, rather performatively. "Ref, don't touch me there!" He looked towards the audience and winked, sending forward a literal sparkle-shower of starlight. "I'm...shy, you know."
The middle aged, balding ref rolled his eyes. But the audience ate it up.
Usagi was, as Spike was wont to call himself, a veritable 'Pocket Titan'. The spellbreaker in the starchy, schoolboy uniform struck a heroic pose for the crowd. Above him, a sphere of conjured moonlight appeared over the ring, to much fanfare.
Usagi grinned, digging inside his breast pocket for a white, somewhat leporine mask with a pink nose, pink hearts on the temples, and a fringe of white wings. The dark haired, beefy spellbreaker donned the mask.
"Moonlight...rabbit....POWER!" Usagi shouted, as a tornado of pink hearts and half-moon light constructs enveloped his body. The audience watched, in awe, as the transformation took hold―the young spellbreaker's blazer melting away into liquid light, revealing their intimidating biceps and chest. Winged hearts dotted their yellow arm bans. Stars dappled their white cuffs. Another winged heart sat as the 'centerpiece' on their pink and white briefs.
 |
| Character artwork generously provided by @Wigglybuff92. Artwork by @TigerLion_Art |
The fanfare died down. The lights of the arena turned from pale white to emerald green, zooming in on the smoking archway at the front of the aisle. The crowd held their breath.
Among them, Colt. Clad in his fanciest bolo tie, the cowboy king stroked his beard and looked out into the audience. He scanned the crowd, specifically the VIP boxes across from him.
Next to him, a young, tan-skinned woman—dressed nearly head-to-toe in beautiful, white lace—brushed one of two ornate braids aside. "I can feel the power in the air."
Colt grunted in agreement. He gave up on his scan of the boxes. He didn't find his quarry. "Thought you might. You detect anything...unusual?"
"A bit difficult to tell." The woman's voice was low, sonorous, like a flowing stream. She touched a finger to the brass pendent, or brooch, at the base of her neck. "There is a lot of magick here. Do you notice any energies similar to what you experienced at the gala? My apologies that I could not be in attendance. Research, you know..."
Colt shook his head. "That's the thing. I can't tell if I'm just being paranoid or not. Firebird is full of dirty crooks. No doubt about that! But I ain't got proof they're doing anything crooked behind the scenes. No match fixing, at least. Or...not yet."
The young woman turned her head slightly. "And the rubedo? Does the International Commission normally overlook such things?"
"More that they don't any solid proof," Colt huffed. "Firebird is sneaky and the Commission is isn't the cleanest org. They'd probably look the other way. They do for regular doping, anyway. It's so pervasive that there's not much point in trying to regulate it."
"Intriguing. Well, I cannot speak for sports engagement. Not my field of expertise, and you know I'm not really a spellbreaking follower. However, I will be on the lookout for anything unusual." The ethereal woman smiled. "I'll always come to the rescue of the Tamberly men."
Loud, Celtic rock music turned their attention towards the entrance arch. "This is the one to watch out for," Colt said to his companion. "He's ex Firebird."
"Ah, yes. Legendary blood. Fae magick. I will be sure to watch this one with keen interest..."
Interconnected spirals of emerald light cut through the aisle flooring—Cian's own little lightshow. The brawler himself emerged from the back, a black cowl draped around his shoulders, obscuring his face. Cian stood at the front of the aisle, letting the audience get their fill of his presence while he hopped up and down, muscles bulging and pecs bouncing. He raised his head, eyes glowing green from beneath shadows of his hood.
In one swift movement, Cian tossed it aside with a cocky grace and moved forward, giving the audience a subtle, confident grin. It was probably the showiest he'd been since joining a fed, and no doubt it was only because of Colt's input that'd he chosen a stylistic entrance at all. But the crowd popped, warming his heart all the same.
The ringside announcer yammered off his states. "At 5'11...weighting 234 pounds. From County Meathe Ireland, it's Cian Enbarr...the Faeblood BRAWWWWWLEERRR!"
Cian stepped through the ring without any showy or fancy flair. He nodded politely to the ref, who pat him down.
Across from him, Usagi turned from their posing and smiled genuinely at their opponent. “Oh, Cian!” He gave the Faeblood Brawler a flirtatious wink. “What a big, delicious hunk.”
Cian glared. “Let’s focus on the match,” he said, just as the bell rung. “Never been one for trash talk.”
The 'Bunny with the Bod' and the Celtic warrior locked up, each man pushing their strength against each other, trying to get an edge.
“You look so serious,” Usagi said with a laugh. He didn't even break a sweat. “But that’s right. You are a freestyle boy, aren’t yeah? Not allowed to talk during matches, eh?” “Yawn. How boring. And yet, such a suggestive singlet. Did your old teammates used to play with your bulge when you were caught up in a spli?.” He punctuated this statement with a flirty, glittery wink.
He's just trying to piss me off, Cian thought, scowling. And it's working. Odd. Cian had been putting in the work at the gym. He also knew Usagi was only a few pounds heavier than him. Why was he struggling against him?
"What's a matter, cutie?" Usagi said, breaking through Cian's defenses. He went for a knee to the gut—the bunny bastard!
But Cian had been waiting for this. He caught Usagai around his (exceptionally beefy) thigh, positioning him for a single-leg takedown.
“Talk is cheap," Cian smirked. "You wanna act tough, boyo?”
He tossed dumbstruck Usagi back onto the mat. The crowd applauded, including Colt, looking on with admiration. "That's it, son! You bust that bunny!"
Next to him, Colt's 'lady who is a friend' placed her painted nails to her lips and laughed. "You boys always get so riled up. Spellbreaking is such a campy, masculine display. I love it."
"Aw, shucks. That's spellbreaking for ya!"
Cian and Usagi traded strikes, ducking blows and kicks in rapid, fluid succession. They moved like beasts in their prime, so quickly that even the ref had trouble keeping up.
Usagi went to drag Cian's arm.
Let's give this a try, Cian said to himself, taking a deep breath.
Usagi grabbed his paws around Cian's meaty forearm, hooking in deep. As soon as he did, the sugar-sweet soldier looked up in confusion.
Cian moved 'outside' of himself, leaving behind the phantom image that dissipated in Usagi's hand. It was the first taste of Cian's magick. The crowd loved it.
Usagi did not. "Fool me, will you?" the buff bunny pouted. He went for a mean hook. Cian was faster. Already more drained than he thought he'd be at this point, Cian made a strategic—and thematic—move, and Irish whipped Usagi into the ropes, hoping to push him away so he could regroup.
"Waaaaah!" Usagi cried out, going flying and trailing his starry glitter behind him.
Cian wiped his mouth. He was dripping with sweat. It was time for a new strategy. If relying on brute force had cost him the match with Ryan Hartley, 'The Killer Quarterback', then Cian was going to need to tap into that magick even further. There was no sense in trying to activated the Blood Frenzy. It was too risky. Untested. Colt had explicitly told him not to, til training had progressed.
"Fine." Cian spat a wad of salty sweat onto the canvas. If I can't call upon the gods, I'll call upon the fae. "More than one way to skin a rabbit,” Cian snarled, letting the power well up inside him. His eyes glowed emeral green. "You want to see my fun side, bunny?"
Usagi, shaking off Cian's assault, craned their head. "You bully! I'm gonna...what!?"
The air around Cian shimmered. Poor Usagi thought he was seeing double, dazed from Cian rattling his head around. Cian's body blurred, and divided, with two versions of himself standing side by side!
"Impressive," Colt's companion said under her breath. She looked up. "Colt. There."
Distracted by his pupil's stunning performance, Colt barely had time to turn his eyes upwards at the VIP box across from the arena. "I'd recognize that ugly mug anywhere," he seethed. Semyon, in his red blazer and black tie, stuck out like a sore, rotten thumb.
"Guess this is a handicap match now," Cian on the left said, grinning wickedly. He looked over at...himself. "Hey, you're pretty handsome!"
"Not so bad yourself!" the other Cian said. "Of course, we could make it even more confusing for him."
"You read my mind, boyo," Cian on the left said. He snapped his fingers, and his singlet went from solid black, with a green Celtic knot emblem, to forest green with a black logo.
“No fair!” Usagi yelped.
Strong Cian wrapped his arms around his opponent's chest, hoisting him up off the ground. “Silly, rabbit,” he said, as he threw Usagi behind his back for a perfectly executed suplex. “Tricks are for KIDS!”
Usagi's head hit the mat. "GAH!"
Cian looked at his other self. His mirage double started to flicker. "Something's wrong," he said. His energy was all spent. Was it from exerting his magick, or physical stamina? Couldn't be...
The illusory Cian-in-black went down to his knees, grabbing Usagi around the neck and pulling him in tightly for a choke. Cian needed to hold Usagi down there; prevent him from getting back to his feet. If he could secure his legs around him and go for the Pillars of Sacrifice, he'd have this match in the bag. Cian's magick exerted influence over the mind, which meant his fake self wasn't actually putting any pressure on Usagi's neck. But it didn't matter, as long as the bunny boy thought he was being choked.
Mind over matter.
On his feet, Cian wobbled, and the illusion flicked again. Usagi dropped the act, confidently locking eyes with his opponent. "What a clever trick!" he said. He threw out his feet in a rapid recovery, and bolted straight up to confront the Faeblood Brawler. The mirage Cian dissipated. The real Cian's singlet turned back into its normal coloring
"URK!"
The bunny kicked Cian right in the gut, forcing him to bend foreward, with the wind completely knocked out of him!
"You aren't the only one who can pull a rabbit of their hat," Usagi laughed. "Didn't you notice, sexy? Every time we touched, my cute little cotton-tail self drained your energy. I'm just too sweet and innocent to hurt, right?" Usagi pressed his finger to his luscious lips and gave the audience his best, baby-doll eyes.
"You...bastard..." Cian groaned, clutching his stomach. He was fully aware of the precarious position he was in, but there wasn't much he could do about it. He reckoned Usagi's magick was a lot like El Amante's. The glyph of Sensia. Normally, someone with a glyph like Cian's could nullify emotional magick, but it looked like Usagi's powers worked exclusively through touch. If El Amante's magick seduced an opponent into submission, then Usagi's 'cutie power' robbed them of the will to fight.
Usagi winked at the audience and grabbed his claws around CIan's head, forcing him in between his big quads. "Let's drain you a little more!" he said, squeezing on tight.
Felt like a vice grip around Cian's neck. He tried to claw at Usagi's legs, but every tough drained his stamina just a bit more. Now he knew what it was like to get a taste of his own medicine! Ughhh he doesn't skip leg day, does he?
The ref appeared on the opposite side, wincing sympathetically. "You give, Enbarr?"
"Checking out my bunny butt?" Usagi said, coquettishly shaking his bubble butt at the ref.
Bastard! Cian gritted his teeth. He refused to grunt, groan, or give. This was like Ryan Hartley all over again. Another failure. Another defeat. And in front of Semyon again, too. Cian would never be able to live with himself if he lost now!
“Aww what’s wrong, Cian, honey? Did the big bad bunny sap all your strength with his moonlight magick? Couldn’t even lift me if you wanted to, weakling! Pathetic. Well, I love giving cuties like you my Bunny Driver, and watching them twitch oh-so-adorably as I pin them with my sexy cotton-tail.”
!!!
Something deep and dark stirred inside Cian. He felt his forehead pulse, and not just from the lack of bloodflow to his brain. No...not now...
His mind flashed to his nightmare. Fields of blood. A warrior with red eyes.
To add insult into injury, Usagi reached down and spanked Cian on his broad backside. “We know you like that, don’t you, Cian honey? Just like you probably loved looking at your old teammates when they changed. Maybe even sniffed their jocks when they weren’t looking. Hehe, shall I give you a wedgie too, my big, strong, hunk? Before I hoist you up and bust your brains out!”
!!!!
“I…” Cian growled. He felt something, someone else, inside him reach up into his heart and pull it away, replacing it with a lump of ice. “I…”
“Awww what?" Usagi said mockingly. He shifted his legs, ready to reach down and pull Cian into the air. "What are you gonna do?”
In the audience, Colt leaned forward, exchanging a concerned glance with his mysterious companion. "That's--"
The woman with the sunflower pendant nodded. "Legendary blood. Which hero is he descended from again?"
Colt tapped his temples. "Shit, I'm not good at Irish mythology. Who was the sunuvabitch with that funky name? Coo...ca...?"
The magi in white placed her hand to her mouth. "Cú Chulainn!? His Blood Frenzy was known to rip through entre battlefields..." Normally cool and collected, the young woman looked over urgently at Colt. "And his allies. Has your fighter activated it before? Can he control it?"
Colt's eyes gave her the answer she was dreading.
In ring, Usagi flexed his biceps, happy to take his time humiliating Cian for the finish. Suddenly, he looked down in confusion. His feet were no longer fasted to the canvas. In fact, they were being raised off the ground. "H-h-how?"
Cian, eyes having gone from emerald green to ruby red, hoisted Usagi up off the ground and onto his shoulders, holding him up in the air as if he weighed nothing.
The crowd gasped. Somewhere, in a VIP booth, the gaunt Semyon Grigorivich smiled.
“I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!” Cian roared, loud enough that the mic didn't even need to capture it. “I’LL KILL YOU!”
Panicking, the color draining from the face benath the mask, Usagi turned and looked down at the canvas—his final destination. “W-w-what!?”
Instead of flat, white canvas, a carpet of grass ran the length of the ring. The rune-woven ropes and turnbuckle-embedded crystals glowed bright green to contain the ambient magick. Perched just beneath where Cian held Usagi aloft, a flat stone table, a sacrificial altar, rose up from the ground. Thick, crimson-red blood dripped down from the altar, soaking the grass red.
Even the audience could see it. Some, drew forward in excitement and anticipation, Others leaned back, averting their gaze.
Usagi gulped. "How is that—no! N-no, Cian, please don't!"
"CIAN, PLEASE DON'T!" the enraged, berserked fighter bellowed mockingly. “SPEAR OF CULLEN, GUIDE MY HAND.”
Unto Usagi, Cian, in his bloodlust, threw the buff bunny between his legs at mach speed, slamming his vulnerable spine straight into the stone pilar with his Spear of Cullen powerbomb.
The audience's horrified reaction covered up the sound of Usagi hitting the canvas. There was no field of grass, no sacrificial altar--just a cold canvas, and the twitching, groaning spellbreaker convulsing upon it. In Usagi's head, however, the blow to his back on top of the stone table was as real as anything else. It was a miracle it hadn't fully knocked him out. To him, his spine had been completely shattered in one blow.
Cian towered above his defeated opponent. He breathed in and out, heavy and slow, convulsing with rage. Slowly, he placed a boot on the broken bunny.
The ref, in shock of what happened, leaned down and counted Usagi out. “That’s it, Enbarr, match is over.”
No sooner had his hand hit the mat, however, and the bell rung, that Cian KICKED the ref straight in the gut, sending the man flying across the ring.
Colt at up in his seat. "Shit—that ain't good." But, before his companion could give her input, Colt was bounding over the aisles, racing down the steps towards the action.
“IT’S OVER WHEN IT SAY IT’S OVER!” Cian roared towards the ref, his spittle flying. He looked down at his crumpled prey and snarled. He reared back and kicked Usagi in the ribs.
The beaten spellbreaker, mask askew, gripped their sides. "Please...don't..."
“GET UP!" Cian jumped onto Usagi like a wolf digging into a fresh kill, ripping him off the mat by the scruff of his neck. "I AM NOT WEAK. I WILL SHOW YOU WHO'S WEAK."
Meanwhile, the referee in the corner came to his senses. He saw what was happening. Helpless to do anything about it, he signalled for security.
All the while, Colt raced down the staircase. "He's gonna kill him if I don't do something..."
Cian wedged Usagi's head between his legs, clamping his massive quads down around his prey's neck. “YOU LIKE PILEDRIVERS, HUH, BUNNY BOY?” He hoisted him up, vertically, into the air, and held him there for the audience to watch. Cian was a monster unleashed. Muscles slicked with sweat, veins pulsating, and eyes burning red.
The Faeblood Brawler jumped up and SLAMMED Usagi's head right into the canvas with a sickening CRACK. Then, without missing a beat, he deadlifted the slack-unconscious spellbreaker up again turning him around to face the audience. Usagi's body swung limply, his mask cracked and stained with blood.
"HOW ABOUT A TOMBSTONE VARIANT NOW?" Cian roared. He eyed the stocky men in black suits racing towards the ring. "YOUR BRAIN IS GONNA BE RABBIT STEW BY THE TIME I’M DONE WITH YOU!”
SLAM!
Half of Usgi's mask, broken, went flying. The magick lost, he reverted back to his civilian dress, dishevelled and stained with blood. Now, the audience could glean a better look at the beaten contender. His face, puffy and purple. Lips cracked and bleeding. His eyes spun around in his head, looking in entirely two different directions.
Two security agents jumped into the ring. The other two made a human wall around Colt as he jumped over the barricade. "Let me through!" the lightning-shooting cowboy demanded. "He's gonna kill him!"
Usagi's pain and suffering wasn't enough to sate Cian's fury. Well aware he was beyond knocked out. Cian continued his violent assault, this time hoisting Usagi up by his feet and slamming him down against the mat in a series of half-performed powerbombs.
“FUCKING SOMA!” Cian snarled, watching Usagi's bones and wounds heal in rapid time via the power of the soma elixir both fighters had drunk at the start of the match in order to prevent permanent injury. “WHY…WON’T…YOUR…SPINE…CRACK! YOU WANT A CARROT, BUNNY BOY!? I’LL KEEP DOING THIS TIL YOU’RE A FUCKING VEGETABLE!”
The security guards pounced on Cian, one going for his shoulder, the other pulling at his arms. Cian brushed them off like gnats, turning and flinging one of the guards into the ropes. Meanwhile, Usagi lay motionless on the mat. The medical magi at the ringside apron could only watch and wait, or risk getting into the pen of a rampaging, wild tiger.
The berserk spellbreaker gripped the sides of his head, in a mix of pain and fury! "I AM NOT WEAK!" He roared. "I'LL SHOW ALL OF YOU!"
Then, a soft, masculine voice in Cian's ear. "You're right. You're not weak, son. Never have been."
Cian, still enraptured by rage, blinked. He tried to turn towards Colt's voice.
The cowboy's shirt sleeves ripped, exposing his muscles, as he put Cian in a tight nelson lock. “That’s enough,” he said, calmly.
Cian's body jerked back from the thousand-watt jolt Colt injected him. It was quick. Colt had no reason to put any more on him than necessary. Cian's eyes flashed back to normal, before rolling back into his skull, as Colt gently lowered his student down to the canvas.
The medical magi and arena security looked on in shock and awe. The audience, however, had lost its shit. Colt looked toward the crowd, realizing they thought this was all part of the show. He nodded to them, making a gun with his fingers. Better to have them none-the-wiser.
While the medical magi finally entered the ring to attend to the broken Usagi, Colt leaned over and flung Cian onto his back. He was under his protection now.
“Don’t worry, boy," Colt said to his unconscious student, as he stepped carefully through the ring ropes. "You done good. We’ll get your powers in line. I believe in you, son.”
Before Colt touched down on the ground, he looked up into the VIP box. Semyon leaned over the rail and grinned with wicked intent. Colt responded in kind by activating his magick, flashing his eyes like lightning. It was a courtesy. The first and last warning the cowboy king would ever give to the president of Firebird.
"Is he alright?"
With one foot against the parking garage wall, Colt crossed his arms and stared off into the galaxy of the Las Vegas strip. "He's gonna take a rest," he said, dog tired, to the woman with the sun pendent. "Will probably set out the next few matches as a penalty though. Hey, sorry I have to break away early."
The magi in the blue dress and the white-lace bodysuit put her fingers together, giving Colt a long, hard look. "It's fine," she said. "The institute will send a car for me. I'll be fine getting back to my hotel on my own.
"You sure?" Colt knew she'd be fine. He sighed. "I miss when budgets were the only thing I needed to worry about." He tried to force a smile. "Don't get too involved, okay? If you get hurt, Buck will have my hide."
The girl laughed. "I'm thinking back to all those times you attended to our scraped knees when we fell off our bikes. Trying not to loose your cool while we screamed our heads off at the touch of an alcohol swab. Let me pay the favor back and offer my assistance on this one, Mr. Tamberly."
"You can just call me Colt now, y'know! Heaven knows, you're old enough now, Ms. PhD."
The young woman held out her palm. An intricate, three-dimensional object. comprised of thousands upon thousands of threads of light, formed the vague image of Semyon Grigorivich. Even Colt was impressed at the construction.
"Leave it with me, cowboy."
Colt nodded to her. She returned the gesture with a calm smile, then scattered the light construct into thousands of dulling spark. Saying no more, the president of the GSA retreated back inside the arena, leaving the woman to the cold garage.
She waited a few moments, before she heard the approach of stilettos on pavement. Her smile faded. Without turning, the woman with the sun pendant said, "Good evening, Miss Diamond."
The beautiful dancer in the fur coat approached her associate. Though it was the first time they'd met in person, Marcy greeted her the same way she did anybody—like an old friend.
"Just Marcy is fine," the dancer said, taking a long drag on her cigarette. She breathed smoke into the ice cold, sky-high air.
"Indeed," the woman with the pendant said. She turned around to face her scout. "Gather anything at the lounge tonight?" She handed her the stack of bills, even before receiving her answer. The woman always knew who not to trust. Marcy was not one of them.
"A few shady characters," the dancer said, tucking the stack into her coat. She flicked ash on to the garage floor. "The girls picked up what they could." She paused, both women's eyes going towards the sound of a car peeling away.
Marcy waited before speaking. "I think something's going down tomorrow night. Wish I could tell you more. All I heard is that there's a magi in town with a toxic touch. Calls themself Redback."
"A magi assassin?" the woman in blue and white questioned.
Marcy shrugged. "Russians, maybe. Or Alban Remnant."
"Or the Alchemists, if I had to take a third guess." The woman touched a finger to her pendant, thinking it through. "There aren't any political targets here in Vegas, are there?"
"Political? No, not right now. But the CEO of Atom and Eve is going to be at tomorrow night's match, with the GSA champion." Marcy pointed with her cigarette. "I ran into some of them last night. They're good boys. I want them protected."
"Don't worry," the woman assured her informant, with a nod. "Thanks for your support. Be well. Be safe."
No point in talking further, Marcy Diamond nodded to her one-off employer and vanished back into the shadows of the garage.
The woman in lace waited until she was gone. Then, she looked back to the arena and sighed. "Oh, Colt. You have no idea what you've gotten you and your boys into now..."
Daaaaaaaaaaaamn! That was SUPERB! Excellent writing, loads of world building and character building, seriously good stuff!
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