How many had fallen victim to her merciless blade and unrivaled fury, she did not know. It had not been worth even attempting to count what could not be counted. Out of those countless victims, few had been worthy as equals, and none had been worthy of being called her rival. But perhaps on this night, that would change. A very special Challenge this had been, though not completely an unexpected one. Who would be the triumphant victor, and who would be the disgraced defeated, she could not forsee. The only thing she knew for certain: this would not be an ordinary battle, not by a long shot. Two of the most powerful warriors, unmatched in power and strength of will, would meet face to face for the first, and not the last, time. The stage was set, and soon they would become players in the deadly dance of swords...

The sun had just about set, sending beautiful multicolored tendrils of red and orange streaking across the deep blue of twilight. Soon it would become very dark, during the period between the setting of the golden sun and the rising of the silver moon. The perfect time of night to battle, and indeed it was the best kind of night as well. No breeze stirred among the treetops or danced among the long grasses of the field, and the air was still warm from the intense heat of the day, making for a very comfortable setting, the type of evening where lazyness had a tendency to be most apparent in humans. The usual chorus of insects rose in crescendo, accompanied by the scream of a predator that had scented its victim and was moving in for a kill. Even during such a serene night, death lurked beyond the veil of calm, ready to claim the unwary and the weak. From the dark, sullen giants, the northern mountains, a chill began to seep downward, silencing all living things. Black mist was beginning to wash like an ocean tide over the entire area, cloaking it in shadow, blocking all light. It only lasted a few moments, and when the mist had receded, the form of a woman, about twenty-four by physical reckoning, stood in the center of a massive field, her strange black cloak-like apparel rustling gently.

She scanned the field for her opponent, no details missed by glittering crimson eyes. He had yet to arrive, but she was patient, and could wait for all eternity if necessary. Time was of no importance to her, being of an ancient, ageless race, though truth be told she was anxious for the match to begin. She had been searching for a worthy rival for centuries and longer, only to find disappointment with each easy victory. There was no glory or honor in defeating those weaker than herself. True, she had faced strong opponents in the past, but still, they had not been her equal, and though she doubted anyone ever could be, she accepted every Challenge in hopes of finding that one warrior powerful enough to force her into using all of her strength.

What if he is more powerful than I? Bah, I should not bother wondering about such things. If I die, I die, if I live then I have a better chance to die tomorrow. Weak enemies come along every day, but a true Rival is once in a lifetime.

Reassured by her own thoughts, she checked over her armor one more time, though she already knew she was as ready as possible. The fading light set the golden dragon medallion set in her armor chestplate afire with the brilliant reflection, quite a contrast to her black armor. The silver trim also reflected the light, but not nearly as much, and it was the medallion that made her more conspicious instead of truly being a warrior of shadows. That medallion was the only legacy of her long dead kin, and she wore it proudly, hoping to eventually revive the glory of the forgotten Draconians. A slight smile played across her lips as she thought of her plans, though it was far too early to implement them. For now she was content with her reputation, striking fear into the hearts of all but the strongest warriors. The Shadow Warrior, the Shadow of Death, the Crimson Shadow...she was known by all three names, as only those who survived an encounter with her learned her true name. The rest were simple aliases to keep people from asking too many questions.

It is almost Time...She murmured to the wind, and at that moment, sensed the presence of one who was very powerful. This must be the opponent she was to face. There was no fear, or any other emotion displayed on her features as she waited for the un-named warrior to step onto the soon-to-be battleground, as she deemed most emotions useless and had discarded them as soon as convienent. Come from the shadows and face me...

Psiko

The night sky grows dark as the moon rises into the sky, obstructed by thick, black clouds. Thunder booms out across the entire land as warm drops of rain begin to assault the soil below. A lone howl pierces the air as a sole wolf seeks shelter from the wet droplets that assaults its fur. A light breeze begins to blow across the open plains, and soon it amplifies in intensity. The rain falls more rapidly than before as the storm rages on. The air grows thin and cold, piercing through even the thickest of fur coats. Regardless, on this cold and stormy night a strange man travels onward, braving the fierce elements before him.

Small gloved hands hold the hood of his cloak over his head, shielding his face from the bitter cold. He trudges through grass and mud, his thick leather boots making loud sloshing sounds as he progresses along the main road. He can only see a few yards in front of him because the rain is heavy and dense, so at times he blindly strays from the path and has to blunder his way back on course. Any normal man would be at home, in bed, but this is no ordinary man. This is a man that legends are made from, and already his power has become a myth of its own. He has undergone many alterations in style and attire over the long years he has fought, each adaptation becoming more fearsome than before. He never knows for sure if his new technique will be effective, but somehow it always manages to bring him victory and throw his foes off-guard. No man could ever predict his nature or his attacks, for this is the Mysterious Mage, better known as the Red Mage. His true name is long forgotten, but historians will one day give him a new one, so that they can tell of an imagined childhood. They will tell of his victories, expanding them to make him seem immortal. Not once has he ever seen defeat in battle, though several times he has withdrawn. Those who faced him and lived to tell the tale are very few in number.

Like a shadow in the night, he stalks his prey. Tonight his victim will be inside, seeking shelter from the storm. Tonight is the night when he shall make his presence known. Of course, his prey will beg for mercy, for him to spare the life of an innocent. They always do. They'll plead until they are blue in the face, offering sums of money that they could never obtain. But justice must be served, for all his victims have done their crimes. He is the hand of death, bringing all sinners to their knees before he strikes them down. Some do not even put up a fight and simply give in, killing themselves with the hope of a quick death. They never get that. None of them realize that their lives are his once they become his prey. They live only as long as he wants them to live, and can not die before he wants them to die. They still try, hoping that their false gods will be merciful. Mercy is for the weak.

The Red Mage grins as he stumbles upon his destination: the town of Hoeth. The paved streets are barren, all signs of life are absent. His victim will be in the pub, drinking himself into a stupor before heading off to bed. He might even purchase the company of a female companion to give him pleasure, but that pleasure will be his last. From there his life will be one of pain and agony; a life of misery and defeat. The new life will be brief, since they never survive long after becoming the prey. It is of no concern to this Mage of Mystery, since they almost always carry out the task to completion. But somewhere, on the trek back to find their master, they always die.

The thick oak door to the pub opens with ease, moving aside so that the Mage could enter. A few men, the few who are sober, glance over to see who the newcomer is. When they see who has arrived, they all begin to stumble as they back themselves into the tiny corners of the pub. Cries of alarm alert even the drunks, and soon every person in the room is quaking with fear. One brave man speaks, though his voice is weak and filled with terror.

Wh...what do you want from us? Why have you come here, Magus?

Magus is it? What a fitting new nickname! Much more appealing than Death, don't you think?

The eyes of every man grow wide as they all try to back up even farther, pushing against the stone wall with all their might. Magus is used to this sort of reaction, it comes with his reputation. It is always the same, no matter where he goes. He knows he will never get an answer out of them, but he tries anyway.

Have any of you, by chance, seen a man dressed in green, with brown hair that reaches down to the small of his back and is braided, and a rough beard upon his chin? He goes by the name of Jon Locksten, and I would be appreciative if you could point me in his direction.

No one answers. It is expected, since that is how things happen every time. He can never get a direct answer out of any commoner, man or woman. Even the children have been taught to fear him, to avoid talking to him or looking at him. Of course, they always stare even when they know better. Everyone does. Their eyes never leave him, but their mouths never move. They cower and tremble, afraid he'll strike them all down on a whim.

No? Well, I suppose none of you object to me checking the rooms for him, right?

Not a person moves to answer him. He simply chuckles to himself as he strides past them and down the hall, kicking open every door. Most of the rooms are still vacant, the occupants too busy drinking and partaking in their festivities. The last room on the left is the room he was looking for as he catches his prey in bed with an older woman. They both gasp and scramble to cover themselves, quickly finding themselves ashamed of their natural state. Both recognize who is standing in the doorway and they look to each other for comfort, their hands shaking with fear. The woman is of no concern to Magus, his gaze never leaving Jon. All of a sudden they both rush toward the window, diving out into the stormy night. They forgot that the room is on the third floor, and both plummet down to the ground below as intense shrieks echo into the night. A dull thud is heard as they hit the grass. Magus can only smile to himself, knowing that the man is still alive and well. Ensnared within Magus' magic, no man can kill himself. He will die soon enough, but there is first an important task to fulfill.

Magus walks calmly over to the broken window, looking down to see the man and woman both laying there on the ground. The man is writhing in pain as his muscles try to recover from the shock they recieved upon hitting the ground. Magus laughs as he steps out of the window, slowly hovering down to the ground as the rain attacks his face. Suddenly he feels a strong sensation...a new presence nearby. It is coming from the desolate plains that are not more than a mile away to the south. Magus quickly forgets about this man, cutting off his magical grasp so that the man could die. He was of no importance anyway. This is something worth looking into. The possibility of a worthy opponent is not one he can find everyday. It has been years since he had to work to win a dual...now he simply toys with his prey. But this is something he has never felt before...the presence of an incredible, fierce power. For the first time in his desolate life, Magus finally experiences fear. He feels what every man and woman and child feel when he is around. His eyes lose that confident gleam that he always holds, and his limbs become unsteady, as if the earth was moving beneath his feet. Magus dispels his fear, viewing this as a chance to prove his worth in battle. He banishes the rain and the clouds, leaving the moon and the stars up in the night sky. The night is still young, and the time has come for Magus to meet his new prey.

Not wanting to waste any time, Magus runs toward the source of this unknown power...the source of his only fear. The ground soon becomes dry as he reaches this new destination, a place where the storm missed. The sound of birds singing reaches his ears, beckoning for him to trudge onward and meet his Fate. Insects call out, luring him to his destiny. Everything seems so calm and peaceful...almost beautiful. The ground is dry and green with flourishing blades of grass that give way under his feet as Magus jogs further. He slows down, tossing his cloak aside as he sees a small figure in front of him. His sword, Tarngath, rests light in his hands for the first time in ages, the black blade almost invisible in this dark setting.

The pale light of the moon reflects off of his bronze plate mail, tracing along the outline of a dragon and filling the runes below. His armor seems to come alive, glowing bright in the twilight. The white glow swiftly surrounds Magus, cleansing his soul and purifying his sword. A transformation, one unlike any he has ever experienced before, overcomes him. In the light of the moon, his hidden power emerges and dispels all darkness and sin from his heart and his mind. His brown hair becomes a bright silver color and his brown eyes change to a tone of blue. His pale skin becomes smooth and fair and his clothes become white. His trademark black sword shines a bright silver as it reflects the starlight. His gaze becomes soft, gentle and merciful; his smile warm and reassuring. His thoughts of hate and death become replaced with knowledge and understanding. For the first time in his life, he remembers his childhood and his name. He is Arien Cuiri� of Gwyndion. He no longer has a want to kill, no longer has a need to hate. He has been reborn.

His eyes meet those of his opponent, a young woman consumed with darkness. Though he does not want to hurt her, something within brings him closer. A sudden thought races through his mind. She is the one...the one who made me into who I was. She killed my mother and brother, leaving me to survive on my own when I was young. She made me into the monster who I was, and now the time has come for me to repay the favor and end her life. She must die! With that, he readies his sword overhead and his blue eyes become filled with that hatred he had grown accustomed to all his life; however, it will die with her tonight.

DragonHeart

Finally, an opponent drew near. She narrowed her eyes slightly, trying to judge the man she saw approaching from the farthest end of the field. She took note of his transformation, and felt a slight moment of heisitation, but gave no outward hints of such a weakness. She sensed strength in him, strength that rivaled her own, perhaps. It woud be best to tread lightly until she knew what she was against.

"Many have dared Challenge me, but none have survived. Shall I add you to my list of victims, or shall I be added to yours?" She smirked a bit. Trying to provoke him into a respone, though she doubted he would take the bait. He seemed much sharper than the usual human.

Seeing the silver blade shining as it caught the reflections of the moon, she decided to answer in kind. She closed her eyes and extended her left hand, palm up, silently calling for her weapon. The faint image of a large sword appeared just beyond her fingertips. It drew dark energy to its' core, pulsing as one with heart. In a final surge of power, the image emitted a veil of darkness, and when it cleared, the sword had completely materialized. Thick and strong as a broadsword, yet curved as a katana, it was truly unique. The obsidian blade was composed of a crystalline substance that even a mastersmith could identify, the serrated edges and draconic hilt plated with pure gold. Inscribed upon it in elegant, flowing script, the blade's given name. The writing was in a long forgotten language, but the translation had remained in the myth of the legendary Blade of Darkness. Shadow Wind.

Lightly gripping the ancient sword with her left hand, she lowered it until the tip rested gently upon the earth. She was waiting for just the right moment to begin. In the distance, a feral scream sliced through the night. At the same moment, her crimson eyes opened, and she manuveured the surprisingly lightweight sword into her standard first move stance; holding it with both hands so the tip was angled over her shoulder.

"Shall we dance?" Shadow Wind swung toward the ground it had vacated earlier, plunging deep into the soft soil. The power of the blade forced the land asunder with a loud cracking noise, becoming a split in the earth that raced toward her un-named adversary with lightning speed. The move wasn't an attack as much as a show of power, daring him to strike her first. She was more than ready for it.

Psiko

Watching his opponent very carefully, Arien observes every detail about her. Power flows strong within her soul, corrupting the air around her with a repugnant taint of pure evil. Hesitation fills Arien's mind as he witnesses her sword appear out of nothingness, being called forth from a dark void. In his past, he was always full of confidence because he was wielding the immense evil power. Now, in an abrupt change of roles, he is suddenly fighting for the cause of good and justice. Not once in his eternal life has he ever seen the forces of good triumph...

A foreshadowing sign of things to come appears in the air, as a ring of vultures begin to circle above Arien. As soon as he notices the vultures, his opponent unleashes her first attack. The very core of the earth begins to tremble under the forces of evil as a large split in the crust opens, racing toward where Arien is standing. The earth reaches to engulf Arien within the depths of Her body, but his wits manage to react swift enough to avoid that fate. With only a fraction of a second left to take action, Arien transmutes into a small sparrow, flying to safety.

As soon as his opponent's attack completes itself, he reverts back to his natural form, holding his blade in a defensive position. Giving in to an impulsive thought, Arien charges toward his rival, swinging his sword, Moonshine, across his body. Reacting swiftly, she parries the attack, deflecting the blow to one side. She counters with a strike of her own, which Arien manages to deflect as well. The two trade a few more blows before Arien begins to gain the upper hand. Sensing this, she retreats a few paces and begins to ready another spell. Power flows into the air around her, swelling to an enormous quantity. Realizing that hesitation could mean death, Arien casts a quick spell with the hope that it will disrupt her concentration. A snowball suddenly appears in front of Arien, propelling itself toward his opponent. It hits her in the face, breaking off her incantation and disrupting her spell.

Neither one wanting to fall behind, both of them begin to prepare another spell. Simultaneously, they both complete their spells. A chain of black lightning flies from her fingertips, crackling as the void cuts toward Arien. A beam of blue light erupts from Arien's hands, charging toward his foe at great velocity. The two spells clash in the center, each one pushing onward with great force. The spells begin to attempt to overcome the other, the advantage swapping to and fro rapidly. Over time the power of Evil begins to overcome the Good, and the black lightning closes in on Arien. Realizing he has lost that part of the battle, Arien ceases his spell, allowing the lightning to rage onward unhindered. He dives out of the way and brings a small poisoned dagger into his hand, hurling it toward the evil warrior in a desperate attempt to end this battle prematurely.