A Call to Arms...(Private)

[Sinister]

The plains were smooth, like poured cream. A breezy solar spell, the ground felt like lifting clouds. The sun shined without burning. The wind whipped without freezing. And in all the land, the humble cry of crickets were the only blessed sound. It was the sort of peace that time forgets. But then…time has proven itself forgetful.

The fading sentiments of man and his influence had been gently blended into the scene. Tall ionic pillars, blessed white and boulders tinted with lichens, were totaled in a circumambient fashion. They defined a serene green clearing about one hundred feet in diameter, a pious hill.

It was here… The very spot. It had been selected with irony in mind; described in a note scrawled on royal stationary in bold red ink. That note had passed into High Paladin Oskar's hands.

"Too long. Too long has the credo of our assemblage been meek and feckless. You have become weak and by proxy so has our congregation. I challenge you. You know of the ancient henge out on the plain. I challenge you to be there this very day. Come at you leisure.
I will wait."

The note was without a sender. It was blunt and insulting to a degree, scrawled with sharp jagged letters. The very note was folded into Oskar’s hands as he achieved the hill.

But the hill was vacant and peaceful with no outward signs of another occupant. Peaceful, truly a land of milk and honey.

It was to detriment…only to mar, that the poured cream of the plains, curdled as a fog blanketed it. To this recipe was added the cold howl of a wolf just as the sound of crickets died. The sun, daring, shined through the fog, illuminating the figure of what seemed a man…

Jafar’s coat tussled in the wind, as it swept his fog away. His wide brim hat kept his eyes free from God’s sunlight. It was necessary as it was God’s sunlight, and not his. His visage was all one of insect length. His purple coat, black hat and great lanky limbs made him seem a great purple mantis. The tinted glasses he wore pretended to hide the windows of Jafar’s soul, had there been one. His face was stark and sharp, with locks of blonde hair framing it, the rest pouring out the back of his hat. The tinted glasses were directed at an approaching figure, shelled in armor.

Jafar knew.

Though there were words to be said, Jafar’s mind was with the grip of Woundlicker, his great black stiletto. They were cold murderous thoughts and they disturbed Jafar greatly. It was his mentor, his friend, his leader that those thoughts targeted. The thoughts were unreal to him, simple primordial thoughts. Almost...planted.

Kill…REND, slaughter. Murder Resistor
Inaction, You will succeed. Shifting pieces. Dismember. Changes nothing!
Missing trust! Don’t impress… Binge Cringe
NOW is the only thing that’s real. Pure Blood…hunger…food

“Welcome,” Came Jafar’s dry report. It sounded mechanical. His brows scissored his bleak red eyes into bloody razors. Thinking of adding a little dramatic scare, he smiled lightly and added: “Oskar.”

[T.G. Oskar]

A...challenge?

Time had passed since Oskar was last challenged. The memories of that battle were things he would likely wished to forget, for they granted him the taste of powerlessness, the bitter fruit of defeat, and the feeling that mercy was granted to him without deserve. Since then, Oskar remained still, carefully considering each movement.

__________________________

It was not long since then. A scroll, written on fine calligraphy, sentenced the Seekers to lose their last leader. He had resigned, considering the weight of the burden too harsh to carry. In his eyes, only one person had the skill to continue the proud history of the Seekers. Little else was spoken of the former leader, whom sought to travel the world on his own, to one day return victoriously to the armies of Light. In his stead, he left one person who had since then remained in the sidelines, offering counsel and assistance to whomever sought it. Tucked in the library, surrounded by the beacons of Illumination, by the tomes that wrote about the events of history, and the arcane knowledge forgotten by the travelers of time, stood Oskar.

"Sire...we have news for thee. Our great leader...has abandoned his post..."

"I...see; again we are leaderless. Has anyone stood up for the task? I will see if he's up to the task. Or she... Tell, please: has someone claimed our leadership?"

"Not a soul, sire... You see, the last command of our illustrious leader forbids anyone from taking the position."

"Why? There are various warriors here, each one more than capable of guiding our forces to victory. What was...that last command? It is odd...that no one dared to defy it. It's clear. He resigned, whichever his positions were: it is logical that, even if his last wish is to be respected, that if it were lacking sense, someone would question it..."

"You see, sire...it is the wish of the warriors, and the people as a whole. Our last leader DID appoint someone to be the leader of our cause. He must have seen, must have felt, the wish of our people..."

"Then you admit that your...wish...has left us leaderless."

"Not leaderless...but with the leader that we sought for a time. You see, sire...the members of the Council have not been seen for a long time. All...except one."

Oskar, carefully listening, was now realizing the depth of the messenger. He was realizing the last wish of his former leader.

For he was a member of the Council. He was, perhaps, the only member of the Council to remain in post, the one sought and visited the most. Each time a problem happened, he was often the one sought to answer. Time and time again, the peace he sought, refuged in the mountains of books, was disrupted by the complaints, to be solved with wisdom and knowledge. Oftentimes, Oskar merely sought the leader to solve them, but he saw as each day he grew distant. Then, he took action.

Days passed, and Oskar became a judge for the troubles of the people. His judgment was rare, for it had the blend of the Solomonic wisdom, with the doubt of the youth. In days, he had to invoke more and more the wisdom of his books, only to find that he was, in the end, the one to give the answer.

And so he realized. Now, he needed confirmation...

"Sire...with the other members of the Council absent, no one is to veto the decision. Even the people were asked...not a soul defied the command. Sire...you are the one chosen."

"Why...me? I know...well, I've been your problem-solver during all of these months, but..."

"Sire...We do not harbor resentment for the actions of our councilors, but we need a man that can take action if needed. And, since our leader became distant, you have sought solution to our troubles. It is, perhaps because of that, that our leader realized he was..."

"No one is fit or unfit for the task. Or I should say...well, I don't seem to be fit for that task, for the entire task. You seek too much of me..."

"We seek only what you have given: trust, and response. Sire...please...your people need you."

Days he passed pondering upon the answer, locked in the library. Then, one day, the doors of the library were opened again.

Fully armored, his worn sword strapped, Oskar emerged from the cave he called his home. The people were speechless, bowing only out of respect. From the way to the main office, people remained still, uttering none a word. He sat on the office seat, which held one last letter from the leader. The expected receiver was, in fact, Oskar. In it, the former leader wrote few, but meaningful words to him...

Oskar,

We have been good friends, great allies. If this choice troubles you, is because you knew I was capable of handling this work. Perhaps not. I've seen how you often stay here and work, instead of growing in power and strength to face the dangers of the future. You give hope to our people, more than I can give them. These last days, I've seen how I grew distant with my people, while you offered that hope of yours.

As so, I formally resign to my post, and wish you a long and extended stay. I've spoken with the Council, believe it or not...and guess what? They also agreed. No one here has a word against you...perhaps, only you will feel unsuited. But...even if the work here is hard, I know you'll be able to handle it. I have...faith, in my choice, and in your work.

Just as he was to see the farewell, he saw a long dash in the letter, indicating that this was not a farewell. A day, perhaps, he would return. He had just...parted, but not left. That was the reason he did not need a farewell.

___________________

And so time rode on. Sitting in the office desk, handling the problems of the Seekers, he realized little the discomfort of the people. Absorbed by the work, by his own troubles, he had seemed to fail to realize the troubles of the rest. Animosity was in the air. It was not thick yet, a slight hint was only lingering in the air. It was some time since he had completely renewed the goals of the organization, and opened the gates to those who wished to enter. It was a hard gamble, to open the gates, but a fruitful one.

People of races and occupations diverse sought refuge and a place to live in, all tied by a single reason. But, with their entrance, so came the discomfort.

Warriors, seeking a banner under which to fight, were with unrest. They remained still, their swords rusting, their skills stalled. They sought to, at the first call of combat, to unfurl their blades and fight for the glorious cause of good, to sacrifice their lives to defend the hope of those who were incapable of fighting for their freedom, for their choice.

Philosophers, on the other hand, were unbothered. They found the place where to debate, where to express their love for knowledge. They, with the power of word and knowledge, sought to dispel the dangerous poison of ignorance, and in their leader, they found a kindred soul.

Then...came the Magus. Those who fought with knowledge and action, who traveled both sides of combat. They were repelled by their choices, by their decisions: only in the castle walls of the organization they found solace to their tired bodies and their weary souls. They sensed the unrest of both groups, and sought for an answer.

Perhaps...that answer would come today...

_________________

Traveling on his majestic white horse, Oskar traveled to the hill where the Magus had told him to go. The Magus, troubled by a rare message, spoke to Oskar that someone was to meet him on the ancient henge on the hill, a place that was solace to his heart.

Yet, the wind brought more than comfort. A message flew from the wind, right into the palms of the rider. It was...rude and troublesome. The letters, jagged and stained, were the first act of defiance to his rule.

...meek...feckless...weak...

You...weak...so does our congregation...

"Weak...in all of these years, no one had defied my orders. Perhaps...indeed, I have grown weak. Is this why he left? Why he left me to take charge, instead of fighting on? No...our organization has not grown weak. It has solidified...strengthened. Perhaps...perhaps our passive way of action? We act, we seek to soothe the wounds on the weary hearts of the downtrodden. I, by each day, understand his decision ever and ever more. I stood there...here I stand."

"Patience, for all of its worth, cannot prevent the troubles of the world. In here, I shall meet the one that defies patience, the one that seeks me to be the warlord. I have not grown weak...my strength only lies hidden."

The hill was surrounded by mist, something that had not happened since he was there. Perhaps, not the times he had visited. It was not a normal mist, rather a supernatural mist, where the natural heat of the land was defied by the cold aura of will. A cold will...

The mist filled with the memories...memories he held dear with someone else. A friend and partner. Found nearly dead, Oskar, still caved in the library, defied the rules of his organization and sought for him shelter. His was an exceptional act of mercy. Were he another, that person would have been denied mercy, or even slaughtered in sight. Sun, a caring yet merciless judge, denied the grace of its heat to him. Night, with the soothing yet deadly cold, embraced him.

The memories of a dear friend...one that followed him everywhere. He was there in the few travels he had done. It was his most trusted companion, whom had presenced the birth of the Innocent Avenger, the traveling companion that dared the perils to seek the armors of legend, the one that presenced his growth, his personal growth. Only he, of the few, knew of Oskar's place of solitude, where he soothed his weary heart with the balm of serenity.

In the distance, a cloaked figure stood, still and silent. The sun's rays pierced the heavy mist, yet they could not pierce the image of the distant. The mist grew stronger in his proximity, perhaps the cold soul that had awakened the mist in first instance.

Welcome. The voice sounded lifeless, not a welcome, not a greeting, but more if he was reporting. He knew that voice. His memories were not wrong...the mist was not wrong. His own mind invoked the memories, even at the distance. The paper, flowing in the wind of daytime, held his imprint. At close sight, the letters were not his: upon reading, the words were. They were close friends, close allies; how he could not recognize the words of a comrade?

Then, the voice spoke again.

Oskar.

His name invoked, muttered. It was no longer a mystery. It was him.

The distance between the two diminished with every step. Closer and closer. The glistening armor and the purple cape, the light and the darkness.

Then, he stopped. Time, or perhaps the flow of it, seemed to slow by each step. Oskar, his head slanted to the ground, stood right behind the one who had summoned him. Steps, few steps, a measle distance separated the two. Mist, wind, flow...All screeched to a halt. Awaiting the answer that would break the spell.

"Jafar... It was you all along. Do it. I'm tired of waiting."

[Sinister]

Jafar felt it…a soft tugging feeling…soft and worried. Forlorn and doubtful. But compounding every second…resolving and corroborating every second, rising and exalting to a state of being battle-ready. Like a wound healing in seconds that should’ve taken decades. It was not him. It was Oskar.

It made bitter poison rise in his throat. His fist clenched, marking the inside of his palm with deep blood-less gashes. The soft sounds beneath the mist, each footfall a pulse, peeled the necessity for eyesight away. He couldn’t see Oskar but he knew where he was. He couldn’t see the grim expression in those eyes, but all the same, he knew that it was there.

“I loved you as a brother, Oskar! I really did.” The thing in Jafar’s throat cawed out. It didn’t sound like his voice at all. So very alien. “You saved my life.” Jafar fingered the grip to Woundlicker. He chuckled to himself, light and flavored with irony. “What little of it there was to save.” He added, sutto voice.

The mist was so perfect, perfectly spread and so very muffling. Thick enough to send only impressions. But the impressions were strong enough. Oskar could’ve been nowhere but directly in front of him.

“But we have our differences, do we not? In a way, this was your own doing. It hardly needs to be said, but…” Jafar’s eyes closed, one in pain and one in joy. “I challenge you, Oskar.” They both reopened, glaring through the fog like scarlet searchlights. “Don’t dare misunderstand, your leadership, your reputation and life are all in the hazard now. I may not be quite as famously respected for strength as you always were, but you have far too many noted disadvantages in this.”

Jafar tried to focus the fog, grip it. He let it whisper into Oskar’s ear. And through elemental murmurs it hissed: “One wonders how you’ll fare in this battle…I’m already dead. How do you think you’re going to improve upon that? But I’m sure you have something to lose.” Woundlicker gave an epic ring as it slipped from it’s scabbard.

A gentle wave of Woundlicker and the dry fog split and peeled back forming a narrow hallway between him and Oskar.

It was a second or two, until Jafar’s eyes had finished disecting Oskar. It was maybe somewhere in his mind that the sight truly affected him. It called a happy and glad smile to his lips that he quickly hid by twisting it into a sardonic grin. To further hide it he made sure to bare his favorite features, letting his fangs gleam like small daggers dripping from his mouth. His mouth opened and hollow hateful words followed.

“See you, heavenly band, this glorious sight…High Paladin Oskar basking in the glow of an already faded glory.”

Before Oskar could say anything, Jafar ripped off his tinted glasses and threw them onto the ground. They shattered in sharp defiance. Oskar looked truly troubled at seeing him this way. Jafar saw with two eyes that glowed the brighter. It was his left eye that looked at Oskar, dripping contempt. The other read him perfectly. He saw Oskar doubting himself, wishing for old times and dear friends.

It was while studying Oskar that part of him realized what terminal danger he was coming into contact with. Atrophied or at his peak, Oskar was never weak. A tinge of fear and respect was still in Jafar.

“You know my name. You know my face. You know my heart. You’ve done nothing. Altruism and Passivity are not the same, you hesitate! Tell me, do you disagree?!” He shouted, angrily. “Because…if you do…So help me, I‘ll rip you apart.” If possible, Jafar’s eyes became even more red. Ever his mind urged him on and not to stop, to lay every inch of pain he had suffered since into pure fury. Whispers of influence, feminine, familiar and subsisting on rage, fed him…

Jafar forced Woundlicker into the earth with both hands, the entire hill seemed to rattle, the pillars shifted. The surrounding grass shriveled, making crisping sounds as every single plant cell lysed. The cell walls popping, all of the life…all of the moisture drained away, leaving torched husks. Jafar’s eyes dilated. His mind strummed with alien thoughts, like white noise.

Defy…the state of things…You’re so cruel…
Now is the only thing that’s real!

He wrenched Woundlicker from the hill. It’s tip glowed blood red, the same red that Jafar’s eyes echoed. He pointed it at Oskar. Jafar’s fangs had tripled in size, requiring him to open his mouth in a monstrous expression. His eyes still great as blood red moons.

“This is your Judgement, Oskar!" His mouth sounded full, voice sounding even more fearsome with the fangs extended. "This is all you’ve ever done. Your hesitancy and pacifism won’t help you now. All you need now to cease to exist is do what you’ve always done…Nothing! Will you abandon your philosophy here and now infront of me? Or do you stand?”

He lowered his aim for Woundlicker honed on Oskar’s heart and from the tip of Woundlicker jetted a lightening blast of red. It fired with lazer accuracy, shattering the remains of the dead grass around and shaking the hill once more as it rocketed towards it’s target.

[T.G. Oskar]

The mist...blinding the sight of the peaceful glen, the plains whom Oskar loved to visit. If anything, this was a balm to his worries. The sight would not cause distractions, his mind could focus in the challenge proposed by his friend, his companion, his ally...

Or...what was left of it. His voice, his very presence was twisted, a presence unlike the one he had known for years. It was Jaffar, there was no mistake...the trustful friend that for years had served as the lone companion in his travels. He was one of the few people he could place his trust. If anything, lacking a male brother, he was a brother all its own.

____________________

Time ago, in a hospital room...Oskar sat upon the body, the cursed shell that was the undead body of Jaffar. To the leaders, to the commanders, to his own kin, Jaffar was condemned. He had Embraced the darkness, and was now pleading his misery be swiftly pardoned. He sought an end to this. Were it another, his misery would end, swiftly. In a blink of an eye, the Priests, the Paladins, the Exorcists, and the Holy Members of the Seekers would destroy the accursed body of the Undead. It was a fitting end.

But Oskar...he was not tempered that way. He was...merciful, to the point of naivete. In the weary eyes of the traveler, he found a man that desired, more than anything, the forgiving of his sins, of his troubled past. Time, and memory, lost the words that the traveler, seeking alms in the gates, uttered. Oskar, though, remembered...

He sat there, while the people outside revolted. He was not to be defied, as he was one of the members of the Council. Everyone, except the other members, were under his command. Uneasily, the nurses sought pints of vital blood, the few that could be given to someone that desperately needed them to survive, but that, in the eyes of others, was not deserved. Oskar, still young yet growing in wisdom, sought only to provide enough blood pints, enough so that the need of blood could be satisfied, until more donors could grant the Vitae, the fountain that carries life itself upon.

But...it was not enough. Of course, it was not enough. This man was suffering of a terrible drought, unable to imbibe from others. Odd, it was, that such a man was left alive. Odd, too, were his actions. Were it another of his kindred, a massacre would surely ensue. But he...he was held by something...something prevented his hunger from emerging, from overcoming. It spelt his doom, but he did not faze. He lived that life, somehow.

Oskar sat upon this defeated man. A dagger was on his hand, gripped fiercely. A swift command, and the nurses and attendants closed all windows. Another, and the soft lights of candles lit the area. One more, and the area was completely abandoned. Almost completely, save two. Oskar, and the dying man.

His arm extended, the dagger made a swift cut. Blood dripped from the wound, which had taken a minor vein. He made sure that the vein was the one richest in oxygen, the one reddest. The blood fell into the deluded man, as Oskar uttered some words. In a sense, he swore an oath. Which, to all he knew, was odd. Oskar was not the one that swore an oath that easily. It took an extraordinary event to make him swear and place his word on judgment.

"Listen...the people over here look at you badly. If I let them get their hands on you, you would be dead. But, somehow, you came here, for some reason. Perhaps...you really wanted death, the end of that madness. But...somehow, I cannot follow that rule. I am loyal, I am obedient...but I'm also human. I feel and I ache. And it hurts me that you suffer this way.

I know what you are.

A Vampire. An Undead, an aberration. You and your kin were not meant to exist.

You feast upon the lives of others, you suck them dry and kill them, to preserve what animation you have. You are dead, yet at the same time you feel, and you suffer. You are dead and you are alive: animated, but conscious.

I am requested to exterminate you. It is an order.

But, fear not. I hate swearing oaths that bind me to do something that eventually I'll regret. I prefer...regretting my own actions, than to feel burdened by the following of an oath. I swore only one thing, from the bottom of my heart. That is, to place my word only on what I felt was right, not on what others felt was right. If I was the responsible of my actions, I would atone for them. But only I, and myself alone.

So, this is my oath. Funny, isn't it? I am swearing, and I hate to swear. I will give of my own blood. Imbibe, drink. As my master, my Lord, did to us to atone for our sins, so I am doing to you. I am giving part of my life, to extend the length of your undeath. But, only because I feel that there is good in you. I feel hope, I feel a determination to follow what's good and true.

So this I swear. As long as I live, I will take care of you. You will be the brother I never had. But listen, and listen carefully. If, by some reason, you are to betray that trust... I will do it. Personally. That will be my atonement, and even if my Lord refuses to accept it, I will do so.

I will hunt you.

I will seek you.

And, I swear, I will make you pay.

Heed well...'brother'. If you, by any circumstance, place yourself in a situation in which you endanger the lives of others; if you abandon our ways, and follow the ways of your own; if you seek to center on your self, and disregard the well-being of others to think of your own; if you disregard the will, and the right, of others to live, in the search of your own extension of life...I will, I swear, I will destroy you. Not even your ashes will remain."

Drawing his sword, Oslkar thrust it into the stone floor of the room. With a slight bow, and a small prayer, he sealed his own oath.

As the memory faded away, Oskar remembered...the first day he met Jaffar, and the oath he swore. Jaffar was his own responsibility, his burden, and his pride.

___________________

Indeed...it was Jaffar. But, deep in his heart, he knew. Something had changed. It was him...and also...not him. The voice, the presence, even the hidden meaning of his cryptic words, were alien to him.

This was a man that had lost his admiration upon the man that risked his very career, even his very own life, to save him. As he had said...what little was left to save. Truly, what was to save from someone who had already parted away?

His soul. Somehow. Oskar saw that his soul, his consciousness, still lived upon him. That, what his "brother" now belittled, was the thing Oskar sought to save.

"One wonders how you’ll fare…"

"...I’m already dead."

"How do you think you’re going to improve upon that? "

"...I’m sure..."

"...you have something to lose."

Yes...my reputation. My life. Even my salvation.

"...basking in the glow of an already faded glory."

Which glory...I never wanted glory. All I wanted was...to do my job.

"Altruism and Passivity are not the same, you hesitate!"

Never!!!! I never hesitate. You are the one that does not understand. Patience...virtue. Patience is a virtue, one that patience alone can cultivate!!! To say patience is not the same as Altruism, as the Greater Good, is to be deluded and wrong!!! You seek a different good. You seek to eliminate evil. So do I. But you seek not to care for the good. And I do.

"Will you abandon your philosophy here and now, in front of me?

Or do you...

STAND?”

From the tip of the dark blade of Jaffar, a dart of energy poured from, like a drop of blood. The blood of nature, the beauty of the land, had been scarred away. Only lifeless husks remained, of what was once bright and brimming. The dart, the spell poisoned by despair, by thoughts malevolent and painful, was aimed at the very heart of the person once thought as a friend. As a brother. This was the last straw...the last. Once one comrade, in a moment his trust was shed, like the skin of a serpent when it rebirths anew.

Only one thing was left for Oskar to do. His eyes closed, his right palm shielding the heart soon to be pierced. Oskar's eyes left tears of anguish, tears of pain. He had lost one of the most dearest things in his life. He lost a comrade, a friend...a brother.

For now, the oath was to be fulfilled. He had sworn an oath, and now, his own life was att risk. A very elemental violation of his oath.

His hand swelled with radiance. The dart only needed seconds to end the life of the Paladin, of the great leader. Yet, in mere slivers of time, his palm now contained a power unfathomable. It was a time like this...when Oskar felt he fulfilled his life's mission.

To destroy all evil.

"I...will..STAND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Oskar's response was like the roar of a proud and noble lion, commanding the elements to bend to his very will. His aggression released, his illuminated palm met with the dart of betrayal, a palm filled with the feelings of a betrayed man. The dart exploded, the life contained burst into the dessicated earth, replenishing the lost anew. The mist dispelled, fading away from the very palm of Oskar. The collision released aggression held for years, the product of his patience binding the boiling feelings of his heart.

The sigil on Oskar's palm bled. The dart never reached his heart, but it penetrated the power Oskar placed to destroy the element of aggression. Right at the center, as if a marksman aced in the bulls-eye. Oskar's palm bled, immediately releasing the pain of brothers destined to fight. In his eyes, devoid of windows to the soul, a silver lining replacing the more human eyes, the very reflection of Jaffar was contained. Tears of water and blood flowed from Oskar's eyes.

"Is this it? This...is what you wanted? I took you, I healed you, I dressed you, I fed you, DAMMIT, I CARED FOR YOU!!! And this is your payment? DO you remember...the oath I swore? That, if you became a menace to the world, I would destroy you? Please...if you are still there, Jaffar, answer me. Do not make me fulfill my oath. You said you loved me, as a brother could only love. What made you lose that? Patience? Patience...perhaps you do not understand that. This one, here and now, is the result of your pathetic wish to see me in action. I do not want this. I want only to be the good friend, the good brother, the good comrade I always was.

Perhaps...perhaps you still want to leave this world. Perhaps you still want to die. And you wanted, for the last time before you perished, to have a reason why to leave. I cared for you, and I gave you my love. My fraternal love. That love only reserved for family. You want to see in me those who mocked you, who made your life miserable, is it? If not, then stop this: if you wish to talk, then we will talk. Here I am, the active one, the one that seeks to end the tyranny and oppression of evil. Is this the one you sought to see? Because...to see me...you made a terrible mistake. You violated the oath I swore. And...if you don't kill that...desire within you, if you seek to reduce yourself to scum, to awaken the monster in me..." Oskar's voice, as he neared his final words, changed of tone. It was not the one of a torn human. It was the commanding voice, the trumpeting voice of the beings of Above.

"...then let me be the one that ends it.". His bleeding palm drew the Innocent Avenger, the majestic blade held sheathed upon Oskar's back. The sword, which seemed too long to be wielded properly with one hand, was in Oskar's right hand light and weightless. With a step backward, Oskar assumed a thrusting stance, ready to unleash his true power. The sword shone brightly, pulses of light resonating with the land. Sigils of power, circles of holy magic emerged from the hilt of the blade, as the sword moaned in pain. The sword had passed its judgment...and the judgment was punishment. The moaning of the blade was the last lament of a former friendship torn asunder by doubt and mistrust.

The sigils of divinity spun ferociously, as the blade released an aura of incredible power.

And, with a bold dash forward, Oskar thrust his blade upon Jaffar, releasing a devastating force in the shape of a holy sword, in the shape of HIS own holy sword. The ethereal blade, of phantasmal appearance, ripped asunder the unhealed remains of the land, ripping through the mist that sought to recover its grip on the land. A howl of wind, a melodious howl like the scream of a woman, and the roar of a lion, followed the destructive wave of energy that threatened to destroy Jaffar's wickedness.

Oskar, his sword fully extended, observed carefully Jaffar's eyes, as the wave surged the plains. His aura released, the six phantom wings that shaped from the surge of divine power, heralded the monster that Oskar's patience sought hard enough to seal...
__________________________________________________ ____________________
(OOC: The flashback is based upon events appearing in the RP "Seekers of Illumination: the Sagas", of which these characters (partly) come from. I have taken the liberty to re-adapt the story as a flashback, to explain both characters' relationship. Even though I desired to have a story different from the RP, I accepted to allow using part of the history, and we mutually agreed. This is to prevent claiming the flashback as "god-modding", unless Sinister disagrees with the following)

[Sinister]

Jafar watched the missile expelled from the tip of Woundlicker sear through the air. It was a fine concentrated dart of stolen life, newly ripped straight from the source. Jafar closed his eyes. Part of him meaning not to see his foolish friend meet a foolish end, wished he had not fired the dart at all. But all dark prophecies died with a blasting declaration.

“I...will...STAND!!!!”

Both sides of him were pleased to hear Oskar’s defiant cry. But it…more than anything, it wanted a fight. It was relief. It was a warcry, something he never hoped to hear Oskar utter again. Jafar’s red eyes, blasted open. The mist had shrunk back behind Jafar, as if it were hiding in fear.

‘Heartfelt joy, exciting wonderful thrilling joy’ Jafar thought. ‘The cursed sigil is gone.’ Tears began to weep and trail down Oskar’s face. Tears of pain born from both physical and mental anguish. Tears of sadness and tears of blood, marking his face, just as his palm began to bleed. ‘Dry your eyes, Oskar. And quietly bear this pain with pride.’ Jafar thought to himself.

"Is this it? This...is what you wanted? I took you, I healed you, I dressed you, I fed you, DAMMIT, I CARED FOR YOU!!! And this is your payment? Do you remember…the Oath I swore?”

And that slammed Jafar harder than any possible riposte could’ve hoped. Jafar’s jaw set and locked down, biting the bottom of his maw. His right eye flushed and to Jafar’s ultimate shock, welled up with a tear. This was real. ‘To hell with it all and no regrets’

Jafar remembered. Deep in the howling tortured confines of his own self-mutilated mind, he saw Oskar’s lips speak and heard his voice. At the time of it’s utterance, the oath washed over him…he couldn’t think. His mind was dying… The last rampant frayed scarlet gossamer thread that kept him alive…was snapping. But in the coming days it was a sign, a lasting reminder of their place in reference of each other. But on that hill he heard those words echo…

"So this I swear. As long as I live, I will take care of you. You will be the brother I never had. But listen, and listen carefully. If, by some reason, you are to betray that trust... I will do it. Personally. That will be my atonement, and even if my Lord refuses to accept it, I will do so.

I will hunt you.

I will seek you.

And, I swear, I will make you pay."

It must’ve been the greatest grace of his life that Oskar found him that day. Fear of death died, loneliness was tossed away. The four years of starving pain…and before that…another version of the same misery. But that one day…He was lifted from what had been meant to be his grave. If only the days to follow had been as kind… If only it hadn’t…If only…

Jafar bitterly wiped the single would-be-tear from his red eye. The tendrils of many peaceful/fruitless years had scaled and effaced meaning from that so-called honorable tacit. Nothing more than the bent words of a weakling covering his own mistake with oaths of water. By this, Oskar intended to dissuade him?

“…if you seek to reduce yourself to scum, to awaken the monster in me..." The plains shook and the skies cracked with that voice.
"...then let me be the one that ends it."

Shhnk, Angella, Innocent Avenger drew and Oskar held her at Jafar as if he were a common demon. The lines were drawn. Life is so much simpler when there are lines and nothing is gray. That moment froze in time. Oskar’s furrowed brow of fury and disapprobation and Jafar’s raging storm red eyes. The sour air between them, the sad and torn henge watched. It may be that in a billion battles between those who were never truly enemies there might be one other moment of tragedy, one shining moment of epic worth that matched this.

Jafar patiently watched the sigils build and wrap around Oskar’s touted sword. Jafar knew this dance from of old. He was to stand as Oskar did. If Oskar could stand a hit, Jafar would not move. ‘Poor me…I will die…’ He thought, savagely. He rubbed his wrist across the edge of Woundlicker, opening up a gash. “I‘ve blood yet to bleed, though it‘s not my own.” He said to himself.

The sigil of divinity revved mischievous circles around Angella as Jafar watched for the discharge. It was in the blink of an eye, too quick to see, that Jafar had sheathed Woundlicker and Oskar‘s phantasmal attack punched forward and sailed at him. Jafar held out his fist in front of him. The second he saw the flash of the discharge, blood began to pour out of his wrist. It cascaded out in the form of a liquid shield and the fog reappeared more bravely, backing Jafar like a great cloak.

“This blood I give back to you, Oskar! Do you hear? It is yours, take it!”

The sword manifest of holy energy impacted the blood with an explosion that flung earth and sparks that blinded eyes. The holy element colliding and rejecting the element of stolen life and the reactions built to a massive detonation. Jafar’s coat was blasted, shredded and singed. Jafar could feel his arm warm in a wave of sick agonizing burns. But for all the pain, Jafar was proud of his tiny one-time trick.

The leveled hill, cleared of dust and behind it was Oskar, the six wings of his holy office shimmered from behind him. A truly sad and magnificent sight for Jafar to see.

“So I finally get you to take action and you take it against me. What a catastrophe. What an enemy you turned out to be. But like I said…” Fog rushed back into the battlefield, blanketing all. “You have disadvantages.” Jafar’s taunting voice cut through the fog. “If I kill you, you die.” It said in a wicked sing-song voice. “If you kill me, if you destroy me now, you will be prostrate with grief for the rest of your miserable life.”

Jafar stabbed the ground again, but then began to run a trench in the hill. He was going to sap the entire hill! Flashing quickly across the hill as it died, bleeding into his sword all the life it would ever have. He slid to a halt behind Oskar. From his stance in the fog, Jafar was pulsing red. He could feel the stolen life throb like an electric buzz, he felt himself pulsing like a quasar and for a second he felt what he thought was a heartbeat. The power of the plain was incredible. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls, Oskar.” Jafar taunted. The fog sucked back revealing Jafar holding the charged sword behind Oskar. “It tolls for thee.”

Jafar used all of his might to restrain his sword and keep it on target while it berthed the largest and most deadly blasts of stolen life he had since seen.

[T.G. Oskar]

The oath...Oskar had almost forgotten the oath.

Long time ago, he swore that if Jaffar were to become a menace to his people, he would take care of him with his own hands. Time passed, Jaffar became perhaps the greatest comrade he could have. After his ascension as leader of the Seekers, Oskar felt alone in the seat. Almost isolated, incapable of taking action. The job of handling all the issues of upkeep and business with the local towns took most of his time. The few moments of freedom were consumed in the solution of the problems in the castle, which fortunately were few.

At times, he sought to have a breath. Time and time again, monsters and fiends threatened the lands surrounding the castle. Most of the time, a well-trained band of warriors dealt with the situation, but in the very rare occasions, Oskar led personally the band. If it was important to his research, his people, or even to himself, Oskar left the administrative business to people of trust, and led the band of warriors. Each and every time, Jaffar was at his side, his personal bodyguard and friend. All the Seekers knew of this, and even suspected of deeper meanings.

Within time, Oskar and Jaffar were close as brothers. Administrative issues were time and time handled by the mysterious newcomer, to the disgust of the few conservatives.

Only recently, Jaffar sought to find the solution to his greatest trouble. Oskar, seeking to aid his greatest friend, gave the research files that planted a solution to the problem. With haste, Jaffar left the castle, and became absent for a very long time.

Upon his return, Jaffar was different. He was the same loyal and trusted ally of Oskar, but the journey gave hints that the traveler was not exactly the same person that left...

That very doubt placed upon Oskar's heart was now present to him, lunging with the very beauty of the land he such admired. Now a dark wasteland, devoid of life altogether, it seemed to Oskar like the reflection of Jaffar's twisted heart. There he was, ready to take the life of whom once he claimed to be brother and friend.

But, facing the visage of Death in the nefarious pulse of the dark blade, Woundlicker, Oskar remained stoically calm. The massive Avenger, light as a feather, held tightly in the right hand, gave way to the move. No parry, no counterattack. Oskar's right hand, still bleeding from the first dart, made no move to protect the life of its owner.

Little could be said of the left hand. Touted by humanity as the "sinister" hand, in opposition to the "dextrous" hand, the left hand of Oskar pulsed with a dim, growing light. Essence of holiness shone on the palm, which tensed open, ready to establish a firm grip. Seconds, slivers of time separated both warriors, as the vampiric blade sought to collide with the shining armor...

--

With a deafening blow, the blast of energy exploded, liberating the essence of life turned into the very essence of death in all directions. Both warriors were engulfed by the energy, with Jaffar remaining outside of the perimeter, his blade held firmly. Oskar, on the other hand, was at the center of the explosion, nowhere in sight. At least, that was what appeared to be. He was not in the vicinity, which precluded the intention of evasion. Did he really sought to take the hit? Has he gone lost? Has his faith and love in his former friend broke his mind into suicide?

The blast dissipated, the mist slowly reaching into the destroyed area. Standing was Jaffar, sword pointed at a silhouette that slowly took form. With each passing moment, the silhouette was struck by the light of the sun, revealing a tattered man, bleeding in various points. To Jaffar's possible surprise, there was the figure of a man standing as if the blow had done nothing. He was standing there, his skin tattered and slightly burned, his face writhing of pain. A normal being would die from taking a blow at ground zero. It was evident that Oskar was not a normal man.

The blast cleared fully. Oskar was trying to contain the great pain, trying hard not to scream in agony. He would gladly scream, as the blast struck body and mind. The armor took the brunt of the blast, which dented quite enough. To normal eyes, it was a minor dent, something a blacksmith could repair easily. Only the sagacious enough could understand that a dent in the Plate of Caelestia was sign of great power shielded by the enchantments of the plate. Even so, the gaps that were covered in chainmail dripped blood every few seconds, which implicated that the blast penetrated beyond the plate and dealt great damage to Oskar's body. Truly, it took a superhuman endurance to withstand the full brunt of the blast, and still survive from it.

Oskar breathed heavily. The blast had taken part of his stamina, and he sought to catch his breath. His face, bleeding, showed a fierce snarl, and grinning teeth that heralded a massive effort. For Oskar was not only withstanding great pain...

...he also held the Woundlicker with his left hand. It was his intention after all, and he had succeeded. His pulsating left hand met the blade of the vampire, trembling from the effort. Sounds of colliding metal, from the blade and the gauntlet, from the vibration of the hilt, grew as the deafening blast lowered its intensity.

"What do I have to lose? My life? That...that's something you know. I could care less about my life. In the defense of my mission, martyrdom is always welcome, brother. To you, it may seem that my defeat would be worthless. Think again. What can you do after you defeat me? Can you honestly think you can live after that? Do you honestly think you can...die, after that? My death will mean suffering worst than the miserable life you had before I took you, before I cared for you."

"What do I have to lose? If I win, will I be overcome with grief for the failure? You are naive. Despite your natural behavior, that stoic behavior, that call for action, you are still lacking understanding. If I were to never forgive myself for having to exercise my oath, would I have sworn it? I knew, I sensed this day would come. The day that I would have to kill you, to destroy you. Think about it this way: you will have what you always sought. Death. And I will have the...comfort...of having stopped you. Isn't that what you wanted? The solution to your curse? To be able to act as you wanted, not forced by dark magics and curses? To be...truly altruist?"

"I remember...once, you told me...forget it. Why I need to remind you? You look so eager to waste away all our time together. All that time we spent, all that time we shared. You know what I always told you...that my greatest pain was that I would spend my life celibate against my will. Which means...your parting will be less painful. As I fulfill that oath, and..."

"...that fleeting wish of yours." Gripping the sword strongly, the pulse of light grew intensely. More and more Oskar's face contorned, as if exerting great strength.

Oskar's grip on the blade was increasing, as he poured a great deal of his strength and energy to destroy the blade. A dark blade cannot stand the grip of justice, and so Oskar sought to teach the Woundlicker. But, with the warriors gripping the blade, both were dangerously close.

A sword as large and wide as the Avenger was perhaps hard to maneuver in such a close circumstance. But, it was the weight of the blade which mattered now. With his right hand, which began to twitch every now and then of the pain, Oskar lifted the giant blade, and began to make it spin. With each spin, he gathered inertia, and air was caught. Light began to flow from Oskar's body, which flowed into both arms, into the hands. One hand was crushing the dark sword, and the other...

..was about to crush the dark warrior. For, although a simple and basic maneuver, the style that Oskar developed, almost perfected, could still be devastating nonetheless. Especially...

...if the wave also collided in ground zero.