Log:Scars 2

For the first time in what feels like weeks, Alexandria is actually warm. Fair weather clouds drift through the sky, and the air feels pleasant on the skin.

Which means that there's probably only one place Malik would be. It's easy enough to find him, in the shade of the tree that he trains under, a massive oak that offers protection from both sun and rain, on most days. And he's in his typical training gear -- boots and trousers, shirt eschewed off to the side, enjoying the weather. This time, though, there's a practice sword in his hands, one of those weighted wooden things that the arena fighters use. They hurt like hell to get hit with, and are sometimes even heavier than the real thing, with lead cores, but are good for building muscle and technique. He moves with the thing like a man on a mission, spinning on his heel around an imaginary opponent before cutting out his legs from under him, rising to his feet again in the same, smooth manner.

The festival grounds are far from deserted on a day as nice as this - there are a number of people in various corners doing similar things. One at least, though, doesn't seem to agree about the weather being warm. Wrapped in a cloak with the hood pulled up, Seldan is only readily identifiable by stride as he approaches the oak tree where Malik practices and leans against it, watching. Not until he stands in its full shade does he pull down the hood to reveal sweat-drenched ginger-blonde hair, ice-blue eyes that have not changed, and - night-black skin. No patches as yesterday, it's -all- that disturbing inky black. He's been sweating, and his chest heaves as if breathing heavily.

Malik looks up from practice as Seldan comes over, wearing that full cloak. He blinks a few times at the clothes, a faint sheen of sweat already starting to build up on his own skin, and then takes in a sharp breath when Seldan pulls his hood down, that blackened skin exposed to the world. But whatever shock might be there from the change is quickly eclipsed, looking at the miserable state the man is in. He shakes his head, firmly. "No," he tells the other man. "Take it off. You aren't going to kill yourself in this heat to hide a mark." He steps forward, uttering a few words as magic flows to his fingertips, reaching out to touch Seldan's cheek gently, the skin already starting to return to its normal color in a spreading wave.

It takes but a few seconds for the magic to complete itself, and Seldan breathes a sign of relief, promptly removing the cloak and tossing it carelessly to the grass. "Her blessings on you, Malik, for that." His breathing is beginning to calm, and he pushes that sweat-soaked hair back and away from his face. "But I do not kill myself in the heat. I have been in Hun'rar's gymnasium since near dawn, and ran across the city to here. I have not worked so hard since I came here." From his open expression, he's not unhappy about the heavy work. "You look as if you work as well."

"And you just left me to sleep?" he teases the man, raising a challenging eyebrow at that. "I would have gone with you. I could use the practice. Besides," he adds, that mischief in his eyes, "I can't let you pull too far ahead. You already have the better face. You're only allowed to excel in so many areas." He picks up another one of those practice swords, tossing it to Seldan with a flourish of his own, holding it in a ready state.

Seldan's clothing clings damply to his frame already, but he swiftly moves to catch the practice blade in one hand. "You threw something at me when I sought to wake you." A couple of strokes to get its feel and balance, then with his free hand, he frees his swordbelt to toss it into the grass atop the cloak. So unencumbered, he gives it a couple more strokes, then falls into a ready stance. "Very well, begin." Suddenly, sweat and all, he is all focus.

Malik can't help but laugh. "Well, next time, throw something back. Try pants," he tells the man, moving forward with a flash of motion when Seldan tells him to begin. He doesn't hesitate, and he doesn't hold back, lashing out with an upward arc of the sword, moving past his target and taking a careful slash toward the back of the man's thigh.

Seldan dodges the first blow easily enough, but that puts him in the path of the second, and the practice blade strikes hard across the back of that leg with a solid *thwack*. That will leave a bruise, and he shakes his head in disgust, backing away with a little bit of a limp. That stung, clearly. "I should have seen that. Do, do not think." He turns and resets, and this time it is his turn to strike, but Malik has -never- seen him move like he does now. Fast as a striking snake, with all-out power, in a move far beyond the basics of swordplay. The first blow comes across the body; the second, straight across at hip-level.

Malik doesn't even have time to duck those. He moves back just enough to take a practice sword to the stomach, the red welt already starting to look nasty as the wood moves away, and has just enough wherewithal to avoid taking a practice sword someplace remarkably painful, the blade striking across the hipbones. He looks down at himself, then back up at Seldan, eyes widening a bit. "I'm going to need that later!" he laughs, though he's already moving into his own attack, striking high at the head before striking lower at the calves, trying a split level assault.

Seldan's eyes go wide at the brutal move he just executed, so much so that the return assault nearly catches him off guard. He ducks, but not quite quickly enough - the practice blade just clips the top of his shoulder. He jumps the second blade without thinking, but so distracted is he by the previous move that his own swing at Malik's head is wild. So much so, in fact, that the attempt to control the follow-through sends him sprawling to the dirt in a move that is very, very unlike him. "Agh! Hold." He seems to be trying to gather his wits, though he doesn't seem to be badly hurt.

Malik lets out a relieved sigh as Seldan calls for the hold, offering the man a hand as those welts continue to redden. "Your technique is amazing," he tells him, glancing a bit downward at himself. "Any lower with a real blade and you might have ruined all my fun. Forever. Message received," he laughs. "But your balance is clearly shit. We should work on that. Do all Myrrish men learn to fight like that?"

Seldan shakes his head quickly and forcefully, droplets of sweat flying from his hair, and he pushes a soaked lock of hair away from his eyes. "Malik, I do not know what happened," he says seriously as he lets the other man help him to his feet. "I was not taught that move at arms practice." He's got a strawberry forming on the point of his shoulder. "It ... caught me by surprise. I do not jest when I say that I do not know all that I know. Perhaps it is better if I work drills for a time, until I find what else is in there." He looks down, clearly discomfited. "Are you all right?"

Malik listens to the explanation, curiosity forming on his face. "Do you think it was the other magic?" he asks the man. "The flood of voices from the sword? Or maybe this is a side-effect, like what's happening with your skin. Maybe your reflexes are just heightened." Though as Seldan suggests that he just works drills, Malik rolls his eyes, punching the man lightly on his un-injured shoulder, even as he frowns at the mark on the other. "Don't be ridiculous," he tells the man. "Out there, in the world, we never know what we're going to come up against. It sure as hell won't be safe out -there-," he challenges, voice serious. "And neither of us can afford to delay. Whatever injuries we do to ourselves today, we can make up for tonight."

"I think that it is the voices from the sword," Seldan explains seriously, still breathing deeply with the exertion and examining the small hole in his shirt through which the strawberry is visible. It isn't serious, certainly not like the welts that Malik sports. "They had a great many things to teach, and not just about swordplay. Stand back, and I will show you what I mean. This much, I can remember, although I cannot say how I came by the knowledge." He turns away from Malik, looking out across the festival grounds until he finds an area that is simply open for many paces, and draws a complex set of sigils in the air before him. The sigils seem to hang there, crackling with energy, until he raises a hand and shouts an arcane phrase. The energy in the sigils coalesces and vanishes, and a bolt of blue-white lightning shoots from his hand to dissipate harmlessly several dozen paces away, in the dirt.

Malik watches as the man draws those sigils in the air, puzzling the pieces together. He manages to do so just in time to turn his head away from the ionizing flash, the crack of electricity ripping through the air causing him to jump a bit. "I haven't seen a spell like that cast in --" He trails off, considering. "It seems that your voices know things that the modern mages don't." He points in the air, where those sigils still hang faintly, like a line of lightning in the eye after the flash. "This is a way to stabilize the bolt and ensure that it strikes true. It was abandoned long ago as being too difficult to master."

"But it isn't," Seldan protests, confused, staring at the sigils as they linger for that brief moment before dissipating entirely, and finally nodding satisfaction. His expression says very clearly that he hadn't known that, but he seems to understand. "It is as I said, Malik. I do not know all that I know. Still, perhaps you are right, and we should continue. I should find out what else I don't know." He suddenly flashes a grin, and a chuckle. "The problem is more likely in my head than in my feet." He moves to pick up the discarded practice sword again.

Malik grins, turning to Seldan. "That's kind of what I mean," he tells the man, pointing at those sigils. "I would have a -great- deal of difficulty casting a spell like that. Moreso than most, I think. And you did it as effortlessly as breathing." He seems genuinely excited by this discovery, reaching out to (carefully) place his hands on Seldan's shoulders. "And your sword form is impeccable. We -definitely- need to find out what else has changed." He moves to pick up his own practice sword, looking pensive, but eager.

Rubbing at his temple with his free hand, Seldan nonetheless moves back into his own ready position, peeling the sweat-soaked shirt away from his arms. "No steel until we know more, though, I think," he remarks as he raises the blade. "Begin."

Malik raises the sword, but then takes a quick step back, pulling a piece of the leather from last night from his pocket. He speaks a few words, fingers working intricately over the hide, and his skin takes on a cracked, leathery appearance for a moment before returning to normal. He gives Seldan one of those mischievious grins, raising the sword again. "Do your worst, then."

Seldan takes two deep breaths, then comes at Malik again, this time with a well-disguised cross-slash that appears to take him by surprise. Once again, he is caught off guard, and the second strike that follows is wild and uncontrolled as he regains his footing. "Focus, Seldan," he tells himself annoyedly. "Do not worry if your muscles know it better than your head."

Malik uses that lapse in footing to his advantage, even if he shouldn't. He strikes out at Seldan's bicep with the edge of the blade, probably leaving a nice mark there, then spins around, using the flat of the blade to slap him firmly on the ass as he starts to lose control, shaking his head. "Quit being afraid," he tells the man. "Yes, it's new. No, we don't know what will happen. But that's the point. I'll be fine. So will you."

Wincing at the bicep strike, Seldan shakes his head and tries again, this time more conventionally. He still seems to be overthinking it, though, and while his strikes are true, one across the shoulder and the second at the calf in a split-level attack, they simply skitter off of his target, not being well-placed enough to sink through.

Malik has been practicing, it would seem. His moves are bolder, more precise. Less unsure of himself when it comes to being in close distances. This time, he returns the favor, spinning low to catch Seldan right along the line of his hips before springing back to his feet, flourishing the sword in a defensive posture high by his shoulder.

By contrast, Seldan is slowing down, his own form becoming sloppier, his movements slowing. He twists to avoid the strike at his hips, but not enough, and as with Malik, it cracks him firmly across the hipbone. He draws back, clearly feeling the effects of the multiple hits, and assumes another guard position. It's a sloppy one, to be sure, but a guard position it is -

But when he strikes, this time without resetting or trying to think, something shifts, and the next blow at Malik's ribs, a well-disguised feint delivered with full power, is anything but sloppy.

Malik manages to bring his sword up just in time to get between Seldan's practice sword and a few broken ribs that would have followed, most likely. But Seldan is clearly the stronger of the two, and Malik can't hold him back entirely. His sword gets pushed out of the way, Malik falling to one knee as he tries to avoid the worst of it, but the wooden blade slides along, striking him squarely in the face and sending him reeling backwards onto his stomach, an audible 'crunch' heard as it hits.

Malik pushes himself up, leaning back against the tree, nose a mess of blood. Or, what -should- be blood. Instead, a thick, black substance like the darkest oil flows over his face, eyes watering a little as he touches his nose gingerly. "That," he pants, though his voice sounds funny, "was much better." It's clear that he can't see the actual change from the watering of his eyes, though, looking at what is probably a general blur of Seldan.

Immediately at the crunch, Seldan's practice blade hits the dirt, and the paladin is on his knees next to his friend, wincing as he does. "Stay down, and hold still." That's the tone of the healer, all else forgotten, and there's a touch of dismay in it. Callused fingers wipe across Malik's face, and then the other callused hand covers eyes and nose, the Myrrish voice murmuring a meditative paean to Eluna's grace and glory.

The wizard has felt Seldan's healing before, but it, too, is stronger than before, and the bones of nose and face reform and heal themselves without difficulty. "Don't move, but open your eyes," he instructs as he removes the healing hand, very quietly, something not meant to be heard beyond the two of them. If Malik does, he'll be able to see the viscous, black blood coating the paladin's fingers.

Malik blinks away the lingering tears, squeezing his eyes open and closed to push the water out. But as he finally comes back into focus, the tingling from the healing magic leaving goosebumps on his skin, he looks at Seldan's fingers, an expression of alarm coming over him. "You're hurt," he says, grabbing Seldan's hand and looking for the wound, not seeming to realize that it's his own blood he's looking at. "Daeus' balls, it didn't leave you untouched anywhere, did it?"

"No, Malik. It is yours." There's not a mark on Seldan, and he speaks low, and quickly, without bothering to pull his hand from Malik's. "The Sunlord's cleansing was not without price. Stay down, and I will clean it. I would not draw attention to us." All is now forgotten, it seems, although his words are more heavily accented than usual. A quick cantrip that Malik is no doubt intimately familiar with, and about which there is nothing unexpected or unusual, and the black stuff vanishes. There may be a bit more cleaning to do.

Malik's eyes widen even more when he hears that the blood is his own, eyes darting around to look for passersby, on instict. But finding none, he trusts Seldan to do whatever is necessary, leaning back against the tree. He's quiet a moment, letting the man work, considering this new revelation. But when he speaks, even with a shaky voice, that smile comes back, a bit of light in his eyes. "Well," he starts. "There's a brightside." His eyes catch Seldan's, reaching out to put a hand on the man's shoulder. "At least neither of us have to do this alone."

"No. We do not have to do this alone." Seldan covers the hand on his shoulder with his own, though he still has the paladin/healer tone going. A second quick spell with the free hand seems to complete the job. "There. That should do it. Can you move?" He releases Malik's hand, and a quick look will find that he's cleaned it up as if it never was. He goes to stand himself, but groans, and quickly places a hand on himself, a move that is quicker still than what he did for Malik. A brief silver-white glow, the second attempt at standing goes better, and if Malik is still down, he'll offer him a hand to his feet. "Enough for today."

Malik nods, letting Seldan help him to his feet. He watches as the man moves, frowning a bit, though there's enough fear for both of them in his eyes. "I agree," he tells the man. "Enough for today." He gathers up the swords, taking Seldan's cloak so he can't put it back on, lest he die of heat and dehydration, at this point. "I think..." he starts, cautiously, "that we should go home." He looks up to the other man. "The magic won't last forever," he notes, pointing to Seldan's skin. "And after today, I think that a hot meal and a hotter bath would be best for both of us. We'll need to begin again tomorrow. Perhaps someplace a bit more private." He's at least practical about it.

This time, it is Seldan who is without fear, although his smile fades at the mention of the spell expiring. "The cloak will not harm me, Malik. I had not told you that She grants me Her spells as well, now. Enough, at least, to shield me from heat and cold. But you are right, we should go for a while." He doesn't actively try to take back the cloak, though, as he starts toward the exit to the grounds.