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Jareth's sword was held directly out from him, parallel to the ground. In his path, another man stood. This opponent wore a faded silk shirt, poorly stitched and with a few fist-sized holes at it's stomach. The plain, dirty blue jeans that he adorned and torn boots did not reflect the valor in the man's gray eyes, nor the quality of the short sword in his grip. His hair was a deep brown, and his face was smoothe and scarless. Both men looked to be about in their mid-thirties, and if so both were aging well. "Jareth..." the man said, tightening his grip on the blade. "...Jareth Black." "Yes?" Jareth's mouth twitched a little as he sopke, bringing his features into a menacing grin. A sharpened canine could be seen past his thin lips, elongated and larger than the other teeth. "I have my orders. You will pay a visit to Dimitri, alive or not." "Do your worst." Jareth said, his body rigid and stiff. The man lunged, swinging his sword with both hands at Jareth's neck, a clean swipe... through air. Jareth stepped back, hopped to the left of the man, and in a flash of blood both of his opponent's arms were gone at the elbows, the sword still in hand as it clattered to the floor. "When somebody tells you to do your worst, Harold, think twice. Try doing your best next time..." His sarcasm dripped from his words as Jareth circled Harold, who had fallen to his knees, shaking in fear and shock as he scrambled with bloody stumps, almost as though he was trying to re-attach his arms just by shoving them together. He could only imagine what it would feel to lose his arms, but he still had them, and for that he only felt more the victor. "But it looks like this is a lesson you will not have to learn twice." With that final word, Jareth raised his blade, and let it fall. Harold's valiant green eyes faded as he screamed for the last second of his life, forcing the hair on Jareth's arms stand on end.
Three days later. Jareth stepped up a large, stone staircase that spiraled up a blackened tower. A slight layer of rain dampened his clothing, a simple black dress shirt with the collar turned up and black slacks. Shining silver armor covered over his chest, waist, knees, elbows, hands and boots that was accented by a black cloak with blood red lining. The dampness of his long black hair stuck it to the back of his cloak and his face, creating somewhat of a frame for his lightning-blue eyes and scarred hawk-line complexion. One scar went vertical over his left eye, another crossing over it and over the bridge of his nose, and on each defined cheek there was a deep scar that nearly looked like single feline whiskers, if not for their scarred color. When Jareth reached the top of the tower, he felt weighed down by the rain, and was grateful to push the dual oak doors open and slamming against the walls. People in the chambers before him jumped, and a few had brandished steel, others bows or crossbows. Most of the others sat dumbfounded at their tables, each long and full of food and plates. The hall was silent as he stepped down the center, all eyes on him. "I was invited to see your master?" Jareth said, grinning wildly. "Where is Dimitri?" "My father will not see you this night, Jareth Black." In front of him, a large throne sat empty, but beside it stood a young man in an intricately sewn black tunic with gold stitching. The teen's face was stern but young, Jareth noted, and simply stared at him with that evil grin. "You must be Damion." Jareth said coldly. "Do not stand in my way, boy, or you will be cut down. I have business with your father about the flies he keeps letting buzz around me whilst I try to get on with my work. "Your work is evil and untrue to the holy word, Jareth, and we have warned you plenty that the time would come that god struck you down." "Big words for such a small boy, was it your father that first spoke them?" Before the young man could respond, a deeper, fainter voice broke through into their conversation. "Enough!" A man with graying hair stepped out from behind the tall throne, red spiked armor covering all but his face. His full helm he held in a gauntlet, a scarlet-bladed broadsword in the other. There must have been a passage of some sort behind the throne that intrigued Jareth, for but he had no time to think more than a moment. His eyes caught Dmitri's, Jareth smiled wider, and the man said simply: "Kill him." All happened at once, and Jareth was forced back as a surge of opponents suddenly charged, arrows and crossbow bolts flying between them. It was an effort to keep the men back as he drew his own sword, a four foot "b*****d Sword" with a deep black blade and silver batwing hilt, gems and crystals inlayed in it. Runes were scratched into the blade down the center, but the black color made it hard to discern. Jareth held it with one hand as he backed towards the door, the other arm limp and the hand flexing. He parried and sidestepped when necessary until his feet came to the entryway, and he chose to make his stand before his foes got the higher ground on the winding staircase. He had counted thirty armed men, not counting the five others with projectile weapons. A sloppy swing created an opening for Jareth, and he dove into the fray, stabbing and swinging in wide arcs. His own razor-sharp blade cleaved through others swords, shields, armor and flesh as though they were made of nothing more than parchment, and he soon had found himself stepping over a pile of bodies, fighting back to the door. Men fell at his whim, and even those who dropped their arms felt the cold rippling steel of Jareth's merciless onslaught. When he caught a glimpse of Damion's eyes, he made particular care to slice across them, but left him alive and groping in his blind terror. When the final footman was dead or close enough to it for all else to matter, the bowmen threw down their weapons and ran down behind the throne, taking whatever pathway was there. "Jareth Black, this is an outrage!" Dimitri yelled, his sharp, cold features strained. Jareth simply grabbed Damion, who was quieting down, and threw him to the ground. the boy hit the stone hard, yelping in pain as his jaw slammed hard against one of his fallen ally's armor. "Your son has been blinded." Jareth said with a scowl towards Damion. "I will spare him... if you swear this tower as mine own, and give me all that is of value inside of it." He lowered the blade to Damion's neck, the grin returning to his bloodsplattered face. Dimitri stood silent, sword in hand and greathelm covering his face, his eyes, and all emotion. When he reached up to flip open the visor, The man's eyes were bloodshot. "Do what you will... my tower, my valuables, and my service is to you... just let my son go free, please. He is all that is left of my family..." Jareth knelt down, grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck, and pushed him towards the door. "He is free to leave." Dmitri's eyes were all Jareth needed to see to show him that he realized Jareth's intent. As he closed his eyes and breathed slowly, he said, "I will not die with my hands open and my neck bowed..." Jareth had taken the time to charge forward silently, skipping over the corpses of Dmitri's men. His blade punched through the throat of Dimitri's armor in a black-and-red flash, and a crunching snap. As Jareth wrenched the black sword from Dimitri, he twisted hard.
Jareth Black · Sat Jun 10, 2006 @ 01:49pm · 3 Comments |
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