Atlantic Roleplay Community Boards

[Mikhaeil]

---

Mikhaeil leaned his chair back against the planked wall and stretched his legs beneath the table. A bottle of whiskey rested in his hand, its amber contents taunting in the candleglow. "By the gods," he sighed with earnest longing. "There has to be a way to . . . "

"Well if'n it ain' tha Do'tore his self!"

Mikhaeil glanced toward the gravelled accent's source to find a shadowed figure lurking near the stairs. Face hidden by dim light, he was able to discern little more than angled features and the sudden flash of a quickly drawn blade. A beatific smile instantly alighted upon his countenance as he reached for the swords sheathed at his waist. Neither this fool's name nor his inexplicable familiarity bore consequence. He'd prayed for opportune combat. Apparently Mars had been listening.

In a flurry of motion Mikhaeil sprang, his blades homing for the pirate's heart. The man leapt aside but not far enough. A rent appeared in his shirt, blood staining the tear before he could recoil. A warning crowded into his brain as Mikhaeil advanced, exuding power and confidence, dominating the match, his blows sharper, harder, increasingly difficult to parry or evade. He grunted, realizing too late that the gladiator was a more dangerous opponent than he'd anticipated, making no unnecessary moves - intent on one thing only: his adversary's death.

The pirate hurriedly gathered his wits, attacking with charging fury. Rising from a crouch, Mikhaeil spun to allow the force of the man's rush to slide past him. Before he could catch himself the merciless steel of Mikhaeil's blade ripped through his belly, sinking deep. It was immediately withdrawn so that the man plunged downward, his weapon falling from feebled fingers as his dying carcass splayed onto the straw-strewn floorboards.

A few agile steps and Mikhaeil was standing over his unidentified foe. "Some dreams are less accessible than others," he chuckled before heading out the door.