Two duelists stand apart on a sandy arena floor, awaiting the ready signal. The audience, normally murmuring with commentary, speculation, or exultation at the feats displayed so far, is dead silent.
Mercuria’s blood thrums through her veins, thumping at the sides of her skull. Prince Frank is an audacious, provocative, spastic freak who seems a different person each time they speak, and it seems that he is under the impression that she has fallen into his trap.
Though perhaps her ego should be raging against the implication that she is unadaptable, retching in disgust at the idea she shall be defeated by the rules, or lamenting that a moment like this should have to occur within the dueling format at all, Mercuria’s mind is like iron, the self-doubt of earlier forgotten.
Every particle of her being vibrates with excitement. Prince Frank will be going all out. This is what she lives for.
He better not disappoint.
“Duelists ready? … GO!” shouts someone who isn’t important right now.
Mercuria lopes forwards, her Vim and her will one and the same. She is a being of pure energy, malice, and violence, her bootsteps sending plumes of displaced sand in her wake as she advances towards Frank.
One may consider it prudent, if she is so intent on seeing Frank without limits, to give him a moment to breathe, but she cannot abide such frivolities. True strength, like hers, is available at a moment’s notice, ready to burst forth as readily during times of great opportunity as it is during times of great stress. She is an apex predator, and she hopes to contend with another apex predator - such a being needs no special allowances for preparation or reprieve.
Three Franks emerge from the Prince’s starting place, wielding three of his four primary swords. Mercuria marvels that Frank can produce such accurate illusions in the mere moments she gives him. A good sign.
Recognizing them as a legitimate threat this time, Mercuria addresses them head on. She dips below the beginnings of a strike from the middle Frank and slashes at his midsection with her misshapen saber. His body dissolves into colored smoke and motes of Vim as the illusion unravels. Strangely, one of the other Franks takes a step back, rather than pressing the attack, while the other slashes at her from the side. She twists her blade and blocks a real shortsword. She is surprised at the resistance, but her movement is strong enough to wrench it out of his hands anyway and send it flying, dissolving the illusion and ectoplasm around it in the process. She turns to backtracking Frank.
"You know, you aren't supposed to maim or kill. What if that first one had been me? You should really be more careful..." speaks probably-fake-Frank, chuckling.
"So that's your game, huh?"
Mercuria would rather not linger in one spot for too long for fear of being blindsided by an invisible strike, so she darts forwards, feinting with her saber but pulling it back to take another step forwards, opposite Frank's parry, to sink a gauntleted fist into his gut. It's a fake, dissolving without dropping a real sword. Mercuria keeps her Deonid Eyes peeled and empowered as she continues moving, erratically loping around in a zig-zag, changing her trajectory seemingly on a whim.
"You think that I'll have to hold myself back too much to avoid potentially maiming you, so you'll be able to get a hit in somewhere? I'll be honest, you're a decent magician, but your competency with Vim clearly doesn't affect your swordsmanship. You're passable, I assume you were classically trained. But I think I probably started being able to incapacitate three swordsmen of your grade without killing them when I turned 12, or maybe 6."
Chuckling emanates from everywhere and nowhere, a minor new trick in Frank's known arsenal. When he speaks, it sounds like he's speaking directly into both of her ears at once.
"You're probably right about that. But when I told you I don't have any limits, that wasn't a lie."
As the everpresent Frank voice speaks, more Frank doppelgangers appear. They do not appear from one place, like the initial three that spouted from the real Frank's body before he presumably went invisible, but instead materialize in a rough circle around her, with more appearing moment to moment as she moves. These Franks immediately begin sprinting after her the moment they finish fading into existence, and soon Mercuria has almost a dozen royal doppelgangers on her tail. She's far faster than them, able to clear distances in a single breath that would take them multiple seconds to run, but already Mercuria is feeling increased pressure.
Even if these Franks could never catch her, they can hem her in, and make the act of invisibly sneaking up to her and stabbing her in the back all the easier. These ones are even leaving footprints, too. How long can Frank possibly maintain this many illusions? Clearly, he is a prodigy at Vimworks, at least of the external sort, but this sort of mass minion conjuration seems like it would have an obscene Vim draw, or simply not last that long.
Mercuria isn't a technical expert on External Vimworks like Christopher or Frank. She primarily performs internal Vimworks, guiding Vim through her advanced and well-practiced Yield Circuits or, in rare scenarios, manipulating it freeform within herself. But she understands the theory of External Vimworks enough to know that a practitioner must either continually supply a lingering external construct with Vim from themselves or simply supply it with a large enough initial reserve to function for some time.
Given Frank can clearly manipulate his illusions with some impressive precision long after he has conjured them, she feels safe in assuming they are being continually fed Vim through a spiritual tether to Frank himself. If only she could see Vim itself like Christopher with his visor, she could track him that way, or simply perceive him through the mass of Vim within him that would shine like a beacon regardless of invisibility to simple sight.
That isn't something she can do, though, so instead she forms an idea to disrupt the illusions in another way that also satisfies the parameters of the duel.
Mercuria pivots on the spot, loping back towards the gaggle of maybe Franks. Halfway there, she extends her free hand down to the floor, forming a scoop to accumulate a handful of sand and an old broken tooth. Arresting her momentum into a spin with the Franks less than a dozen feet away, she whips the particulate mass at the group.
A dozen Franks suddenly sport a dozen wispy holes, as even the small projectiles propelled at the speed Mercuria can bestow upon them are potent enough to disrupt the thin veils of light and ectoplasm that constitute the illusions. Some of them unravel outright, unable to reconstitute even a fist-sized disruption, but others falter in place for only a moment before their forms are restored.
If Frank were to be among them, Mercuria doesn't think that would constitute a clean hit, but it also wouldn't be an attempted maiming. She begins to backtrack, considering a small victory gained. She's now reasonably sure that Frank is not one of the visible ones before her now, but more importantly, he had to expend Vim to repair the doppelgangers she damaged and will have to expend more to replace the ones she destroyed.
Frank has an impressive ability to maintain multiple illusions at a time, but Mercuria can fight at full tilt for hours if necessary with the depth and potency of her Vim Pool. Her spiritual well far exceeds the bounds of her physical form, and she doubts that someone like Frank - without her heritage, with so much of his life devoted to scheming and politics - could ever hope to match the endlessness of her energy. The Mizsers are a lineage of fairly adept Vimic practitioners when they care to devote themselves to it, but the Deonids terrorized the mountains of Reillynd for centuries before the nascent kingdom grew to a level of power and sophistication enough to bring them to heel.
So she repeats the process, firing blasts of sandy particulate at the regenerating mob of Frank copies that now gains a new member every several seconds, following her around the arena. Doppelgangers unravel after a dozen holes appear in their false bodies, doppelgangers reform after they are only grazed or struck too few times, and the process repeats again, with Mercuria dashing away to gain distance before dashing back to hurl more sand.
First she feels satisfaction at having found a strategy that satisfies the conditions of the duel, one that she feels will lead to her eventual victory. Then, she feels disgust, discontent, rage, at having to stoop to such a goofy, non-confrontational strategy against one she is sure she could blow away in a single straight on confrontation. Eventually, she feels unease, confusion, stress, as she realizes that it might just not be working as intended. Frank is spawning *more* illusions around her, not less, and they appear closer to her each time, raising weapons that usually turn out to be illusory.
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Mercuria transitions from strafing and kiting to dodging and counterattacking, twisting and turning in the unnatural ways she can only manage by way of her superhuman enhanced physiology and training to avoid sword strikes and knife throws and dagger slashes before dispersing the attackers with sufficiently held-back punches and kicks.
It is tedious. It is excruciating. It is embarrassing. It is, somehow, nothing of what she wants out of a duel from someone as skilled as Prince Frank, and she loathes him for it.
Dozens of Franks sprint at her from each side, forcing her to leap over them to escape, or stomp the sand at them as she sprints forwards in an attempt to break through. She strikes Frank 100 times without ever making contact with a physical thing, though she occasionally finds herself clashing with real, physical weapons. She worries that Christopher will have a hard time detecting a clean hit in all this miss, if she ever manages to land one.
She is going to lose if she does not change something. She needs to flip the tables. She wants to rage, to scream, to question the torturous Prince, but she refuses to give him that satisfaction. Eventually, he grows tired of waiting for her to speak up, and talks anyway.
It is the peculiar reaction of the crowd that begins to clue her in. Mercuria would expect them to rumble with raucous cheers and whoops as she pirhouettes and cleaves through Frank doppelgangers, but they seem bewildered, disturbed.
Perhaps they're as disgusted with this strategy as I am.
Mercuria begins digging deeper. She is incredibly efficient at Internal Vimworks, but she is not clueless at performing basic spells, or creating new effects un-Circuited within herself. She guides a surge of Vim from her spiritual well to her skin, carefully avoiding feeding it to her robust and over-developed Yield Circuits. As she weaves between sword strikes from three angles, Vim begins pooling in her left palm, swirling and churning as it submits to her iron will. Simple geometric shapes and layering complete the Vimwork in only a few moments.
Mercuria parries another sword - this one is real, and she exerts a little extra strength to damage it as much as she can before it flies off to inevitably be picked up by another of the doppelgangers that have pseudo-limbs that can truly grasp. Her left hand thrusts up and to her side, fingers splayed, and her Vimworks execute as a concussive blast that eradicates every Frank within almost a dozen yards of her, either directly or through sand as shrapnel. At the cost of a little more Vim, she has bought herself a bit of time.
Yet, strangely, the audience still murmurs in confusion. There are even jeers. Mercuria has no illusions about being a likable person, but she knows that her ability is legendary amongst the rank-and-file Staves. They should be roaring in approval and excitement, to see her combat an endless flood of perfect illusory clones.
She takes the moment she has bought herself to sheath her saber so that she may use both of her hands to cast these concussive blasts, and prepares two more. Unless Frank has some sort of defensive technique he can use while invisible, he isn't durable enough to approach her unscathed in the face of these blasts without suffering a 'clean hit'. The sandy nature of the arena means that the effective range for dispelling illusions is amplified, as well. She still has to watch out for thrown knives, and it takes more Vim to perform these spells than it does to perform several superhuman maneuvers. If Frank actually somehow has the Vim Pool to maintain this battle for hours, that could become a problem.
Prince Franks are conjured within several steps of her as other surviving illusions surge forwards, and Mercuria backsteps to blow them all away with her Vimic blast. Still, the audience seems confused, dissatisfied. Mercuria has never cared for the opinions of the masses, but something is fundamentally wrong with this picture, to her.
The Yield Circuits of her Deonid Eyes strain at the amount of Vim being pushed through them. Time, already at a crawl for most of this duel, slows to a near halt.
*What could they possibly be seeing that I am not?*
Then, it hits her - but if she's right about this, she might only have one shot. She has to stack the odds in her favor. She prepares a blast to replace her recently expended one as she raises her spell-sheathed right hand towards the nearest cluster of Franks, sprinting at her in slow motion.
KRAKK! KRAKK!
Two swathes of illusory Franks are eliminated. Mercuria resets her hands, guiding fresh Vim towards her palms, forming a different spell, more sophisticated, and not something she's too familiar with, but within her abilities to improvise.
"I ju-st ca-n't fi-gu-re it o-ut. Ho-w in di-vin-ity's na-me ar-e yo-u mai-nta-ini-ng so ma-ny con-stru-cts at a ti-me?" she asks the air. When time is this slow, speaking is tedious. Listening to the Prince's response is excruciating.
"Ho-w gra-tify-ing it is, to ha-ve foo-led the gre-at re-neg-ade Deo-ni-d St-ave, Me-rcu-ria the se-co-nd. I sup-pose, sin-ce th-is du-el is re-aching its cres-cendo any-way, I'll gi-ve y-ou a hi-"
And then her Vimworks are solidified. Even amongst Deonid, her affinity for timing and intuition are great. Still, she's operating on a hunch. She really doesn't want to lose to this freak. The time has come to gamble it all, though, and that is where the exhilaration that should come from a situation like this returns.
Mercuria unspools the Vim wound up in her Deonid Eyes' Yield Circuits. Suddenly, her vision is normal, merely at the exceptional levels of human, and time resumes its normal pace. She is surrounded by doppelgangers, sprinting her down at the speed of full grown adventuring princes, which is now quite fast.
But her suspicion is correct. Without her Deonid Eyes, these doppelgangers aren't what they used to be. Perfectly simulated fabric and skin is replaced by vague panes of pale colored light. Eyes are represented by glowing motes. Blades - the fake ones - are 2 dimensional lengths of angular gray light. Each sprinting step is almost mechanical, with none of the natural springstep give of a real person's stride. Seen by a normal person, these illusions aren't very impressive at all. No wonder the crowd is confused that she could fall for such trivial conjurations...
But there is one Prince Frank that looks distinct - his ponytail has come undone at some point, and Mercuria can see the individual strands of hair that have frayed or split along his various travels without proper royal hair care. His colorful clothing is dusted with sand and abrasion, and nearly all of his scabbards and sheathes are empty. He has only his bent rapier in his sword hand. His face is red with exertion, and his chest rises and falls as he speaks, though he doesn't allow it to carry through in his words. He is surrounded in a vague shimmering, panes of Vim that slightly refract the light flowing around him. It is, somehow, no longer enough to conceal him.
"-nt. You see - Hey! AAA! I yi-"
Mercuria makes eye contact with the man for only a quarter of a heartbeat before Vim travels from her well to her heart to her lower abdomen and into her thighs, calves, and feet. In a great explosion of sand, she hurtles straight towards her target, who has time to take only half a step before her prepared Vimworks spells unravel into lengthy ectoplasmic tentacles enveloping each of her fists. Her arms are brought forwards in a sweeping arc that culminates at Frank, dispersing dozens of crude illusions on either side to reach him.
A handful of real weapons fly every which way as the ectoplasmic arms carrying them disperse and Mercuria's distended tentacles clap around Frank's torso. Mercuria digs her boots into the sand, arresting her momentum, maintaining the strength of her Vimwork tentacles with a constant exertion of will, and transforms her leap into a spinning takedown, whirling Frank around her twice before slamming him into the sandy floor.
A gasp struggles to escape his lips. Mercuria is there looming over him in a heartbeat, holding her suddenly unsheathed saber to his throat.
"-eld," he sputters.
"Hit, Mercuria! Three to two, Mercuria is the winner!" shouts somebody unimportant from the sidelines.
Mercuria keeps her blade to the throat of one of the only people in the world as she straightens up to find a particular member of the crowd.
Her free hand raises, index finger outstretched. She points, smirking evilly, at Ko Adrilius. His glowing white eyes meet hers, try to bore through them and into her soul - but they find it empty, with only death waiting for them there. Mercuria's teeth glisten with blood as she withdraws her weapon, leaning down to offer the Prince a hand.
Frank clasps her hand after a moment of wariness, and she helps him to his feet.
"Ahh, thank you. I, uh, ah... I suppose you truly are insurmountable, or my limits are a little more real than I imagined. I hope you found that duel satisfied your immediate need to kill my companion."
Mercuria considers it. "You know what? I wasn't a fan of your rules lawyering, but I cannot deny that you have a real talent for your lurking skullduggery. I enjoyed myself. Consider my blood debt with Ko Adrilius postponed."
"Ouch, aha. You uh, you aren't going to rope me into that blood debt, when you come to collect, are you?"
"Because you fight like a coward? Don't worry about it. Unless you plan to stand in my way again."
"That's good. How did you figure it out?"
"I still haven't figured it out. But I looked at the crowd and they were confused, like they couldn't understand how I was possibly being fooled, and only one thing differentiates my senses from theirs. You exploited my Deonid Eyes, somehow," Mercuria says.
"Something like that, yes."
"You aren't going to tell me?"
"..." Frank stares at her, but says nothing.
"Fine, keep your secrets. Never mind that you were about to give me a hint during the duel," she says, turning to leave.
"Well, the hint was going to be a riddle, anyway. It was-"
"Save it, or tell Christopher. I hate riddles."
Mercuria strolls off of the arena floor, shooting a glance at Christopher. His look says that he thinks her final flourish was a bit excessive, holding a blade to a Prince's throat isn't a good look. But he understands. He'll talk to her later.
Mercuria figures she has a few hours to kill, so she heads towards her exclusive exercise chambers. Christopher supplied her with training golems of his own design, extremely dangerous sparring partners that serve as her only source of regular entertainment in this normally droll place. She thinks she'll try fighting them without using her Deonid Eyes, today. Who knows when that need will arise again?