The Left Hand

[17:13] the soft clink of metal rang out as the vagrant wandered into Levengard once more. It had been a few years since he last set foot in this place, a brief stop in his quest for introspection and understanding.

Here he found the first of it. An idea. A path of mastery. Here he found the answer that he sought to his dilemma and with it, he went to seek true understanding.

His haggard and gaunt features held a neutral expression as he looked upon a familiar face. He looked for clues, signs of the passage of time. Did she age? Did her features grow weary with time like his did? Or did she get to maintain such youthful beauty, never knowing the woes of time's ravages?

"Reckon it has been a while. Came back to thank you, I suppose."

Frayed clothes hid his withering body, his hand still clutching the hilt of his blade as always. Knuckles white with a tight clench but the tremble of his hands was absent this time. His very stance defensive as he addressed the demiangel, watching her carefully.
(John)
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[17:17] Lea didn't look much different. Despite everything, Lea was still Lea. There were minor indicators of aging since they last met, sure, but they were so subtle that it'd be easy to mistake her as not having aged at all. She didn't let all the hurt get the better of her, at least in ways that were plainly visible.

"Hey John."

She never forgot faces, either, as long as the person actually kept the face they had. She remembered giving him some advice that may have been questionable, but she noticed he wasn't dead, and chalked it up as a success.

"Thank me for what?"
(Lea Elisheva)
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[17:22] John's visage was still as haunted as ever. He looked no better than before, just not dead. If anything, he seemed like he hadn't slept in weeks. He was merely a vagrant with a sword at this point.

Thank me for what?

"Your advice, I reckon. Said fear wasn't enough. You were right. Defensive in nature. Good to escape but the body freezes on the attack. Thought long and hard, gave it some idea of what I wanted. What I needed."

He sought other emotions. Something beyond hate. He even tried love but...

It mattered not in the end. It always came back to the same place. Dark wings in the shadows, that oppressive feeling upon his form. A slight twitch across his face as he gazed into a dark alley before looking back at her.

"I found understanding. Reason. Reckon it was always there, just waiting. Found that I will likely never master my fear. I can try to control it, I can try to tap into it but... Well, it ain't much for aggressive fighting. No... I came to a realization. I need to end my fear."

His blue eyes seemed almost pained as he stared at the demiangel before him, "I need to kill it. I need to kill my fear and everything associated with it. All I found within me was hate. Hatred unending. Fight better with it, I reckon.

Feels good to do better with it."
(John)
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[17:27] Now, Lea was innocent in many respects, perhaps even naïve. But she wasn't dumb. All the hope and faith in people in the world didn't prevent her from picking up obvious context clues, and given what he said during her last meeting... she took what he said seriously; as a threat. Her own movements weren't defensive, because she still wanted to assume the best, but...

Kill everything associated with it.

"Are you implying what I think you're implying?"

...That was a pretty clear indicator that it wasn't safe to be around him. Maybe she didn't give the best advice in the world, but ultimately, no matter what happened here, she still wanted him to find fulfillment. And if that meant hurting her, while she would fight back and try to stop him, the part in her that just wanted the best for everyone wasn't completely dissatisfied with the result.

The other parts of her, though, were.

"I really hope you're not..."
(Lea Elisheva)
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[17:34] John's focus was entirely on her. Everything he felt and could muster was locked upon the woman. His gaze looked over to try and find wings once more. She had shown them before, hadn't she? Weren't they white? Or were they closer to the color of the Shogun's and the Fallens'?

"I cannot sleep. I cannot close my eyes without seeing the fluttering of black wings. In the gloom of the forest, the odd movements are him. Every waking moment is one of fear and paranoia.

I am tired of being scared."

A step forward as his hand trembled for the faintest moment upon the hilt of his sword. The faint rattle of steel in his sheathe rang out, underscoring his words.

"But it isn't just the angels. It's their progeny. How many hold black wings? How many descend into dark arts unknown by mortal man? How many more will haunt my dreams?"

His expression was almost pained, pleading.It was as if he was looking for something, anything to reassure him. Something to convince him his fears were entirely irrational and false. That there were no Fallens to fear. That the demiangels could not reach such levels of depravity.

"I have to, Lea. Hate burns in my heart. Not just the angels and their misbegotten progeny but the occultists too. Those dark powers so casually wielded by the Fallen, in their hands? I have to do it. I will find my peace.

One way or another."
(John)
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[17:41] Lea didn't want to fight. She really, really didn't want to fight. She wasn't exactly a pacifist, but she certainly conducted herself like one. She was getting used to the idea, but every fiber of her being still despised fighting; she was merely willing to tolerate it, now.

"We don't have to do this, John. I'd much prefer if we didn't..."

Despite her pleading, a holywater aura enveloped her body, as she wasn't expecting him to listen to reason. She had to prepare herself for anything. And yet, perhaps in response to what he said, her pure white wings fluttered behind her, showing him that someone had yet to fall. Just the opposite; Lea was a friend to all living things, a wielder of holy magic, and perhaps the most angelic of all demi-angels.

"You don't have to be afraid of me. I won'thurt you, I promise. But..."

"...you aren't going to listen, are you?"
(Lea Elisheva)
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[17:50] John drew his sword, the hiss of metal against the leather following. A blackened blade was held to his side as he brought both hands to the hilt of his weapon. The slight tremble that followed was soon stymied by the resolve that came after. Resolve borne of hate.

Hate borne of fear.

He saw the wings. To anyone else, it would be a reassurance, something to assuage his fearful heart so he could apologize and leave. But John was in his own world of misery, his own fears having stained his perceptions entirely. He did not see a sign of pure standing.

He saw the potential of what may come.

"I must apologize, Lea. It isn't you. It... I can't take the chance. You might not have black wings but... I reckon the one I fought didn't at first either. I cannot take the chance. I... I need peace. I just want to rest."

Sorrowful eyes filled with tears watched her carefully as he brought his blade up in a defensive stance, his feet shifting as his entire body tensed up. Blue energy exploded from his body, forming and wrapping around his arms and blade. Extensions of self and will.

"I... I don't hate you. I hate what you are. I hate what you could become."

He hated he could not just sit and talk. He hated he viewed her only as a threat. There was no rhyme or reason to it. Just what coursed through her veins and his own personal traumas.
(John)
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[17:54] John was past the point of no return, and yet Lea still could not justify harming him. Lea was a natural at helping people, so in the face of someone who needed it, she couldn't even raise her staff, except out of self defense. She gazed at him with eyes of sympathy, but remained completely still, otherwise. She was not going to make the first move- it just simply wasn't who she was.

It was up to John to turn this into a fight, in which case, she'd respond in turn.
(Lea Elisheva)
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[17:59] John wanted her to strike first, to justify it to himself. His mind needed it. He needed to know that he was doing the right thing.

In the end, it didn't matter. That burning hatred in his heart flared with the energy, giving him absolute focus upon Lea. The rest of the world did not matter as he lunged forward at the woman. All that mattered was her, his hatred and the desire to stand triumphant. Perhaps even a small victory would bring a restful peace.

It mattered not as he slashed and let loose the waves of energy, establishing the area of where he could reach normally, and then seeking to extend it. The sole focus upon driving his blade into her chest carried him as he attacked.

His hatred was his weapon. His hatred of angels. His hatred of the occult. Most importantly, his hatred of himself.

And his weak heart.
(John)
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[18:08] There it was.

The familiar feeling.

The same beams of light that pierced through his skin. The same results as before. Nearly a decade had passed and the feeling was the same.

Overwhelming fear in the face of such oppressive power. He felt weak, pathetic upon the field. As if all his training and efforts were naught but dust in the wind. No matter how much he tried, it was as if his blows did naught to the woman.

He could only see red. That burning hatred, the choking fear. He did not feel his knees lock, nor did he feel hesitation. Only the desire to end that object of fear. To try harder, to fight better. He understood, he understood it all.

He hated her and her ilk, but most importantly? John could only feel such abject disgust and fury at his own weaknesses. At his own growing failure.

He wanted to cry out, to say something. All he could manage was a pained howl amid the flurry of starfalls and flooding water. His tears lost to the waves of holy water that poured over him.

All he could do was scream his fears. To howl like a madman at the source of his current frustrations. Once more did he attack, bringing the energy forth to do more. To try anything. To finally live, to win.
(John)
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[18:11] Defense. That's how Lea fought. That's how she always fought.

She never approached, opting to fight from afar. She never approached to attack, only when fighting back. She never fought with her right hand, only with her left.

The hand of mercy.

Perhaps she would be more powerful had she fought with her right, but even when her opponent threatened with lethal force, she could not bring herself to. At her core, Lea was a healer, not a fighter. But sometimes, fighting was the only way to heal.

A lesson which the Elishevan girl had yet to learn.
(Lea Elisheva)
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[18:13] ** Lea Elisheva has inflicted an injury upon John. ("Temporary Injury", "Temporary Injury", "Temporary", "Duration: Medium (4 days)") **
[18:18] Could this even be considered fighting, if all she did was retreat? Perhaps it could've, because despite her defensive fighting style she fought hard. And to be honest, John didn't stand a chance in the world. Swords were flung, cosmic mana descended from the heavens, and reality itself seemed to twist and turn, launching mana-less waves in his direction, the last of which slamming him into the wall.

Some things were unavoidable; despite Lea not wanting to hurt, John's ribcage was crushed from the result of that fight, causing Lea to drop any pretense of offense, pause, and...

"...do you need help with that?"

...offer to help, giving him a chance to escape thanks to her hesitation.

Even when someone wanted to kill her, Lea still wanted to do what it took to heal.
(Lea Elisheva)
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[18:25] Snap.

He felt that. He heard that. The unmistakable sound of bones breaking as a blast of pure force crushed him against a building. The sound of imminent loss. It wasn't just that she had powers of the holy and blood of the divine.

Crunch.

She had more. She held far more than he could grasp. Like gazing back across the gulf of power. Like a fledgling upon the field of battle against a true master. Pain wracked his body as fear gripped his mind once more. Grim dread enveloped his senses as he gagged and choked on the pain.

Still, he stood. Shakily, he stood. Blade limply by his side as he coughed up blood and spittle. Frothing at the mouth, all he could do was let the grasp of energy flicker out as he stumbled to the side. Panic was setting in as the hatred waned in favor of something sensible.

Survive.

He needed to flee. He needed to get away. Onlookers were coming, how could they not? Flashes of energy and the sound of clashing metal rang out into the night. It was a spectacle of him losing. Of a desperate man trying to prove something.

He could only run. Stumbling into the darkness as he fled, grasping at his crushed chest as he tried to breathe, tried to regain control of his senses and focus. Before such awesome power, he knew only fear.

And he understood. He understood everything once more. It was not enough, it never was. He needed more.
(John)
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