Lucius Guiscareaux: the ship Goldbow was a strange thing. A Galleon of the Maelstorm fleet, the crew and captain of the blessed ship were currently not on board, content to celebrate the stormy night in the Upper Docks, and trusting enough of their potential new business parter to grant him un-adbidded access to the vessel and all of her faculties. It was nearing midnight, the abyssal blackness occasionally brightened by blue flashes of lightning on the horizon. Rain poured down heavily, muffling the heavy bootfalls of the warrior sent to inspect her seaworthiness. Amidst the night, the hull of the ship was barely visible, a feature advertised as enchantment by some far away beast tribe, but far more likely to be the work of a very dedicated and peculiar artist.

Rageant Lacordaire trudged onboard the vessel, the rain rolling down his breastplate and pauldrons in countless tiny rivulets and his ears glistening with water drops caught in between tufts of fur. Rageant certainly wasn't a sailor, much less a shipwright, but gil was gil and so the saying went: any port in a storm. He examined the various cabins, banging his axe's haft against the wooden walls as if it would assist his appraisal. Eventually he was brought back into the rain above deck.

Lucius Guiscareaux: in the hallways of that massive ship, very obviously a vessel of war due to its various reinforcements and heavy repairwork, the rain sounded as if the calamity was upon the man as he slowly inspected each of the cabins. Weapons were strewn across the cabins, high quality weapons; spears, axes, swords and rifles. The ship was far above par, a high quality war machine more then perfect for the journey to Othard. As the man arrived above deck, cannons mended and presented in parade fashion; the work of a professional crew of navymen. As the rained to pour, as Rageant would turn his head forward to the bow, a soilitary figure stood. A man, an elezen seemingly due to his height and gait, wearing the black and gold of Garlemald's eastern legions, stands facing outward to the sea, his face obscured by the mask.

Rageant Lacordaire made himself known to the stranger immediately. "Identify yourself," he commanded through the rain between claps of thunder. He held his axe tightly in his two hands, more out of habit than concern.

Lucius Guiscareaux - The man did not turn to face his interrogator, remaining at parade stance, back towards the Miqote. He rested a hand on the grip of an ornate Doman Katana, folded over ten thousand times(sorry), as he gave a light chuckle. Between peals of thunder, it was evident he was more heavily armored then the normal Imperial, a strange mix of the traditional doman uniform combined with Plate Steel, of the same colors, gold and black. His face remained obscure as he spoke, shaking his head: "Do you approach all strangers with such hostility Ser?" The voice came slow and practiced, the imperial accent forced, hollow.

Rageant Lacordaire: "Strangers, no, but thou art a trespasser by my reckoning." Rageant drew closer, tilting his head with an inquisitive expression, though no less wary. "Thou callest me Ser. Thou knowest me?"

Lucius Guiscareaux: "You wear expensive plate, and you carry yourself with the proper posture and speech patterns of Eorzean Nobility. I perhaps presume, aye."

Rageant Lacordaire: Rageant, seemingly made wary of his posture by the words, straightened somewhat. His tail swayed behind him, tensed and catching the rain the rolled from his cloak down his back. "Thou art presumptuous indeed. Identify thyself."

Lucius Guiscareaux: "Names, I've found. Can be quite tiring..they change like the tides; men and women will forgo their birthnames, even their family names, in pursuit of some ideal of overcoming their past. Its all quite silly, really. Like the beastmen and their Eikons.."

Lucius Guiscareaux: "You know nothing of a man by his name.."

Rageant Lacordaire: Rageant's nose wrinkled at those words, which apparently hit close to home, but he retorted immediately. "I requested of thee no name; I said identify thyself; but my interest rapidly wanes. Mayhaps shall I cast thee into the sea, and you may find the waves more amenable to your method of conversation."

Lucius Guiscareaux: The man chuckled heartedly, the accent thin as waxpaper in those moments. The hand rested on the pommel drew the blade out, a half ilm at most. The polished steel visible in the tendrils of lightning darting the sky. "Tell me, what of Ishgard remains?"

Rageant Lacordaire: "Ishgard stands strong and proud among the Eorzean Alliance."

Lucius Guiscareaux: "I was afraid you would say that, Master Jiube." The blade was drawn fully, the man had remained with his back turned.

Rageant Lacordaire: "He who draweth steel against me has but one destiny. Art thou truly ready to die?"

Lucius Guiscareaux: "I've been waiting for you to start us off this entire time."

Rageant Lacordaire: "Very well; if thou art so eager to die, I shall oblige thee." A nearby thunderclap was the starting gun for Rageant's charge, his footsteps smashing loudly against the wooden deck at alarming speed. His axe was raised over his right shoulder and when he drew near, he stopped and brought the axe down in a vicious vertical slice that would sever either wood or sinew, whichever his foe's skill ordained.

The masked man turns and pivots, and with what appeared, supernatural skiill, dodges the first strike, wood splintering into dozens of airborn pieces, as the masked individual pivots, attempting to use the momentum of his spin to bring the blade into Rageant's left side.

Rageant Lacordaire: Rageant's axe claimed a chunk of the deck, but no foe; his single eye followed the swordsman's movements, fortunate that his foe chose his left side to advance upon; the side which Rageant had better vision for. He raised his axe just in time to catch their blade against its haft, sparks reflecting yellow light upon the foe's mask and Rageant's metallic eyepatch. He forced the weight of the axe head forward to create berth for himself and perhaps throw his foe off balance, a guarded horizontal swipe of his formidable weapon.

Lucius Guiscareaux: The man smirked under his mask at the speed of his foe's deflection, the sparks continue as the man leans his weight into his own stuck weapon, attempting to overpower Rag, which obviously, fails. The man is thrown off balance, and the axe cuts into his flesh, but no blood pours forth. The wound is plainly evident, but no lifeblood flows from the wound, as if it had been there all along. "I was sloppy, I'll admit." The man said, shaking his own head, the imperial accent was no longer present in "cadence."

Rageant Lacordaire felt his axe find purchase in his foe's flesh, and yet upon viewing his handiwork he became acutely aware that the rain carried no red from the foe's gash onto the deck of the ship. His eye hastily flitted from wound to the foe's veiled face; though it flickered rapidly between their feet and blade hand, watching for movement or aggression. "What art thou," he hissed, the interrogative more a statement of wonder than a true inquiry.

The masked man shook his head, both hands finding purchase on the long hilt of the Katana, thunder and lightning exploded in the distance, reflecting gleaming lights off the armor of Rageant and the blade of his wounded assailant. The man took a defensive stance and waited. "We're not done."

Rageant Lacordaire: "So we aren't." Rageant offered his foe no time to process those words; wood buckled beneath his feet as he lunged into the air several fulms and brought his axe down in a diagonal slice upon landing. His tail straightened for balance and his attack was quick and brutal, he only hoped his foe's speed, which was more than adequate to evade, was hindered by their newly acquired wound... though it seemed to hinder them little.

The masked man was seemingly unhindered by the wound so horribly inflicted upon his pale skin, near snow white, but with his life. The man did not bother moving until the very last moment, dodging towards his foes right; the blade was brought near the eyepatch, but stopped, withdrawn and focused at the man's chest plate, attempting to aim for center mass. The proud hull of the ship crracking under the immense weight. "Much too brutish of a weapon for you, my friend. You are more elegant then a commoner's war axe."

Rageant Lacordaire was overwhelmed by his foe's speed, losing sight of him as he exploited Rageant's blind spot; a cunning foe, and one he would not underestimate again. The blade dented his breastplate in drawing an exhaled gasp of pain from Rageant, and cut his torso beneath the protective range of the plate drawing his own red blood in a fast stream mixed with unrelenting rainfall. He drew back defensively, a mixture of fear and determination burning in his eye. "I'll show you brutish," he roared while charging once more to meet his foe with a more elegant strike; he thrust his axe with a loosened grip, the metallic haft sliding loudly against his armored palms until he seized it once more, holding it longwise and swinging horizontally at his foe; if he were so fast, Rageant would deny him space in which to maneuver. Such was his mindset, clouded by welling rage as his Beast began clawing its way from the fringes to the heart of his Soul, thrumming deep within him.

The masked man pivoted on his foot, a dervish of the blade sending the man's blood flying from its length,  he attempted to roll under the horizontal swing, but miscalculated,  the axe hitting the masked man straight in the eye socket of his standard issue helmet, the metal cracking under the immense strength of the blow. The man howled, seemingly in pain, as he pulled himself back, nearly jumping two fulms back with the grace of a wyrmslayer. "GOOD!! The true fury of Halone runs through you, Ser!" - ethe man offered a laugh as he returned to a defensive stance, open chest wound and all, a single eye of ice blue matching the man's gaze. "A son of Ishgard."

Rageant Lacordaire widened his eye, recognizing the foe he faced; not their identity, but their nature. He'd seen this before, seemingly lifetimes ago, and if he knew one thing it was that such a foe did not die easily... but it did die. A ringing in his large, water-laden ears drowned out most of what his foe had to say and when there was space between them, Rageant placed his armorclad hand against his wound then angled the palm upward, watching the rain wash the red from his gauntlet's palm. His eye returned to his foe, filled with trembling hatred. Aether emanated from his form, parting the rain and lifting chipped wood off the ground around his feet. His pain was turning to anger. His axe was still gripped in one hand when he leapt into the air once more, loosing a bellowing roar and bringing his axe down at its full length toward his foe; a frenzied attack brought to bear by his tremendous strength.

The masked man grinned widely under his helmet, the excitement of true battle finally arriving. The man crouched down, aetherfire flying from his tips, soon engulfing the entire blade in blue flame, the demon howled, jumping to meet Rageant in the air, wind aether focused below his feet. He released a roar of his own, a century of violence pinpointed to a single moment in time. Both hands on the blade, he sliced upwards, hoping to meet Ragizi before his axe found purchase.

Rageant's fury was a boon to his speed in equal measure to his strength. As his foe sliced upward, he sliced downward; his free hand seized the base of his weapon's shaft midair and brought it down in a terrifying arc. The mutual aether clashed and coalesced at this point, an explosion of pressure blowing the rainfall and coinciding with a clap of thunder. As lightning crashed from the heavens to the earth, so too did Rageant's blade clash with the masked man's, forcing it down into the wooden hull and causing it to buckle loudly; metal wavering and breaking under the mythril edge of his axe and a shower of sparks surging forth. Rageant pinned the blade there, a scowling eye set upon the foe's own blue, searching their emotions for any clue as to what they were or if they, too, could know fear.

The masked man looked upwards to his foe in free fall, his own blade seemingly still intact, despite its apparent brittle, thin design. Sparks illuminated the interior of the ships hull, as they fell, rain pouring in from the massive hole ripped into the hull of the Goldbow. The chuckle continued, if only for a moment, as the axe found purchase directly into the man's chest as they crashed to the bottom of the ship at last. There was silence. If only for a moment, the man, presumably still pinned under the heavy axe, began to speak, an Ishgardian accent flowing into his words. "Fury herself, when did you learn to do that?" the man stated, the katana dropped out of hand, as the individual surrendered to the massive hunk of mythril in his chest. "I am impressed."

Rageant pressed the axe just slightly against his foe, applying minor pressure to accompany his words. "It -is- you."