There were those who knew magick–the physical, reality bending powers granted to mortals by the conduits known as ‘glyphs’--and then a rarer few who knew the older ways. For most people, magick was a part of everyday life; a tool (or weapon) to be used to enhance the drudgery of existence, provide security, or get what one wanted. But there were worlds, realities, planes of existence, and states of building that existed beyond the everyday veil, and, if one knew where to tug on a loose thread or two, that shroud could be lifted and entire new dimensions revealed.
For spellbreakers, magick was decidedly a weapon and a strength. They were athletes and entertainers, after all, gladiators and rock-stars all-in-one. Few spellbreakers tested the limits of their powers, or showed any interest in the magical arts of philosophies.
But there was a damn good reason that Joseph Haw, The White Tiger, was champion of the Global Spellbreaking Alliance. His early days had been stepped in folklore and the ‘old arts’. It was something he spoke about seldomly, though concerning ‘Deadboy’ Daemian, his dark beloved, it was the one thing that connected the two men. For all of Daemian’s…deranged proclivities and manic mood swings, knowledge of the black arts ran deep with him. Though they were opposites in near everything, Joseph wasn’t so much a ‘white’ magi as he was an elementalist in the Eastern schools of magickal thinking. The forces of nature were his toolbox, and he had been skilled in the arts of feng shui manipulation by some truly astounding teachers.
Not all of them, it turned out, human.
What lay at the bottom of Singapore Harbor was a secret known only to a few gifted locals. The children, of course, could see Him coming and going from his aquatic abode. The feng shui masters, spirit summoners, and geomancers were often privy to his presence as well. He was known, reverently and affectionately, as Grandfather of the Deep Waters. He was the last of the water dragons (as far as anyone knew, anyway) who had made a home for himself in the harbor in a watery shrine that only a privileged few could ever hope to access.
Privileged few such as Joseph Haw, who found himself again in a dark, dripping audience chamber of malachite and jade, illuminated by torches of blue light. Bowing before his old master, waiting for an answer, Joseph listened mindfully to the ambient sound of dripping runoff from the ceiling, a crackle of a torch, the groan of water pressure against the impenetrable temple, and the gentle breathing of an ancient dragon…
Crystalline eyes opened in pitch black. The Old One did not like to show his face, where it could be avoided. There was something about his kind that disquieted even the bravest of mortals, no matter their resolve. It was an instinct, built in–something from before the time of writing. Joseph thought it was similar to the encounters of angels. Beings of impossible power were always frightening, no matter their benevolence.
The Grandfather spoke to Joseph without words, his wisdom filling Joseph’s brain like water.
I have been made aware of the trials in your future, Tiger. Foolish men attempting to acquire what has been made forbidden by the divine. While it would be arrogant to deem your teachings in this realm finished, eternal student, there are other…dominions, beyond this one, where you may acquire new skills to aid you in the upcoming struggle.
Joseph opened his eyes. He understood these words, and they chilled him, “Thank you, Old One. My…compatriots have ventured into this realms, though I myself have not. Cian and Spike, two of my allies, breached the Faewild to acquire one of the Chalices I mentioned.” He blushed, not something he normally did in front of his master, but there was no sense hiding it. “My own lover, Lachlan, can pass through Gehenna at will.”
“Ah yes,” the dragon said. He made a strange, low noise that Joseph registered as laughter. “The light, always attracted to the dark. Yes, your beloved is a candle in a cave. Surrounded by the blackest of shadows, but with a strong light that radiates from his spirit. His love for you keeps that light kindled. But, I digress. There is one other among your compatriots, is there not, who has encountered a denizen of the realm of which I refer.”
Joseph scratched his head, somewhat uncouth in the face of an ancient being. “Hmm. I can’t think of who else has encountered anything from one of the Unseen Realms.”
The dragon, ever patient, answered for him. “A warrior who wields compassion. He who hides his face, for shame and for honor. A child of the Maya, whose gods now slumber, beyond dreams, waiting for the spark of new believers.”
“Victor,” Joseph blurted out. When it came to matters of the spiritual, Joseph wouldn’t have picked him. “Ah, you are referring, perhaps, to his encounter in Thailand with that monkey man?”
“That warrior was no mere simeon, but from a proud race hailing from the Unseen Realm of Vaale. There are as many realms as there are stars in the sky, noble Tiger…perhaps even more. I would have you go there and challenge one of their champions. Learn their arts. Bring them back. Seldom do I trust humans with crossing the worlds and acquiring their gifts, but these times are strange, and you are honorable indeed. As always, my child, I invite respectful disagreement.”
Joseph shook his head. “And yet I have none, master.” He tightened his fist. “I admit, there is a certain thrill in challenging a fighter with skills I’ve never seen before.”
“Be mindful, child. Temper that bloodlust. It can lead you down paths either dark or foolish. However, if you would accept this challenge, I harbor no doubts–you know well not to disturb the fates of worlds. And you know, of course, that to take the life of someone for whom another world's fate has already been decided…”
“I do not kill,” Joseph said, perhaps too quickly.
“Hmmm. And yet, if it came down to kil-or-be-killed…?”
“I…”
“You hesitate, child. Do you think it wise to proceed?”
“Yes.” Joseph bowed, respectfully. “Please, Master. Grant me access to this realm.”
The dragon’s burning, blue eyes narrowed in the watery shadows of the submerged temple. “So mote it be, Avatar of Báihǔ.”
—
The tavern bristled with color and light, and the spicy scent of a hundred aromas–perfumed dancers, potent liquors, the scent of bodies in embrace behind velvet curtains. Desirable bodies, of all gender and form, approached wily patrons–wily cut-throats waited in the booths and shadows to prey upon those drunk enough to forget where their purses were tied.
Lotan Sammut, dark, with shining eyes, walked throughout the miasma encumbered. Those here knew better than to bother him. Ironically, they had little to fear. Unlike most of The Manticore’s trained dogs, Lotan didn’t believe in drawing first blood. Only if attacked–then he would give them all a reason to fear the four-armed fighter, sinewy and muscular body barely concealed by regal fabrics and adornments.
Tonight, Lotan envied the dancers in the firelight, performing for coins and drinks and treasured applause. It had been ages since he’d used his body. Be it fight or dance. Perhaps Madragor’s summons tonight would change all that, if rumors were to be believed.
It was hard to tell which sentient race lurked behind the helmeted and muscle-bound guards outside the door to the private chambers. Their eyes, from either enchantment or innate nature, burned like embers behind their vizers–zeroing on Lotan as he approached.
The warrior gave them a smile.
That was more courtesy than most, and they knew better than to make The Dancer’s life difficult. They let him pass, into the twilit, velvety chamber, full of hookah smoke.
The long haired Manticore was alone tonight. Usually he was flanked by a beauty of any sex. This wasn’t particularly strange to Lotan–his boss sometimes preferred solitude. It also suggested a matter best discussed between them only.
Lotan gave his boss, the most powerful man in the alleys, a respectful nod. Their introduction was business-like, a mix of small talk and barely concealed interrogation on Madragor’s part (yet still, always, polite). The Manticore was many things–rude was not one of them.
Eventually, Lotan’s bossy got to the point. Much to the four-armed fighter’s' delight, he was scheduled for a pit fight.But delight was one thing; surprise, another.
“White Tiger?” Lotan questioned, making sure he’d heard the name correctly. He scratched his head, placed a finger on his chin, and his other hands on his hips. “They mean to pit me against a beast?” The fighter took a seat and popped into his mouth one of the small, tangy fruits offered to him by his boss (Lotan was probably one of the few souls in the underground that needn’t worry about being poisoned by The Manticore).
Lotan made a face. “I am no gladiator, thrown to blood-starved creatures. I am a Sefirot. I hail from a proud people, and is my fighting technique not–”
“Calm thyself, warrior,” Madragor laughed (a good sign). “This is no blood feud.” He lowered his voice. “From time to time, those who scry the planes see fit to pair warriors from other realms against our own. No stakes here but one’s pride, I suppose.”
The subtext was this: Madragor acting on the behalf of one of the shadowy forces from either the temples or the citadels. Lotan’s boss had his hands in many parts of the city, even the inner sanctums of the scholarly temples. Lotan knew better than to ask further, when matters of magic were on the table.
Besides all that, a fight was a fight–and Lotan never backed down from a challenge. “So, this is meant to be a friendly fight?”
The Manticore spread his legs and shugged. “He is human, so far as the oracles have deduced…yet he commands a strange power. Some believe him to be the avatar of a great guardian spirit that presides over Earth’s four cardinal directions.”
“U…rth?”
“Earth is his realm. A contradictory world of immense technology, but primitive and domineering governments. Many there, swear fealty to gold before their kindrid.”
Lotan crossed all four of his arms over his chest, smugly. “So he’s a barbarian.”
The Manticore laughed, taking a long drag from the stem of his hookah. “I believe you will find the White Tiger righteous in nature and even in temperament. He is seen as a hero among his people.”
“A hero, eh? Well, good thing this fight is on our terf–I’d hate to break this beast in front of his worshippers.”
“Peace, now, Sammut. Did I not mention this is meant to be a friendly competition? Please do attempt to limit the breaking.”
Lotan stood. “Very well,” he said, bowing gracefully to his boss. “Perhaps after our bout, I shall take our guest to one of the dances.” “If he survives, that is.”
—
The stone arena was circled by a moat of flowing water, on which the petals of a certain blossom drifted, adding a sweet scent to the battlefield. The crowd, from all walks of Valle life, cheered from the colosseum’s tiers, with the wealthiest patrons situated in their veiled viewing boxes, wherein they were waited on with wine and expensive fruits.
Lotan Sammut was always a draw–his fighting style, graceful and brutal, was well loved by the masses. It helped that he was quite the desirable specimen as well. As for his opponent, however…if whispers were to be believed, the Citadel had called forth a ‘visitor’ from another plane to do battle. It was natural then, that the audience should cheer for Lotan, their own realms representative.
Yet, when the tall, muscular, and lean fighter appeared from the opposite entrance arch, some heads did turn in Earth’s favor. The handsome hero was human, though his features were unlike anything the people of the great city had seen. His hair was jet, streaked with white, and his eyes beguiling and beautifully shaped. He bowed to the audience, upon entrance. His mannerisms were decidedly martial. He had training.
It certainly helped that–his tights, white and striped like one of the beasts of the Winter Forests, cling to his muscular legs. It left little to the imagination–his protruding masculinity was hard to miss.
Lotan approached from the opposite side, earning himself a swell of cheers from the excited throng. He waved, with all four arms, and then met his opponent in the middle. He sized him up. He suspected a giant, hairy, wild man with nary a thread on him–not this statuesque, athletic beauty. His build was similar to his Lotans (sans the extra arms, of course). He smiled.
This was going to be interesting.
The White Tiger met his opponent, put his hands together, and bowed. Then, he looked up. “You…have four arms.”
Lotan grunted. “Very observant, Tiger.” He sneered. “And yet you have only two.”
The other fighter, though polite, appeared perplexed. “Just seems a bit unfair, is all.”
Lotan laughed. The man was respectful, but there were streaks of playful humor…and an aura of cockiness as well. “Are you scared?” Lotan asked, stretching out his muscular appendages. He’d give this beast an eyeful.
The warrior took a fighting stance, cracking his neck. His muscles tensed and rippled. “A Tiger never backs down from a challenge.”
I’d almost rather him in my bedchamber than the arena, Lotan thought, hungrily. Still, a fight was a fight. “They said you were strong,” Lotan said, circling his opponent. “That has yet to be seen, of course. They mentioned nothing of your good looks, however, of which I can see in abundance.”
That seemed to take the Tiger by surprise (and did Lotan see a tinge of blush in his cheeks). “...Oh. Well, I thank you, but I have a boyfriend.”
The four-armed fighter cocked his head to the side. “Boyfriend?” He shrugged. “I don’t see what that has to do with–”
“Never mind,” TIger said, swallowing. He eyed the ceremonial gong, off to the side, where the fighting judges watched. “Shall we?”
Lotan smiled and made the signal. The gong peeled.
The fight began. Lotan pivoted on his feet, gracefully twisting around on his ankles–he’d go for a leg sweep.
As Tiger anticipated. For Joseph Haw, a fighting as part poetry and part algorithm–cause and effect; push and pull. His opponent had made the first move. That already told Tiger at least 3 - 4 things about his techniques right away. He was aggressive, but cerebral. Precise. Lotan was no brute. This made things more interesting.
Tiger jumped the sweep of Lotan’s legs, just as the warrior threw out a punch. Very clever. Joseph bent his body backwards mid jump and pivoted to the side. He grabbed Lotan’s second arm as it thrust, but his third hand broke Tiger’s grip.
Joseph landed on his feet, smiling. “First time I’ve fought someone with two extra arms. Forgive the misstep.”
Lotan twisted back on his ankle and matched Tiger’s grin. “No hard feelings.”
The tension was palpable as the men studied each other's movements, waiting for the other to make a mis-step. As the fight stipulations stated ‘no magic’ (for Lotan lacked the technique), Tiger had to re-calibrate his strategy. At this point, he might rely on a gust of wind or a sudden, sharp gale to knock his opponent to the ground. Lotan was slippery.
Suddenly, Tiger launched with a powerful front kick, aimed at Lotan’s head. Lotan ducked under the kick, responding with a spinning back fist.
Tiger expertly blocked with his forearm. But once again forgetting that his foe was multi-limbed, forgot to dodge the second blow. Lotan’s fist collided with Tiger’s, painfully, knocking him backwards.
The crowd gasped. Tiger swallowed the pain, and tightened his core to absorb the shock. “Very good,” he said. “To be honest, I’m more of a wrestler. This is refreshing.”
“Hitting you is refreshing?” Lotan asked, eyebrows raised. “Then you’re in luck–I have more for you!”
The two continued to exchange blows, moving with incredible speed and precision. Lotan unleashed a flurry of punches, from four directions, ready to end this fight as quickly as possible. But Tiger had recalibrated his technique. He countered with a series of well-timed blocks and evasive maneuvers, feet moving swiftly across the arena’s rough surface.
How am I supposed to arm bar four arms! Tiger thought. Then, he had an idea. And from an unlikely place too. Joseph had long practiced the philosophy of learning from his students and mentees, and there was one such little stud proficient in under arm submissions.
Been thinking too much like a tiger, the sweaty Joseph said, as he flipped gracefully in the air and landed behind his foe. Time to think like a Sailor.
Joseph jumped up and put Lotan into a nelson, surprising the four armed brute with more strength than the Sefirot expected. Joseph used the lock as leverage to lift his legs up and wrap them around Lotan’s second pair of arms, which he had correctly expected him to throw back in an effort to pry the Earth warrior off his back.
“Grrr,” Lotan growled. “So, this is your little, grappling sport, eh?”
I don’t even know what to call this move, Tiger said, bringing his elbows and knees together to pry on the pain. “Give up!”
Lotan responded to this ridiculous demand by spinning around and throwing himself to the ground, using Tiger as cushioning. Lucky for the cat, he knew how to land. He tucked his head and let go at the last second, throwing out his arms to absorb the blow, and digging his knees up into Lota’s spine to prevent him from using his weight to crush him.
“Very clever,” L;otan grunted, ignoring the searing pain in his spine. He spun back around, onto his feet, just as Tiger threw out his legs and rode the momentum upwards, expertly, into a standing position.
Lotan stared down his opponent. “You’re not half bad. But can you dance like me?”
Tiger had seen capoeira tons of times. His coworker, Iggy, was not to employ a more ‘heavy metal’ variety into his repertoire. He had never seen such graceful movements, as Lotan’s before. He turned pirouettes into chops and strikes. Tiger dodged them, but just barely. The fiend moved like water.
“Time to show you how to dance, cat!”
Tiger was on the defense. For too long. Part of his strategy was in wearing Lotan down. Multi-limbed advantage be damned. Tiger roared, launching a swift roundhouse kick, aimed at Lotan’s midsection. With the right force and aim, Tiger could end this here.
Lotan caught Tiger’s leg with two hands, blocking his chest with his other pair. He threw Tiger to the ground. All he had to do now was descend and pummel at him until this little kitty submitted or passed out.
As Joseph’s back hit the ground, he rolled backwards and jumped back to his feet, ready to continue the fight. The audience cheered. Even Lotan was impressed.
Tiger spit out, a small trickle of blood. “Remember when I said you had an unfair advantage?”
Lotan grunted. He’d broken a sweat; his muscles glistening in the summer sun. “Yeah?”
Tiger smirked. “I stand by that statement.”
The two men continued to exchange blows, their movements fluid and precise. The sound of fists and feet striking flesh echoed through the room, as the two warriors fought with all their might. Sweat poured down their faces, their bodies glistening with exertion. It was a battle of wills, and neither man was willing to back down. Sweat poured down their faces, their bodies glistening with exertion. It was a battle of wills, and neither man was willing to back down.
Tiger charged forward with a powerful flying kick, but Lotan side-stepped at the last moment and counteed with a devastating elbow strike to Tiger’s back.
Tiger staggered forward, but quickly regained his balance and retaliated with a spinning kick, aimed at Lotan’s head. Now, he was pissed off. He didn’t care if this was Lotan’s home. He needed to be put down. Besides, the audience deserved a spectacle–and White Tiger was first, and foremost, an entertainer. They wanted a show. He’d give it to them, and knock Lotan flat.
Lotan danced under the kicks, and countered with a lightning-fast combination of punches, striking Tiger with incredible speed and accuracy. He was like a machine, a force of nature. Tiger tried to defend himself, but the blows kept coming, relentless, a hail storm of fury and fists. This wasn’t magic. It was strength and determination.
It had been a very long time since Tiger felt outmatched. And yet, tuning out the pain and draining stamina, he felt a strange sense of satisfaction. It had been too long since he’d encountered a worthy opponent.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Lotan landed a devastating blow to the other's jaw. Joseph’s world went black. The taller man crumpled to the ground, eyes rolling back in his head.
Lotan leaned over and picked Tiger up, turning him over. “You want to wrestle, huh?” He said, grabbing Joseph’s arms and bending them backwards, and then scooping his legs up with the second set. “How about this? A four ared submission?”
Lotan proceeded to rip the already dazed and damaged Tiger back like a twig about to break. Tiger dangled in the air, helplessly, all limbs outstretched.
“Okay…” Tiger grunted. “Impressive, indeed. I yield.”
Lotan let Tiger go, dropping him to the ground.
The TIger had been tamed. The audience held their breath.
Lotan stood over him for a moment, catching his breath and wiping the sweat from his forehead. The audience cheered. Lotan held all four arms up in triumph, and a well-earned one. This human had fought admirably, and had taken him by surprise.
He deserved respect.
Lotan leaned over and pressed his hands against Tiger’s temples. He muttered something under his breath.
Tiger’s eyes snapped open, and Lotan reeled back, cautious that the fighter might instinctively try and attack him. Tiger did not. Wincing, he looked up–realized what had happened–and looked away.
Still, Tiger laughed. “Heh. Not bad.”
Lotan leaned over and extended one of his hands. “All four palms open, great warrior.”
Tiger looked him over a minute, and then gladly took the dancer’s arm, pulled up onto his feet.
Lotan raised his opponent’s hand. “Let all present know the men of Earth are strong of spirit!” Lotan declared.
Tiger, a bit embarrassed (more so at the whole ‘Renaissance Fair’ vibe of the scene) scratched his neck. “Uh…thanks.”
Lotan slapped his new friend’s back, heartily. “Think nothing of it, Joseph of Haw. And now, we shall feast!”
Tiger blinked. His head still hurt. He’d recover. “...Feast?”
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