He had just enough time to glimpse the face--to marvel at its similarities. He had no idea that this was a construct of Emuh--how could he? Vargas had not warned him of these things, and perhaps didn't even know. All the Sentinel knew was that here was a strange, primitive mirror of himself. A black canine being, a creature with blue eyes--one dull and lightless, the other scarred over and gray.

Ragged ears.

Black fur.

It didn't stay his hand. He jerked back, gripped the halberd's haft, and lashed out in a fraction of a second: a vicious swing, an uppercut for an inner thigh. It was an aim for the femoral artery, if this creature even had one; a hope that he'd hit it beneath its strange black cloth.

He hit nothing but cloth, a swing, a swish, a miss.

"What is it," he rasped, hollowly, voice rumbling up out of silence, "that mirrors the Sentinel, that carries his blade?"

Would it have an answer for him?

Perhaps, in time, the Sentinel would come to know this construct's face. Would it have caused him to falter if he had already? It did not matter.

It did not have answers for him, and it remained dead-faced—as if whatever had animated Black had forgotten to prime the expression tools and put them to proper use. All its eyes did was track him, brows furrowing to protect them.

It had no answers for him, except for the vicious forward thrust of a spear when he missed. The point vied for the upper stomach region, but any impact would do well enough at point-blank.

In it came again, a vicious thrust--and no answer.

For all those few words he'd spewed, the Sentinel was not big on talking--not any more than his predecessor had been, and barely more than this half-sentient construct.

A hand snatched out. Aimed for the blade that thrust for his stomach. It would cut his hand, undoubtedly. But he aimed to thrust it aside. And in a quick and violent shove, a retaliatory move, he aimed the tip of his own Talon for not-Black's own gut.

A shove. An impale. An upward press. A forward-powering-thrust, to then have weight put behind, to then push, and push, up and back, up and back, to kill...

"The Sentinel does not know," he rasped, as if in apology, or perhaps merely explanation, "if this is... spar."

It was certainly one way to find out.

Content Warning
This post contains potentially sensitive material:

gore

Clawed hands grabbed fruitlessly for the Talon—the true one, steeped in corruption and painted with the blood of a true predecessor—already starting to make its way into soft, fleshy construct-organs. Oil sputtered down the end of the point, sure to soak the Sentinel's hands.

With the desperate way not-Black attempted to extricate itself from the impaling spear, it was easy to imagine a note of panic in its face; yet, there was nothing. The Sentinel's question fell on deaf ears, but the creature took that as its apparent opportunity to grip the blade, hoist itself further onto it (with the sickening squelch-pop! of a burst something) and plant either foot onto his thigh. It shoved off the halberd and all but tumbled back-first into a mirror.

The glass shattered, and it vanished into nothing.

3/3
Putrescent green eyes blinked out from that nothing, and Emuh stepped out. Oil slicked the owl-beast's talons as he walked forth, but he didn't seem to mind, too enthralled with the trial's success. "LITTLE BUT A SCRATCH ON YOU-HOO!" he crowed after a moment's appraisal. He snickered derisively, "THE LAST OF YOUR ILK DID NOT LOOK SO WELL." Claws clicked against the floor. "EMUH WONDERS HOW YOU WOULD HAVE FARED WITHOUT THAT."

A beat, and the owl-beast snapped both wings out. The room warbled and shook in their wake, a smear frame playing out just outside of the Sentinel's periphery. Despite his limited penchant for magic, there was a dizzying pull and snap! like a rubberband stretched too far. The Talon grew heavy in his hands, and balance shifted to be just slightly off-kilter. Everything and nothing was felt all at once.

The sensation was punctuated by a harsh "TAKE WHAT YOU HAVE EARNED, THEN, AND GET OUT!"

Emuh's good spirits had lasted long enough.

The Sentinel has Transcended. He is now a Transcendent Brawler, and may work his way back up to Transcendent Champion. Upon attaining this rank, his player may post in Update Me to choose a Specialization (viewable in the Magic section of the Guidebook).

He has also learned the Technique:

Eternal Guardian

Transcendent Intensity Defensive. The user empowers their honed physical skills with a burst of magicka, repelling any physical or magical attacks made for one round, and magically reflecting half of damage that would have been done back at the attacker.

The Sentinel staggered down, and nearly fell--pulled forward, pushed back, and now confronted with his opponent vanishing in utter silence.

And Emuh, reappearing. He looked up at it, still, as it spoke--and when it was addressed, looked down to regard the weapon in his hands. He considered--really considered--the owl's remark. How would he have fared, without his weapon? Was it perhaps worth training further with others, and even with his claws? He had learned how to do so; but then... this enemy had been armed, as well.

But had that weapon even been real, then--and ahh, what was this?

The sudden sensation, dizzying, of the halberd's weight and bizarre twist in his mind had him reeling. He felt... emptied, somehow.

He felt changed.

But... he had succeeded, right?

He eyed the owl, and then hoisted his halberd; he leaned it up over his shoulder. He ignored the oil splattering his hands, his blade, his chest--the owl's talons. It was only blood.

And then he left; he had proven himself, now, surely. He had earned... the right to travel, at times, if he requeted it.

It was good.

exit the Sentinel