Lorenzo
```Slayers Square, Blythwim```

The sun shone bright in the sky over the town of Blythwim. Yet it would not shine upon the townsfolk who call this place home. For many of them have fled from its streets to take shelter in their houses, taverns, anywhere which would keep the out of sight of the brutal maiden. The presence of Blythwim's dragon was enough to send terror far and wide. For all know wherever she goes, death falls upon anyone unfortunate enough to earn her ire. Following close behind here a collection of her royal guard and a few members of her court. Although these protectors followed the countess from behind, none dared stand in front of her.

It wouldn't be long until they reached their destination of The Slayer's Square. The center of Blythwim, and one which earned that dreadful title once Zrembeth took power. It was the place she conducted executions of any and all who she deemed enemies of Lazaroth. Thieves, smugglers, bandits, liberators, dissenters, all were brought to this very square to be beheaded by the countess herself. It was this act which brought order to Blythwim. Brought it safety from the enemies within and to send a message to its enemies beyond. And it was here that all of Lazaroth learned the title of this new wicked ruler.

*The Dragon*

That dreaded armored dragon now rested on a seat provided for her by one of her retainers. Her gaze fixed forward and unyielding. It was clear she was waiting, but for what?

An enemy.

She had received the message from the honored Duchess. Of a Findaran. A male. A knight. A fool who stepped onto her nations shores and demanded to face her in battle. How the dragon's fire burned inside her when she learned of this. Had it been any other upstart from that land of weakness she'd ignore it. But he approached the Duchess instead of her. There would be no question, she was going to nail his broken body to her castle wall for this. But not before brutalizing him before her people. 

For the dragon was a wicked creature. But she was Lazaroth's protector. The beast unleashed upon its foes. She would prove to Blythwim, as well as Lazaroth as a whole, they had nothing to fear. Any who wished to harm her people would face her wrath. And her fury will be unrelenting.
Susan
The Old Guard Dog, Ex-Knight of the Findaran royal court, and first son of his house, Brakteon Anteel Wealbrig was in over his head, he knew that more than anyone else, but yet, as he walked towards his apparent doom there was a sense of messed up joy in his heart.

 His meeting with the Duchess had been meaningful, but it had been a battle of words, and he had to tailor his sentences so he wouldn't be disrespectful. He had to hold himself back from speaking his mind. He always hated that. 

 He always despised having to speak with a collar around his neck, even though the results were in his favor. But here, against this woman of horrid nature, this *Dragon* As they called her here, he did not need to mince any words. 

 No. Here, the only sound that mattered was the clang of metal as their blades struck. He could use his sword to speak his mind, and the Brightmoon Claymore hummed in agreement.

 However, he knew he could die today. 

 As trained as he was, as dangerous as he was in combat, this Dragon had one thing on him that he did not. Age. She had been fighting battles longer than him and had become so dangerous that she had earned the name Dragon.

 And so, even with the glee of fighting a powerful opponent, he could not ignore the chance that he could meet his end at her blade. 

 Brakteon was not foolish enough to deny his family the sword for his selfish reasons, so far above, out of his view, flew an Aarakocra named Lyu.

She was under his Mother's employ and had waited for him to recognize her scent before she approached him after he left the Duchess' estate. Brakteon and her spoke, and though she did not disagree outright with his plan, he could tell she did not agree with it. 

 The plan was that if he fell she was to swoop in and take the sword back to Findara, as well as a message from him that was made of three words. 

 "Do not avenge me."

 This was his problem, his battle, and if it came to it, his death. 

 🌕

 Brakteon walked into the Slayers Square without courtesy, cape billowing in the wind as he looked to the audience of armed guards and well-dressed nobles. Sitting in front of them all was an armored woman, and it was clear this was her domain. 

 It was also clear that she was fixed on killing him. 

 There would be no respect in this encounter, she was not interested in such docile actions. 

 Brakteon cracked his knuckles and his neck, pulled off his cape, and then pulled the Brightmoon Claymore. Despite the shining sun, the blade glowed its odd blue hue. 

 "I am Brakteon Anteel Wealbrig of the Wealbrig house," He announced only for the sake of her knowing who she was fighting against. She probably knew, and she probably did not care. But he said it regardless, because if he was to die today then he would do so knowing that he kept true to his name.
Lorenzo
The gates of Blythwim hang open. Two members of the Countess's honor guard stood watch as Brakteon entered the city of the slain. Slowly the great gate would shut, the wolf now cornered, with no way out but through. No words would be exchanged as the two would escort the Findaran to the center of town. The streets themselves would be barren of any of its people. All of them locked away in their homes out of fear of the dragon and her servants who now prowl the streets. Delivering the newest lamb to its hungry jaws.

The city square was spacious. The Countess herself not difficult to pick out from the crowd of knights and warriors. Among the women who stand around their lord, there was an air of authority that surrounded the countess. The figured armored from head to toe that the crowd of knights just seemed to form around rather than within. All of them immediately standing at attention when the challenger was brought before them.

Countess Vrardru herself would remain unflinching as he took a step forward. Her knights all grabbing for weapons, shields, anything to protect their countess from this upstart who stepped into their home. Tensions dropped slightly as he introduced himself to them. Brakteon, the son of House Wealbrig. While they were no longer moments away from cutting at his flesh it was clear this wasn't the same welcome the duchess gave him. He was not welcome. Yet here he was regardless.

There would be no response from the countess. Only a gesture followed by one of her knights stepping forward. A young Drow of somewhat small stature. Armored like the rest but rather than iron and metal she wore was lighter. A padded gambison and leather gloves. Her arming sword resting right at her hip. Her white hair pulled and pressed into a dignified bun. Unlike the rest of her group, she would give a quick bow to the knight before speaking.

```"I am Apollys. Daughter of Nembis and servant of Lazaroth. I will be speaking on behalf of my lady"```


The Drow explained before turning to the countess and repeating what Brakteon had said earlier. Only she was translating it into Drowish. Unfortunately, Zrembeth didn't speak a word of Common. And Brakteon's Drowish was lacking.

The Countess nodded in response to the translation. She rose from the seat beneath her as she stood at her full height, towering over the smaller Drow. Her hand resting on a dagger resting at her waist. Oddly enough, it seemed to be the only weapon she had at the moment. Was she going to go into battle with that?

She spoke to Apollys who in turn gave another bow before facing Brakteon once again.

```"Lady Vrardru states you have challenged her. To defend the honor of beloved Lazaroth she accepts. This battle will be fought until death, with the victor having defending their respective homeland. She wishes to offer you an opportunity before you begin to rescind your challenge, sing your praises of Lazaroth and leave with your life."```
Susan
Brakteon was silent as he looked at everyone who surrounded him. From their reactions they were cautious, but not afraid, because why would they be? They had this lady Vradru to defend them, to defend their land as the young drow had put it. 

 Pompous. Arrogant. But powerful. 

 Without even having clashed Brakteon knew this was going to be difficult, however, he hadn't come this way because he expected an easy fight. 

 He knew of death, it clung to his shoulders every day, and he would not be frightened by someone who had someone else speak for them.

 Brakteon looked back at Apollys as blood seeped into his eyes turning them harsh red. "Tell your Lady that I do not care for Lazaroth, and I do not care for Findara either. I do not fly my Kingdom's banner, nor do I come to defend any sort of honour for my Kingdom. Despite my name and House, I am here for my own matters and mine alone."

 He looked down at his trusted sword, his oldest companion, and then he faced his opponent. "And if I meet death here, then I would do so with what little honour that I have left."
Lorenzo
There was a quiet nod from Apollys who in turn began to repeat what Brakteon had said to Zrembeth. This would be the only time that she would avert her gaze from the wolf, giving her attention to the young Drow before turning it back upon her opponent before her. Aside from her eyes it was impossible to discern what her thoughts were beneath her helm. Anger? Excitement? Resignation? Whatever her feelings they would remain buried beneath a grave of metal. 

The countess would give her response to the young knight. Her words a language the wolf did not understand but with pure clarity that showed she was void of any fears one may have when entering into a battle to the death. Apollys would step to the side as Zrembeth took her own step forward. Grabbing the dagger which rested on her waist and held it within her hand. Within a matter of less than a second a bright light enveloped the blade as it formed a refined, Lazarothi longsword. A blade much more suiting one an occasion such as this.

```"Lady Vrardru has found your response lacking, I'm afraid. She states your refusal to defend your homeland is an act of selfishness and cowardess. A trait she finds befitting of a child of loathed Findara"```

Apollys put Zrembeth's words in a far more polite manner than what she wanted to say. Who was this outsider? This fool who challenged her to a duel to the death and not for the honor of his home? Was his plan to slay her for the sake of ego? To return home to brag about becoming the Dragon Slayer? Everything she had done was for Lazaroth's sake. For her queen. She became the monster that she was for the sake of defending her home. And now this wretched seeked to deprive Lazaroth of its monster for 'his own matters?' Whatever matters were his own, her decision to slay him were only solidified.

```"The duel will conclude upon death or yield. Although the opponent is not required to accept ones surrender. Attempts to flee will mean the intervention of Lady Vrardru's honor guard. Attempts against any other than Lady Vrardru will result in intervention. Involvement of other parties will result in intervention. If you accept, you have been gifted the first blow to begin this duel."```
Susan
Brakteon rolled his eyes at Apollys response from Vradru. Selfish. Now two royals of this accursed Kingdom had called him selfish, but what did they know? How was he selfish for wanting to avenge his befallen friend? What was selfish in doing whatever it took to see the end of those that gave him this fucking scar? They ruined his name! Ruined his face! His life!

 All he had ever done had been for someone else. He never asked to be the first son, and all he had done was what he was fated to do. The sword in his hand was meant to be honored, yet on his watch, they killed his Charge because he dared to go against the belief that owning another man was wrong. And now, in this fucking Kingdom, they thought they had any right to call him selfish. 

 **WHO THE FUCK ARE THEY TO CALL US SELFISH?!**

 The rage brimmed to the surface, and his grip on his sword tightened. His breath became ragged huffs, his wolf blood boiling beneath his skin, howling in his mind, demanding freedom from the chains of rational thought. And Brakteon wanted to let his mind sink away into violence. He wanted to finally be free. 

 But then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He let the cold air flow through him, freezing over the rage that threatened to be his undoing. He would not be a victim of his rage. He would not become undone by the snide remark of an arrogant tyrant. 

 He came here for a reason. To let the Sisters know that their actions have consequences. That he was that consequence.

Vengeance was horrid, but it was also the nature of things. 

 Brakteon opened his eyes again, the rage behind them now replaced with great focus, and then he raised his sword. He saw the magic of Vrardu's blade, a shapeshifter, meaning he could not rely on her keeping the longsword throughout the fight. 

 That was certainly troublesome, but he would have to hope that if it did change shape, then his lack of reaction speed would be saved by his armor.

 Still, hope was a brittle thing. 

 The gift of the first blow was certainly a hoax. Of that, he was sure. However, it was a chance to have the upper hand, and so with a whispered prayer to the gods, Brakteon swung the Family sword with all his at the Dragon's Head.
Lorenzo
The countess watched as the knight took his first step. Followed by another. His approach was decisive, no sign of hesitation within him either. He was an arrogant mongrel, as spineless as Findaran's come. But hopefully his merit as a warrior isn't lacking. She adjusts her grip, both hands now holding the handle as she lets its point be directed toward Brakteon. As standard a stance as it comes for swordsmen. Her eyes would scan every part of the Oathbreaker. The bend of his legs, the flex of his arms, the glimmer of his blade. As brutal as The Dragon was, she was no fool. A master combatant who had wielded the blade long before Brakteon had even been alive. She intended to learn whatever she could about this opponent before making a move.

Both hands would hold the great sword as it dragged along the ground beside him. A sudden horizontal swing would be directed right at her. The speed and ease at which it was done indicated that underneath all that armor Wealbright was in possession of a great deal of strength. A hypothesis she already had upon first seeing him. They were near similar in height and build and such a large weapon was an indicator of one who values strength in a battle. A cleave from such a weapon would be akin to the force of a rampaging Chorg.

She wondered what his plan was. He had expect her to do something with him having the opening strike, but she could tell he was already going straight for the head. A killing blow right as the fight began. 

```Blocking such a strike would be impulsive. Softening the blow only by so much or possibly even shattering my blade. Perhaps he wants to see if it would regrow if it was shattered. Either that or he expect the obvious. To see if I am able to dodge. He's planning something. I'll give him neither```

As the blade neared her neck, the countess would remain perfectly still. Even with death barreling toward her she would not flinch, not falter, not waver in the slightest. Waiting just for the exact moment for Brakteon to put all his force into the strike so he can't back out.

```He's overextended```

And from its slumber The Dragon awakens as within a flash her blade clashed into the bottom of Brakteon's great sword. The blade was pushed upwards as she used her strength to sent it mere inches above her head, only letting it fall back to the ground when she was out of harms way. Leaving Brakteon to deal with the intense momentum from such a swing that didn't hit its mark. All the while her knights could be heard in awe of such a parry. How could they not? She hasn't moved a single inch from a strike that could cleave a man in half.

She didn't take this opportunity to strike Brakteon while he stumbled. She simply returned to the stance she had before. She wasn't done learning about the wolf just yet. Let him tire himself trying to get through her defenses. For she knew that he had never faced a warrior like her before
Susan
Brakteon had expected a parry or a dodge even though he swung with all his might, and though the former was more in line with his expectations, he still winced at the recoil that came from her blade clashing with his. 

 Fortunately, this was not his first time going against a greatsword like his own. He knew there were few stances one could attain with a heavy weapon, and though she was skilled, he reckoned he had more experience with the colossal weapon.

 Before Brakteon could stumble any further, he drove the sword into the ground to stop himself, and then, without bothering to look back, Brakteon aimed two fingers at the Lady. 

 The plan was simple, at least for now. She had an array of weapons in her arsenal, and he needed to know just how quickly she could switch between them. 

 Close-range with the sword and long-range with spells. He would manage his mana by relying on beginner spells. 

 "**CHAOS BOLT; LIGHTNING**." Upon his command, twin bolts of blue electricity shot from his hand to the knight. He did not put much force in the spell, and it was because he knew he felt it wouldn't hit. He was calculating how best to go about this, and he did not plan on dragging this out longer than he needed to. 

 Every second he spent here was a second that the Sisters got to live, and he hated that.
Lorenzo
The Dragon witnessed her opponent stumble after her successful defense to his initial assault. The force of his swing being drove right into the earth as he stabbed through the very cobblestone that they stood upon. As she adjusted her stance she had to admit, she was surprised that he had enough strength to be able to drive that blade through solid stone. Yet there was also the irritation that came at the sight of damage, no matter how slight, being done to her city of Blythwin. A sharp breath would escape beneath her helm. A moment of tension as she gripped her blade. But she would not let it consume her. She would enact bloody justice in time.

Yet as she waited for him to stand, he would suddenly point at her with two of his fingers. Muttering something in Common that she unfortunately didn't understand. It seemed the language barrier between the two benefitted Brakteon this once, she stood form expecting this to be him muttering a curse or insult of some kind. Likely upset that his predictable attack was so easily parried. The only one who understood his words was the knight, Apollys. By the time she noticed the panicked look in the eyes of her honor guard it was already too late. 

Her eyes widened at the sight of crackling mana at the tips of his fingers. By the time she took her first step to move the bolt fired as it collided right at her left shoulder. The Dragon would feel the wind knocked out of her lungs. Her armor, taking the brunt of the damage yet the impact strong enough to knock the countess to the ground. 

```"A mage... By the blessed queen, this complicate matters"```

Pressing her hands to the ground she grabbed her blade, working herself back onto her feet. She was fine, a light injury and a lesson in underestimating this Findaran dog. She wouldn't make that mistake twice. Brakteon wouldn't get the drop on her again now that she knew what he was capable of.

And this fight was far from over.
Susan
Brakteon's face remained calm despite having landed the spell. He held back the surprise which came from the lightning hitting her, mostly because that joy was short-lived. Instead, he broke down what happened for him to have struck her in the first place. 

 From how she could not dodge, Brakteon speculated that she had been unaware of the spell, either by language barrier or because she could not sense mana. 

 Either way, he had an advantage, whether by language or casting. He did not understand drowish, but he caught the words she had used when on the ground. Mage. 

 The Countess did not seem accustomed to the madness that came from magic. He could use spells to counter her ferocity. 

 But that didn't mean the fight was his. He had been bested by non-magicians before, and from the look of resilience in her eyes, she was not going to let him have that chance again. She would close the distance and force Brakteon into combat, which she was more confident in than he was, at the moment.

 Brakteon also noticed that the weapon did not revert to the dagger state despite not being in her hand. That ruined an initial plan he had been forming earlier, but no matter. For now, there was a small unspoken understanding between the two knights. They were not to underestimate each other.

The Grey Oathbreaker stood fully and faced the Countess. He rolled the Claymore in his hand, pointed it forward, and then started circling her with slow calculated steps, ensuring to keep eye contact as he walked. 

 He felt she was waiting for him to strike first, his spell might have put her on edge, and Brakteon knew it was best to keep her on edge, but he was also running out of time. 

 So he stopped the circling and rushed forward at his opponent, swinging his sword with precise fury, aiming the attacks at possible points that would have her lose her footing or grip on her sword.
Lorenzo
Even when knocked to the ground Zrembeth still radiated an air of malice toward anything within a swords length of her. The Oathbreaker stunned enough at his own success with his prior attack that he chose not to capitalize on a fallen opponent. Though considering how effortlessly she defended herself at the start of this fight perhaps such caution was warranted.

The Countess herself would suffer no complication in returning to form. The pain still radiated throughout her shoulder but she wouldn't let it register beyond simple acknowledgement that she had sustained damage. Keep fighting. Keep moving. Expect to suffer. Recognize it and move on. 

Her eyes stared through the narrow slit that was her helm at Brakteon. His own gaze unflinching as he held luminated blade. A claymore. Greatsword. Whatever one wished to call it. A two handed blade that he treated as though it were a simple arming sword. Rolling it like it weighed nothing. Holding a sword meant to sever spines and cleave horses in a single swing with one hand as he pointed it toward The Dragon as though it were a rapier.

An enchantment? Perhaps. It did glow. But that couldn't be all it did, did it? He had already established himself as a spellsword. Great strength? Also possible. But the momentum generated alone for the latter would have had that handle snap after quite some time. A scowl underneath her helm, she was working with little information. But with what little she had, she had to make do.

She studied his stance, his blade, his armor. A plan she concocted as Brakteon attempted to intimidate her with little success. And when he finally lunged she acted accordingly.

Defense was a priority. Her parries wouldn't be as flashy as her first. Both hands focusing on directing the blade away from her body. Trying not to take the force of the weapon head on. But with her long sword that would prove difficult. She began to step back, Brakteon winning momentum with each swing as his weapon sliced through the wind with glee.

But as he chipped away at her defenses, she did not falter. Where lesser warriors would slip up, she let him focus all his attention into the attack. At points intentionally inviting various close calls, parrying at the last possible moment, encouraging the wolf to put even more effort in.

When he finally overextended it would be a downward strike. As he began to pull his blade back up Zrembeth acted like lightning. Her steel boot would reach toward the upper base of the blade, stomping on the flat end with all her weight. Either disarming him, or as she expected, causing him to lean forward in an attempt to hold the blade. 

He would be right where she wanted him. Leaning forward herself, one hand would grab onto Brakteon's wrist. Within a moment they were chest to chest. Close enough to tear out each others throats. A position for a greatsword wielder, who utilized the weapons length, closing the distance like this would make it too awkward to get a good swing in. Making harming her next to impossible without creating distance.

But she had no intentions on letting go. Her grip was like iron and her will like steel.

With a flash, her longsword changed shape again. This time into that of a weapon befitting an armored foe. 

A mace. A weapon which brought the end of many an armored knight.

As she held Brakteon with one arm, the other would swing directed right at his head, planning on crashing into his skull before he even realizes she's grappled him. Even if he stepped to the side in time, he wouldn't be able to move his body away enough to avoid it striking somewhere else along his upper body.

Another victim of Zrembeth's martial brilliance.
Susan
Brakteon was winning. His strength proved superior to hers even though her speed was greater than his, but her parries were getting weaker while his arms refused to give in to the burn that came from swinging the claymore. He closed in each swing, their dance ferocious, the song of metal against metal screaming through the cold air. 

 If not for the threat of death, if not for his mission, if not for vengeance, Brakteon would have cracked a smile and thanked the Countess for allowing him to fight like this. 

 But this fight, though beautiful, was not out of kindness. 

 The Countess was waiting for something, and Brakteon could not tell what. He continued the assault, ensuring that his aim was set on any gaps in her armor, but then his focus on her sword made him forget that she too was a weapon. 

 When she suddenly kicked against his sword, Brakteon's grip remained true, however, he was forced to lean forward so her attempt to disarm him would fail. 

 Unfortunately, the cost was the gap between them. She was so close that he could stare into the harsh eyes behind her helm. They glowed in a way one should only see in a beast, and in some ways, she was one. Brakteon hadn't registered the death grip on his wrist until the flash of her weapon changing caught his eye. 

 The longsword shrunk and became a robust mace, the natural weapon of all well-armored fighters. As she rose it high, he tried to step away and then felt her fingers tighten. She had closed the gap and robbed him of space.

Her plan to end the fight was genius, he admitted that. But Brakteon also knew he too was a beast in more ways than one. 

 There was no dodging, not at this size, so in a moment, the towering Brakteon Anteel Wealbrig, for the first time in years shifted. It was quick, in one moment, there was a wolf-man, and in the next, a large dire wolf was in his place. 

 The shape change did not save him from injury, the sharp thorns of the mace scraped against his scalp, drawing blood, but he had avoided a much more gruesome fate.

 In his wolf form, Brakteon snapped at the neck of his countess, causing her to lean back a moment, a moment Brakteon used to push her back with his paws, aiming his strength, particularly at her left shoulder. 

 The push let his paw slip through her hand, and when he landed, he snarled at her for a second before shifting back into the man-wolf form. 

 The blood still pooled from the injury, dying the fur on his forehead bright red, but regardless, Brakteon picked up his sword again and stepped into a defense stance. 

 He had not done that in ages. He could feel his muscles trying to catch up with the sudden change, but he hoped that his evasion of what would have killed most foes would give the Countess a moment to regard him carefully. If not, for now, he would be on the defensive.
Lorenzo
The Countess felt the pull of the mace as it caught itself against the wolf's fur. A sound strike. Her eyes narrowed. Her teeth grit as she twisted herself forward, putting even more force behind her strike as a splatter of crimson splashed against her armor. Her grip tightened around Brakteon's wrist as she felt his resistance. His dying sputter. His last attempts to save himself. Even if he proved greater in strength their difference was minor enough to escape in time. The Dragon was fully prepared to add Brakteon's body to the many who have fallen within the Slayer's Square.

She'd fail to notice the sound of cracking bones was not simply that of the wolves skull, but rather his whole body as within moments he began to shift and morph before her. Her eyes widened in surprise as she stumbled to keep her stance. The Findaran's arm going downward as he transformed. By the time she was able to process what was before her she was already having to defend herself.

The Wolf snapped at The Dragon. Earning him distance as she stepped backwards on the defense. She knew full well she didn't have a weapon capable of parrying several dozen razor sharp teeth aiming right at her throat. Only to be thrown back several feet as that very wolf sent her flying back prone as she had once been before.

Again, this was minor damage. Quickly she rolled onto her knees to begin standing again when she witnessed her opponent shift back into the form he had at the start of this duel. Blood pooling down her side as clear signs of fatigue began to show. 

Rather than beginning his assault anew, he adopted a defensive stance. That strike certainly did more than it seemed. For once, the momentum was now in her favor. Now wasn't the time to hesitate. To give him a chance to recover. That transformation winded him and he was likely concussed. Not to mention his earlier assault.

All the while Zrembeth was still full of stamina. Her one attack she had made this fight doing far more then Brakteon's flurry of slashes. 

Once she was stood her mace adopted its longsword form again as she began an assault of her own. One to put Brakteon on the defense and drive him into exhaustion. She wouldn't make any extensions of her own, lest he try her previous strategy. At the moment, Zrembeth had the advantage. And to keep it, she had to act wisely. But also decisively.
Susan
Brakteon gritted his teeth when the Dragon charged at him. His shapeshifting had surprised her but not long enough for her to practice caution. She saw the moment and took it, and Brakteon's bleeding head and aching bones were not helping his situation. Still, he was not out of this fight. He could fend her off as he tried to make up a plan. 

 And so the dance began anew, though their roles were switched this time. While Brakteon was strong enough to parry her swings, he was not fast enough to deflect all of them. Her blade, though almost as long as his claymore, seemed lighter to her. Every fourth attack landed on his armor, and one even managed to bite into his leg, which caused him to stumble for a moment before he managed to dodge the following attack. 

 Brakteon was getting tired, and it seemed that the thrill of killing him fueled the Countess to push further despite the injured shoulder. 

 And then it happened. An epiphany that was brought by remembering the teachings of his old sorcery Master. 

 It was madness in hindsight because the chances of it working were slim. Despite how she came at him, Brakteon could tell she was now overextending herself. She shifted back whenever he wanted to close the distance and kept him at bay by swinging at his face, knowing he would dodge.

But he was running out of time. 

 Brakteon continued the slow parries, his arms losing their strength, and then he saw it. The moment. 

 The Countess swung, a precise slice that would have cut into his side, and rather than deflect the sword away from himself, Brakteon slammed the flat of his sword against hers, directing the attack straight into his thigh. The sword cut into the armor, drawing blood, but rather than howl out in pain, Brakteon pointed two fingers at his opponent. 

 She would not fall for this a second time. Brakteon could already feel her sword changing shape and see her feet shifting back, but this was not a precise mana shot because he knew she would sidestep it with ease. 

 This was a blast of power erupting from his body. 

 "**THUNDERWAVE!**"
Lorenzo
The Dragon's advancement was unrelenting. Every swing of her blade, every step forward that she took chipped away at Brakteon's defenses. The blood from his open wound splattered the ground around her as he tried to protect himself. She could practically feel the strain his body was undergoing. The burning of his limbs. The pounding of his heart. It wouldn't be long now until he was devoured by the dragons flames. Another enemy of Lazaroth felled and beaten.

She felt the buckling of her opponents knees as she cleaved another strike he was barely able to protect himself from. This was the moment. Twisting her body she adjusted her new stance in the prime position to swing. A sideways slash aiming to decapitate the wolf in one clean strike. 

Only before blade was able to meet flesh a burst of mana crackled through the air from the tips of her opponents fingers. A loud burst like the crashing of thunder erupted. Drowning out all other sounds as the Countess was sent soaring. 

Pain rippled through her body from the impact. The very air knocked out of her lungs as she tried to collect herself. Protect herself whatever way she could to no avail as she crashed onto the ground hard. Her armor doing little to low the impact as she hit the cobblestone with a heavy thud.

She lay on her back, eyes facing upward and her blade knocked from her grip and resting about a good few feet away. Just out of reach. It was safe to say the spell Brakteon utilized was very effective.
Susan
The Wolf stood tall over the Dragon, his amber eyes staring at her without pride, satisfaction, or even rage. Knocking her back and disarming her was a feat not many could boast about, especially not a Findaran noble. If he wanted to ensure this advantage he could continue attacking her with spells while she was down. 

 He had still held back his power, even restricting himself from Blood magic, but Brakteon looked to the people around him instead. Would they truly be okay with him killing her? Was the pride of these people so much that they would allow such? In front of all her subordinates?

 This was not why he had come here. He had not traversed these cold lands to cause the strenuous relationship between the Kingdoms to be made worse. 

 This was not his enemy. The Brightmoon Claymore has bled many deserving, and maybe if he was on some righteous crusade, then he would continue this battle, but the road of vengeance is crooked and filled with jagged stones. Brakteon did not walk it as some savior. He needed the Countess, and he hoped that whatever gods had helped him this far would help him convince her. 

 He touched his bleeding leg, the wound was harsh, though nothing he had not walked away with. He also knew that having it when fighting, if she decided his death was worth more than that of the Sisters, was a bad idea. So, with a deep breath, Brakteon quickly applied Sanguine Recovery to himself, causing the wounds he had to close. Atleast halfway, he still needed the mana if she proved difficult.

Brakteon stepped forward and then stopped, his eyes falling on her sword. There was no telling whether she could recall it or not, if he got within striking distance his head could be rolling a moment later, so he stayed at a distance and drove his sword into the ground. A sign of pause, but he kept his grip on the handle so he could respond to an attack if it came. 

 "*Who did they take from you?*" Brakteon asks in Drowish, his accent scratched terribly against the language, and he felt that he might have messed up a word there, but he kept speaking regardless in a low enough tone that he knew only she would hear. "*The Sisters of Salvation have struck me too, cowardly taking the life of a friend, and I came this way for help, as I was sent by the Duchess... In a sense. I do not expect you to believe me, but I do not lie. I need your help, Countess Zrembeth Vrardru. Aid me in sending them all to the pits.*" 

 Brakteon gripped his sword tightly, and in his free hand, he readied a spell. He was not good at diplomacy, he was not good at reading people's expressions, only their attacks. So he prepared for the worst, but silently prayed for the best.
Lorenzo
Impulses were all that shot through Zrembeth as she lay. Within a matter of seconds she went from advancing with a burst of momentum. Calculated strikes all aimed at wearing down her foe as she tore away every scrap of his armor. To lying prone, dazed, and disarmed. She'd face spellslingers before. Even spellswords fell at her feet. But Brakteon was different. It was as though his magic and his blade were connected, rather than two separate weapons. His feint was masterful enough to get the upper hand against The Dragon.

There were a handful of gasps from the crowd of knights surrounding her. A few exchanging worried glances at the sight of their Countess. An expression that Wealbrig would never get from the Dragon herself, but a sign that things were finally in his own corner.

Zrembeth herself flailed her arms and legs against the stone. Her vision was blurred, her ears were ringing, and she gasped for air which had been forced from her chest. She knew not of what Wealbrig had planned or what he was doing, but all she knew was she was in the worst place for a warrior to be and she was desperately trying to fix that.

By the time her vision cleared was when the bright gleam of his glowing blade reflected off her armor. Rolling onto her stomach as she pushed herself onto her knees, wild eyes looking everywhere she could for where her weapon had gone.

He could end her. Though the Dragon was still armored, lightly injured and more than willing to beat Brakteon to death with her fists if needed. Her death was a very real possibility.

She prepared to dive. To lunge in a desperate attempt to rearm herself. She would almost certainly be struck in the attempt. She'd have to power through it and hope the damage wasn't fatal.

But before she was ready to make her last attempt to survive, her foe would join her in disarment. Driving his own blade once more through the stone. 

```Who did they take?```

His words were strained as he spoke. The language sounding broken on his tongue as though he were reading them aloud. Half of the words were hardly enough to make sense. Fortunate as Zrembeth was the only one close enough to make sense out of his attempt to communicate. 

He knew of her plight with The Sisters.

The Duchess seems to know as well.

And he was requesting her help in their destruction.

There was a pause as the two stared each other down. Only broken as Zrembeth slowly grabbed at the buckles at the bottom of her help. A few clicks of metal clasps against leather. Slowly, she slid her helm off of her head, revealing the face of The Dragon herself. Beneath the legend, beneath the terror, beneath that title and bulwark of metal, she was just another Drow.

Her knights seemed perplexed. The ones who had not seen her face until now gasped in surprise. The Countess letting the helm hang loosely in her right hand as she caught her breath. Only to whisper one word in response.

*"Yield"*

Not as a threat. But as a request. Or in Zrembeth's case, more of an order.

It wouldn't be long after she said those words that she advanced suddenly. Swinging her arm upwards as she used her very helmet as an improvised weapon to crash right into Wealbrig's already battered skull.

But now the question was would he yield after such a blow?
Susan
"Yield."

 Brakteon understood the word perfectly. On his way here, he decided to learn a few words: Yield, die, and eat. He knew that eventually, he would come across one of these words, but he expected the second word to be all he heard from the Countess, and yet here she was whispering it so that only his ears would pick it. 
 
 Could his words have reached her? Was his attempt at diplomacy finally paying off? Or was this a trick? 

 Brakteon pondered it. If he yielded, then what stopped her from swinging his sword and killing him? That would be a testament to her power. The Dragon fell the Wolf with his family's sword. They would write songs about it for ages, and his sword, his family's pride, would be in the hands of the Lazaroth Kingdom. 

 Then again, he was already here, he had shown his hand and had refused to kill her despite having the upper hand. 

 The Countess was a harsh creature, but her whispering and proceeding to use her helmet to attack him rather than her sword might have meant she would rather have their conversation elsewhere, that her defeating him before all these people was more of a political move than a necessary one. 

 Brakteon hated politics, but he understood the necessity of it. 

 He would have to trust this woman, as difficult as that might be

So Brakteon took the fall. He pulled his sword free and swung, but he held back his speed, having it so that it would only graze against her armor as the helmet slammed down against his head. 

 The force behind her swing was a tad overkill for someone who wanted him to yield, and if he was still as injured as before, he might have gotten concussed, instead, all it did was hurt, and he crumbled to a heap at her feet. 

 It might have looked overplayed, but he never did theatre and never will.
Lorenzo
```"Another victory, my lady, I never doubted you```"

Spoke Apollys, finally approaching Zrembeth with the blade of martial flux in her hands. There were very few who earned the right to touch such a weapon, let alone hand it to her. But Apollys was among the fortunate few. Even for the knights who were sworn to her. Zrembeth would give a quiet not, grabbing the weapon by the handle as it shifted back into a dagger form. Returning it to its sheath before glancing down at Wealbrig.

```"What shall be done with him, my lady? He is beaten yet he still lives. This was a duel to the death, was it not?"```

A silence between them hung in the air. Zrembeth herself still mulling over whether she would accept this surrender. If she shouldn't place her boot on his neck and stomp. After all, she told him to yield. Never made any promises after that. But... He was a proficient fighter. One who knew what very few didn't. That she was on the hunt for the order of trained killers. The Sisterhood of Salvation. He could have useful information if nothing else. An interrogation in a cell at the very least.

After that... Lazaroth had expected blood and it got it. But it had not received the death it was promised. Either that would have to come later or he'd have to offer something worth his own life.

"Summon Yhstryl. Bandage and heal this man then place him in chains. The fortified cell under watch from two knights. Ensure he's fed and comfortable. But not too much so. I plan to speak to him and decide whether he'll return to this square bereft of chains or bereft of life."

A quick nod.

```"Of course, Lady Vrardru"```
Susan
Brakteon underestimated how hard the Dragon of Lazarothi could swing a helmet. Despite his prior healing, he eventually fell victim to the blood loss and lost consciousness when her knights started dragging him back to this cell.

 He had woken up for a moment when they were tending to his wounds, but one of the guards got spooked and slammed the butt of his spear on his face, which he guessed resulted in his current headache and disorientation. 

 He took in his surroundings as his eyes regained focus. It was spacious for a fortified cell, resembling more of an old lounge than a place to keep prisoners. To the left of the room was a shed-like structure, a toilet he assumed, and to his right was a large pile of hay which he could use for a bed. The walls were built from red bricks that had faded with age, and he had been placed in between the makeshift bed and the crude loo. 

 The cell doors were steel, and unlike everything else, they seemed well maintained, polished even, and beyond them stood two guards who stared at him. A male Drow that gripped his spear, most likely the one that hit him, and then a female Drow who was shameless staring at him with a slight blush across her cheeks.

Brakteon looked down at himself and saw that he had been stripped down to his trousers. The medic had applied balms to his cuts and a bandage to his thigh, where the Countess had done the most damage. Clamped to his wrists were heavy black cuffs, which had glowing runes scractched into them. Spell Shackles. 

 They were very careful with him, and he could not blame them. How many have gotten close to killing their Master? How many Findarans dared to wander this far into their Kingdom? He had been too daring. 

 Even he was surprised he lasted this long. 

 He thought of Lyu, the Aarokocra that had accompanied him. He had told her not to speak to his family unless he was dead, and he hoped that she had seen that he had allowed the Countess to hit him, that this was all planned... For now atleast. 

 Brakteon sighed and leaned his head back against the walls. He could do nothing but await his fate in the dungeon of his potential killer. 

 He wondered where his sword was.
Lorenzo
How long had Brakteon been in that cell for? Hours? Days? Weeks? It wasn't clear as the knights who guarded him had no intention of answering even the most basic of questions. They were unyielding in their resolve, much like their countess. It spoke to the caliber of people that the Dragon attracts. There were far more merciful, more peaceful lords to serve. A knight who served the very duchess who sent Brakteon here would be of greater renown than a soldier of the Dragon. It was only those who shared the countesses zeal and cruel devotion to their land who act in service to her. These woman who were willing to lay down their life without a second thought with their lord willing to do the same.

It would be two of these woman that Brakteon would be alone with until the sounds of heavy, clattering footsteps could be heard outside of his cell. The heavy metal door slowly slid itself open as he would be greeted with the iron clad figure that had decimated him in the fight before. The countess herself, Zrembeth Vrardru. Even in the safety of her own keep she was still dressed for battle. Her blackened armor freshly cleaned of the blood which once stained it. At her waist the very dagger she had wielded rested. But the wolf would know full well that its form was a simple deception to any who would suspect the countess to be underequipped.

In her hand she held Brakteon's most treasured possession, his moonlight greatsword. It was an odd sight. When he last wielded it it was against a band of hardened warriors who were keen on putting their lives on the line just to claim it. Brakteon willing to lay down his own life for that very blade. Zrembeth, however, showed no sign of favor toward it as its blade rested against the ground, with her dragging it with her the whole way. Hopefully it wasn't dulled by now. 

"Leave"

She ordered to the two who kept watch. Wordlessly the two funneled out past Zrembeth as the heavy door shut behind them. Brakteon now alone and chained with Lazaroth's monster.

She released her grip on the blade, letting it clatter onto the ground before reaching at her waist to grab a scroll she had rolled up. Unfurling it, she would hold it in her iron grasp as Brakteon could hear her voice quietly muttering the words of an incantation. Most likely reading whatever was on that scroll. It wouldn't be long before a bright flash of light would burst as she scroll would begin to disintegrate in her grasp. Its purpose complete as whatever spell she had used it for had now been cast.

"Your blade"

She suddenly spoke in perfect common. Her Lazarothi accent was notable but the countess who didn't speak a word of the common tongue now suddenly was a fluent speaker. The result of the Tongues scroll she had just used for the sake of this discussion. In time it would fade and she would return to speaking Drowish exclusively. But for now Brakteon could understand her. And she could understand him.

"Disregarding its lunar glow what else is it capable of?"
Susan
Brakteon tilted his head as he studied the Countess with a spark of surprise. He had seen her without the helmet earlier when she had decided to bash his head with it, but he had been more worried about death then, now however, he was astounded by how, beneath the haunting metal that was her armor, was a woman who's beauty was on par with the Duchess. He knew elves and drow alike were blessed with it, but this was getting rather ridiculous. 

 He decided it was best not to comment on it. Both because it did not seem worth mentioning and because he felt the Countess was not one for flattery. He was on thin enough ice. Instead, he looked down at his sword and pointed behind her before he answered her question. From where she came, down to where she had dropped the sword, was a long line that carved through the floor. 

"Under the brightest moon, three blades were forged, 
Presented as gifts to the Great Wealbrig Lord,
The Claymore, the Cresent, and the one estranged, 
Infused with a light that shall never fade,
To be used in their fight for now and forever, 
These weapons of night shall never chip nor shatter. 
But the last of the three has been lost by the House 
And will only be found by the hound who loses their crown."

Brakteon sat up straight to adjust the shackles digging into his skin. 

 "The Brightmoon Claymore is from a set of three, though most believe the third to be a myth. For as long as I have had it and as long as those before me have wielded it, the Claymore has never needed to be sharpened, nor has it chipped. Many have tried to destroy it, but whoever or whatever made these swords forged them from something beyond my understanding and that of others. It can also easily be infused with magic, as there have been many spell blades before me." 

 He looked down at Zrembeth's dagger, his amber eyes examining the hilt before he looked back at his sword. 

 "Blades of magic are not a marvel in this world, many people possess such weapons, but they say that the lost sword did have some power infused into its metal. Aside from that there is not much else known of the swords."
Lorenzo
It was difficult to judge the reaction of the countess underneath her helm. The only sign that there was a person underneath all that metal was the reflection of two bright eyes against the faint glow of the torchlight. Zrembeth herself would allow Brakteon to tell his tale. But was increasingly disinterested in the history of it. She had known of its sharpness. During the time that Brakteon was undergoing treatment she examined it herself. Even swung the weapon a few times just to get the feel for it. To her surprise, it had the weight that she expected from viewing it at first glance. But on the battlefield Brakteon fought as though that weight was halved. It wasn't magically light, he was just that strong. The reason why the wolf would find his bindings had become exceptionally tight.

She had also noticed its sharpness as she dragged the weapon here. How it carved through the stone with mythical ease. Would her armor be able to stop such a blow? She expected a blow to the neck to crack her spine like a twig. But she still expected to be happily capitated. Now she wasn't so sure. 

Her hand quickly shot down to her blade as the wolf adjusted himself. Even in chains he was able to put the Dragon on guard. She wasn't sure if he'd be able to break free and they would have another fight on their hands. But Zrembeth was optimistic of they came to blows again. So long as she played things smart as she did last time. He was still recovering from a severe head wound. Hopefully that left him properly concussed not to try anything too egregious. 

A cold glare would be the only response the Dragon had to give to Brakteon in response to his tale. A family history that mattered to him but was utterly irrelevant to her. Her eyes would fall upon the blade she had tossed once more. Still not a scratch on it. The idea of claiming it for herself crossed her mind but never on the field of battle. Her blade was a gift to her mother from the blessed queen. She wouldn't dishonor Laz

Aroth by wielding the weapon of an outsider. Besides, being bound to a single weapon would do her no good, even if it was an exceptional weapon. But it had quite the heft. A fine blade for an execution if there ever was one.

Once she determined Brakteon was no longer an immediate threat she let her hand fall to her side again.

"Ethru Vrardru was her name."

The countess stated.

"In your broken butchery of my language you asked who it was the Sisterhood had taken from me. Her name was Ethru Vrardru. She was my mother."

The countess knelt down to be at the wolf's height as he remain chained to the floor. Her words laced with venom and bitterness as she continued.

"My mother fought the invading sea peoples during the Sea of Plenty. My queen rewarded her with the County of Blythwim and the very weapon I bested you with. She was a hero. An icon. She lead her forces and pushed back the encroaching invaders until the sea ran red with their blood. Saving countless lives and keeping the war from being drawn out with more violence. And she was repaid for her service with a poisoned dagger in her throat. My mother was the greatest woman I had come to know as a child and I watched her suffocate and bleed to death as all the onlookers watched helpless to save her. None of her achievements saved her that day. And the Sister who ended the life of Lazaroth's greatest hero escaped in the confusion. 

Did the duchess tell you of all this before she sent you to die?"
Susan
Brakteon noticed how she stepped back when he reshuffled his spot against the wall, her hand flying to her blade, despite him being chained down by these accursed cuffs. She was uneasy, and cautious, he figured after having held his sword for a while she had caught on to his brutal strength.

 But Brakteon was not eager to put her on edge, so instead he lowered his shoulders and dropped his ears, making him more complacent than he truly was. It seemed to work, but then again, he could not read her as he could others, her eyes were always in a perpetual glare, as if his very presence was a stain in this already rotten cell. The hate between their Kingdoms was one only she must have felt, because he had never bothered with the politics of their rulers. 

 Be it rain or sunshine, people would always find a reason to kill each other. What mattered here was that he got the Countess not to kill him. 

 When she knelt to be his height, Brakteon leaned back a bit, because he believed that leaning closer felt more threatening, and listened attentively to her story. Her Mother, the Countess before her, a hero to her people during the Sea of Plenty, was struck with a poison dagger. A tactic used commonly by the Sisters, ensuring the death of their target before they could get aid of any kind.

They had not used that tactic on Brakteon. They knew one person would be too easy for him to sniff out, so they ambushed him and kept him away from his friend till it was too late. 

 When Zrembeth finished speaking Brakteon took a moment before he raised his hands up to show three fingers. 

 "Firstly, though it might be insulting coming from me, I am sorry for the death of your mother. She deserved a better fate than what those cowards forced upon her. Secondly, with all due respect, you did not best me with that blade, you did not even have it in your grasp when you asked... Demanded that I yield. And thirdly, I was not aware of your plight before coming here. The Duchess sent me with doubt in her heart that I would survive our ordeal, I asked to know why you searched for the Sisters, and now I do. I lost a friend to them, a good man who simply wanted to make this world better than it could be, one step at a time."

 He looked to his sword and then back at her. "They ambushed me, knowing that without me being distracted I could have saved him. They gave me this." He pointed to the scar on his face. "And when I finally reached him..." Brakteon fell silent, taking a deep breath before he continued. "I have searched for them for decades, and every trail has gone cold. Then I learnt they walk through your kingdom and here I am."

 He raised his shackles, the runes seemingly burning brighter every time he moved. "I have not come here for the problems between our Kingdoms, Countess, I came to bury those responsible for my friend's death."
Lorenzo
Zrembeth was silent as the wolf spoke of his own plight. His own encounter. A friend. A nameless one but one who he seemed to care about deeply. Disbanded and distracted. Trapped and Attacked. At first it struck her odd that these assassins would be willing to let Brakteon go after their assault. After all, none would want a creature like him to seek vengeance against them. Though, from what she had seen on the field of battle she was inclined to believe that they never had the chance to put him down. Only to delay him. There would be a pause as the wolf concluded his tale before the countess would speak again.

"A tragedy, Brakteon Anteel Wealbrig, you have my condolences."

The dragon spoke in a tone too soft to be believed it came from the mouth of Lazaroth's dreaded monster. Regardless, that tone would not remain as kind as it once sounded as she stood to her feet again. Beginning to pace around the chain wolf like a shark fresh on the scent of blood in the water. 

"However, the death of your companion does not concern me. There are many in Lazaroth alone who have fallen victim to a Sister's blade. Several of them make up the knights who serve me. Who aid me in my quest to bring them to justice for what they have done. So that they no longer hold Lazaroath by the end of a dagger."

The sound of scrapping metal could be heard as the countess took hold of Brakteon's blade once again. Letting it rest upon her shoulder as she continued to circle the trapped warrior.

"But you must understand. The right to bury them is not yours, Brakteon Anteel Wealbrig, it is mine. By right of my mother, by right as Lazaroth's protector. You charge into our lands, a male not even familiar with our tongue. Willing to tear apart my home in your quest for revenge. I do not know why the Duchess did not turn you away as another vengeance seeker. And now that quest has lead you to challenge me, the Countess of Blythwim, to a duel. One that, no matter what extenuating circumstance dictates, you lost. I cannot allow you to rob me of my act of justice I will impose upon the Sisterhood. 

And even if I was inclined to let you leave, our duel was to the death. You yielded, yes, but now your fate is in my hands. While I have no love for that title I am called, it is that reputation which frightens the Sisterhood into hiding. Makes them think twice before stepping out from their hiding places to butcher Lazaroth's people. You came as a Findaran, as a male, willing to rob Lazaroth of its protector just for your revenge. Allowing you to leave is an act of political suicide. Your freedom must come at a heavy cost, if I allow you to pay it"

The light glow of Brakteon's blade would be near blinding as the Countess placed it right underneath his chin. Pressing against his throat.

"As it stands now, you are set to be executed in the square in the coming days with this very blade. I shall mount it within my chambers as my new headcutters blade and your body will be buried in the wilderness. Your grave nameless and your corpse left to rot. So tell me, Brakteon Anteel Wealbrig, why should I not cleave your head from your shoulders?"
Susan
Brakteon rolled his eyes with disregard. The talk of politics. Politics. Always about looking better than doing what needs to be done. Always about following protocol rather than accepting that rules are often a hindrance to do what is necessary. Brakteon had expected the Countess to grasp this, to understand that all the trouble that their titles give them is just nonsense. 

 But still she needed convincing, however Brakteon was no longer going to tiptoe along the thin line of delicacy. 

 "How many under your employ are capable of what I have done, Countess? How many who stand with you against the Sisters are truly a threat to them? You have earned your title ten times over, but you are just one woman in a sea of capable soldiers. You have seen what the Sisters can do in a matter of moments, how they can cut through a crowd like shadows and kill whoever their target is, all before you even realize what is happening."

 He pointed outside the cell. "What's to say they aren't in these very walls? One who killed my friend was the maid who ran the inn we stayed at for that night alone."

Brakteon gestured to his sword. "And I ask you, if I wanted to disgrace your home, would I have done the courtesy of a formal duel? You carry my sword now, tell me, if I wished to slaughter your ranks, how many would die before I would? Before you finally intervened?" 

 "If you believe it your right to kill the Sisters, then fine, I would step aside for you to pass your well earned justice. But justice matters not to those bastards, they poison, they hide, the strike when you sleep. They will not wait for you to pass judgment."

 Brakteon pointed to himself. "I am here to honor my Charge, even in his death. You might chain me here, but I have worn the guilt, the shame, the rage for years on end. Kill me, if you believe that would save you your reputation amongst your people, but I bet the Sisters would enjoy that as well. The dog who has chased them from spring fields to snowy tundra is finally dead, one less enemy in their wake, one less reason to fear."

 Brakteon leaned back. "I cannot convince you more than I have, Countess, I have shown skill in sword and magic that has thrown even you on your back. I do not understand the politics of your Kingdom, and that fault is mine, but I had a teacher once, a Drow, and he told me that the true words of a warrior are spoken by their sword. I do not come to claim your title, or dishonor your land. I came here for aid, so that my friend can be avenged. For I failed to protect him, and so I failed myself. I am bound to none now, none but shame and rage."
Lorenzo
The iron hand of the Dragon would grip the fur on the back of the wolf's neck. His head pulled backwards as he faced the cold stone ceiling of his cell. He could feel the hair on his neck cut as Zrembeth pushed Brakteon's blade further against his neck. Careful enough with the sharp edge to not decapitate him on accident. After all, it could glide through stone like nothing, flesh would be of little concern. And given she knew the exact amount of pressure was needed, it was clear that during the time that he was unconscious, Zrembeth had gotten quite familiar with his weapon in a remarkable short period of time. A martial genius at heart, while she did not wield it with the same strength, she carried it with the same level of skill.

"Or... I could save for the formalities and end it right now before you ever have the chance to harm my knights."

Brakteon could feel the sharp sting of a cut beginning to form on his neck. Drops of his blood gliding down his treasured weapon and forming a puddle before him on the cobblestone. The grip tightening around him like a vise.

"I want you to understand something, Brakteon Anteel Wealbrig. Perhaps "Politics" Was a poor word for describe what this is. I assumed it would be sufficient for you, but you seem to be dreadfully mistaken. I do not do anything for my *Beneficial reputation*. I am not called the Dragon because I am philanthropic. Not for my sense of justice. There are none who call me this name with admiration in their voice. I am called the Dragon because that is what I must be for the sake of defending my home. My enemies call me this because they believe me wicked. And they very well may be right. In that very square I have spilled the blood of hundreds who threatened my home of Lazaroth. 

I do not posture. I do not go to galas and mingle for my own social standing. I act. And it is because of that fact I am feared. Why my name is whispered with hate by thousands. It is this brutality which keeps my home safe. I became Lazaroth's Monster out of necessity. Do not assume me to be posturing for the sake of my 'reputation'.

My intentions were to execute you in the square. A symbol for my people to remain loyal. That outside threats have no place whilst The Dragon is perched. But if you make threats I say we skip the formalities and end it right here before you have the chance to free yourself. By the time I feel you struggle against your chains I'll have your throat slit within a fraction of a second.

Unless... You have a reason I shouldn't. You speak of your skills but I have warriors already. Many of them. But skills in combat is useless against a foe who hides in the shadows. Every trait you have stated is one I already have. Nothing unique that I am missing. Not only that but I have nothing to suggest your loyalty. That you'll obey my word and behave in any other matter than a rabid dog following the Sister's blood trail. As it stands right now, I am far better off without you. You have little to offer me. 

So speak your words, Brakteon Anteel Wealbrig. Convince me. Because if you don't, your life ends right here in this prison cell and you will be buried in the same grave I shall place the Sisterhood in."
Susan
The glow of the Brightmoon Claymore showed no fear in the eyes of its true owner. The Wolf glared at the Dragon in silence for a long moment, the tension in the air almost suffocating. Brakteon has been in a set of horrible situations, but he had to admit that this was one of the worst ones yet. She had the advantage, she had the sword at his neck with his blood trailing down its blade, yet Brakteon remained calm.

 "I seem to have been mistaken by your title, Countess. You are more soldier than Monarch, which is a quality I respect in high regard. However, you are wrong on two accounts. Firstly, I am an Old Gaurd Dog, not a rabid one, and secondly, as it is clear from our duel, it is not every trait we share. Allow me to demonstrate." 

 Brakteon slammed his neck against the prison wall, threw his legs up, locked them around Zrembeth's midsection, and twisted her with all his might. The quick action took the Countess by surprise as she was thrown on her side, releasing her grip on his neck but not the hold on his sword, and it dug into Brakteon's neck slightly more.

 However, Brakteon gritted his teeth, taking the pain with resilience as he threw his cuffs against the sword, slicing the Spell Shackles off and freeing the mana inside him.

He then quickly pressed two fingers against her helm while she still had his sword against his neck. They stayed like that for a moment, both in danger of death, but rather than fire a spell, Brakteon spoke. 

 "You are missing mana, Countess. I see your stance on the matter as a valid one. I am a man who came to challenge you before your people, and I am a man who dared to even pull my sword against you for nothing other than my pursuit of revenge, and I even had the balls to threaten your knights. So yes, I have been a tad overzealous, and you have no reason to believe I won't turn on you the instant I am through with the Sisters. So, I ask you this: What act would have you spare my sword the shame of killing its owner? What would you have me do to prove myself loyal to the cause? To show that I won't turn on you?" 

 "Ignoring our current situation, of course." He gestured to the sword currently slicing into his neck. "This is just a little precaution so you don't kill me so easily. I speak my spells out of habit, so I need not say anything to cast one, and at this range, I fear even if you kill me, you might not survive. So, Countess Zrembeth Vradru, how may this Old Guard Dog show that he is of use to the Dragon of Lazaroth?"
Lorenzo
The countess's first feeling was the sensation of her feet leaving the ground. She was keen to hear what this wolf had to say. To hear him plead for her mercy. To swear loyalty in her hunt. That she could intimidate this warrior into submission. He was held at blade point with his own weapon. A weapon that he knew could kill him in an instant. And she knew his strength was otherworldly. That with enough effort he could tear his bindings and make his escape. But not before she cut him down. What she hadn't accounted for was how fast he would be. How before she could even blink he leaped from the ground and tossed her to the solid cobblestone beneath her with a thud.

Her eyes widened. Her grip on the handle of his sword firm as she used every ounce of strength to keep it upright against his neck. She could see his arm extended. Two fingers. A conduit for mana unbound aimed directly at her just inches from her skull. She knew not of what magic he was capable of. If he even had any left from how much he had used during his battle prior. But it seemed to be enough for him to rely on whilst his life was in peril. The both of them now balanced on a tightrope between life and death. One they had stood upon so many times in the past.

Zrembeth cursed herself for not killing him when she had the chance. When he threatened her knights. When she battered him with her helm. He still lived because she was willing to put aside her title, her name, who she was just to see if she could make something out of him. Another who understands the pain she feels. Another to fight for the justice of. But she knew now that this would never work. His vengeance had driven him to madness. Brakteon Anteel Wealbrig was a man of action. A man who cared little for the consequences so long as he succeeds in his goals. A duelist. A monster.

He was just like her.

Her eyes softened at this realization. That scorn beneath her helm fading as she looked upon a monster just like her. A monster the Sisterhood had made. Though... She wasn't even sure of that now. 

She understood Brakteon. Better than she had her own family. And it saddened her. For she knew another monster like her couldn't exist in this world. Not one unchained. 

```"How may this Old Guard Dog show that he is of use to the Dragon of Lazaroth"```

He spoke as Zrembeth's free hand trailed down to her waist, gripping the handle of her dagger.

"Rest, old dog"

She quietly answered as she brought up her family blade. Within moments it had assumed the form of a shield which she placed right up against her face where Brakteon had placed his fingers. Using her free hand, she glided Brakteon's own cherished blade against his neck. Cutting through flesh and bone until finally severing his head from his body.