<div class="floatleft">(http://i1067.photobucket.com/albums/u423/Danny_Maesepp/portrait_zps9hrd6ael.png)</div><hr/><strong>Name</strong>: Damian Wayne<br/><strong>Nom de Guerre</strong>: Robin<br/><strong>Affiliation</strong>: The 'Bat Family'<br/><strong>Time</strong>: Friday the 2nd of June 2017<br/><strong>Location</strong>: Gotham Central Museum, Central Gotham<br/><strong>Tagging</strong>: Everyone<hr/><br/>Damian had been poised to strike, landing nimbly beside the Enchantress, his blade flashing with the reflection of fire and lightning. Poised, but hesitant, as the witch rounded on him and smiled. His blade froze before her, not by any magic or trickery, but by his own hand.<br/>"I sense much rage in you, young one," the Enchantress hissed. He could almost feel her inside his head, a caress against his mind as sure as the one she sought to give him by reaching out with her hand. He recoiled from her touch, backing up a few paces, but he couldn't shake the sorceress from his thoughts; visions of Talia and Ra's al Ghul, his mother and grandfather, welcoming him into their embrace and accepting who he'd chosen to become. They cast aside their notions that he was betraying their legacy, that he wasn't fit to wield the blade of the Demon; they took back their vows to disown him.<br/>"What is this?" he gasped aloud. He knew it was part of her trickery - her ability to delve into the deepest desires of the heart, and twist those yearnings into compulsion to do her bidding. But he hadn't imagined it to feel so<em>real</em>.<br/>"The grandchild of the Demon's Head..." the Enchantress pressed, seeming to revel in unraveling Damian's secrets openly. "So much death and destruction in your future, young one..." she continued, and Damian realised she wasn't taunting him; she approved, and it turned his stomach. Even as she spoke, he saw before him a wasteland of corpses. Some he recognised, others he didn't, but he was certain that all had deserved their fate. He only dealt out justice to those that had earned it, and the sword was his final judgement. Some people were simply too dangerous to be left alive, no matter what his father, or Dick, or Alfred might say.<br/>Standing atop a mound of twisted bodies, their death screams etched eternally into their cold, pallid faces, he saw himself soaked in blood and carrying the sword of his grandfather. He was unrecognisable, with long hair obscuring much of his face, and metallic black and red armour that looked like a twisted, demonic tribute to both Nightwing and the Demon's Head.<br/>"Join me little Robin, help me reshape this world into what it should be," the Enchantress tempted, her voice breaking through the visions conjured up in his mind. "I can help you bring your grandfather back... your mother back... and ensure you never burn in the fires of Hell as you are destined to..."<br/><br/>His mind clouded over with visions of a Gotham aflame, and Damian yelled out with anguish.<br/>"<em>Master Damian,</em>” a warm and familiar voice piped up in his ear. “<em>Your mother and I disagree on many a core principle, but I do hold Ms Al Ghul in high enough esteem to believe she will not allow her actions to be dictated by some magic wielding tart</em>.”<br/><em>Robin,</em>he thought to himself.<em>That's who I am, and that was my choice.</em><br/>"You're good, Enchantress," Damian commended her, with snide superiority returning to his voice, "but my grandfather taught me the difference between reality and illusion long ago. Any other cheap tricks in your repertoire?" he snapped.<em>Thank you, Alfred</em>, he thought to himself. He didn't voice his gratitude; even if he felt it internally, he would not be perceived to be indebted to anyone, not even Pennyworth.<br/>“<em>Robin, are you able to confirm if her heart is in her body?</em>” Alfred asked. A seemingly odd question under ordinary circumstances, but this situation was far from ordinary. Damian fixed the Enchantress with a smirk, one of cruel amusement.<br/>"Only one way to find out," he replied, and whether or not Alfred would protest his method of choice, he set to work, dancing around the lashing vines, heat beams and lightning that were hailing down upon the witch. Trusting in his armour to help him endure the cold that seemed to be enveloping the area, he rained thrust after thrust at the Enchantress, where her heart should be if she were a normal human, occasionally feinting and slashing at her, or lashing out with feet and fist alike, a flurry of onslaught intended to confuse her and force her to inadvertently expose herself to one potentially fatal blow...