My calligraphy is somewhat improving.  I'm still no master but its a lot better than when I started.  I find myself really enjoying it, a lot more than something as studious as this would normally elicit from me

The Last Dance

A story written at the behest of a certain Sharm (allegedly of Azeroth)

The smoke cleared somewhat as the wind blew enough for them to see each other once more. The violet-blue sparks of her readied magic cascaded gently around her, serenely unaffected by the smoke, wind or the battle that had just occurred.  Her golden tresses were possessed of no such discipline, and were chaotically tossed every which way.  Her green eyes narrowed as they met his steel grey ones.  Her mouth tightened in angry determination.

His face betrayed no emotion, as was appropriate for a blackguard of Moloch. Vile black-green tendrils of smoke-like vapors swirled about his armor clad form, seeming to caress the ornate armor, with its menacing skull motifs and ebony runes of dark power.  His skin had taken on an unnatural pallor, his hair a pale, sickly gray.  Nothing about him seemed alive.  Nothing like she remembered.  Not like they used to be, all those summer days of yesteryear.

Thinking of that time brought a tear to her eye before she could catch herself.  Her face briefly lapsed into a contraction of mourning.  It was in that flicker of time that his eyes lost a fraction of his icy composure, and his focus seemed to diminish, as if he were no longer observing the situation at hand, but staring down some corridor of time and memory.

It lasted but briefly before the swirling vapor around him slashed and writhed, and his eyes hardened once more.  Raising his sinister blade, crackling with dark negative power, he charged once more.  She, too, gathered herself and swung her staff in a wide arc, the powerful Ileth’ar gem at its tip glowing a brilliant white-blue. She was enveloped in a translucent blue sphere, while simultaneously a wave of raw kinetic force shot forward, further tearing apart the ground. The wave hit him, yet barely budged him, though it did siphon off some of the momentum of his charge. He brought his sword around and above his head, preparing an overhead slash

She had only a second to react, and used that second to focus all her attention on her shield, pouring all her power into fortifying the barrier as she braced for the oncoming blow.  His blade connected with her shield, grunting as he pressed forward, slowly pushing through. Icy fear began to grip her as she realized she had perhaps seconds until the raw power of his cured blade overcame her magical defenses.  Mind racing, she took a gamble and reached forward, placing her hand on his face, and from her fingertips discharged a blast of brilliant light into his eyes.

He let out a roar and staggered back, his vision dazzled briefly while his own perverse sorcery worked to dispel the shock to his vision. Through the searing blindness something else was fighting to get through as well: the memory of her hand on his face, her warm and alive skin on his corrupted, yet technically living, form.

The swirling vapors around him sputtered as he was assaulted by memory and longing. He recalled a time when she had caressed his face eagerly, rather in desperate defense of her life. He remembered her smell, her smile, her laugh.  His road had been so long and so utterly corrosive, that he had forgotten what a laugh was, what it was like to smile.  A wave of emotion rose up within him, weakening the darkness somewhat as the storm of emotion diluted the hatred and madness within.

For the first time in a very long time, he asked himself what he was doing. Like a man waking up, it was only dawning in increments where he was, and even who he was. She stood before him watching the conflict on his face play out. He stared at her, seeming to see her for the first time.  Hell’s prize was not to be denied, however, and the darkness asserted itself anew, reminding him how he came to this dark path in the first place. All the hurt, disappointment, bitterness and anger. His brow furrowed as the old wounds were opened up anew.

She saw all these warring emotions battling across his face, hope struggling up from some tightly locked closet deep inside her.  Then she saw the anger restore itself in him and that hope crumbled, and she too underwent the agony of the past once more. He raised his weapon again, and brought it swinging in a sideways arc. It was a strike of passion rather than calculation, though, and she was able to deflect it with her staff and magic. She knew she could not hold him for long. He had many slain mages under his belt, and he was in fact specially equipped and empowered for resisting the arcane.

He bellowed, part wail and part warcry, a thunderous sound filled with all his vast pain and regret. She saw that he was now sobbing, his face a contorted grimace of equal parts fury and bitter sorrow.  The raw anguish in that cry touched her heart, and in that moment she wanted nothing more than to embrace him and comfort him.

There was no chance of that, though, as he resumed his furious offensive. The blows rained on her one after another. She dodged and blocked as best she could but it was clearly a losing battle. In desperation she diverted all her power into transforming her staff into an offensive weapon forming a brilliant blue-white spear of pure magic, her last hopeless counter-strike. As he swung one final deathblow, his blade a jet black sabre of raw infernal entropy, she jabbed upward with the last ounce of her strength. Her thrust pierced his ebony breastplate, lancing through his chest and exiting his back. Their eyes met, his shock and agony staring into her grief and exhaustion. They remained locked as his sword, carried on by momentum, ripped into her side, cutting her nearly in half.

A red haze of pain filled her world as she collapsed onto her side, her vision already beginning to swim and fade. He too collapsed, sinking to his knees as the energy spear that had vanquished him reverted back into an inert Ileth’ar staff. The profane power bestowed upon him faded. He was now simply an expended asset, and the darkness abandoned him.

His clouding eyes were now a more natural blue, and he turned them toward her, rolling his head in order to look at her directly. For the last time they locked their gaze on each other. At last, it was settled and done with.  The greater conflict would continue of course, but their war, their struggle, was finally over.

With the last remnants of his once unstoppable strength, he reached a trembling, armored hand toward her. Somehow she dredged up the will to reach back slightly. Their hands fully clasped, and she even managed a smile. “I love you” he managed to mouth as their savage wounds overcame them, and their eyes glassed over.