Description: Ever since her encounter with a mysterious man, Farah's desire to face one singular foe continues to drive her relentlessly, a hunger she has no name for. A chance encounter during an excursion to find him has her cross paths with a warrior who, against all else, feels the need to question what dark thoughts gather in Farah's heart.
It is morning, but the sun is up and the air is crisp and cool. A gentle touch of melting frost marks the grass in places, and the slight chill has kept many people from visiting the park so early. Tranquility hangs over the pleasant greenery, broken only by the occasional series of rhythmic footfalls as a jogger makes their way to better fitness. Upon one grassy rise is seated the distant figure of a woman, cross-legged and shallow of breath as she silently meditates.
A common enough sight, even at this time of the year. There is nothing particularly unusual about her; at least that the eye can comprehend. Amy Johnson may be a Templar, but her manner of dress - while unique - is understated enough that she blends into the background as a mere dark speck. To one side of her lies a small rucksack, a red folder sticking out of its opened top flap being the only sign of colour. Even her eyes are closed.
Nothing would be strange or distracting at all, if not for the curiously displaced fog that mills around her. And only around her. Greyish-white wisps float and billow in lazy knots above the ground, their combined depth barely reaching past her waistline, and only extending a few feet in each direction as they gradually feather at the edges and dim into obscurity. Though her body is still and her eyes closed, the movements of this mist do betray her inner focus. She is shifting minute muscles throughout her body, doing so almost subconsciously, training her inner awareness...
It is likely she is not fully aware of the small display she is mounting.
Meanwhile...
Close to the body-conscious student population of Seijyun, never mind the simple residents of Southtown themselves who might be the same, the Park is no stranger to early-morning exercise types. It's thus possible to establish a pattern of regulars, if you are the type who keeps track of such things. Habituees do indeed keep a running tally so that newcomers are something that gets noticed. Sometimes the newcomers turn into regulars and all is well. Sometimes the newcomers are creepy and erratic and a little weird, and they turn into regulars too, but not in a good way.
Farah's starting to get a rep as the latter.
It's disguised as a morning walk, but frankly, even in a multicultural place like Southtown, Farah Tenjou stands out. She has that... quality, whatever it is, that makes people notice her. And thus people notice her 'morning walk' ends at the same bench, every morning. And every morning she seems to stop and stare at it for a long time, before turning and moving on, a dark look on her face. There's no disguising that she's there looking for someone and no hiding that she's not finding that person, either. It's not as if she stamps her feet or swears or even does anything more than narrow her eyes for a moment, but... people know. They definitely, definitely know.
This morning is no different.
There is something compelling here to come back every morning, looking for him. The same dark thread wound around her spirit that has compelled her to do much in the name of supposed self-improvement, lately. If you ask the people around her, nobody would argue that Farah is 'self-improved'. If anything, she's gone from generally good-natured to utterly insufferable when certain topics come up. That mysterious goal of hers, that drive to encourage others to shine brightly by shining herself, has been twisted and perverted, somehow. In a way, it's a tribute to how the most noble of impulses, flipped on its end, can turn into the most terrible thing dressed up like the holiest of crusades.
Fitting, then, that as she's turning to leave her vigil over a simple park bench, the dusky-skinned young woman turns toward the mysteriously localized mist, peering into it curiously.
Man is not a kindly creature. Even the purest of souls are capable of bringing great atrocity to bear upon their fellows; and everything in-between is fair game, from jealousy and hatred to plain and simple selfishness. Very few are free from sin, if indeed any are, and it only takes a well-timed ill word or petty accident to turn the so-called innocent to thoughts of spite and violence. It is better by far to admit one's flaws and learn to live with them. A goal's worth may be dictated by the path it takes, or by the ultimate outcome. Meaning, and value, lie in the eye of beholder.
Amy's eyes behold nothing as she continues to explore her body from its centre, turning imperceptibly from the abdomen to send her own intent shifting hither and thither. Her mind is free from the burdens that trouble Farah, kept as dormant as possible - but it wanders, as minds are wont to do. It also keeps her senses active. In the still of the park, and in the deep spell of meditation, even the slightest sound registers somewhere. Though the Templar has no trace of the psion's gift, she is attuned in her own way...
Her eyes slowly unlid, stormy blue lit by the morning sun as she slowly, gently raises her hands in tandem with a soft insistence from the centre. Strong, slender fingers drift through the lapping mist, and it follows, drawing up over her body like a much-frayed curtain. That gaze finds Farah, registering her presence from across the field, but Amy does not react.
The mists do.
Betraying a sudden lapse in her concentration, a burst of self-conscious pride as she realises she is being watched, those tendrils briefly flicker a brighter white before they harden and deepen, gyrating outward in a broadening wave with a graceful, easy motion from the seated woman's hands. Her vision remains locked upon Farah, and despite seeming almost to stare through her, she seems slightly quizzical. As though trying to work out what she feels from this presence. It's not usual. Even in an unusual world. But the beholder knows not what she beholds...
There are, despite the opinion of even the rare few that know enough to call it 'psycho power,' many different ways in which psychic powers can manifest. For some, it is merely a hammer of light and force, one they wield with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. For others it is merely a tool for powering the body, a force barely different from chi they use to accomplish the near-superhuman feats that are everyday in the fighting world. Some, however, have the rare ability to see into peoples' hearts. Not to read their thoughts but to understand their spirit, and connect with them. Farah has no name for it, but it IS 'Soul Power', for better or for worse.
Right now, however, that lens into the heart is clouded and dark. Like a colored lens, it lets in an image of what can be seen but inevitably changes it to appear as something it isn't: distorted, tainted.
The Egyptian turns that soul-piercing gaze on the Templar in the mists, and sees... what she needs to see.
It's Denji. Any idiot who knows the both of them could explain that, but sadly 'any idiot' that fits the description is the erstwhile Wang Long, who is many miles away from this scenario. The girl is seeking him out, though what she'll do when she finds the mountain-bred chi prodigy is anyone's guess. Those dark fingers gripping her heart tell her to find him, to prove... something to him. To make him understand. To shine bright, to shine so brightly that he's blinded by her radiance. Were she the type to quote movies, Farah might say 'all shall love me, and despair.' Love of any kind can be turned so easily to hate, because they have so much in common.
She approaches Amy because the gravity of her purpose brings the two together, without question. Denji isn't here, but this woman, with an aura like a tempest, is. The star shines just as bright regardless of the sky... and it shines far away from anything, alone in the firmament.
"Ironically," the dark-skinned woman says, glancing at Amy once she gets close, "you stand out."
Amy would not describe herself as one who 'shines', no matter what her first and most influential master would have her believe. That darkness in her spirit is nothing to do with foul intent - it is her conflict within herself, consuming self-doubt and uncertainty as to what precisely her own goals should be. It is something she is working hard to overcome, in her own quiet fashion. She feels she has made progress in this regard, though it has come at a high cost in certain other aspects of her life.
But sacrifice, she has come to know, is a part of living. Emotional needs and physical well-being must often be relinquished in order to better oneself. In order to be better for /others/. There lies an important distinction she should begin to make; another source of inward guilt, inspired partly by the reason behind that shining silver cross hanging from her neck by a delicate-looking chain.
Yes, she is conflicted. And no, she cannot control her power. Not yet.
Farah's approach is marked by a transfixed gaze, though still the Templar's primary focus is upon herself. The mists slip and twine around her fingers, but the motions slowly begin to cease. A long exhalation is made, palms pressing down before her abdomen, as the girl speaks. That ethereal fog is condensed, pressed low to the ground once more, now heavier, darker. Far more gray than white. The Templar's chin lifts, an eyebrow curving and a smile brushing parted lips as she regards the dusky-skinned Egyptian.
"Funny," she states simply, distantly, "You don't look American."
Breathing a sigh, she begins to shake out each arm in turn, rolling her shoulders to dispel the ache of extended support. She does not rush herself, taking the time even to brush twin sweeps of raven-black hair behind her ears before she returns her attention to Farah. She is still unable to gauge her fellow warrior, not even sure that she is such. But who else would approach her from afar, and make such a strange remark? Amy is not stupid.
"Good morning to you," she offers at last, proving that she may at least be somewhat strange. At least there is a hint of self-admonishing amusement in her tone. "So here I am, surrounded by cold and grass and the song of a few hardy birds... why would it be ironic that I stand out?" She cants her head to one side, staring intently into those violet eyes, "I was the only person here."
Despite herself, Farah cracks a faint smile at 'American.' Her mother the al-Jazeera journalist would find that amusing, perhaps because as an Egyptian, she has often laughed off the idea that her participation in civic journalism in the Middle East is a result of her corruption by Western ideals. When Farah asked her about it as a child, her mother had said, 'The freedom to question isn't a Western ideal. It's a human one.'
"Because mist usually conceals things," is the Egyptian's answer. There's not much reason in disguising the truth of the situation. There is an irony, to her, in that the way the mist moves around this woman draws those in the know to her, rather than pushing them apart. Against the grey-white mist, Amy's stormy blue aura stands out like a lighthouse in reverse, a hole in the world in the shape of a person. It is, for lack of a better word, compelling.
Dark fingers close in. What light is more welcome than the sun that burns away the storm?
"Granted, mist is new to me," Farah says, closing her eyes for a moment. Was there mist in Alexandria? Certainly there must have been, on the sea, but as her lids come down and memory starts to well up, what she *remembers* is the burning heat of the sand and the cool, pale blue of the ocean. Her violet eyes open again, and she fixes them on Amy. "And in any event, I don't think it was any mundane thing that made you stand out from the background."
"I hadn't thought of it that way," the Templar thoughtfully admits, considering her long and turbulent history with the energy surrounding. She leans back, bracing herself against the cold grass with one bare hand as the other idly twirls through the fog. It is no longer as responsive, though one as observant as Farah will note it does strive still to move with her. The effect is subtle, and hypnotic if watched keenly enough. Their relationship appears to be synergetic, yet Amy seems almost reverent of the mist.
She begins to chuckle as the Egyptian draws to a conclusion, their gaze meeting once more. The raised hand stops meandering through the chilly air, drifting to her breast, over that cross, as Amy shakes her head. "Heaven knows that has been true all my life," she offers quietly, "But indeed, there's nothing mundane about it. It's... special, and I suppose that says something about me, too." She raises her chin, introducing herself with a sense of pride that seems almost to dare the psychic to disagree. "Question."
It sounds almost like an order. But she continues.
"You see me as trying to hide, and yet you approach me. What does /that/ say about you?" Such a blunt thing to ask. She sounds genuinely curious, however, and is unashamed of the close attention she pays to the girl as she awaits a response. Dark eyes remain hard to read; for anybody else, the Templar's intent would be difficult to comprehend. To Farah she may be an open book - wearing a philosophical, inquisitive and ultimately well-meaning heart beneath an opaque outer sleeve.
"What does it say about our society, might I ask?" Farah says, responding to Amy's question with a question of her own. It's not polite, of course; it has the ring of argumentation, as if the original speaker's question wasn't worth asking, but at the very least Farah does the other woman the courtesy of explaining her response. "My greeting someone of interest is only strange compared to the norm, wouldn't you say? Besides, I don't think you're trying to hide. I'd think there are easier places and times to do that. Though..." There's a pause, here, while Farah gathers her thoughts. How to express them? She *does* perceive Amy as wanting to hide, but not consciously. It's as if that concealing mist is an... undertone, something she does reflexively, like armor. But would saying that to the woman actually get Farah anywhere? No.
Thus, she shakes her head. "It's nothing."
For a moment, the Soul Star goes quiet. Thankfully, she's good at keeping her inner turmoil under wraps, because it does indeed rage within. She can hear that silken voice in her head as if it were a serpent coiled around her shoulder, whispering only to her, contributing to the heavy-lidded and hypnotized expression she seems to wear for just a moment. Show her your strength. Make her understand. There's no mist that can obscure you.
Farah looks down at a hand she didn't know she was clenching into a fist, and then opens it, fingers uncurling, as she looks into her palm for a moment at something that isn't there.
"Besides, this is Southtown," Farah says at last, bringing her face up, smiling pleasantly. "If I didn't say hello to other fighters at random, I'd be going *against* convention." It's the statement that is admittance and question, all in one; I'm a fighter. I assume you're a fighter. But how you react to that little sentence makes all the difference in the world...
'You don't want to talk about yourself.'
She almost says it, but much like Farah she thinks better of it. The challenge in her tone is heeded, and not immediately accepted; instead, the Templar lifts her shoulders in a minute shrug, shifting the heavy mass of her jacket. It is not a careless gesture, but one that acknowledges a passing thought. She may return to it later. For now, she listens peacefully to the girl before her, reacting with but a mild, inquisitive frown at her insistence that the dispelled thought is meaningless.
That is a feeling she knows. To speak too much, and reach too far.
"It's okay," she offers, tone low, as Farah looks into her palm. She may conceal her feelings well, and the Templar knows not what they are. But she can sense a touch of the kindred about this striking teenager. Whether this is merely because they are of an uncommon breed, she also remains uncertain. Still she returns in kind the smile that is given. The observation is certainly apt.
"That's a lesson I'm only just beginning to learn. I've spent a lot of time..." She hesitates without lacking confidence, rolling the word around her mouth before finishing her sentence, "Hiding. Living as quietly as I could. So much has happened, and I've focused only upon myself." Consumed with doubt, though she does not explicitly state as much. Nor that she suspects it makes her a coward. With all that this world has been through, and all that it continues to go through, day by day. "I promised I'd make amends for that."
Drawing and releasing a breath, she moves to stand, doing so with little effort from her arms, simply unfolding her legs and standing up. The mist billows unnaturally, clinging to her hips. A momentary stretch relaxes her, before she offers a hand to Farah. Her flesh will be cold to the touch; clearly she has been here for some time.
"I'm Amy, and I've got an awful lot more to learn."
"Hiding, huh..."
Farah hides in plain sight.
Though neither of these women knows it, it is the far tendrils of Vega that wind darkly through Farah's subconscious, a serpent all the more dangerous for how well concealed it is. As when they first met, and the girl inadvertently dispatched one of Shadaloo's more mindless rank and file, the Dictator's control is not a hammerfist, unmistakable in its lack of subtlety, but rather a whispering influence, buried deep. Farah has always felt apart from other people, divided from them. Her desire to turn that feeling to good ends led to her desire to inspire others, and Vega's dark whispers have turned the need to inspire to the need to dominate.
If she cannot be loved for what she is, then perhaps she can be cherished... or feared.
When she takes Amy's hand, the contrast is expected; Farah's hand is warm and dry to the bordering-on-clammy cool of Amy's dew-moist palm, and her handshake is firm without being overbearing, strong without the action becoming more threat than greeting. Those impulses... well. They seem to be grounding themselves in other ways, as someone as perceptive as Amy might well notice. The Egyptian speaks, as she takes her hand back. "Farah, and... likewise, perhaps."
Does she have more to learn? Perhaps. The voice had suggested that the potential for great power lie locked away in Farah, restrained by nothing more than her emotional state, perhaps, or the fear of wielding it. And here, then, is the great difference between them. Amy speaks of the need to learn, but from whom? Farah speaks of the need to learn, but the implication is that she has little to learn ABOUT anything but herself. This, perhaps, is why she asks airily, "I wonder what we might learn from each other."
Up until this point, Amy has focused not upon the physical form of the younger woman - but on attempting to discern who she is, where she has come from and what her intent may be. It is important to understand others. She has reached the conclusion that this may be the only way to gain true insight into oneself. She also has been told she is special; unique, potentially powerful. But there are so many gifted people in this world, perhaps millions, and the torrent of history runs deep. Can there be any part of her that cannot be found reflected elsewhere? In another human creature?
Farah feels familiar to the Templar. A normal person would say that she identified with the other woman. She has to wonder if her own admitted desire /for/ an identity does not make this moot, because common ground can be found with almost anybody. And will be found, by those that seek it to validate their relationships. Down this road lies madness, she decides.
So she clears her mind, and looks at Farah for the first time.
The girl is beautiful. She is naturally so, though does not carry herself with the arrogance that she well could. She also seems too slender to carry the strength transmitted through her supple fingers. And that tightly controlled aura... it is unlike anything Amy has felt in her travels, even allowing for the distinct properties held by each individual of any power.
"Pleased to meet you."
It is not spoken with conceit, but a gentle inclination of the head that imparts a respect that does not need to be earned. The guardian of the mist knows of her own tendency to judge, to judge harshly, but in this case it does not seem warranted. The Egyptian seems to possess a certain quality. Compelling, she unconsciously echoes the girl's own judgement. Whatever the result, it is worth uncovering the nuances of a person like this.
What might they learn?
"There's no sense wondering," Amy begins, stepping away, beginning to remove her heavy jacket, "About something you can simply do. I believe the bounds of etiquette allow me to issue a challenge?" There is a little mischief in her tone, though it is well wrapped in a stoic outer shell. She will give of herself completely no more than Farah will, at least in the here and now. The weighty garment falls to the floor with a dull smack, and the Templar flicks out her wrists to each side, her posture sinking in accustomed fashion.
"Teach me about yourself."
COMBATSYS: Amy has started a fight here.
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Amy 0/-------/-------|
The way she speaks and moves, even the way she's cloaked in mist. There's something about Amy...
"Alright, then. I'll do that."
...that seems to come right out of the mists of history itself.
If her mix of Egyptian and Japanese heritages wasn't enough of a cultural melange, when the young woman slips into stance, the mix becomes even more ecclectic. The set of her feet, the raising of her hands, all belie a Wing Chun-esque style, one of the soft-style Chinese martial arts that is all about movement and the redirection of force, rather than the hard strikes of kung fu and kempo. Taking a slow breath, Farah reaches into a pocket and produces a long blue ribbon, the color of the dusk sky, which she ceremoniously ties around her right wrist, the tails of it billowing out behind her in some unseen wind.
It has all the solemnity of a knight strapping on his scabbard and blade, a warrior receiving some sort of totem before heading into battle. It shows on her face, in her posture; once that step is taken, there's no going back.
'Teach me about yourself,' Amy had said, and the dark velvet serpent in her consciousness sees easy prey. She will know all about you by the time this is done. Show her how brightly you shine. "I look forward," Farah says quietly, "to the lesson." A statement that in any other context is frustratingly ambiguous, in this instance seems painfully prideful, even arrogant.
Yet... discordant.
Something is awry.
However, Farah is also surging forward, attempting to grab hold of Amy's wrist and send the Templar to the ground upon which she so recently meditated in one fell swoop... so depending on how good she is at splitting her focus, that discord may or may not seem apparent.
COMBATSYS: Farah has joined the fight here.
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Amy 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Farah
COMBATSYS: Farah successfully hits Amy with Quick Throw.
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Amy 0/-------/------=|-------\-------\0 Farah
Farah's stance draws attention to another similarity between the two women, as Amy raises her own hands into a relaxed guard before her, her every joint open above a deeply rooted base. It is far from the high, aggressive posture of a striker. Whilst the Templar's physique does hint toward a certain amount of 'external' training, a definite sense of strength in her athleticism, she holds herself with a soft, yielding readiness. The only real tension seems to be the relic of a driven personality; a weakness she will likely be seeking to eliminate as she grows.
Stormy eyes watch the Egyptian undergo her own preparations, that gaze intent and focused within seconds. Almost as though Amy has simply reverted to the mindset she was discovered in, distant and meditative. But her attention is now wider-ranging, the mist creeping from around her feet to spread a slow, insidious field of ethereal grey-white across the impromptu battlefield. Farah's remark, uncertain in nature, causes the faintest of frowns to mar the lady knight's brow. But she says nothing, merely nodding in acknowledgement.
Though perhaps this seed of discord provides a small advantage in the opening exchange. Amy looks prepared for the snatching hand - she starts to twist at the hip even as she is hauled over - but something goes wrong, and she strikes the crisp ground with a restrained grunt of pain. A touch of surprise in her eye, she manages to recover into a short, direct roll, twisting up off her shoulder and rising with her arms swaying up before her. Forearms cross in an 'x' as she comes up in a crouch, esconsced in her summoned mist.
But she is blocking nothing. Then what...?
The answer comes as the Dragon's Breath ripples, a tendril of energy lashing from the shallow, milky depths with startling speed. As the Templar closes her left hand to a fist, it grips for a hold upon Farah's leg, and with the seamless, flowing parting of Amy's arms she is pulled forward and down, violently invited to join her opponent upon the grass.
COMBATSYS: Amy successfully hits Farah with Quagmire.
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Amy 0/-------/-----==|====---\-------\0 Farah
She should have known to watch the mist. Yet, persistently, the energy of the Earth and its various manifestations are Farah's albatross; they are as invisible to her as her soul-reading sense is to most individuals. Her eyes are trained on Amy, but she doesn't make the connection between her movement and the mist until it is too late. The tendril of mist slips into Farah's guard and hurls her to the ground with some force... perhaps more than one might expect from such a technique. When she rolls to her feet, kneeling for a moment, then standing fully, she gives Amy a faint smile. A smile with something behind it, but what is anyone's guess.
It was a fair strategy. A smart strategy, even. One Farah should be aware of, take note of, but hardly one to become angry about, yes?
No. She's going to keep you from your true potential with... tricks. Silliness. Because she can't face your power head on.
The tension of those voices, of warring internal impulses, is barely detectable behind the forcibly even tone of Farah's voice. "Interesting technique," she admits, being neutral for the time being. And then she's on the attack. It's a trio of strikes, sweeping, arc-like hand movements that flow from one to the other. It's as if someone reinterpreted Fei Long's Rekka Ken -- or, perhaps, his student Alma's version -- in Baguazhang, exchanging the hard, fast movements for flowing, circular strikes, the tails of that cobalt blue ribbon swirling about in their wake.
COMBATSYS: Amy blocks Farah's Summer Storm.
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Amy 0/-------/----===|====---\-------\0 Farah
It seems, to any regular person, each of these two women is as difficult to read as the other. It's unfortunate that Amy is in a critical way that much less unusual than the Egyptian, and that smile's true intent cannot be interpreted. She may already be incorrect in her assumptions, but the Templar has long believed herself to be a fair - if not entirely accurate - judge of character. There are breeds of arrogance, nuances of pride, and Farah does not seem to fall on the scarred side of the coin.
Yet fall, she does, toward the waiting earth. The mists are ready to embrace her, though it is curious that none seem to strike further. That she can manifest so much - and so readily - speaks volumes of the potency that Johnson may one day bring to bear. But why can she not simply overwhelm an opponent? Why is the fight not already over? One glance at those deep blue eyes will tell any discerning warrior that the Templar is not holding back. Another question.
As Farah rises to her feet, her older opponent is moving in similar fashion. They share a certain rhythmic flow to their style, Amy's arms following an orbital path to their guarding positions in much the same manner that her opposite number's shift to strike. Lips slightly parted to aid her breathing, the Templar watches and reacts with calm vigour, sweeping a hand up and outward to guide the first blow aside, and nullifying the second with a wide double-palm manuever. The third is met with a twist of the nearest forearm, most of the impact absorbed as it merely stings conditioned flesh.
It places her in an easy position to counter-attack, rooting into her back leg and thrusting forth the arm not involved in that final deflection. A calloused palm bears in for a rapid, stunning connection with the lovely girl's sternum, seeking to drive her back rather than cause considerable harm. It also serves the purpose of leaving Amy in a solid defensive posture, face and upper body protected by the other limb.
"Thank you," she belatedly adds past the strike, "You move beautifully."
COMBATSYS: Farah blocks Amy's Quick Punch.
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Amy 0/-------/----===|=====--\-------\0 Farah
There is a dull thud, as Farah's hands come back toward her torso after her strike, Amy's sudden attack slamming into Farah's upraised palm in one final defensive move, before the two women separate. For a second, the Egyptian's eyes go to the heavy jacket, now sinking somewhat into the grass, and then back to the woman in front of her. She doesn't recognize the style; the only one that Farah truly knows, other than her own baguazhang, is the judo and aikido that her father studied in his professional fighting days. Still, there are echoes of her own in it, the notion of cycles and circles, movement and deflection. "Perhaps not beautifully enough," the young woman says with a rueful smile.
True beauty wouldn't be earthbound, not even by another's auspice.
There's a moment where Farah considers returning to the bout, throwing herself back into the fray immediately, but instead she hangs back, watching Amy carefully. For whatever images of the starry sky Farah likes to associate with herself, there is something stolid and earthbound about Amy, graceful movements or no. "I've met many people who draw on the power of nature," Farah says, circling a little warily, "but none quite like you. I hope you won't be offended if I say..."
She should be offended, a voice inside Farah says. If you heard what you're about to say, wouldn't you be?
She ignores it.
"...it's going to be that much more satisfying to overcome those techniques."
COMBATSYS: Farah focuses on her next action.
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Amy 0/-------/----===|=====--\-------\0 Farah
Amy retracts her arm swiftly after the interception, briefly windmilling it around the other before falling into a deeper stance, releasing a calm exhalation as she does so. The gaze that meets Farah's holds a bold gleam that was not there previously; the pulsation of battle already beginning to dispel the composed veil she maintains. Past the stoicism and the bright alertness one would expect, there is a sense of excitement. Almost pure joy.
The Templar has missed this feeling.
A narrow brow arches as the Egyptian begins to circle. Matching her steps without altering their distance from one another, keeping her central line intact, Amy turns in place. With each small pace she seems to root more deeply, gaining greater proximity to the earth. And greater flexion in powerful legs. This she does through honed instinct, undistracted by ghostly voices or even the inner conflict that so often plagues her. This is not a simple situation - there are so many layers to a fight - but it does not fluster her.
It calms. Enough that Farah's condescension washes over her.
A hesitation, a single beat, before the raven-haired woman smiles coolly.
"I told you." Her words are spoken without anger; but firm and clear. "This power is special. You would not be the first to overcome me, but don't underestimate what I'm capable of. Let your guard down for a /second/...!" The pause comes as she abruptly uncoils toned muscles, releasing all that firm grounding as she springs into a short, perfectly controlled leap. Leading with a raised knee, she swivels through a full horizontal circle, the mist underfoot rising with the opposing leg as it is slashed in a high, tight roundhouse. A swathe of grey-white energy rips through the air in the wake of her kick, a broad projectile feathering at the edges as it gains speed and momentum.
Behind it, Amy lands back in the same stance, drawing breath as she deftly regains her composition. There is no kiai to accompany the assault, no name to be passionately invoked. The energy itself is enough, as it screams toward Farah for a thunderous impact with her torso.
"And you will find yourself sorely lacking!"
COMBATSYS: Farah fails to reflect Raven's Wing from Amy with Soul Reflect.
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Amy 0/-------/---====|=======\=------\1 Farah
'This power is special.'
A look of cold disdain comes across Farah's face at that. The darkness that grips her is responsible; it holds such power that isn't its own in disdain, after all. But there is more to it than that. Deep down, Farah has come to hate this energy, this breath of life, which it seems as if the whole world but her has access to. Denji and Wang can, after all. Had not Rose, so long ago, told her that what she, Farah, possessed was a rare and precious gift? If it's so rare and precious, then why does it fail her at every turn against people wielding a strength so commonplace?
What powers her response is fury, and that is why it cannot succeed.
"Special?!" Farah's eyes narrow; her arm moves, the tails of the ribbon suddenly glowing with a faint blue glow, the color of a starry night sky... but moreso, purple-black energy like flame surrounds it even more strongly. Farah's own Soul Power might have been able to return Amy's misty shot back at her; without it, and supported only by an energy bent on consuming all it can, the sudden arc of the charged ribbon is as much resistance as the air, the crescent of chi slamming into Farah painfully, knocking her flat.
When she gets up, staring at Amy, her expression is somewhere between hateful and even darkly joyous. "The only one sorely lacking here is you. That power isn't anything special. A different, rare color, perhaps... but you paint with a common brush. Enjoy your brief victory. I won't be outshone by so commonplace a power."
Calm, controlled after her own outburst, Amy takes in the sudden change in her formerly friendly opponent with a distant gaze. Unable to know the full, horrible depth of the emotional suffering inflicted upon Farah by her ongoing ordeal, she sees only an unexpected shift in mood - and is forced to judge whether the young woman is merely possessed of an ill temperament, or if there may be more to this. It is not a decision she needs to be making.
And then there is the matter of that energy. What /is/ that? Forcing distraction from her, the Templar begins to stalk forward in a deliberately slow, carefully weighted step as the Egyptian unleashes her verbal fury. These are angry words, cruel words, and they would cut deep but for her own misguided beliefs, fostered to be unyielding by a misguided mentor. When Farah is done, she is rewarded for her efforts by a toss of the Templar's head, dark hair rippling with the proud motion.
"Then prove yourself through your actions!" It comes as an order, fiercely intoned as she closes one hand to a fist, drawing it close to her chin as her fingers tighten, digging hard nails into a calloused palm. "Any wretch can lurk behind poisonous words, praying that their audience is weak and foolish enough to abandon their faith. You call me lacking? Then show me how!" Her crisp tone gains a palpable edge, and she launches herself forward in a sudden rush. "Teach me to be as great as you, Farah!"
The mist follows her into the charge, seeming to move with slow, looping grace - but keeping pace with the Templar nonetheless. As her fist hammers forth in a pistonlike motion, tendrils of the earth's power stream from her shoulders, spiralling down her arm before coalescing at the centre of the palm as fingers spread wide. The strike itself is stunning, thrust into the very centre of Farah's being, but the true ferocity comes as the Dragon's Breath drills into the point of impact, exploding against and through the core.
It is enough to hurl a much larger opponent away by itself, and yet with her teeth gritted and legs braced, Amy rams herself forward several /more/ inches, driving the attack home with passion more than grace. All the while, she maintains eye contact, a flicker of regret washing over the violent intent.
"/Wherever you are/!!"
COMBATSYS: Farah counters Trembling Palm from Amy with Gekirinju EX.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////// ]
Amy 1/-------/=======|=======\=------\1 Farah
The response comes in a severe tone; it comes with Farah's face very close to Amy's, and is barely audible, but it is also somehow bizarrely penetrative in tone. Amy's outstretched fist is like an onrushing storm, but right before it connects with Farah's body, there is a rustling sound, and the hand is suddenly caught dead in the tails of her ribbon, pulled taut into a line, like an impromptu shield. For all of Amy's indignation and desire to prove her opponent wrong, there is no escaping the grip of that psychically-charged ribbon.
Or the heat in Farah's eyes -- not all of it due to the dark power coursing through her -- as she says, fiercely proud, "You could *never* be like me."
The ribbon twists, Farah's body making a sinuous twirl as she hurls Amy into the air with the force of it, hands glowing with that starry night power, but against more suffused with that dark purplish flame than anything else. "NEVER!" Even as the Templar's body drops back toward the ground, that gathering psychic energy is unleashed in a ragged burst that should send her flying across the distance, onto the wet grass from whence she started.
She SHOULD be exulting in that brief, terrible victory. She should be enjoying showing her dominance over Amy. Instead Farah is only left with a sick feeling, a hand coming to her stomach as she tilts somewhat forward, eyes squinting closed, then open again as she takes breaths that are deep and slow, trying to force control over her body that somehow has decided now is a good time to rebel.
It's the curse of Soul Power that those attacks forge a momentary connection... and Amy's passion, perhaps even her fury, flow backwards into the conflicted girl, reinforcing that internal division. The dark voice's power is its velvety subtlety, but that means it cannot yell... while Farah's moral center can scream and shout, which it does now. "Never..." the girl mumbles, uncertain.
It does not require a psychic of any magnitude to know that the dusky-skinned young woman is far from at peace. That something is palpably wrong. Amy's astonishment as her wrist is seized is equalled only by her certainty of this fact, the forthright motions of her signature strike halted as she struggles against a level of emotional feedback that cannot be natural. Does she feel so deeply for this girl she barely knows? A flash of despair sinks into her heart before it is suddenly eclipsed by a furious rage.
And then she is heavenward-bound, the darkness of her long hair as it whips around her body as nothing to that which floods her mind. It hurts-- but it is a new, fresh pain. Alien and strange. Forbidding and terrible. The harnessed explosion of Farah's mysterious energy feels outright /wrong/, as though she were assailed by the very power of sin itself. As though one were torn from within by the biting claw of their own personal demon. But the Templar will not let this master her; she will fight back!
The crack of her back as it strikes the damp, hard surface of the park goes near enough unnoticed but for a pained hiss from between her teeth. Still bound by the dizzying struggle within, Amy reacts on automatic, rolling first onto her side and then into a wild crouch, eking out a groan as she forces herself to stand upon quivering legs. "I-" She bites the sentence woefully short, releasing a sort of primal roar as she bares her teeth, throwing off the lingering vestiges of Farah's assault. "I wouldn't want to be like you!"
The mist has been blown asunder, lying scattered about the two combatants. But as the Templar's passions rise, so does it gather, draping itself through the air in fading, knotted sheets. It thickens around and between the women, as though trying to hide them both from one another. A betrayal of fear, perhaps, even as it echoes a more valiant intensity.
"But is this truly you, Farah? This demon? So spiteful?"
Her tone no longer quivers, as the woman comes darting quick and quiet through the field of fog, this time sure to maintain her guard as she moves. In a slow spiral she closes in, her footfalls and heavy breath betraying her location even as she cloaks herself in encompassing chi.
"This is not the woman who shook my hand!"
With that, Amy reaches the epicentre. The bullseye. Stepping in from Farah's flank, she drops low and rises, seizing the Egyptian at shoulder and wrist, dragging her in to pull her far off-balance. It is the element of surprise that is key; if she can disrupt the central line she will follow through with a reversal of motion, stepping through her stance and circling her arms to send the psychic into the ground with smooth, deceptive brutality.
"Tell me who you are. Tell /yourself/."
COMBATSYS: Farah dodges Amy's Strong Throw.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////// ]
Amy 1/-------/=======|==-----\-------\0 Farah
Those are very serious accusations, but perhaps more importantly, they come from someone who has thrown her whole heart into getting her message across. It is not even her raised tone of voice, nor her physical force, that pierces the fog flowing through Farah's heart as assuredly as that mist swirls through the trees of the park. It is the emotional force with which Amy hurls her words at her opponent, a complete stranger who has no expectation of help, no real reason to expect assistance. Her demeanor helps, but Farah is receptive to that outpouring of Amy's heart's blood, that brief and terrible empathic link fading in strength as its moment has passed, but enough to drive that home.
'I wouldn't want to be like you!' Grimacing, Farah's hand comes up and covers her face, the violet eyes looking out from spaces between the splayed fingers. The memory that continues to haunt her is that feeling of disgust and fear she received from poor Quon, however long ago, because it is emblematic of her feelings of isolation from the rest of the world. Of course Amy wouldn't want to be like her. Why would she? Why would it not be better to be like everyone else, to feel a connection to others socially? It is doubt, the perfect weapon to deploy against a psychic, and it worms its way up, a third voice in the otherwise two-toned battle of light and dark inside, the shadow that haunts everyone. You hate her 'common' power because it represents something important would could never attain: normality. Acceptance.
And then, as before, images of Denji and Wang float through her mind, the former with his careless-seeming smile, the latter so dedicated to proving wrong anyone and everyone. People with an interest in her. The dark voice tries to remind her that they seem to have rejected her, but then Amy shouts at her, 'This is not the woman who shook my hand!'
She leaps backwards through the air, practically out of nowhere, when Amy tries to grab her. When she rises, her face has the wild look of someone now reacting at the level of pure, unabashed instinct.
"I will shine brighter than anyone," she says, breathlessly, repeating a mantra. "Even if it means I have to be alone. No matter how many people try to keep me down. I was given a rare and precious gift. I will not waste it!"
She surges forward, hopefully before Amy can retreat, and extends both hands palm outward for the other woman's stomach, looking to force her away with a classic wing chun technique. "I will blaze hotter than the sun!"
COMBATSYS: Amy interrupts Strong Punch from Farah with Wyrm Waker.
- Power hit! -
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////// ]
Amy 1/-----==/=======|=======\-------\0 Farah
The tragedy is that they are not so different. They are both women made outcast by their talents, by the interest that it has drawn in others. But where Amy has been lifted upon a pedestal - proclaimed in the ravings of a madman as a saint reborn - Farah's own fate has been seized by a corrupt and terrible force. She is twisted not by belief, but by power. The Templar has no way of knowing this, but she is certain of what little she saw in the beautiful youth; and it was not evil.
Her grapple is eluded, but she did not over-extend herself in the attempt, moving with greater wisdom. Actually listening to the lessons of the past. Stormy eyes blaze sapphire as she tracks the other woman, drinking in the subtleties of her technique, watching it fall apart in the chaos of a clouded mind. If she knew her better, it would be heartbreaking. Palms extend, slender forearms channelling that secret power she has already felt.
Amy's mist billows against her shoulders, propelled by intent.
"Then shine."
The utterance is made as she windmills her arms, bringing strong hands to the fore, her booted heels digging into the cool grass and ripping furrows in the earth as she is driven back. Only to abruptly, firmly still. She is unbowed, unbroken, and she will shift no further.
"/Blaze/!"
The syllable is spat out into the air between them, and inner power vibrates from within the Templar. Her fingers grip tight, her arms uncoil from the spiral they have entered, her breath expelling in an empassioned, crystal-clear cry as she uses the captured momentum to send Farah spiralling into the air. She is a willowy thing, but even so, she will not fly far; because Amy follows through, guiding the Dragon's Breath with her as she brings her thrown palms hammering down, willing twin whips of that eerie mist to follow her lead as she falls to the floor.
Those tendrils strike her opponent in a staccato beat. One, two. Hurling her powerfully, unrelentingly toward the ground. An extension of their mistress, they do so not with venom but through pure form and function. Their ferocity is natural, warm. A far and distant shout from the bitterness of Vega's Power.
"But never believe that you have to be alone. People are strength. Friends, family, even a complete stranger's passing gratitude. I know the numbing pain of solitude, I know how comfortable it can seem, but love is strength. Whatever troubles you, there is always another way..." The raven-haired woman draws breath in a shuddering gasp, shaking her head as she rises from her haunches, flicking out her wrists. "It doesn't have to be like this."
Amy's speech is delivered to a Farah who is lying on her back on the cold, grassy ground after that assault, staring up into the sky. 'Never believe you have to be alone'? 'Love is strength'? No. The dark voice latches onto that thought and the doubt supports it, gnawing away at Farah's resolve. Love is the privilege of the strong, perhaps, it whispers. Those at the top, those who shine the brightest, can afford love... and those who aren't use the illusion of love to hide their weakness. The voice wraps a hand around Farah's chin, tilts her away from the morning sky, pulls her eyes into the past. Whose love has supported you? Your parents? Perhaps. And who else? Who is left to love you *for you* and not for their own ends instead?
The answer is to function without love. To focus on things you can obtain yourself, that are not fickle, that are not fleeting. Perfecting yourself. Rising above everyone and everything and trusting that you can live without love.
And yet...
And yet there is a part of Farah that feels such pain at that thought that it resonates physically... that when she realizes she's conditioned herself to live without love, alone, the prospect of that future closes cold fingers around her heart and grips, a tightness in her chest resulting. It should be her warning that such thinking is dangerous, that Amy's remarks are on the money.
Slowly, she gets to her feet, staring down the Templar.
This was no chance meeting. Her resolve... is being tested. But whether its source walks in darkness or soars in the light... that resolve will not break. She stands tall, arms at her sides, ribbon tails flowing out behind her like a vanguard's banner. "I will soar higher than anyone... I'll rise above the need for other people. If they want to see me, they will have to look to the sky."
She surges forward, all thoughts on destroying the person she picked this fight with, of eliminating that feelings at the back of her head. A swirl of the arm to wrap the tails of her ribbon around Amy's neck like a whip, to drag her close into an unbalancing hand to the stomach, before flipping her forward onto the ground on her face. It's driven by fury, by a need to extinguish, inelegant and crude.
COMBATSYS: Farah successfully hits Amy with Strong Throw.
- Power hit! -
[ \\\\\\\\\ < > /////// ]
Amy 1/---====/=======|=======\-------\1 Farah
There is ever selfishness in love, the hearts of man bound by the need to fulfil themselves even in bringing the sweetest joy and contentment to others. Amy may follow a path that preaches charity and goodness, but she knows the harsh reality; that we all are sinners. That we can only do the best we can within the limitations we are set. There is no perfection to be attained, there is no individual so pure that they are completely free from corruption.
So where is the difference, between one who strives for power...
...and one who strives for love?
The difference is their heart, their soul, their passion and their kindness move them that whisker closer to the ideal. It is far more noble to strive and fail by inches, than search for the easiest path, no matter the cost. In days just barely hence, Amy met with a man who struck her with his manner and his philosophies, who suggested that it was possible to be free from cares without alienating those whom adore you. Or who would come to do so. And maybe this is true; but there can be happiness in duty, in modesty. It is not worth risking everything to attain a single selfish goal.
Where the line is drawn, she does not yet know. But it is not here. Not now.
Farah's urgent advance catches the Templar off-guard, the seemingly delicate ribbon ensaring the woman in her attempt to escape, hauling her off-balance and dangerously close to her erstwhile foe. The words rattle in her skull as she is struck and sent careening to the ground, the air exploding from her lungs, spine lighting afire. She struggles to rise, gasping and slapping both hands to the floor, spinning into a sprinter's crouch immediately that she does. Her own gaze seems grasped by the same rage encompassing Farah.
Until she breathes. And it melts away.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs, words coming hard from her throat after the punishment she has absorbed. The apology shines in her stormy eyes, blazes at her innermost as she pushes herself forward with great speed and an eerie calm. She must harness something other than anger, to teach this girl that there is another path; another route to take. Whatever this dark power is, whatever the torture in Farah's soul, there /is/ another way.
"But everything you say is /wrong/!"
Launching herself from a sprint into a stunning, fluid leap, Amy twists her athletic form, gray mist and black hair both screaming off shoulder and hip as she turns a full rotation. Dextrous fingers clasp around a drifting tendril of the Dragon's Breath, and as she comes around to face Farah she draws this severed root through in a backhanded slice. It becomes a blade, forged in the flames of her intent as it strikes for the throat.
"SYAAAA!!"
She does not cry out often. But this effort consumes her.
Because it must!
COMBATSYS: Farah fails to reflect Hound of Avalon from Amy with Soul Reflect EX.
[ \\\\\\\\ < > ]
Amy 0/-------/-------|======-\-------\0 Farah
COMBATSYS: Farah can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\\ <
Amy 0/-------/-------|
As the ethereal weapon strikes, driving back this girl - who has invoked so much emotion, caused so many turbulent thoughts - the Knight Templar can only lose herself yet further in the moment. Her every muscle is poised for a landing, and she allows the dagger of mist to dissipate in a billow, dropping to a bended knee with an almost animal grace. The hand that did not strike is preparing, drawn back to her hip and quivering, fingers atwitch.
Mist flows from the ground, tumbling about itself as the grayish mass seethes to the mistress' call. Her battlecry is still echoing in the air when Amy rises, throwing herself forth into the staggered Farah, thrusting her palm for the spiritual centre. Sensing the blow's course more than she sees it. It is much like the strike that was negated before, yet more; wave after throbbing, spinning wave of energy cascades into the point of contact as the Templar twists her wrist, using her entire body's strength to drill deep.
It culminates in a tremendous explosion of force, the energy gathered inside the conflicted Egyptian suddenly unleashing every iota of the momentum it has gained, sending a shockwave through her physique and spirit alike. This is the totality of the power that Amy can harness... as pure as her soul can make it... and it leaves her gasping, collapsing to her knees as she clutches at the striking hand, struggling in vain to stop her vision from blurring as she states after Farah.
"I'm sorry..."
She says it again, as though trying to convince herself that this was right.
As if praying she has made a difference.
COMBATSYS: Amy has ended the fight here.
Whatever this power is that Amy (and Denji, and Wang, and many others) wield, it cannot simply be some force, shapeless. In some way, it has to resonate with what is going on in the wielder's heart.
When she wakes up, perhaps Farah will reflect on that.
The Egyptian bounces off a tree, back arched, before slamming to the ground. She'd barely even begun to try and push aside Amy's mists before it became apparent that while that purple flame might be good at delivering pain, it is of little use turning aside others' power. The mist blows right past her defense as if it wasn't even there and the remainder of the attack literally sends her flying through the air like a rag doll until, at last, a tree breaks her momentum, sending Farah slipping to the ground.
As she does so, one violet eye fixes on Amy. She is listening inside for the dark voice to reassure her, to tell her the meaning of this, and it is silent. Instead she feels only an emptiness, a feeling of regret, wondering what of this meeting was required, what was preordained. Is that the love of a stranger?
Or her pity?
As she sinks face-first into the grass, all she can think of in the end is that hollow feeling, and how someday, she would like to see it filled...
Log created on 12:58:13 01/02/2011 by Farah, and last modified on 23:37:11 01/02/2011.