Claymore Fanfiction Discussion

[Yosei]

Oh, it seems you edited different parts of the chapter. I thought you were just going to edit the end of the Irene vs Clare bout. But still, I'll paste the whole thing anyway.

[Tempest35]

Sorry, I couldn't help myself.... I did say a few hours - that's way too long just to edit a line or two. lol

[Yosei]

Hurrah, here is Chapter 18, "The Old Ways Shall Fall". A reasonably important "in-story" chapter in regards to this AU, hopefully the lack of fighting doesn't make it too boring. This is an 'experiment', in the sense that I'm seeing if you guys will like the solidification of the plot. Hopefully you'll find it okay.

Spoiler for space:

Chapter 18: The Old Ways Shall Fall

Staggering into her room in a rather undignified manner, an aching Clare dumped herself onto her bed, well aware that Irene was observing her from behind. Having endured another morning without Teresa’s porridge, once again, she had been subjected to several hours of repetitive training, neuromuscular memorization, and rather sore muscles. It was torture, and Irene was her torturer.

Well, it’s not entirely fair to call her such a name.

“Your endurance fluctuates,” declared Irene, looking down at her spent, sweat-drenched body. “You demonstrated superb constitution in your battle against Sophia, and against me. Yet several hours of practicing the Flash-Strike leaves you… like this. Ensure you can do something about it quickly. A Featherweight depends on her body’s physical aptitude to survive protracted bouts.”

“I’ll return to Rabona after this,” panted Clare agreeably. “To do something about this problem of mine. That aside, Galatea has taken your proposal surprisingly well,” she muttered, her sticky body refusing to leave the bedsheets. “She didn’t seem too concerned when you told her of your plans.”

“Perhaps it is due to her deference to me as a junior, although I find it unlikely, coming from her. Her mind is not only of a liberal disposition, but exceedingly sharp. Like Teresa, she was honest enough to understand that Sutafu Academy was in imminent decline. But unlike your mother, who stayed, she simply left to found her own gym.” Irene shrugged nonchalantly. “It is an encouraging observation. But think not of such things,” said Irene. “Do not forget. You are Teresa’s heir. You are my heir. You are our legacy. That is your burden. And not even Galatea can change that.” She moved beside Clare’s bed, her tired, narrow eyes looking out to the vegetable garden that Teresa grew potatoes in.

The weeds are growing slightly out of control, she noticed to herself.

“As far as I am concerned, you will surpass me completely very soon,” she continued. “In our bout, you already began to demonstrate the same sense and body perception Teresa used to dominate the World stage. Your Flashcutter grows more refined by the day, and my Flash-Strike is soon to be unleashed once again, this time on your opponents.” She raised an eyebrow. “I daresay you are enjoying the best of every world.”

Clare forced herself back up through sheer force of will. “I’ll return to the Academy now. The day isn’t over yet,” she murmured, passing Irene, dwarfed by her height. “Thank you for your tutelage. Please continue to teach me when I return.”

“Try not to tire yourself out. Very soon, Galatea will sign you up for the World Festival. Be prepared next week: you have many expectations to fulfil as the new Featherweight Continental Champion.”

Clare wasn’t sure whether to smile or simply nod.

So she merely opted for the latter, as she departed from Irene’s side.

*

Rabona Academy was rather empty today. It was a poor morning for business, although one woman’s loud mouth more than compensated for the absence of the others.

“Miria? She's coming here?” Helen scrunched up her nose in disgust. “I thought our Academy had no room for losers.”

Indeed, Helen’s grudge against Miria had not abated, for the simple fact that they had both felled one another… and were both disqualified.

It had been a poor year to be in the Champion Carnival.

“It was a draw, as much as I hate to tell you,” said Galatea, lowering the parchment to her bench. “Besides, you’re not out of the Featherweight circuit, if that’s any comfort. You and Deneve are still feared as two of my best warriors – and you’re annoyed you cannot reach for the Continental title? You shouldn’t even still be agonizing over whether or not they’ll still let you box. Your comeback is certain, I assure you.”

“I’m not ‘agonizing’!” snapped Helen, her voice rising angrily. She smashed a fist into the sandbag before her, visualizing with sadistic glee the face of that “Phantom” who had taken away her chance to challenge Irene.

And Galatea was accepting her application to train here?

Ludicrous!

The door to the Academy squeaked open, interrupting her rather irrational venting. “Good morning, coach, Helen.” Clare threw her bag down, stretching. “How goes your training?”

“Not good,” called Galatea, waving Miria’s parchment. “Deneve called in sick, Cynthia’s sleeping in, Clarice has wandered off with Miata, Helen’s in one of her moods again, and we have an old rival applying for a place in our circuit.”

“Who might that be?”

“Do you remember Phantom Miria?”

Clare blinked in remembrance, approaching Galatea and taking the application from her. She scanned the parchment, her eyebrow rising. Someone had certainly penned Miria's name on the parchment – yet the writing was far too neat, far too scholarly. The writer had used a quill with expensive black ink – ink used by scholars and teachers. “I see it has Miria’s name,” said Clare slowly. “But I doubt this is her own writing.”

“Oh?”

“Before Flora left Rabona, she promised she would convince Miria to apply for our Academy. After all, after I defeated Flora, there was no way for… Pieta Academy to continue on.” She locked eyes with Galatea. “I don’t believe that place exists anymore. The boxers there must have moved on. And I believe Flora’s taken Miria’s future into account. I’m sure Miria has already agreed.”

Galatea’s eyes softened. “I see. That’s a real pity.”

Clare looked away, her finger twitching. Flora…

Where might you be now? Teaching the schoolchildren? Or might you be enjoying breakfast with your family?

I have often wondered about you, ever since you left Rabona. I have never forgotten you; I have never forgotten your journey... My promise remains unbroken, and it shall never be broken.

It was through a stroke of fortune that they had met, but it was through their intertwined destinies that they would meet again.

“Someone’s here,” muttered Galatea. "Hear a horse?"

“It must be Deneve,” called Helen, sourly punching the bag again. “When she says she’s sick, she usually means the same thing as Cynthia.”

“What lazy girl. Either way, I’ll answer the door,” offered the coach, lifting her lithe body from her uncomfortable wooden chair. “You just hit the bag to your heart’s content.” The neighing of a horse grew more impatient outside, and from the dusty windows, Clare could make out the silhouette of a woman dismounting, stroking the animal by its main, and calming it almost instantly.

A woman with long, wavy hair as luminous as sunflowers.

Clare’s heart skipped a beat, not daring to believe, her eyes fixed on Galatea, who had swung open the door to their gym. “I remember your face,” blinked the coach, surprised. “You would be – Windcutter Flora, would you not?”

The woman standing at the door nodded. “It is my honour to look upon the face of the famed God-Eye. May I have a word with Miss Clare? Perhaps if I may talk to her, if she is here…”

Clare rushed to the door, nearly slipping on a carelessly discarded bandage wrap, and veritably shoved Galatea away, prompting a grunt of annoyance from her teacher.

She planted herself before Flora. Their silver eyes met, and in an instant of recollection, their titanic battle flashed before them.

Their struggle, their pain, their heartache. The guilt, the sorrow.

Their bond…

And in response, the schoolteacher’s expression changed, one of a most benevolent surprise, and a soft, welcoming greeting. “Oh, goodness.”

Words failed Clare, much to her regret.

“F – Flora,” she finally stuttered. “I…”

Flora’s smile, already radiant, brightened even further. “Hello, Miss Clare… I mean, Clare. It is my utmost pleasure to see you again.” The beauty was dressed ravishingly as always, even in the absence of her husband, her bright, yellow sarong complimenting her enviable figure. Her silver eyes shone with life, and she took Clare’s hand in her own. “I am sorry for the intrusion – would you be willing to tolerate me for a short while? I must speak with you.”

“As long as possible,” blurted Clare.

Flora laughed. “My friend… I have in fact come here on serious business.” Her smile, although sincere, was also solemn.

Galatea’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not common for former boxers to speak of ‘business’ with us.”

“Galatea!” reproached Clare.

“No, I know it is true,” said Flora, laying a hand reassuringly on Clare’s arm. “I am well aware of your victory over Mistress Irene. Allow me to offer you my most sincere congratulations. But as you know well, you cannot rest on your laurels. I have come to offer you my support in your herculean task to enter the World Festival, which is the obligation… and honour… of the Continental Champion.”

“And… how would you help me do that?” breathed Clare, her heartbeat pulsating from the sheer magnitude of Flora’s words.

Her voice was unwavering. “I have come to impart to you the technique of my Windcutter.”

Clare gaped at her, incredulous.

Galatea raised her eyebrow. “So you’re taking a leaf out of Irene’s book, are you? I feel almost unneeded now.”

Clare looked at Galatea, her eyes unsure. No one else had known that Irene was now Clare’s acting teacher. “She is here, in Rabona too?” pressed Flora, her mind truly as sharp as ever.

“Well, I wouldn’t know why she doesn’t return to Sutafu,” asserted Galatea, smirking, as if she had already known it was impossible to fool the schoolteacher.

“I wish to do my part for Clare’s journey. For the magnificent victory she can bring to the world.” Flora’s eyes flashed. “Do not play ignorant, Miss Galatea. You know well what I speak of. The summit that Clare wishes to conquer… the monster known as Priscilla.”

Galatea stared at her. “Flora… why…?”

“After my departure from the pit, I researched everything, Miss Galatea. Anything I could find concerning the history of Sutafu Academy, the legend of Teresa and Irene, and Priscilla’s shock victory. To be honest, there is no warrior who does not know the name of Teresa. But I had never entertained any inkling of the… almost providential bond between the three early personages of Sutafu: you, Mistress Irene, and Mistress Teresa. My present self knows better. And now, I believe a quaternity of powers has been completed by…”

She turned to look at Clare, beaming. “By… this young warrior of my generation. I wish to play my part in your ambition, Miss Galatea. As an ally, as a friend, and as Clare’s once-rival.” Her eyes glimmered. “I know not of Clare’s relation to Mistress Teresa, nor do I demand to know. I am sure if Clare deems me worthy, she will tell me one day. Nevertheless, I would like to offer my contribution.”

“Flora…”

Galatea shrugged her shoulders, sighing. “My own students never listen to me, unless they’re getting slaughtered in the pit. I can’t expect you, an ex-boxer, to be dissuaded by me.” She smiled. “Besides, I’m not sure if I really intend to.”

Clare felt her heart soar, and Flora almost looked relieved.

“It will be my honour to master your skill,” said Clare.

“I will be staying awhile in this city, then,” declared Flora, bowing to Galatea. “My husband is prepared for the worst – and if he is not, he will take it upon himself to come to me,” she laughed. “Now, Clare,” she said, clasping her hands with her own. “As Miss Galatea has been so kind to accommodate my troublesome self, perhaps you and I can… recapture the joy of our conversations together. Let us not train just yet, but tell me of your triumphs. Your victories.” Her eyes twinkled. “And I wish you to narrate your battle against Mistress Irene like a bard at a tavern.”

Clare blushed, leading Flora inside the gym. “Take a seat,” she mumbled happily.

Galatea smiled.

First me… then Irene… and now Flora.

You have a way with people, Clare. And I hate to say it, but I admire it.

*

Late Afternoon


It was difficult to stop socializing, especially when oneself had no obligation to train as a boxer any longer. Flora felt rather guilty for keeping Clare for this entire day.

Sighing tiredly, she closed the Academy door behind her, momentarily blinded by the red of the dying sun. She raised her hand to her brow, patiently waiting for her eyes to adjust to the outdoor glow that bathed the city. I should return to the inn before the evening star greets me.

Glancing to her side, she almost caught a fright when her eyes fell upon a man, dressed austerely in beige and brown garments, black boots completing the spartan outfit. He had been sitting awkwardly on the bench outside the building, as if he had arrived here quite some time ago.

What was he doing here? If he did not look so… young, he would have resembled a tramp.

He remained silent, as if he was here merely to observe this old, run-down building.

Who could he be? Has he come here before? she wondered.

She could not tell.

The man’s eyes were of dull chrome, much like the silver eyes of boxers. Yet… they seemed different. They glimmered with a certain coldness, a certain frigidity that almost prompted a quiet moan from her. She blinked, slightly disturbed at the sinister, dark aura that the man exuded. Surely Galatea was not acquainted with him. “May I help you?” she asked politely. He turned, looking at her for the first time. Chrome met chrome, and remained locked together for several moments.

Surely he could not have noticed her just then!

His eyes almost instantly narrowed. “I was not aware that you were from this Academy,” he said. “One, two, three…” he raised five fingers, staring at them as if they looked rather strange. “Five boxers… that was what I was told. Not six,” he muttered, glancing at Flora like an anomaly. “Then, yet another worthless task he will assign me once again…”

Flora suppressed her irritation. “It is true that I do not hail from Rabona,” she sniffed, “I am from the former Academy of Pieta. And I would have you speak to me as a human being, noble warrior,” she continued, appealing, hopefully, to his pride. “I am not a number nor a statistic, whatever you are trying research.”

The raven-haired man gazed at her, his expression shifting slightly. “Your name, woman?” he demanded suddenly.

Flora drew herself up in her full, dignified beauty. “Windcutter. Windcutter Flora.”

The strange, slightly built man paused. “Very well. It seems I have overstayed,” he said, and turned to leave, slowly rising. He was not much taller than her, but his body rippled with taut, almost angry, power. A power that… was almost overwhelming.

I’m not sure if he is merely a powerful man... or a truly monstrous fighter, thought Flora apprehensively. But rather than turning to her, he faced the opposite direction and began to walk, his boots tapping gracefully on the concrete pavement.

“At the very least, tell me your name too,” called Flora, after a moment’s silence.

The young newcomer nodded, almost mournfully. After a pause, he spoke.

“…Rigardo.”

“You do not seem like a typical boxer. May I inquire of your Academy?”

Rigardo slowly turned his head, his eyes cold. “The Royal Lancers need no mere ‘Academy’, milady.” He continued on his slow, almost dawdling walk, and this time, he did not look back.

Flora fell silent, not wishing to provoke another aloof response. She could only stare at his retreating form, her mind positively exploding with questions… and puzzlement.

Royal Lancers…?

Is that not the name of the division that divides its loyalties between… Sutafu and Abyssal Academy?

And is the famed Priscilla not one of its members?

Flora’s eyes narrowed. Clare… I am relieved to have come to Rabona at this time. I believe you are part of something… much larger than a mere struggle to attain the status of a World Champion.

It was nightfall, and her journey to Rabona, to reunite with Clare, had come to an end.

It was time to begin anew, this time at the side of Rabona’s advocates.

By the side of the Continental Champion she adored.

Hope it's nice.

And Tempest, you can edit my entire chapter if you want, but perhaps you would consider writing an actual chapter to bring your own hand and talent into this AU? I am currently seeking people who would like to be part of this "festival" now.

[Tempest35]

lol, thanks for the offer, I'll consider it.

As for editing the chapter, not much to be edited - I just pounced on the Irene chapter because...well, it was Irene.

If I do write something, it will be funny - a day where everyone gets to relax. But I'm not sure about the time and era this story's occuring in so you'll have to tell me that much. lol

[Yosei]

I guess I could break my own rule so you can write about Irene (as it seems she's one of your favourites)... as long as it does not interfere with the actual plot (if there is one lol). So it'll have to be "Oh Teresa, how I hate you, how I love you" all over again and I'm not sure if anyone can stand that after the previous arc when a fair bit of it was devoted to said angst. Or, your suggestion about a day out with the boxers sounds great, Hell and I were also discussing on the idea of filler chapters.

BTW, no "modern" technology like electricity. It's a pretty eclectic world, with modern grammar like "gym" or "tournament circuit", but from all the chapters you've read, you'll get the impression this world only has horses as transport Buildings are described pretty vaguely, Teresa's "cottage" is set in a pastoral setting, reminiscent of Celtic times. A blur between the forests of Europe and the metropolis of canon Claymore cities like Rabona.

*

Typical of a shonen style story, I have been forced to flesh out this world a bit more, and introduce this final arc's seasonal antagonists. Luckily I believe this is slightly different from my (Grand General --> Dragon General --> Dragon Emperor) formula a few months ago.

Spoiler for click here to meet the Royal Lancers:

WORLD FESTIVAL ARC

ROYAL LANCER DIVISION (SUTAFU/ABYSSAL ACADEMY)

For generations, Sutafu Academy has remained the most prestigious boxing institution in the world for several reasons. The legendary Champion Teresa was schooled here, and the Champion Irene was also one of Sutafu’s most acclaimed students. Galatea remained here for a short while too, before leaving in disgust to found her own Academy at Rabona.

By lucky coincidence, Sutafu is also home to the four most powerful warriors on the World stage: the division of Abyssal Academy transferees known as the Royal Lancers, two of whom are the current World Champions in the Lightweight and Featherweight circuit.

One of whom… is the demon that toppled the goddess Teresa.

Priscilla herself.

Home to so many legends, so many Champions… it is almost too lucky a coincidence.

A wild card in the boxing world, and an almost omnipotent force within it, the Royal Lancers have deduced that Teresa, Galatea and Irene have defected to Rabona. The rising success of boxers from that backwater city is evidence of this. The Royal Lancers are not unaware of Cynthia’s defeat of Ophelia, nor of Clare’s victory over their former Sutafu Champion. With their former comrades' students now presenting a true threat to Sutafu’s age-old domination and manipulation of the boxing enterprise, there remains only one thing for the Royal Lancers to do against the three traitors.

To pulverize and obliterate these young upstarts, and shatter the dreams of Rabona forever…

*

Isley: The current Lightweight Champion and the epitome of aristocratic chivalry, Isley is a master of combat proper: unarmed combat, the sword, archery, horsemanship, and the art of the lance. The leader of the Royal Lancers, he has personally given the name to this most elite echelon of warriors, all of whom scheme to extinguish the hopes of any younger Academy that dares to challenge their supremacy. His style is unstoppable, modelled after the technique of charging enemy lines on horseback – his Centaur Charge is the deadliest technique in the world, and assures the Royal Lancers’ continued supremacy in the pit.


Rigardo: The raven-haired, silver-eyed “Lion Lord”, Rigardo is often seen to be even more arrogant than Isley, despite his inferior ranking as a Featherweight top seeder. Brutal and cold-hearted, he is assigned the rather ignoble task of gathering information concerning Rabona’s boxers. He is unaware, however, that this seemingly simple mission will plunge him into a chance encounter with a gentle schoolteacher who was once a warrior…

And it shall lead him to question everything he has ever believed in…


Riful: Amoral and self-centred, the sometimes childish Riful is a constant schemer – a schemer who plots night and day to usurp Isley’s position as leader of the Royal Lancers. Unfortunately, despite her immense power and charm (daresay she), Rigardo shows no interest in her ambition, and Priscilla is simply too… uncontrollable. And with these annoying brats from Rabona to deal with...! Her worldly wisdom triumphs over her petty lust for power... for the time being.

Tensions remain high, but the power struggle must end – Rabona Academy must be dealt with first.


Priscilla: The current Featherweight World Champion. Priscilla is, in three words, a true monster. Not only did she defeat the undefeated Teresa, she crippled her for life, inflicting a broken jaw and crushed organs on her foe. Her background is unknown, her abilities yet to be fully understood.

She is the peak that Clare is determined to conquer…

[hell88]

@Yosei: Yay the new arc is finally starting, can't wait to see who is fighting who and everything, like I said before, "should be good."

[shelter]

@Yosei:
I don't really have much comments on the final Chapter because it felt like a kind of transition between 2 arcs. But I think I was temporarily blinded & unable to use my abilities of analysis by the very thought of the image of Flora in a sarong

[KillerYomaFromSpace]

@Yosei: looks promising, I can't wait to read it, I just hope Miria does not loose this time >< (yes I'm starting to sound like a broken disk, can't write a frakking post without naming her =P)

[Yosei]

Happy Mid-Autumn! Here is a new chapter with a beginning segment devoted to "reflections by the moon".

Spoiler for space:

Chapter 19: Reflections in the Moonlight, and a Declaration of War

She lay on her bed inside the room of her inn, her soft, naked body entwined with the blanket, a poor substitute for the man who would usually hold her so. Her pale skin rubbed longingly at the mattress, her weary consciousness dancing in and out of awakening, her soft, lonely moans quiet and timid. She breathed another sigh, stroking herself thoughtfully, trailing her finger lightly over her cool flesh, before settling for several moments on her collar.

The moon beyond her cold window still beckoned, inviting her to simply abandon her ambition, to flee Rabona, and ride back into his arms.

The arms of her beloved.

She could not help but feel ashamed, her heart curling into a lump. As she feared, she was unworthy of his devotion. If commonsense prevailed, he would find a better wife, a wife who did not obsess over silly things like bare-knuckle boxing or some “promised fighter”. She would not allow her life to ever be sucked into such a violent bloodsport. Flora understood! She understood completely.

But she knew that her heart would shatter if he ever began to think like so.

Oh, how she looked forward to bearing his child.

And despite his worries, he patiently encouraged her to pursue her calling in the pit, at least for the present moment, until that day came when she no longer needed to wield her fists for the sake of others. Then, her clenched hands would open, and he would take it, leading her to a new life with the family they would create together.

Downstairs, the merriment of the inn’s guests continued on, unheeding of her loneliness. The strumming of the bard’s harp filtered up to her room, reaching her ears and warming her soul. The gentle strumming was a fitting lull to slumber. But even as drowsiness overcame her, her fingers twitched, reaching for a crumpled piece of parchment on her bedside table. She raised her body, crawling into a sitting position and lighting a candle by her bedside. Her misty eyes read the words that she had already memorized several times on her way to Rabona.


My Flora,

I beg you to bear with my incessant worries over your wellbeing. You may be in the city now, and if you are, I am truly relieved. I must have behaved in a rather paranoid manner when I handed you this small parchment, before you departed. But it is merely to assure you – and myself – that with my undying thoughts of you, you will not come to harm, from any of Rabona’s rivals nor from any other ill.

I have always hoped that you would abandon this senseless violence that plagues me even in my sleep. When you announced your retirement, I was ashamed to confess that I was happy, and grateful. But I will not stop you from pursuing your business with this lady you call “Clare”. I do not understand your obsession with her, beloved. Is she not the one who took away your chance of glory? And now you return to her, to aid her in her ambitions, which I admit to finding slightly… perplexing. But I can only believe – and I do – that you understand well your reasons for rejoining the battle. I will not press you for answers… not yet.

But if I sense you are in danger… I may just be forced to come to you myself.

Until then, I am with you always, to the ends of the earth.

Vincent


She sighed quietly and hugged the parchment to her breasts. She slumped back onto the bed, her body physically weakened by his words. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the sight of the cold, austere wooden ceiling.

“Wait for me, my dearest Master. I will return to your arms as soon as I can.”

*

Morning


Clare, Irene and Galatea stood within the main hall of the Academy, awaiting Flora’s arrival. Irene had inquired of her, and Clare had responded keenly, although her praises, in general, were merely the usual: she was an honourable warrior, a devoted teacher to the children who flocked around her like sheep to a gentle, soft-hearted shepherd.

Galatea was about to rebuke Clare for being too lenient with her schedule when the door creaked open. Flora peeked into the hall, clothed in a loose-fitting, rather newfangled skirt that appeared similar to the clothes she wore within the pit.

“Welcome, Flora,” said Clare eagerly, approaching the schoolteacher. “I… I’ve brought someone to see you.”

“Clare, I appreciate your warm – ” Flora unexpectedly paused, her eyes widening. “My goodness… Mistress Irene herself, is it not?” she quickly, almost reflexively, offered a sincere bow. “Your reputation precedes you. I understood that you were residing in Rabona, but I had no inkling you would be so close to Clare.”

“I live with her,” replied Irene, silencing the younger woman quite effectively. “Galatea told me about your visit the day before,” she continued. “You wish to impart your own skills to Clare, as I have chosen to myself?”

“The Windcutter should not be a difficult technique for someone of her calibre to master,” said Flora, bowing again. “I believe it shall be of far greater use to her than it can ever be to me.” She looked at Clare. “Are you training with her now, Mistress Irene?”

“Now that you are here, yes. Come, enter this mock-pit with us.”

Clare moved to join them. “I don’t even know you anymore, Clare,” called Galatea, retiring to her room.

Clare did her best not to smile at her jest.

Flora tentatively stepped inside, impressed at Galatea’s efforts at reconstructing an accurate simulation of Bordeaux’s arena. “Allow me to tell you everything I know of the Windcutter. It is an augmenting ability, intended to inflict greater damage in one strike than a simple punch. In theory, the Windcutter will defeat your opponent in half the time you would have required without it.” Flora raised her fists, looking at Clare. “Your fists must be as sharp as knives; your mental focus aimed purely at the tip of your knuckles. The ratio of your arm strength at this point is even greater than that of a normal punch… and – ” Flora turned and threw a sharp hook, and a silver wave of air visibly cut into the wood before her, leaving an ugly dent in the wall. “ – you must be curled like a spring, pouring all the strength from your legs and body into a small bone at the end of your fist.”

“But how can I focus such power into – ”

“No matter the technique, the essence of martial arts never changes,” said Irene quietly. “Those who attempt to violate the physics of the human body are destined to fail. The foundations of bare-knuckle boxing never change, Clare. Everything else is finery.”

Flora lowered her hands. “Now you try,” she offered amiably.

Clare hesitated. “You… might need to run me through on that one again.”

“She cannot say she has truly learnt the Flash-Strike either,” clucked Irene disapprovingly. “She collapses after only an hour under my supervision. I suggest you do not expect too much from our Continental Champion, at least for these first few weeks.”

Flora stroked back her hair, guilelessly amused. “I am a patient woman,” she murmured.

Clare groaned, but her expression was not one of exhaustion. She raised her fists, staring straight ahead. “Here I go, Flora. Please point out my mistakes.”

Training had commenced.

I don’t know if it was wise of you to place your dreams on my shoulders. But now that you have, I won’t let either of you down.

*

It was sunset by the time Flora had finished with Clare. The Continental Champion’s progress had been slow, but encouraging. She staggered out of the gym, followed by Galatea, Irene, and Flora. The three older women could only sigh at Clare’s almost unbelievable determination, her resolve to master the Windcutter that had achieved little save the regurgitation of Teresa’s breakfast porridge. But her fistwork had… sharpened. Only by a fraction, but Flora could feel the air trembling at the mere movement of Clare’s hand. And that was progress enough for one day.

“Would you like to have dinner with me, Clare?” asked Flora, bowing and smoothing down her skirt. The red light of the imminent evening shone warmly on her face, giving her a crimson hue that brightened her long hair. “And of course, Miss Galatea and Mistress Irene are welcome also.”

“Can’t say I have other things to do,” said Galatea. “I know of a reasonably priced tavern – ”

She stopped in mid-speech, her eyes suddenly widening. Flora blinked curiously, and turned around. Then, she understood why.

He was here. The same man.

The rather remarkable black-haired youth from yesterday! Garbed in exactly the same clothing, he had casually placed one hand in a pocket of his beige trousers, his cold silver eyes staring at the four women. When had he arrived? He came and went, almost like a gust of wind…

“Master Rigardo?” asked Flora. “I am addressing your name correctly, yes? What… are you doing here again?”

Rigardo’s expression did not change. “I have been waiting for the appearance of the teacher of this Academy for the past two days, woman. And I believe my patience has at last borne fruit,” he concluded approvingly, glaring at Galatea.

Glimpsing his lean form, Rabona's founder suddenly barked in disbelieving laughter, almost giving Clare a shock. Despite her cynicism, her wit, and her propensity to mock others, never had Clare witnessed such an… unreserved expression of utter contempt. The coach of Rabona folded her arms. “Skulking around in the name of your owner, as always. You have not changed one bit, little dog.”

Irene’s eyes narrowed. “Rigardo. This place does not deserve the presence of knaves like you.”

Clare blinked again in surprise, this time at Irene's rare display of open hostility. Why was he that despised amongst them?

“You were always the frustrated one,” sneered the Rabona coach, her diatribe refusing to die. “The sycophantic wretch who serves the Royal Lancers only because of its prestigious name, refusing to believe for one moment that its members are all scumbags.”

“Naturally, you’re included amongst those riffraff now,” shrugged Irene. “Fitting, for a coward like yourself.”

Royal Lancers? Scumbags? I’ve never heard them speak such words before, thought Clare, bewildered.

“Silence, hags,” replied Rigardo quietly. “Be glad that our war belongs in the pits only, or I would have personally torn you to pieces where you stand. As I am now looking upon the teacher of this Academy, I am now able to relay a message from Master Isley,” he growled, pointing a thin finger at Galatea. “And it is of the gravest concern.

“Your students’ seizures of the Lightweight and Featherweight Championships are no less than a direct challenge to Sutafu Academy. As we have recently transferred from Abyssal Academy, the traitors Irene, Teresa, and yourself shall hereby be punished appropriately. The Royal Lancers invite you to challenge them directly, commencing from the beginning of the World Festival. We will ensure that your laughable hubris is the cause of a most painful fall for all of you. Especially you,” he added, looking at Clare, who resisted freezing on the spot. Their cold eyes steeled against each other. “Having challenged Irene, and then seducing her to join this backwater city… have you no shame? It is a most unforgivable sin in the eyes of the Royal Lancers.”

“Do these so-called Royal Lancers all blabber on as much as you do?” replied Clare coolly, hiding her clenched fist. “We’ve had enough of your ranting. Tell whoever that man it is you serve, that Rabona will not back down to any kind of intimidation.”

Galatea looked at Clare, whistling quietly.

For someone who doesn’t know who Rigardo and the others are, you’re pretty brave.

Still, it was too late to stop her now. It was too late to stop herself! “She doesn’t know what you’re talking about, boy,” she called. “She’s a veritable newcomer – a newcomer who’s beaten several boxers from Sutafu. And I daresay you four are next. She is, after all, my student. And my students move mountains.”

Clare glanced at Galatea. Four… of them?

Rigardo sneered. “She will never reach us. Especially not her. Now that she reigns in the Featherweight circuit.” He turned his back on them, waving a hand dismissively. “Your antics against the Royal Lancers will not be met with anything less than a punitive expedition. Mark well my words, and consider this a warning of the horror to come.” He strolled away. “You have provoked the most powerful warriors in the world to war, and from this moment on, know that we have declared it against you.”

Silence, as he walked past the building that was the Academy, back to the more crowded, more anonymous city square.

Clare resisted breathing deeply in relief.

“To hell with him,” muttered Galatea. “He’s all talk. There’s no way they would threaten us outside of the pits – ”

“Will they wait until the World Festival?” muttered Irene. “Or might they attempt… a pre-emptive…?”

A tense silence prevailed amongst the four women. It was as if Rigardo had left behind a choking aura of uncertainty.

Clare blinked at Flora, desperate for some clues to decipher Galatea and Irene. “I do not know what they are saying either, Clare,” smiled the schoolteacher shyly.

Galatea turned to them, giving a brief nod. “We’ll tell you everything over at the tavern. I must warn you, that man… Rigardo… is a very dangerous man. And although I expected them to rear their ugly heads at some point or another, this is sooner than expected. To be honest, I’m not completely confident about the safety of my Academy’s members any longer.”

“What… what do you mean?” asked Flora, her eyes anxious.

Irene beckoned them to follow Galatea. “Come with us. We’ll explain to you what you wish to know.”

Galatea’s grim countenance did not lift. “This might take a while.”

[shelter]

@Yosei:
My immediate thoughts after reading this chapter are to do with Rigardo's challenge. You have got both the mood & tone of the challenge pretty spot on. Plus I think you crafted a very insidious person out of the character with his appearance & words. I felt the only thing that's missing is the context & culture.

What I'm saying is: right now I don't understand why Galatea & Irene take Rigardo's words so seriously (to the extent that they are concerned about their students' safety with his mere appearance). Some link is missing: the competitive culture of the World Circuit is the closest I can think of, or perhaps the violent nature of their professions....You did mention a bit of this when you described the Royal Lancers in profile, but right now I feel some more detail on why the Lancers are dismayed at Clare's win & how the cutthroat field of bare-knuckle boxing has been stunned by Rabona's 2 very unpredictable wins. That is, try to make the personal victories/ aspects of Clare, Cynthia & Flora have visible repercussions to the greater world of your story.

And yes, happy Mid-Autumn. The moon is real bright tonight

[Tempest35]

Heh, this is why I wanted slightly more detail to the background world in his previous chapters because of this very situation.

Now, even though we have info via a bio of the 'Royal Lancers', it still feels as though Rigaldo's presence and his reasons were dropped on us too suddenly. ....hnnn.... ~Plotting Mode: Activated~ ... I shall retire so as to meditate upon this, and how to gradually pull the larger world into scope better... And I think I know just the person to use....

[hell88]

@Yosei: Wow Rigaldo sure likes to talk a lot. Reminds me why I don't like him very much. My thoughts are the same as Shelter's on this chapter.

Hmmm well if its Mid-Autumn where you guys live, its only happy almost end of summer over here.

Here's my next chapter.

Spoiler for double edged chapter 9:

Double Edged
Chapter: 9 Questions

"Finally we're home!" Helen yelled running off of the old ship they were on.

"Wow you all made it back." The man at the dock that let them use the ship in the first place said.

"Yes thank you for letting us use this ship that made us get to the other continent." Miria said to the man.

All of the ghosts along with Raki and Dracul walked into town near the harbor. This was the same place they had left the first time, they decided to stay near the town for a little bit, only until everyone was well rested enough from everything before before they would go and fight again. Some members of the group decided not to hang around the city, Clarice was one of them. She left Miata with Galatea, Galatea was the only one Miata would listen to aside from Clarice.

There was a forest outside of the city, she walked in it and stopped at a creek going through it. While washing her face in the water she heard someone else walking, she looked up and saw Raki walking not to far from her. He didn't see her, there was to many trees in the way he just kept on walking.

Raki walked to a small waterfall not to far down the creek, Clarice fallowed him almost like she was stalking him. She watched him from behind some bushes, he still didn't know she was their. He started taking off his clothes, Clarice felt her face turn red, she tried to look a way remembering that he was Miria's now, but she just couldn't. He looked so much more muscular then he did with his clothes on.

"Now I know why everyone wants him." Clarice thought putting her right index finger on her lips, and pulling on her lower lip with it.

She tried to get a closer look and moved forward, her knees where on top of a branch and it broke making a loud crack. Raki quickly grabbed his sword and threw it at her direction. He heard his sword sink into something, then a loud scream. He got out of the water and saw Clarice, with his sword going through her left hand and it pinned her to the ground.

"Oh no!" Raki yelled pulling his sword from her.

Clarice rolled on the ground holding her hand, her blood left a trail.

Raki grabbed her. "Hey can you heal that?" He asked afraid that he could have hurt her permanently.

"Yes, I just." Clarice said stopping quickly once she looked up and saw Raki standing over her.

"What?" Raki asked.

Clarice smiled, and Raki saw her face turn red. It wasn't until then he realized that he didn't cover himself up with anything when he got out of the water, and he was standing naked over Clarice.

They didn't say anything in this very awkward moment. Clarice kind of turned away and Raki went back into the water. Raki expected her to leave, but she stayed their.

"I'm sorry I was watching you like that." Clarice said as Raki had his back turned in waist deep water.

"I'm sorry I threw my sword at you." Raki said thinking Clarice was going to leave.

Instead she started taking her clothes off and walked into the water.

"What are you doing?" Raki asked confused.

Clarice walked up to him. "Remember when Raphaela would say stuff and leave you way back when I first saw you a couple times?" She said looking him in the eyes, he is a full head length taller than she is. "Because I had a huge crush on you and now I remember why."

"I don't think this is a good idea." Raki said.

"Just let me." Clarice said feeling his chest and his shoulders.

Raki put his hands on her waist and pulled her close to his body, he felt himeslf getting hard when she pressed her body against his. He put his hand under her chin and raised her head, she closed her eyes and opened her mouth. Raki kissed her, and they're tongues danced inside each others mouths.

"Wait!" Raki said stopping.

Clarice looked confused.

"I can't do this. If the others find out then they'll want me too, then Miria will hate me again." Raki said letting go of her.

"But I..." Clarice said with her hands still in the air when Raki started leaving her.

Then they heard someone walk up to them and Clarice fell in the water keeping herself hidden except for her head just in case it was Miria or someone because she didn't want to get Raki in trouble. When they looked up at the person they couldn't tell who it was, because whoever it was had themself covered up by a dark purple cape with a hood, and Raki could barely see a sword.

"Can I join in?" The person said.

It was a voice of a woman, and Clarice reconized who it was. The woman took her cape off and she had nothing else on.

"Raphaela!" Clarice yelled running to her.

"What is this? Everyone want to show up naked infront of me today or something?" Raki said watching both Clarice and Raphaela hold each other.

Clarice laughed. "Wait Raphaela last time I saw you Riful had captured you. How did you escape?"

"I don''t want to talk about it. I'll tell everyone later, but didn't you hear me already? Can I join in on whats going on?" Raphaela said, and both her and Clarice looked back at Raki and smiled.

"You won't be able to get away now Raki!" Clarice yelled.

"Hey wait we can't do this!" Raki yelled.

Raphaela grabbed her sword. "Your going to reject us? I'll just have to make you pay for that." She pointed it at him.

"Okay we don't have to fight or anything." Raki said before Raphaela jumped and landed in the water infront of him.

She threw him in the water, Clarice giggled and ran in for some of this new fun.

Raki sighed. "I hope no one finds out about this." As both Clarice and Raphaela took him down and started having they're way with him.

* * *

Later that day.

Miria stood outside of the town and was soon joined by Galatea.

"Miria I have a question. What ever happened to Beth?" Galatea asked.

Miria looked at her. "I left her in Rabona, why?"

"We can use her thats why, to fight the abysals." Galatea said. "Plus Raphaela is back."

Miria's eyes widened. "What?!"

"Yes she's with Clarice right now.... and Raki." Galatea said wondering what Miria would say next.

"They're with Raki? Where are they?" Miria asked.

Galatea hesitated. "Well.... I saw them in the forest and."

"And what?" Miria said wanting to know.

"Now Miria they didn't see me but, and please go easy on Raki." Galatea said noticing that Miria was getting impatient. "They were having three way in a creek."

Miria got angry and Galatea felt her yoki rise. "Stupid fuck!" Miria yelled. "Fine if thats the way its going to be, we're leaving without them!"

Galatea watched Miria walk back into town. "Where are we going?"

"Get everyone else, we're going to Rabona to get Beth." Miria said letting her anger get the best of her.

Half an hour later Miria was taking everyone to Rabona, everyone else was starting to wonder where Raki and Clarice were.

Clare walked up to Miria. "Where is he?"

Miria stopped and turned to everyone. "Alright we're going to Rabona to get Beth, then we're going to fight the abysal ones, first Riful than Easily. If anyone wants to back out now you can, I'm not going to stop you."

"I'm going to where Raki is." Clare said catching everyones attention, then she started leaving and took Miata. "Good luck with your goals in killing the abysals." She said as Jean started to fallow her.

"If you don't mind Miria, I don't want to fight the abysals, I'm really only here for Clare." Irene said leaving the group and also started fallowing Clare.

"I'll stay, I want to help you just like you helped us." Dracul said walking to Miria.

"I want to stay with Miria too." Tabitha said.

"I'm staying." Cynthia said.

"I'm not leaving either." Yuma said.

Deneve and Helen looked at each other, Helen looked like she wanted to leave but Deneve wouldn't let her. "We're staying as well." Deneve said.

"I can't leave this group either, Miria you will need my help." Galatea said.

"Alright then, lets go." Miria said starting to walk again.

After walking for about an hour, Galatea used her new vision she had from when Clare helped her in the fight against Uruloki, to look at what everyone was wearing while they were walking. Of course it was hard to tell because of everyones overcoats, but Galatea eventually saw what everyone was wearing. Then she eventually saw Cynthia.

"Cynthia come here." Galatea said getting Cynthia to walk at the back of the group with her.

"Yes what is it?" Cynthia asked.

"Your almost half naked." Galatea said starting to smile.

Cynthia looked at her leather outfit, yes she didn't wear any pants or skirts like the others, she really was almost half naked from the waist down. "Yes well its a long story." Cynthia said embarrassed.

"Oh.... Do tell." Galatea said.

"Please I'd rather not." Cynthia said.

Galatea slowed her pace letting the others walk farther ahead, and slowed Cynthia as well. "You can tell me." Galatea said silently.

"Well in the north when we made these outfits, I had a skirt like Miria. Well when I was training with Helen one week, it was real windy and Helen cut it with her sword and it blew away never to be seen again." Cynthia said starting to smile.

Then Galatea smiled. "It makes you look hot."

"Wait Galatea your not saying." Cynthia said knowing where Galatea was going with this all of the sudden.

"Your a quick learner, but I do happen to go both ways." Galatea said putting her left arm out infront of Cynthia.

Cynthia stopped walking. "Thanks for helping me regenerate this arm actually. I'll give something in return because I never did, did I?" Galatea asked. "This is how powerful my yoki manipulation is."

Cynthia felt this warm feeling going through her body, mostly inbetween her legs. "Galatea..." Cynthia said grabbing hold of herself. She felt pleasured by Galatea's ability.

Galatea simply smiled. "You must really like it?"

"How are you doing that?" Cynthia squeaked. "It feels like its coming from the inside out." Cynthia said as she started to feel very wet all of the sudden.

Then Galatea stopped, and Cynthia wondered why, she knew once she saw Tabitha looking at her.

"Oh yes I forgot she must have senced what I was doing to you." Galatea said.

Cynthia covered herself up with her overcoat, if she didn't everyone would see certain fluids dripping down her legs.

"If you want more come find me when we get to Rabona." Galatea said kissing Cynthia's face.

"Yes..." Cynthia whispered.

Galatea thought it was funny that no one but Tabitha noticed what she was doing but oh well.

* * *

Meanwhile Clare had caught up to Raki, Clarice, and Raphaela by using Miata's abilities. They were still in the forest.

"Clare?!" Raki said shocked at seeing them.

"I don't believe what I'm seeing." Clare said.

Jean and Irene walked behind Clare.

"So your still alive Raphaela." Irene said.

"Miria and the others left you, and I decided to comeback for you. All though we are not going back to the group." Clare said watching Raki and Clarice put they're clothes on, Raphaela just had her cape.

"You mean she knows?" Raki asked."

"Yeah she knows." Clare said.

"Well what am I going to do now?" Raki asked again.

"Don't worry Raki you have all of us now." Clare said.

Raki looked at her not believing what she just said, but a smile showed up on his face and Clare could tell that he was happy again.

"I don't like leaving the others though." Irene said breaking the moment.

"She's right despite whats going on we should go back, Riful is Miria's first objective." Jean said.

"Thats true." Clare said. "Miria will need all the help she can get."

"We should go help her first." Irene said.

"No!" Raphaela yelled. "I'm not going back to Riful's! You can't make me!" She ran into the forest.

Everyone looked at each other. "I'll go get her." Clare said.

"I'm not going back to Miria's group." Raki said. "I'm going to stay with Raphaela." He said going after her.

"You all go on ahead, I'll catch up later." Clare said fallowing Raki.

Jean and Irene started to leave, Clarice wasn't planning on going either but Miata dragged her back with Irene and Jean.

Raki found Raphaela holding herself behind a tree. "Whats wrong?" Raki asked.

Raphaela looked up at him. "I won't go back to that place."

Clare caught up to them. She was taken back once she saw Raphaela like this.

"Okay, you don't have to go and fight Riful, I'll stay with you." Raki said.

"Then I'm staying too." Clare said sitting beside them.

* * *
A few days later.

Miria went to the church in Rabona and saw Beth sitting at the front. "Beth could you help us?" Miria asked in a calm voice.

"With what?" Beth asked happy to see the one that had saved her from the organization.

"I need your help to fight the abysal ones." Miria said.

Beth looked at her. "Okay."

Helen, Deneve, and Yuma ran into Cid and Galk.

"Hey!" Cid yelled happy to see them.

"We were just going to find a place to drink." Helen said. "Want to come with us?"

"You don't have to ask me that. Lets go Galk!" Cid yelled.

Cynthia had wondered where Galatea had gone, she looked around until she ran into Tabitha. "Tabitha have you seen Galatea?"

Tabitha kind of gave Cynthia a dirty look. "I know what she did to you. I think it was rather disgusting, but I won't tell anyone." Tabitha said watching Cynthia turn pale. "She went into that inn over their." She said pointing to where Galatea was.

When Cynthia went into the inn there was no one inside, except a string. She fallowed it and it went to the top floor and into a room that the door was open. Cynthia walked into the room and the door shut behind her, she tried to turn around but froze.

"Your in my power." Galatea said walking out from behind her with no clothes on.

"Galatea...." Cynthia mumbled when Galatea kissed her sliding her tongue in her mouth.

She started undressing Cynthia at the same time. She moaned when Galatea started fingering her and sucking on her nipples. Cynthia felt her body go cold and came on Galatea's hand.

"You must be really excited?" Galatea said throwing Cynthia on the bed.

Galatea moaned when Cynthia switched her position and started using her tongue inbetween Galatea's legs.

"My turn." Cynthia said using her teeth.

Galatea yelled Cynthia's name, she had never felt this before. Galatea tried to get back into control but Cynthia stuck her fingers in Galatea's mouth and slammed her back on the bed.

"Now your in my power!" Cynthia yelled once she felt Galatea sucking on her fingers.

Galatea wasn't expecting Cynthia to be this controlling. As Cynthia was licking away she felt Galatea's right thigh rub up between Cynthia's legs. Cynthia moaned and wrapped her legs against Galatea's and started rubbing. Galatea smiled and felt herself getting very excited, she came on Cynthia and Cynthia couldn't resist and she came again all over Galatea. They both moaned and kept quiet, they cuddled with each other and kissed a few times before they went to sleep in each others arms.

* * *

Tabitha went over to Miria, sencing what everyone was doing. Helen, Deneve, and Yuma were drunk. Dracul was with Miria and Beth, while Galatea and Cynthia just had hot sex.

"What is it?" Miria asked.

"I think we should wait a little bit before going to battle." Tabitha said.

-----------------------------
To be contunued....

[Yosei]

@ Shelter: I am hoping the next chapter, which I haven't started typing, will enlighten Clare more of Galatea and Irene's perspectives regarding Rigardo and the others. The end of this most recent chapter was Clare-centric, almost 100% Clare-centric. I would like her to appear clueless at first, given her meteoric rise to power. The Royal Lancers serve whichever Academy they choose, although since all four of them hail from Sutafu, they tend to agree with its rather Machiavellian policy. But this is not the reason they have declared war, or it would be so lame and petty

@ Tempest: If you're going to edit my chapter again, could you italicize the parts you added in or changed? Because that way I don't have to paste the whole thing in and make all the cosmetic changes to the format which were already there in the old document. Once I've added in your parts I'll have removed the italics.

@ Hell: Not too bad and I'm happy Raphaela's back... but I'm sort of rather weary of Raki's refusal to learn and, quite literally, be a bit more upright. I mean, his ventures with Clarice have cheapened his previous reparations with Clare and Miria. And it sort of made his words "I love you" completely unbelievable. It also makes his character... pretty much irredeemable in my eyes, unless you have something drastic planned for the next few chapters.

And hopefully you'll be able to describe Cynthia's emotions more often before the end of your story. Otherwise it does seem all she wants is sex, first from Raki, then from Galatea. I can't really see Cynthia like that, although I guess my glasses have been coloured by my previous two stories. I'm all for people having sex with different individuals, but you can't do that sort of thing without feeling something. Doesn't matter if it's good or bad or even just boredom, just write of them FEELING something.

[hell88]

Originally Posted by Yosei

@ Hell: Not too bad and I'm happy Raphaela's back... but I'm sort of rather weary of Raki's refusal to learn and, quite literally, be a bit more upright. I mean, his ventures with Clarice have cheapened his previous reparations with Clare and Miria. And it sort of made his words "I love you" completely unbelievable. It also makes his character... pretty much irredeemable in my eyes, unless you have something drastic planned for the next few chapters.

And hopefully you'll be able to describe Cynthia's emotions more often before the end of your story. Otherwise it does seem all she wants is sex, first from Raki, then from Galatea. I can't really see Cynthia like that, although I guess my glasses have been coloured by my previous two stories. I'm all for people having sex with different individuals, but you can't do that sort of thing without feeling something. Doesn't matter if it's good or bad or even just boredom, just write of them FEELING something.

Yeah I've been waiting forever to bring Raphaela back, she will be a little different than before, with her experience with Riful and everything. Raki is a little dumb, either that or Clarice likes to have some adventure lol. Yes I do have something drastic planned for Raki in the future, can't say Miria will want to go back to him though. Now that he is with Raphaela and Clare mabye he will learn something.

Well hey I can describe Cynthia's emotions right now actually, for anyone that hasn't got it by now, she is a nymphomaniac in my fic. Along with Helen but she pretty much already is one anyway, Cynthia hung around Helen too much in the north and Cynthia became the way she is from listening to Helen's sex stories. So I thought why not have Galatea do something that would make Cynthia want her, don't worry there will be feeling.

[Yosei]

Flora's updated profile, post-Carnival.

Spoiler for i believe we've met somewhere:

Flora: It is said that those who do not fight will never understand those who do. Yet warriors themselves often cannot understand why they fight; they cannot understand why their calling remains in the pit, amongst traded blows, amongst bloody noses and cut lips. Only a month and more has passed since she graciously bowed out of the Champion Carnival, but Flora already feels the pull of the Coliseum tugging impatiently at her heart. But for what reason… it is not glory, nor money that compels her to journey to Rabona, to find a friend she was once forced to call an opponent… no, it is something greater, something looming in the horizon of the future, beckoning for Clare…

Flora leaves her husband behind for a final duty.

She must impart her Windcutter to Clare...

[shelter]

Some small, quiet one-shot that I've been too distracted with for the past few days. For the Miria fans. And for the unseen, unheard & unaware Tabitha fans - if there are actually any

Written in the usual style (my older style, less experimenting), keeping the story as updated to the canon as possible. I've said it once & I'll say it again: Miria & Tabitha are 2 great characters to write on.

I'm a promoter of inter-Claymore conflict

Spoiler for The Sound of Bells:

The Sound of Bells

1.
Even though it was Yuma’s idea, she still consented to follow her. It would be her first time in the place Clare called a cathedral.

Tabitha felt there was no specific purpose behind this visit: it was like one of those excursions to retrieve Clare they used to conduct back in the north – just without the troublesome complications of dealing with Clare’s character. And when Yuma had proposed it, even Clare agreed to follow; though it appeared clear she looked quiet with a kind of shadowy disinterest. And Deneve, who mumbled something about Yuma being unnecessarily curious, still chose to follow them anyway.

By the time they entered the largest section of the building – which she assumed belonged to the benevolent man Miria was talking to upstairs – spear-lengths of sunshine tore through the eaves of the building. They struck out at divine, chaotic angles, littering the vast space with scars of unfiltered light. On all sides of the room were mouldy, darkened windows which stared outwards at the world around. But they did not catch any light, and Tabitha saw they seemed as drab as the walls.

She threw a glance across the entire space like she would an unfamiliar terrain in battle: an excessive, divided space. Messy, but still cluttered with a sense of orderliness. The blank windows like guards watching the outside (or was it inside?). The eaves like eyelids blinking with sunlight. The ceiling, vaulted, soaring beyond her. The stocky pillars. The cravings that flourished like stale, stone flowers from the tops of those pillars.

Planks – furniture she had never seen before – long, snake-like, like tidily-shaved trunks of trees parting only to reveal one accurately central path down to the centre of the room. And then: a table, a platform, an assembly of thrones.

Above it, poking out of the dark stone walls like it should not be there: a haze of blood red, tan gold, bruise blue. A glistening, painfully bright slice of glass and colour seemingly embedded without purpose in the drab serious wall above them, like a jewel poking its sparkle from a mound of earth.

She turned to Deneve. “What is it?” she asked.

“What is what?”

“That.”

When she saw Deneve –her eyes ground-wards, shielded, not even bothering to look – she knew she would not answer. Tabitha turned instead to Clare.

“Some work of art.”

Clare tried again: “Someone painted it I think.”

“But don’t you think it’s beautiful, Clare?”

Yuma, eclipsed by Clare’s lack of a response, nodded instead.

She thought a word such as beautiful did not exist in Clare’s vocabulary; and even if it did, Clare seemed loathe to use it. Still, Tabitha saw, she followed the ascending glances of Yuma and herself to the flashy mess of colours. From behind it, she saw the sun had smeared a template of shades, washing across in invisible waves of morning humidity, over the ground they were standing.

“It’s called stained glass.”

But Deneve was now looking back out the way they came, at the black timber doors like gates into the vicinity of this silent, nervous underworld.

“But.” She saw Yuma look to Deneve and back up at the object. “What’s it supposed to mean?”

This time Deneve looked right Yuma in the eye: “And how would I know?”

Tabitha drifted over to where the pool of sun-torched reflection of the stained glass ended; she thought she had just slipped into a water-less pond and out again. She posited herself at the bare box of heavy-set wood rising from the floor. Pulpit, Deneve called it. (So many new words!) A table beyond it – elaborately dressed with gold skirting, a green cloth surely, surely more luscious than Cynthia’s tresses – laden with assorted objects left there so purposely they insisted some greater motive circulated in the very air around them.

She waited for Deneve to sacrifice the silence for an explanation. But instead Clare disrupted her; she watched as Clare, stealing her moment of quiet curiosity, clambered onto the – pulpit – and rose to her full height, like a scout. Only now she seemed to be trying survey the meaning behind everything they had observed so far.

“Clare are you sure –”

Deneve’s all-knowing, all-seeing voice: “Let her do what she wants, Yuma.”

She ignored all of them. Even Clare, who deftly plucked from within the – pulpit – a book which appeared to be impersonating as a boulder. She shut them out first: there was the dazzling coloured image which blazed and cast its own shadow upon her to confront. She traced the lines and symbols, tooth-like chunks which blinked at her; blinking, she felt, like opulent, over-obvious eyes begging for her to interpret them.

She thought if she tried to close her eyes to consolidate the image, it would be easier That was how it was meant to be, wasn’t it? A tried technique she knew never failed: in darkness, a yoki-lit circumference of shades and hues. But, now in light, a freckled, light-tossed flower of questionable design.

She opened her eyes. Clare stood beside her, their shoulders almost touching, tense as if on the climax of some great discovery. Her presence chipped away her own senses: Clare was that unsettling.

She edged away from Clare; recovering from her self-imposed darkness, her vision fraying to tatters of vivid, opague shades of gleaming stripes, she found herself fixated. There were images there. Yes – they were there. Now, only now, was she beginning to detach them from the greater morass of incoherent shapes on the glass. She knew they had a meaning. She knew – surely –

“Do you see them?” she asked Clare.

Clare’s voice struck like a handful of snow: “The things you see with those eyes of yours.”

But she was seeing them; she was seeing them, so finely melded into the colours they seemed like blots of insignificance: a pack of panting, leering men’s faces. A street of brown cobblestones so small and stoically drawn. A patch of houses, standing so plainly in the background scenery of the image, like flowers by a hillside. And at the focus of it: at the bottom left, a man, clearly wracked in pain, bloodied, surrounded by men, his face upturned at an infinitely twisted angle, dog-tongued, revolting.

His eyes, circles of swirling zero-points of black eyeing an atmosphere shrouded by clouds.

She stepped back, the image of the man hurting her eyes. She spoke, but to no one in particular: “What do they call this place again?”

“A cathedral.”

“I think, Clare, that the proper name is a church.”

She caught Clare as she flung an unsatisfied glare at Deneve, who was still slouching by the first row of the long wooden beams, with Yuma watching nearby.

“What purpose does it serve?”

Her echoing query made its way around them without an answer. Noticing Clare – slightly put off by Deneve – dusk her hands across the row of chairs, she moved into the unlighted corner of the church/ cathedral. The chairs were arranged so straight they seemed like a thicket of thrones.

“I think they pay respect to some person.”

Paying respect - and what did that mean? As Tabitha traced the edges of carvings set into the walls she tried to imagine it: paying respect. The kind of respect she had for, say, Miria? That kind of respect? Or, throwing her eyes downwards to Clare – that kind of respect?

“Wait –”

She could feel their flickering presence even before she could see them, but Deneve had already drawn her weapon: two human men emerged from the doors. Within the light-torched window behind her, they were but twin pieces of movement, outlined fiercely by the central gap between the wooden planks. They paused halfway.

And then, they turned and disappeared, without acknowledging their presence.

Whether or not their appearance had anything to do with what occurred next, Tabitha was not completely sure. But shortly after, a deep ring, an echoing metallic chime surged through the entire place. It echoed once, then again, repeatedly, faithfully in the same two tones. Each tone, sharp and heavy, shook the windows, and made the furniture huddle in trembling.

“Bells.”

Tabitha looked up. She knew they were coming from beyond the ceiling – if only she could –

“They’re calling people to come,” Deneve said again. “Let’s go. We shouldn’t stay.”

She closed her eyes on Clare and Yuma making their exit. In the portion of darkness, raked by the mournful sound, she could still feel a faint, but warm, well of yoki through the deadness of the walls.

“Tabitha? You coming?”

Clare’s voice overwhelmed her return to the interior of the Rabonan structure. Me? Follow you? Now?

“Miria is still here. So I’m staying”

She saw Clare shrug elaborately. She thought she heard her mutter “as usual” but at that moment the sound of the bells ended. And all she could hear were Clare’s diminishing steps.


2.
As usual.

If only – if only – she could force that edgy sarcasm out from Clare’s tongue. But there would be no use making a scene – that Clare – and the idea was unsavoury. That Clare – unstable, whiny, who did not care about whatever came from her mouth.

Tabitha sharpened her knuckles on her forehead: so she was a loyal warrior to her leader. And her leader was Miria. So what?

She waited in between the shade granted by two windows; the warped architecture gave enough shade for her to wait and be subtly mistaken for any of the statues littered in the sanctuary. Her position of camouflage kept away already insecure eyes – eyes flashing absently at her from the crowds of people ambling through the doors.

These guests milled around and finally came to rest on the wooden planks; others were to be found kneeling at the front, near the thing called the pulpit. She did not want to be noticed – but could not help observing them.

So was this the equivalent – no – the Rabonan example of paying respect? Or was it? Or were they waiting for something else?

She saw them, muttering, their heads falling steadfastly to the ground in a kind of numb, heaving repetition. Their hands were fitfully clasped with something she had once seen Miria – and, unbelievably, Clare – do, in a variation of many styles, types and manners. Something they called, in vague descriptive words, prayer – whatever it meant – something supposedly serious, forbidding interruption. Some kneeled so precariously: like they were waiting upon the graves at Pieta, in devotional ritual, in painful memory.

Only now there was no grave and no memory – she was certain she could not see any. Outlined by the drawling cast of a winged man, the crowd turned up-faced in one single direction – did that have a meaning, too?

(The form of the winged man, draped in stone, at ease with his sword – she tried not to look into his sheen-coloured eyes of plaster white. Prior to today, the only things with wings she had seen were yoma.)

A burdensome draft of silence. And the crowd turned quiet. Tabitha saw a man mount the pulpit : the same soft-faced man who had been addressing Miria when they left her in one of the inner rooms. She picked out his garb. Surely – ceremonial, lucidly symbolic: all those uncanny symbols branded into the fabric. He walked with an air of a northern forest enchanted by snow-drenched light – something mysterious. The other visitors and guests actively acknowledged his presence as he stood and watched them from behind the pulpit, like an eagle roosting on the highest peak.

Like the crowd, she paused to wonder. Is this the power this man has over other humans? The power that made Miria approach him equally, respectfully, calling him father when (as all in the company of seven knew) she had no memory of her parents?

She saw his eyes rush in her direction: they made the slightest twitch, as if they could squint through the thick shadow and pick her out. She stared back. But his gaze already moved away, falling on the repetition of upturned faces like flowers pressing for the sun.

His voice spread outwards like a gale:

“It is written in the scriptures – the just shall live by faith!”

What an unusual combination of words! Tabitha, her mind thinking, clambered over the first wave of this phrase which this man had spoke with a storm-laced voice and a cut from his right arm. A meditative pause followed, and still thinking, she realized she could sense Miria’s presence. The comfortable texture of its yoki seemed to be descending away from where she stood.

“Yes. It is the truth through which we are all here today. In the face of the tragedies and the miraculous rescue from a monster we have witnessed, though we have seen many martyred for our faith.” A broad sweep to the panel of richly-gleaming colours behind. “Through it all – the just shall live by faith!”

Was he talking about her? No – about the company of the seven of them? Tabitha wanted to listen on, but Miria’s fading presence exerted a greater force, pulling her from her hidden point – pulling her away from this man. This man and his glass structure and his big words.


3.
She should have expected it. And she should have already predicted, understandably, the outcome of their meeting.

Miria, she felt, had long chosen not to exercise leadership or her trademark control over them. They were in the South now, free to make their own choices. So when all seven of them met to decide the next road to take, Tabitha knew their routes from Rabona (if they were to venture out at all) would diverge.

“As for me, I will stay and pray for your safe return.”

Miria’s voice, like a benediction, summed up the fulfillment of their agreement: they were going to separate. All seven of them would no longer be one company, one group. After seven years, she thought, Miria allowed the inevitable to pass.

And standing with them, on the ramparts of Rabona, watching, waiting for her comrades to evaluate their decisions, she tried not to make eye-contact with Clare. Clare – who was going to chase remotely, to the ends of the earth if she could, her mysterious ally, the phantom-like symbol of that boy whose only existence, Tabitha believed, laid in the conceptual realm of a desperate warrior with a flawed imagination.

She was sure Yuma, Cynthia – even possibly Miria – shared her view. But she dared not speak out. Steadying herself as Clare and Deneve embraced, she still waited on Clare. Even though she was taking Cynthia and Yuma away.

When it came to her turn, she took Clare’s hug as steady as she could.

She took a clear, possibly final, sidelong look at the grinning Helen, then to Yuma and her unassuming conversation with a bright-eyed Cynthia. Behind them, in an almost startling clarity, she could see almost five miles from the banners on the Rabonan ramparts to a haze-worn land blossoming with hills, and overlaid with grey-bottomed clouds turning as they trudged through the sky.

What a clear day, she thought.


4.
She followed Miria directly back to the – cathedral, leaving the other five to ready their preparations for departure. It did occur to her that only she and Miria would be the staying in Rabona – a final bastion for the city (plus the two recently defected warriors, plus the powerful blind nun) – but it did not come to her as a feeling. It seemed more an observation, something which should, properly, be so.

The door lay ajar. Inside, she took a moment to remember the surroundings. Unlike the last time she had entered the cathedral, the afternoon sun had now completely shuffled light, shade and darkness into new positions and degrees.

The windows no longer divided the sanctuary into even portions of illuminated space and untended shade. Instead, they thrust a harsh afternoon glare towards the opposing wall, highlighting heads, legs, arms of the statues as if by diurnal accident. Everything else fell into a content shadow.

The fragment of swirling, hue-scattered reflections from the stained glass window had been tossed to the very head of the large space. Some of its colours seemed visibly twisted by the intensity of light.

A sword-like streak of pale red fell draped, possessively, on Miria’s left shoulder. And Tabitha spotted her leader before the pulpit, her head lowered.

Tabitha approached. She could feel Miria’s yoki, like a flare in the cramped half-light of the cathedral signaling her forward. The elder warrior gave no sign that she had noticed her closing in on her. Her head remained firmly, humbly sunk – Tabitha thought – into the devout solitude of the large figures in the stained glass that overwhelming her frame. Closer, just closer – and Tabitha saw, with a swelling discomfort, the faces of the evil, spear-tongued men in the glass image congregated around her leader like a pale crimson halo.

Was she – praying? She could only see the gently shut eyes, the clasped hands; she could feel the constant ebb and flow of Miria’s breath. And the silent words, slipping from her lips into this repressed atmosphere, unheard but having meaning.

When she advanced further, Miria stirred, spoke:

“Tell me, Tabitha. Do you trust me?”

Trust me. Why the question? And what a question! Miria still had yet to rise from her position. With her forehead still aimed at the ground, Tabitha could almost imagine another voice from within the room had deceived her.

“Tabitha?”

Her name framed in her leader’s throat like a plea: she knew Miria wanted more than just opinion. Trust. Standing square to Miria, she could almost feel the dancing, flaking yoki energies of her other five comrades in their supposed anticipation to depart Rabona. She could feel both their excitement and their anxieties accumulating, in the hushed, rapid whispering that Miria made.

And trust. Tabitha stormed deep into her thoughts to frame that word with Miria’s almost hunching, penance-burdened form. Trust. Trust Miria like the man in the stained glass window, whose colours were absorbing them in a dissolving shroud of light – like that man’s trust in his own god, trust to the point of shattering, screaming, resplendent sacrificial death –

But the answer never found any challenge, imagined or not:

“You know better than to ask me, Miria,” Tabitha said. Her tone had quickened, like she intended it to be a trivial joke. From a certain perspective, she could not help thinking so.

“Our trust in you has gotten this far.”

She thought she saw the edges Miria’s mouth thin like a blade. But she confronted her with another question:

“Did I do the right thing, Tabitha? Was I right in letting all of them leave?”

Tabitha began to feel a second uneasy feeling numb her thoughts. Miria still remained stagnantly in place, the last words of the question swallowing the air around them.

“You’re our leader. We know, down to the very last breath, that you are right.”

She exhaled. The effort in putting her thoughts into words took a satisfying but tiresome toll on her tongue, her head, her own imagination of the Miria she knew: the phantom touch of her reassurance and the strong power in her voice. Tabitha did not want either to fall from her.

In the grating silence, Miria’s eyes finally glowed back to life. Not facing Tabitha, she spoke once more: “Maybe you should reconsider you decision to stay. There’s nothing here –”

Enough – enough questioning –

Tabitha saw her hands reach out to her leader – she saw them soften into her shoulders – and then, her leader’s eyes aflame, body tense beneath the sword-grip of her own palms, Miria’s face was before hers.

“Why do you ask me?” Tabitha wanted it to be a question too. But it had all the harshness of a demand.

Do you not trust me?

Miria linked their arms, and Tabitha felt the press of her hands; she felt
almost like her shoulders were being lifted. She tried her utmost to stare into her leader’s eyes, being unable many times before to withstand her glare.

Miria shrugged. “I’ve been afraid for them. I don’t know how many will return alive.”

Tabitha felt warmed by the intense closeness in, and of, those words. She wanted to maintain the stare, hold the glazed, steady line of sight Miria possessed. If this was what trust felt like – she choose, in that split-second – to lower her arms, thawed from their rash move from Miria’s shoulders. Until it was Miria who was steadying her.

“That’s why I’m here.”

“That’s why you will have at least me when you choose to move out.”

“And –”

Tabitha would never admit that, with Miria’s arms forming a saving bridge between them, she would expect Miria to pull her close and embrace her. But Miria did. And when Miria – with her stoned-faced frown untouched, her thin lanky arms taunt and (probably) unable to withstand any longer, her fragrant locks grazing the side of her right cheek, her angular chin like a sword’s hilt, planting and stabbing itself in the slope of flesh on Tabitha’s shoulder – did, all Tabitha could remember seeing were the downward-flashing eyes of the men in the stained glass painting, made greasy by the light. She saw them – and she pressed her arms tighter around Miria’s neck.

“You know I have no one else to follow –”

She did not mean it to be an emotional confession, or an epiphany. To her, it was a mere statement of fact.


5.
She awoke to an anticipated absence of light. The underside of her thighs were numb with the cold – a cold bursting from the harsh stone floor, clinging to a long stretch of her skin. She took several moments to recall the surroundings. Her world, blurred by early morning serenity, burned into understanding.

The cathedral. The pulpit. The stained glass window –

No light decorated the stained glass window. And now it looked discoloured and inconsistent, like someone had shattered a pane and left it in its place .

She unfurled Miria’s arm from her shoulders, taking care not to wake her. In her sleep Tabitha thought she could pass off as dead: completely silent and still. Miria’s arm beckoned to her like a gesture urging her to remain. But Tabitha rose, following the nearest shred of light, and ending up at a misted window.

And as she watched the city slowly searching its way out of shadow into a sluggish creep of sunlight, the bells high above her sounded in a single chorus: a solid echo that flew across the still quiet city faster than light, faster than her own eyes –

She tried to imagine that after this morning there would be neither Helen to laugh along with, nor Clare to get resentful at. Clare, Yuma, Cynthia, Deneve, Helen – they were waiting to depart. They were waiting to disappear into the blind clarity of the opening day.

But now she shook the cold from her, running a palm down her arms. She moved back to Miria, still at ease with the impending sunlight and continuous striking of bells. And, lowering herself, she warmed Miria’s upturned forehead with a kiss.

“Wake up,” she whispered.

She found her voice drowned by the chanting echo all around, the two of them alone in the company of its deep music, untouched by morning light.


16.08.2008

Comments, criticism welcome. Also need advice on whether I should continue doing this irregular one-by-one posting of fics, or come up with something more lasting.

[KillerYomaFromSpace]

@Shelter: I think its great, independent fics are fine, however, I would love it if you made something more lasting if its about Miria ^^

[Yosei]

@ shelter: That was very well done! Enjoyed it all. I thought the beautiful part between Miria and Tabitha, fine as it is, could be actually lengthened. In particular, although this was written with the Tabitha fans in mind, even more of Tabitha's thoughts on Miria's perspectives would I think satisfy fans on both sides. This isn't really a suggestion of improvement per se, more like lengthening to please the readers.

I myself would be a Tabitha fan, if Cynthia did not exist. The thing about good entertainment like Claymore is that there are too MANY good characters to write about! I can barely get one right, let alone 7 (8 if you count Galatea)!

Spoiler for shameless self-promotion so I'm going to spoil this:

Okay, it seems my offer for the boxing fic is not going too hot right now, so I'll make it clear here as to what I am hoping will be a fun and deep writing product, with contributions from all active members. In this way, my story is no longer mine, but everybody's. For example, Tempest made several important changes to several crucial parts story-wise, whereas Hell kicked off the new arc with his own chapter. My initiation, their work.

The current arc is that of the World Festival and the Rabona boxers' struggle against the Royal Lancers. However, it only holds a central place because I NEED a central plot to keep the story going before reaching a conclusion. But along the way, or even afterward, there are too many characters with the potential of being left behind. Just to list a few: Tabitha, Yuma, Undine, Hilda, Miria, Noelle, Sophia, and even Jeane, Helen and Deneve (since I've made it pretty clear that Clare is growing rapidly stronger than they are, and able to tangle with the likes of Flora, Irene, etc.) Therefore, I'm looking for people who like these characters and would like to write about them.

One-shots are FINE. Entire chapters are FINE. Chapters where they don't box in a pit-fight are FINE. Even a sort of "reflections" chapter where they just sit there and think about stuff is FINE. Pretty much everything is FINE unless it tampers with the central plot, and even then we can negotiate to ensure the story doesn't get confusing.

I hope I'm more clear on this. You can write about fights in the pit - the Coliseum is called Bordeaux and the showman is Rimuto. If you are to write of a Rabona boxer (Helen, Deneve, Jeane, Clarice, and Miria-to-come), Galatea often accompanies them to their matches. Unfortunately, I will personally write about Clare, Flora and Cynthia, so technically they're "off-bounds". But this is only due to a practical concern and we can always work something out.

I am hoping the World Festival arc will be something epic.

P.S. Another great possibility I'm throwing up for grabs: Rosemary. There is potential to explore her relationship with Teresa, and I don't know what that relationship is, because I haven't writte about Rosemary. So if someone wants to write about a woman's jealousy, or perhaps the godlike power of Teresa's fists, here it is.

[AkatsukiYu]

Yosei... now you feel, my problem XD.

You have contributed to my project... it is my turn to return the favor Yosei...

I can't really decide right now, but from where I am seeing, I would do Miria, but I like to see other people to write about her for you

But I am willing to assist you in another way no matter what. I owe you 6 chapters, four characters, a minimum of 9,000 words.

PM me so we can get this show on the go Yosei.

BTW Yosei... your story is still yours. What would be shared amongst the authors would be the arc itself, but not the entire story

[Tempest35]

I changed the plot....??? Curses, I've done it again....

@ Shelter - Hnnn *stares hard* excellent as always ... and yet ... I so want to push a lil Clare/Miria into this fic....even just the barest hit of it....lol Hnnn, could I suggest the Clare/Miria angle if for nothing more than to have even more development for Tabatha - and her feelings of being measured up against Clare in Miria's mind? A lil angst there but hey - its for the story...lol Just an idea, but as Yosei pointed out - seems that many of my ideas have altered the course of many a fanfic. lol