Alkor

The shadows of his hood obfuscated the top half of his face as he watched from across the room. He'd collected the same quest recently and decided to scour the town for other players who chanced on the same thing., but he hadn't expected it to happen quickly. While nursing the ale that sat on the table in front of him, he listened to the conversation just to be certain before he approached. Basic looking weapon, same for the armor... just by looking, Alkor gleaned that this player was a lower level, and the risks involved with the quest were fairly high if he tried to take it on by himself. His jaw set a bit.

Part of him wanted to leave it alone. If he did nothing, there was a chance that the man survived on his own and felled the beast. If he did, he would go on to follow the quest wherever it led, possibly toward further danger. Alkor knew that if he did not step in here, he was not doing anyone in Aincrad any favors and they were at risk of losing another potential asset to the frontlines. Before he had time to weigh the decision at all, another person stepped forward and asked to join. He said several words that immediately made Alkor's decision for him.

I've just started actually playing...

He stepped up from the table, leaving the drink behind. Alkor moved like a shadow through the crowd and took up a position flanking the other two, glancing down to confirm what was written on the paper. Just as he surmised, they had accepted the same quest. "Hey there," Alkor gave a stiff, quick wave as he made himself known to the group without skulking for too long. He peeled the hood away to reveal his blonde hair and golden eyes, which accentuated his smile as he chanced a step closer.

"I just happened to overhear the details of this quest, and I recently chanced across the same one." The details of his strength and level were a non-issue, so long as he didn't join their party, he figured. While his equipment outmatched theirs and his abilities might speak for themselves, there was always the chance that the other two would not put things together until later. He decided to stake things on that. "If you'd be so inclined, I'd like to go along with you. Three heads are better than two, and all that?" he told them, looking from one man to the other.

The reality was, Alkor felt responsible now. While one of them had a 50/50 shot of surviving, the other's chances were much more grim if he was fresh out of the Town of Beginnings. He wasn't going to have two new additions to the monument on his conscience.

His gaze fell on Morningstar. "You said you might have an idea of where to go...?"

Thread Complete!

total word count: 13610
base exp: 2265

alkor | t7: 15885xp
lessa | t8: 18120xp
baldur | t10: 22650xp

How many times had he reached the same conclusion?

How many times had it tasted just as bitter?

The reality for Alkor was that he was a pyre, a bright burning furnace that fueled itself with singular passion- but the fire burned monochromatic. Where so many others put on a brilliant display across the entire rainbow, his own worth was grayscale. He could be hotter than all of them, but never as beautiful.

And he couldn't even look away from the fire to care about the difference. That heat called to him, always drew him back, and ever burned him. The things Baldur said, Alkor knew. For so many people, Alkor was "enough," and yet, for the people who mattered most, he never was.

Now, to take away that definition, damning though it was, and replace it with the opinions of his peers in this world... 

The song that played in the beat of their bokken was a solemn one, rife with staccato sounds filled with that zest for life that Baldur beat back at him with. It was a tragic melody with just enough hope to perfectly flavor the despair. 

The words sounded so hopeless as they formed on his tongue. "Because I don't want it," he finally admitted. It was like the floor broke underneath them when he finally spoke his mind. "I don't want to be anything to any of them. I don't want the responsibility that comes with it. I dont want to be let down again by the people closest to me. I don't want to let them down again."

It was childish, and yet, no one had ever taught him how to be a man.

Alkor had subsisted for so long in rage and defiance of expectation, that Baldur was ultimately right. He kept cracking away at the stone, hopeful that there would be nothing left at the end. Because when there was nothing, then nothing could hurt.

Simple defiance. That was what responded to Baldur. And perhaps, that was the most deeply disappointing response Alkor could have given. Their stubbornness was evenly matched, and finally, battered, they rebuffed one another.

Finally, he sighed.

"The only answers are the ones I find on my own," he asserted. "Until I learn to walk, I'm not going to try to fly."

Those words had a deeper meaning that he'd internalized, just as Baldur surmised.

I can't even accept myself. I'm not ready to trust anyone else.

"But this is a journey that doesn't give me the luxury of searching aimlessly," he flipped the wooden sword in his hand as Baldur leaned on his own weapon, and he offered the hilt to the Samurai. "I'm joining the frontlines again." Alkor confirmed at last what so many people were probably now wondering. "Because I'll never grow without being challenged, and because I'll never have the chance to live a proper life if I don't fight for freedom, just like everyone else."

"Mmm..."

There was wisdom, certainly, in the allegory of the student and Master. The growth Alkor had found over the span of several years in Aincrad could be measured in his self-awareness, if not the elegance of his movements. Truth be told, Alkor found function for more important than form, and that was why he adopted movements that responded to the situation, not to his understanding of technique. As Bruce Lee had once said, "be formless, shapeless, like water."

But Alkor's flow was anything but gentle and flowing. It was turbulent, like the cascading falls that eroded rock and reshaped the earth. It was force, it was pressure, it was passion, and it was always directed forward. Forward, to where it could blast through and carve a path, but never look backward. Baldur could take time to sheathe his own blade and help to hone the blades of others. He had the capacity to put away the weapon.

When Alkor reflected inward, the weapon chipped away at the imperfections, but he found no comfort or solace.

That degree of difference between them was a gulf. Baldur was a vast sea, calm, gentle, inviting. By contrast, Alkor was an ocean that had long since dried up and had nothing to give- if it had ever had anything at all. It was that which he'd told Lessa, and when Baldur mentioned Mari, his expression did not seem to change.

Alkor continued to stare at the floor between them, almost like there was a ghost staring back.

"People are often looking for answers about themselves in others," the younger man agreed. "But the answers I'm looking for can't be found anywhere else but inside of me. And every time I answer a question, I'm afraid none of the answers will satisfy me."

They hadn't satisfied anyone else. Why should they satisfy him? What did it truly mean to be happy?

"I told Mari that I couldn't help her. I couldn't be what she expected me to be. I couldnt save her. But no one wants to hear that," Alkor said. "Everyone wants the hero. They demand the fairy tale ending. When you categorically deny its existence, then what?"

He sighed as he lifted his weapon again, into a mid-level guard as he offered his left side to Baldur. 

"I don't mind being the villain," he said flatly. "if my harsh or even cruel words or actions drove someone to find their own truth, to grow, and to heal- no matter how difficult that journey was- then I would gladly be the antagonist in their story."

Alkor still remembered the day Mari returned to find him alive, and how she had expected everything to go back to the way it was. The hollowed out shell of a woman broken time and again not only by loss, but by her own attempts to cope with that loss by lashing out. Alkor told her that he couldn't be what she wanted, because it was true. It was his own truth. 

But unlike Alkor, Mari found support. Like Lessa had Jomei and even Bahr at one time, Mari it seemed found Baldur. It was hollow, perhaps, but there was warmth in it. Alkor felt at ease knowing that this man had been the one to reach out his hand to the woman.

"When I came to this world, I did struggled to be someone. Anyone. I lied to myself about who I was, because for so long, I had no idea."

Alkor was not well adjusted. He was not a strong person, and his sense of identity was virtually non-existent. He struggled through daily tasks and found meaning only in challenging himself again and again, looking for answers to questions that should have been simple. Every answer brought with it new questions. He was like a child, bewildered, looking at the world for the very first time.

"In many ways, I still don't," he said finally. "But I'm not going to lie about it anymore, or pretend to be something I'm not to fit into anyone's mold."

He raised his gaze toward the man and his golden gaze burned just a bit darker than before- but burn it did.

"So, I suppose what I'm really asking..."

With a long sigh, he finally voiced his concern. It wasn't a question Baldur could answer for Alkor about Alkor, but perhaps Baldur's own experience could give him insight.

"...is anything ever good enough?"

Every breath came and went in an instant. 

The same was true of openings, of opportunities, of a single moment in time that could change history. The average man thought nothing of the forces that perpetuated his life. The steps he took, the air he breathed, the water he drank- these things were natural, common, expected, even calculated. But what would happen without one of them? These were the questions not often asked, and more often than not, their answers were more important than the credit they were given.

Strikes intended for his legs brought Alkor toward one of those inevitable questions. What happened when his legs were not able to produce the necessary steps? What would happen if he gave a single inch of ground, or allowed Baldur to debilitate him? 

The rhythm broke, and the question hung in the air between them. The monotony of the steps they'd taken fused together with the excitement of a new query, and Alkor stepped in without hesitation. Unlike before, where he drove with his body in an effort to unbalance Baldur, this time his blade thundered in two distinct cadences. The first, a thunderous downward blow to shunt Baldur's thrust aside and make room for the second, a shallow, oppositional cut that flowed along the dull edge of the blade toward Baldur's arms.

There was no pain, just the sound of impact. 

Deadly closeness. With just a single pull of his arms, Baldur could have brought his blade back to cut Alkor. The difference between their movements was no more than a fraction of a second, a hair trigger response. Alkor's eyes were on that narrow margin, not on his single scored point. With any of Aincrad's beasts, it could have spelled doom for the blonde man. A single hit, a single point, meant nothing in a world where blood was the currency and life hung in the balance.

It was clear, there was no satisfaction in it. Only harsh introspection. Unspoken criticism and chastisement toward the method he'd chosen. His eyes were narrow, fixated, tired.

"What happens when you ask a good question," Alkor pondered aloud, "but get a dissatisfying answer?"  

ID: 205949 CD: 12 (Scissors)

Another aspect of the swordsman came to life in that instant. A man was a lifetime of experiences, and his feelings and thoughts changed with age. Baldur shifted like the seasons, from a Spring shower to a Summer breeze. After the initial clash of their blades that left them reeling, it was obvious that a different approach was necessary. It was obvious that the hammer was the wrong tool. So, for lack of efficacy with his inner flame, something raw substantiated. His grit evolved into stubbornness, and the wind buffeted against rock.

Instead of giving chase, Alkor entrenched himself and dug in. Speed would not win the day- they were equally matched, with the Samurai remaining just outside of reach. Alkor, on the other hand, willfully became the target. If he could not go to the wind, then the wind would be made to come to him.

This time, rather than a simple defense, Alkor brought his weapon up and another powerful clashing of wooden blades echoed sharply. It was far louder than the last. As they ricocheted off of one another, Alkor brought his weapon back under control, tempering it in an overhead grip now with both hands. Baldur took on the aspects of wind, of water- yin, light, softness. Alkor countered with what came naturally- the hardness and sharpness of earth, and the heat and passion of fire. He was yang to Baldur, just as he was to Lessa. In this way, they balanced and countered one another, almost perfectly.

It made sense now. This man was like still water and soothing like a breeze, a gentle and calm place to go and seek refuge. He was not like Alkor. 

But that was not all there was. In his immutable response to Alkor, Baldur displayed characteristics of Earth. In his movements to respond to Baldur, Alkor flowed like Water. In this exchange, however brief, both men found aspects of themselves that filled in the gaps. 

Still, they were perfectly balanced. 

Baldur was a refuge. Alkor was a weapon. Both were necessary to fight the daemons of Aincrad. Both were necessary tools to be used by humanity, one for carving a path forward and the other for healing the wounds they incurred along the way. 

ID: 205445 CD: 5 (Paper)

Always striving, never arriving. He'd heard that before from someone he knew. It was the same, difficult, at times frustrating mantra that drove him. Like the heart of a forge, Alkor burned through himself and hammered away the imperfections. One at a time, he chipped away a flaw that brought him ever closer to the complete being he wanted to be. He did not want to die, but with those words, he was reminded that there was only one final destination for them, as humans. It was that mortality that made their efforts precious. It was that fleeting spark that gave rise to the fire inside of him.

Every blow was met with its equal. Wherever he tore an opening, Baldur summarily closed the gates. It was a siege- not won in an instant, with a decisive blow, but over a thousand cuts that fractured the walls. Or would it be the walls that endured, and the flames that dwindled?

In Baldur, he found the strength of someone who had faced down the same challenges- perhaps more than he had- and persevered. There was no fear in the man's eyes, they were a calm sea in the middle of a growing storm. In contrast, Alkor was a tempest, the fury that whipped up the waves and broke against the rocks. The story their bokken told was ancient. It was as old as time itself: of the primordial darkness that lay at its beginning. In that void, there was no difference between fire and water, or of earth and wind. They were as one, and it was through breaking them down into their own parts, through making them imperfect, that all things were born.

A man could not become nothing in his lifetime.

It was the bittersweet nature of their curse. They were damned, always, to amount to something- even if it was something inconsequential. Whether they were remembered or forgotten, their footprint existed for a moment in time. Just like a flame. Fire was born of the passion of man. It was through man's ingenuity, his desire to survive, that it was discovered. It was Alkor's lack of passion for anything else that drove him to seek understanding of himself. His passion for that alone gave him meaning. It was that meaning that guided his movements. He eschewed finesse for intensity. 

His blows wove together with the other man's, each a question and an answer.

Even as the heat came down against him, Baldur flowed with it. Not against it. Rather than try to match his aggression, he waited for the precise moment, and he responded. His strike belted out at Alkor, who found the faintest trace of a smirk at the newest query. 

Will you defend? Will you sacrifice to claim victory?

Alkor defied both outcomes. His blade surged upward from his side, he caught the attack on the outside without cancelling his momentum. He barreled right toward the man, shoulder first, and sought to take him off balance. The blade was not his only weapon. It was an extension of his body, another tool to be employed. In the same way that Baldur closed the gates, Alkor made himself a battering ram. The siege continued into its second phase.

ID: 205441 CD: 3 Rock

When Baldur confessed to being an introvert, Alkor had to chuckle silently. They shared that in common, and yet, Baldur found it within his abilities to host this type of event. He was even able to reach beyond the norms of his limited social capacity to function as the master of ceremonies. Alkor wondered whether if his own experiences had been different, if he had adjusted to life differently and learned those skills, he might have been capable of similar feats. It might drive another man to envy, but Alkor found only a certain respect for it. Rather than strive after what he did not have, he looked inward, for the things he could. Even if they were at the end of a long, painful, and oft lonely road.

This man exhibited a softer, almost compassionate face that many of the rougher and hardened denizens of their shared prison had lost along the way. Baldur spoke of offering at the final resting place, where all names went to rest in silence, and he forced himself not to think of all the tears that were wasted on him. He could not rewrite the past. 

"I offer my apologies," he dipped his head slightly. So much wasted time, so many difficult feelings to process. Alkor could not give any of it back.

Lessa, for all of her goodness, her kindness, and positivity, had built him into something that he wasn't. At the first chance he had, he tried to break away from it. Mari called on him to be something as well, but in the end, he had told her that he couldn't. These were sins that kept building on his burdens, mistakes he'd made that he had no idea how to undo. These unreciprocated feelings, the monumental expectations, they led him to understand that the truth was- albeit pain- always better than the lie.

"It is a beautiful sentiment," Alkor replied genuinely, "and certainly, a noble pursuit. I know there are those who will benefit from what you have done here tonight." 

But some wounds do not heal. It would have been tasteless to say that part, but he thought it nonetheless. Because it was true. 

His own truth was much more humble, and perhaps unexciting than what Baldur might have come to know of him. Alkor's amber gaze followed the man through the shadows, over to the rack of weapons where the training swords were. What came next surprised him.

This man seemed more interested not in what he knew of Alkor, but what he could learn. Whether or not that meant disappointment for Baldur, it was all that Alkor could have asked of anyone: to accept him as he was, not as what they thought he should be.

Alkor snatched the weapon out of the air like it was destined to find the way to his palm, and deftly stepped back into a high guard. With the blunted edge pointed toward Baldur, he nodded. "I feel that I owe you at least that much."

The fighting had passed and people convened for the party that their host had graciously prepared. It was a rare time in Aincrad when someone went out of their way to accommodate others like this, so most of them were more than eager to indulge. How Baldur suspected Alkor might not be one of them was anyone's guess. Still, the man found him and quickly identified him by name. Like everyone else, Alkor had dispensed with his weapon upon entry to the tournament out of respect for the rules and safety of everyone; and so, when the man approached, his arms were crossed. Something told him it was not likely to come to blows between them, so he made no movement to change the situation. 

"Please," Alkor bowed his head more than a bit, in the customary respectful deference owed to a host. "Just Alkor is fine, Baldur-dono," he replied with a title that awarded respect but afforded them equal status. Alkor never saw anyone as above him, nor did he look to place others beneath him. It felt foreign to be addressing someone who had seen the frontlines for so long, and stood where Alkor always felt he should have been standing. It was almost like looking at one's own shirked duties and feeling the guilt of failing in those responsibilities. 

When the man called him a ghost, he acutely recalled the conversation with Jomei that he'd had earlier that day. It seemed a hot topic for conversation, the method with which he managed to survive. Or perhaps it was that he survived at all that unnerved them so. How many others might have cheated death? How many more deserving than Alkor- 

No, he'd decided never to follow that line of thought again.

"I am as much flesh and blood as anyone in this place can claim to be," Alkor mused dryly, "which is to say, as much as we can be certain that we are in the world outside." To speak on the concept of mortality in this world seemed so morbid, and yet, they were more than a bit liberal with the notion. Both men seemed at ease with making light of it. "I thank you for your hospitality," he added finally, with another bow to accentuate the statement. The man comported himself in the manner of a Samurai, so regardless of the pallor of his skin or the pattern of his speech, Alkor was inclined to treat him that way. Samurai did not care about what one looked like, where one was born, or how one dressed in reality. Samurai was a way in which a man lived his life.

Bushido was a code. It was easy to understand, even if the people who followed its tenets were not. Alkor had tremendous respect for things that were to the point, and this particular thing was one that he was quite familiar with.

The room was dark, both of them outlined by the luminescence of the party.  What he could see of Baldur's features were a shadow of what they might have been by daylight, muted of tone and devoid of color. In this space, there was no pretense between them. With the warmth of the sun ripped away, their darkness was exposed.

"Has the host tired of his guests?" Alkor asked, though he knew better. It was more likely that Baldur sought him out intentionally. "Or was there something else that drew you away?"

He knew better. 

The moment that the pilot pressed the button, Alkor narrowed his eyes. He watched the Dreadnaught for any hint that they'd been acknowledged, any sign that they were clear to proceed. None came. "Do you know," he asked as he took a step backward and violently thrust his blade into the stomach of one of the two remaining midshipmen, "how many men it takes to fly a ship?" he asked the ship knowing full well he had no such knowledge. In fact, the answer itself was irrelevant. They were already on course. None of these pilots were necessary for what he intended. None of them seemed interested in abetting his plain, either.

"Why did you kill him?!" she screamed, horror injected into her eyes. He watched in calculating silence as she rounded on him and raised her sword. "I did what you said, I steered us toward the Ifrit, I even gave the signal-"

"I wonder," he said, his cold voice cutting out the heat and passion of hers. The second of two hostage pilots watched his friend, his comrade, slump to the floor as a corpse. His body doubled over, bereft of a soul to keep it anchored. His knees buckled beneath him. "What signal it was that you gave." His golden eyes had lost all light. The darkness that threatened to swallow him hole had turned them almost a deep amber.

"You can't just-"

Alkor pulled the sword downward from overhead and completed the coup de grace.

The head rolled to her feet, and the pilot clapped her hands over her mouth. "I'm sure you thought you were dealing with someone reasonable," Alkor crooned in a quieter voice. "I'm not sure what gave you that idea when I boarded your ship after sacrificing another ship to get here, then slaughtered my way to the controls and threatened your lives. But that aside, do you know the answer to my question?" he asked her.

"...just one man," she whispered through her hands.

He nodded. "Just one," he agreed, "and I see three of us here." She looked around, suddenly aware of @Blueberry, and realized his intention. She lifted her sword, but it was too late. Alkor's blade had ruptured her heart, and she was dead before she had time to give her protest a voice. "Sorry about this," Alkor said, though he did not look to the younger girl as he spoke. Instead, he took the controls in hand and kept them steady.

The ship was already on course. They were aimed at the hull of the Dreadnaught Ifrit, and the controls were locked in place. They were steadily increasing speed. 

"Get ready to jump."

He remembered most of the past, as much as he did not want to. There was a fundamental disconnect between them, even from the beginning. He recalled how she looked to lean on him for direction, and how he had no idea what to tell her. She'd hung on every word, like the advice he gave was good as gold. Here she was today, a heavy armored bruiser who hefted a two handed sword around. He remembered suggesting that. Survival combined with damage- the best of both worlds, without being directly in the line of fire as a tank.

Lessa had come far from that. She had made that advice into something of her own, and only the memory of it remained. It was the best thing he could think of to stay alive. Back then, that really was all there was. A desire to stay alive. A drive to keep others alive. Then came the rocky times Lessa alluded to. Alkor felt his smile fade a bit and he looked away when she started to compliment him immediately after talking about how positively opposed their ways were.

"We weren't," he remembered his words, dramatic though they were in retrospect. The way he'd called out for her to just let him go, because he was in agony over trying to be something he wasn't. He remembered how much she needed something he couldn't give. Now, these things were in the open- and it was better to be honest, he'd learned. "And maybe we never will be, but I'm not worried about it. I don't go looking for myself in anyone else. I don't think Alkor needs to be good for Lessa, or that Lessa has to be good for Alkor. What I do think, is that at the very least, we're not bad for each other anymore, and that's all that matters," he said, succinctly as he could.

"That understanding alone is enough."

Maybe it was disappointing to put it that way, but Alkor didn't want any false pretenses or disillusionment between them. Never again. "What we have to be is ourselves," he said finally.

If they were opposites, then their quest wasn't to compliment each other. It wasn't to tear one down so the other could thrive. The purpose of opposed forces in nature was to achieve balance. Alkor remembered that now. Where there was yin, there must also always be yang.

Unlike Lessa, Alkor was not a person who offered many compliments. He preferred fo speak sparingly where he could, and because of his upbringing, he had a hard time showing affection of any kind. Instead of listing off any number of things positive about her, he took a deep breath, held it for several seconds, then exhaled.

"You can hug me," he told her, "once. If you want to. No pressure."

He lifted himself off the bridge and turned to look out over the water as she spoke. Lessa answered his question as honestly as she could, and she came up with a better answer than he had despite claiming to know just as little. With his arms folded and his expression set in stone, he let her continue. She said that she'd spent so much time chasing people, she talked about pretending to be something she wasn't or doing something her heart wasn't in just to make others happy. It occurred to him, she understood his pain. Where he chose to cleave from expectation, Lessa had slaved herself to it. She'd become malleable and met every expectation placed on her, head on.

Regardless of whether or not it tore her apart inside.

Until this moment. She was telling him, flatly, that she refused to meet his expectations. She was refusing for her own good, her sanity, her happiness. Alkor couldn't possibly see fault in that. He gave a quiet sigh. A precious, handful of times in his life had anyone ever said that he meant something to them, and he still did not understand why. What it truly meant, or how he was supposed to feel- but what he did know, was that the ones who said it and truly meant it: those were people who cared if he lived, if he died, succeeded or failed.

He had known Lessa long enough, and she had persisted just as long, to pursue him. "Why do that to yourself?" he asked. For as long as he'd been alive, Alkor had fled society's expectations. He'd slammed doors in the faces of potential friends and enemies. Hell, even most of his family he kept at arm's length. Not just pain, but broken trust- all the things that disappointed him."Why even chase after something if it's just going to hurt you?"

He struggled to understand. It seemed so simple, so natural for Lessa to extend this olive branch. But as he looked at her, as he'd listened to her words, the woman sounded tired. It couldn't possibly be that she didn't feel all the same things he did. They had the same experiences. She just willfully walked a different path.

She was- as he'd always known- a much stronger person than him.

He let out a sigh, longer than any that preceded it. "No, forget that. Don't answer. I don't think I'd understand even if you did," he told her as he looked down to where she sat. "That's something I have to experience for myself. You're here, trying your hardest to just be my friend, even though it's exhausting. Even though I can't possibly imagine that you have anything to gain from it. You said you care about me, and even if I don't completely understand that, even if I don't get it-"

Alkor held out his hand, and offered to help her stand.

"I can't learn if I don't try."

This marked as quiet as Lessa had ever been around him. She was always filled with questions, she always wanted to know more. She sought to understand things. The woman was filled with so much passion and warmth and she had gone looking for something she thought was hidden, only to find that it was never there to begin with. When Lessa apologized, Alkor had felt no need to accept or even acknowledge the apology- because for Alkor, there was nothing to apologize for. She, like so many others had acted in the same way. They expected- even at times demanded of him- something he did not have the power or capability to give. For Alkor, silence was comfortable. It was companionable. It occurred to him that this was not true of everyone, especially when Lessa awkwardly cut in to continue.

"What is a friend, Lessa?" he asked, suddenly. 

"My parents always told me that I should make friends, and that being alone was painful, awful, undesirable. They said that one day, when I wasn't home anymore, when I was older, if I didn't have friends, I would be sad. Life would be hard." Alkor glanced over his shoulder to the water. "But when I met new people, they always wanted to 'know more about me,' or 'understand me,' or they wanted to have deep and meaningful conversations about the things we cared about."

Alkor only had vague, abstract concepts of 'love.' His experiences with it were disjointed and even when he could see the shape of it, that shape never took on a definitive form. He saw Lessa's kindness, but in the same heartbeat, he was not enough as he was. Lessa wanted more, and she told him so- just now. That she would stop looking. Her voice sounded filled with defeat. Was this what friends were? 

"It's never been comfortable for me to just exist." He said those words firmly. "Everyone lives their lives so quickly, wrapped up in the things that they care about, fully understanding and conforming to society's notions of how they should be, or what they shouldn't do- and it's terrifying," Alkor let his arms drop and his body slumped against the rail. He pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them. "I've never felt like part of that world, even though I was born in it. I don't know what I want to be. I don't know who I am. I don't know anything," he reiterated.

"Isn't it okay, sometimes, just to be quiet and relax?" the man asked at last, eyes closed. "I ask myself every day, ever waking hour, who I want to be. I fight a war inside myself against the voices that tell me I'm not good enough, and the idea that I'll never amount to anything. Is it wrong of me to not want to answer those questions for other people? Is it wrong that I don't know what answers to give them?"

He sighed. "I don't know what you want from me," Alkor added, finally. "I have nothing to give you."

He understood all too well what it meant. 

There was a time when he thought killing killers might make a difference. When he believed that his own lack of humanity made him perfect for the task- yet when faced with his own mortality, he couldn't reconcile the idea of dying. He had so many things left undone, so much potential for good, for evil, for everything in between. He had potential to live a life, unlike the empty husk that he was in the world outside of Aincrad. Limp, unenthused, and going through the motions, he had all but given up. Too afraid to life, too afraid to die... and then, Sword Art Online. "You don't have to hate yourself," he said quietly, "but the path toward loving yourself... I can tell you, it's a hard one, and it's filled with difficult decisions and a million obstacles."

She had busied herself with meting out justice, or her brand of it, and tried trap everything else about herself under ice. Sorrow, anguish, and bitter hatred- largely aimed toward herself- were all that could grow under those conditions. Setsuna revealed in an instant that they had already grown rampant. He kept his weapon low, uncertain as she spoke. Would she attack? Would her convictions outweigh the humanity still trapped deep beneath the frozen surface? 

Why did it have to be me...? 

He was confused when she said those words. What had he done? Surely, nothing so groundbreaking as to give this young woman pause? Yet here she was, clearly struggling, clearly on the precipice. Closer, closer, until there was no distance between them at all. If she wanted to stab him, she could easily have done it. Was he prepared to die for this? His hand tightened around his blade as he chewed his lip. He wanted to show mercy, like he preached. To do that, he had to first show trust. He had to give Setsuna every reason to believe his words were true. He had to show her compassion so that she could learn it.

Alkor dismissed his weapon and took a deep breath, his eyes shut. If the impact came, if his health began to drop, it would all be over quickly. He would never even realize it.

But it never came.

Instead, he felt something around him, something small but warm. Warmer than he would have expected from a woman in the same frigid environment as him, at least. He glanced down as she spoke, uncertain of what to do. Was she- was she hugging him? What was going on?

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"Fine, have it your way. Prove me wrong." 

 Alkor was at a loss for words. Not only had he managed to survive, but Setsuna was hugging him. Had he gotten through to her, or was this a momentary respite? No- that hardly mattered. What mattered was how he followed through. Alkor could not begin to know the next steps for the woman. He hardly knew what path to walk himself. "Alright," he made up his mind, "lets head back. We're going to freeze," he reiterated. "...do you know which way it is back to the settlement? The blizzard has gotten pretty bad," he said, pointing toward the blurred horizon.

He had hardly anticipated a Mexican standoff today, and the storm wasn't doing them any favors, either.

There was no end to them. 

Alkor had neutralized or thrown over more than a score of peons and gained nearly no ground at all. He felt his energy stores waning and his body screaming at him. This was a team effort, and he rushed headlong into it alone- and the system was forcing him to pay for that. There was no turning back now- only forward, ever forward. His blade screamed out again as he parried a wild blade for the nth time, every motion fluid, lost in the last. His body spun, his arm reached out, and he lifted the offender over his shoulders in a quick motion. They did not seem to learn from watching him, because the same movement had spelled the end of more than three soldiers now. They did not care to learn. They  did not need to learn. They just had to wait until he broke down. He realized that at some point during the exchange.

But in a war of attrition, they had chosen the worst possible foe.

His eyes burned like those of a demon, the flames inside him fanned with each swing of his sword. He would not lose. He would not back down. He would hold the line. Until some ray of hope dawned on the horizon- until then, he would carry the small flickering flame and keep it alive. Another thrust, another swipe, two of them at once... his gaze watched, his body responded. His form was flawless. The system would carry him through, for as long as he had the resources. That was when he saw the others. Other small ships careening toward their larger, weaponized counterparts. Finally, the tide of battle was changing.

Under duress from their attackers, ships began to change course suddenly, erratically. The chain reaction of two ships losing control and and smashing into one another jilted his assailants. The soldiers, panicked, broke. Alkor seized the opportunity to plow through them toward the bridge. Not so far behind now, @Blueberry appeared from below deck just in time to see the beautiful chaos blossom across the skyline. Smoke and fire married a vast sea of clouds as metal and murder churned in its azure depths. 

He grabbed hold of the frame and swung his body fast around the corner, catapulting himself into the control room. Alkor wasted no time and would not allow the precious confusion to pass him by. He ripped his blade through the pilot, who's body slumped to the floor. He held the weapon up, challenging, his gaze moving predatorially over the navigators and copilots. "One of you bastards take the helm," he commanded. "This ship is under new management."

There was a pause. They looked between each other, uncertain.

"Someone step up, or I'll make the decision easier. Another one of you will end up like him," he gestured with Witchfang toward the dejected corpse he made moments before. "Savvy?"

"What's the new course?" a woman, one of the copilots stepped forward and grabbed the wheel.

"The Dreadnaught," he said, and he pointed toward another crew member with his blade. "Fly us any other direction, and I start bodying your friends."

The ship lurched, slowly, then began to crawl from its original direction. It was a slow transition, almost hesitant. "Fly faster," he growled. Every moment that they weren't at their destination breathing down Razwell's neck, he had another opportunity to prime that death weapon again. Alkor refused to allow that.

Fatigue sank into his body as they walked. He felt lightheaded, physically drained. The path they trudged led away from the group, and the heavy gazes that only made him even more uneasy. When the sunlight hit them and they were away from prying eyes, he finally felt some stability. What came next was unscripted- it had to be. He knew that because of how many times they had this conversation, or some iteration of it, where Lessa spoke with utmost certainty that she knew a better way. Her way. Alkor had admired her way- but it had never been his way. He was ready to hear it again, but it never came.

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"No, you don't have to change."

His sigh was heavy, so heavy. It felt like he had been waiting for a lifetime for anyone to say those words. He slumped against the railing of the bridge and his legs gave out beneath him. Reclined with only the intricately carved wood to support his weight, Alkor soaked in the sunlight. Unlike the comfort of his room, the solitary and unending darkness supported by blackout curtains, the warmth of the sun brought a cleansing feeling. He did not need to crawl beneath sheets to seek it.  When he opened his eyes, they shared the heat of the sun that was reflected in them. She started to talk about what he needed again, and he felt like laughing. Was she still going to be on about that? About what she had to do? Maybe for Lessa, that was how she approached every issue, like there was a solution and she just had to find it. Alkor didn't see a world filled with questions and answers. That was, perhaps, one of the most fundamental differences between them.

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I thought I could be your shining light, or your savior, or some other bullshit. The truth is, maybe I saw you as some sort of conquest. I think that's why it hurt so bad when you left. I thought I'd lost. I thought she'd beat me to you. That she'd succeeded where I'd failed."

"If you find 'me,' please tell me about it," he said honestly, "tell me what that's like. Tell me what he's like, because even I haven't found him yet."

The battle Lessa yearned to understand, to know so much about, was such a simple thing. There was nothing elaborate about Alkor. The only elaborate aspect of him were monumental walls he put up around himself to keep anyone else from reaching him. Beyond that, the conflict was exactly as he'd stated before. There was only one enemy, and it shared his face.

He'd constructed and worn a mask for so long, when it finally came off, there was another beneath it. Like one of those Russian dolls, every layer was a face he'd learned to wear for someone else. Every layer was a lie that he told to placate the expectations. Who he was beyond that, people only caught a glimpse of when he was in the throes of combat when he threw himself headlong into the fight and looked for the distant answer to the question, "am I worthy?"

Worthy of what?

To live. To exist. To continue where others haven't been able, simply because he was still alive. Where people who knew what they wanted, who knew who they were and had families, friends, loved ones- had died- Alkor remained. 

Thom, the Player, the being with a consciousness and the ability to reason, had no specific or tangible personality. He was a beast, a creature that existed on instinct and adapted to its surroundings to survive. But if that had kept him alive for this long, was it wrong? Did it mean that he did not deserve what he had? He did not want to die. He learned that when he looked death in the face. He did not want to change. He refused, again and again. That was the answer he found. The only one he had to give.

"My conflict might never end, Lessa," he answered her initial question at last. "I just want to know the people around me accept that, and don't expect anything else."

It was like a deep, rich wine, Vengeance. Once you took a sip, it either soured on your tongue and you never wanted it again, or it was intoxicating. Setsuna had not lost her thirst for it with a single kill.

Her words, her actions were like a woman possessed. He could see the intensity of her need. It replaced other, baser urges. "Who will have mercy on you?" he asked, his voice much quieter. "You, who have tasted blood again and again, who decries the actions of killers while becoming a killer yourself. How much deeper will you sink before you drown in it?" he questioned her. She was obsessed with this mission that she claimed to have chosen for herself. "When you finally reach out your hand, it will be too late."

She spoke about becoming a monster so no one else had to, and she denounced his actions as wasted kindness. He could no longer see the others, or anyone else. The storm had grown too thick, and he could feel the chill set in. If they did not seek shelter, the elements could very well end their lives. "If you are convinced that life exists only in black and white, you can't enjoy the beauty in every other shade." He gestured toward the town, or at least in that direction. "Come back together with me. It's too cold for this. You need a blanket and a hot drink."

After the Battle...

He stood there for a long moment, quietly. The light that filtered in through the windows and the fixtures above burned his eyes as he stared straight upward, gaze fixed on the ceiling. What had he come to this place to do, if not to challenge himself? Why, in the face of defeat, did he not just quietly accept? He had run from the beast that hunted him, that anxiety, so many times before. He managed to wear a mask over it, to push others away, and in the loneliness that followed he manage to convince himself that he had disconnected from the pain. The pain never left him, though. Every time, it returned, sometimes even stronger than before. In this last fight, all the demons came out to play at once. The overbearing voice of his father broke through the hold, and instead of fighting Lessa and climbing higher on wings of victory, he now stood in contemplation of his defeat.

This defeat was quieter than any one of his victories. The restless voices were still at last, a gentle calm that came after a long and relentless storm. How long had he believed that for a brief instant of validation, he had to endure a lifetime of criticism? How long had he believed that no victory would ever be enough? And now, without scoring even a single point, he could not bring himself to be disappointed.

His shoulders sagged, and he released the breath he forgot he had been holding. He blinked and looked away from the light, rubbing at his face, shaking off his dazed expression.

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"Will you tell me what you're fighting for? Not just 'to win in duels' or 'to beat the game' - but what's at the heart of it. For as long as I've known you, you've been consumed by this endless need to be the best. Is there a place where you'll ever be satisfied? Where you can just acknowledge how far you've come? Because you are so, so much stronger than the Alkor I met in the Town of Beginnings, but in so many ways, you haven't changed at all. What will happen when you run out of people to compare yourself to?"

He had an answer now. At least, a better answer than nothing. He understood just a little more about what drove him to search for validation, even if it formed a thousand new questions in his mind. 

"Do I have to change?" he asked. "Will what I am never be enough? Not just for you, but for anyone?"

His eyes found Lessa, a small, soft smile on his face. "If I don't fight, every voice that told me I was useless wins. Every person who has ever told me that I am a failure, they're just right. There was a time when I accepted it, and I lived in my room with the door shut and locked up tight while life passed me by. I didn't meet new people, I didn't help anyone, and I couldn't possibly have saved anyone. If I'd never entered this game, I might have kept going like that forever. I might have died, old and alone, and never known that there was a different way to live."

Alkor staggered slowly, still numb to sensation as reality struck him. It was real. He was here, everything had happened, but he wasn't breaking down. He had weathered that storm and found himself at rest in a motionless sea. Him, Lessa, and no one else. He discarded the bokken to the side of the mat where someone else could find and use it later. "Then it happened. I was here. I couldn't escape to my room. There were people I had to meet, had to work together with- there were things I had to do that made me uncomfortable, and if I refused, the only alternative was to die. Work with others, learn to coexist with others, or die. I thought I wasn't afraid of death, but every time I came close, I realized that no one is ever ready for it. Even at the end of their life, I imagine that no one is prepared to let go of what they know and go on to something else- something we're not even sure about."

When he finally glanced back at Lessa, his golden eyes were weary, like he had been holding on to something heavy for so long and he was finally ready to rest.

"There's still so much I don't know," he admitted, "still so much I've got to learn. But my enemy isn't something so simple to overcome. It's not any number of opponents in a ring, or mobs spawned across the face of this world. I could fight those things to the point of exhaustion, but they would never yield a favorable result. In the end, I don't see anyone else. I don't want to be anything other than what I am. The best possible version of myself." He hesitated for a moment before he finally admitted, "I'm just waiting for the day that the rest of the world can accept that, as it is."

Before Round Two match...

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 "So like, a better question- why not?  It's for getting to know people better, right?  There's only a couple people that, like, I don't know here, and you're one of them.  So if I manage to make it all the way, like, to the top, then that's the decision I made."  @Astreya

Impetuous.

That was his impression of the woman, after he everything else stripped away. She came to her conclusion based on nothing other than wanting to know people better, and the fact that he was among what few she did not know. What Koga said gave Alkor the impression that he had warned the woman against this course of action, and she had seen fit to ignore those warnings. There was no better word for it than impulsive.

But there was something wrong about the way she spoke, the exuberance that felt almost contrived. Did she want to talk to him, to know him better, or did she just want to extend her knowledge and pool of resources? The social exchanges that happened in those upper echelons of society weren't lost on him. They called him the beast-like one, separated from the rest of civilization by his refusal to integrate and run with the pack. That was how their kind deal with his.

The way they dealt within their own was what drove him away. "Because I see no point in the exchange," he answered simply enough.

Alkor eyed the woman for a moment in silence as she continued to speak.

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"Unless you wanna chat now? Let you off the hook~"

"I do not," he replied, "my match is getting ready to start. Anything you want to know about me, you can learn by watching that. I see no need to stand on such frivolous social conventions." Alkor gave a slow, slight, stiff bow as he turned away from the woman and looked toward the staging area. He inhaled sharply, his mind on all manner of things other than the match about to start. It may have been harsh and blunt, but it was better to be himself than create a false image of who he was in the minds of others. 

"..."

There was something annoying about how everything had culminated. From the realization that there was a date on the line at the end of all this to the way that the social situation had unfolded, Alkor felt unnerved. He disliked everything about this situation, like he didn't belong here and coming was a mistake. He could feel the heat welling in his face, the unsettled sensation in the pit of his stomach- was he excited, or was this something else?

In spite of that, he had come, and he would see it through. Whatever that entailed.

Finally, in that moment, she didn't ask questions. She didn't look for the "answer." It was so simple, yet they were so different. They heard things, experienced things, and at times even understood things differently. For a species so homogenous, the diversity that separated a single human from every one of their counterparts baffled the mind. Alkor, as a boy, had been forced to try to find a place in the paradigm. Like paper, they folded him, trying to shape him into the "right" fit. Everyone, everything around him called out for conformity. The world called on him to accept his differences and embrace its expectations. For as long as he could remember, Alkor had rebelled against that notion. Instead of trying to understand, everyone was trying to "fix" him. His parents, the people who should have been there for him, stood at the head of the charge. In doing so, they pushed him away, so far away that he wanted nothing to do with them, or with anyone else.

He wasn't a door to be unlocked. There was no next level. He was content being who he was- or he had wanted to be, for so long. The world had told him no. It had never been satisfied with his complacency, and in his stubbornness, he lost himself. His rebellion against the expectations placed on him by others turned into something grotesque, a self-loathing, an inability to accept the person he was born to be. He looked everywhere but inward for an example, and he grasped at them until it unraveled his mind with anxiety and immense pressure.

Alright, she had said.

Such relief in that word, that simple utterance of acceptance. He called out to Lessa, he beseeched her for that validation he so desperately sought. The validation that he had been denied so many times, to the point where his hope had dwindled from a fire into a sputtering candle on the verge of going out. Instead of one of the many chasms that stood between him and his peace, instead of the monolithic walls that others built and he felt the desire to tear down, Lessa stepped out of the way. She brought her blade down at him, and his own bokken intercepted. Their weapons smacked loudly, louder than any impact in the room before it. They traded blows, and Alkor snarled like the beast he was, clawing at the chains that had always bound him. Others entered this tournament for various reasons, and they saw the final victory as a goal, if one born out of fun. Alkor never needed that win, had never wanted the prize waiting at the end. 

And perhaps it might be over too soon, but for the first time instead of pressure, he felt nothing only satisfaction as he fought.

Lessa: 2/3

Alkor 0/3

Tie

His breathing was ragged when she rounded on him, his body shuddering as adrenaline fought on two fronts inside it. He felt like he was coming apart. 

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"If you need us to stop,"

"No," the word tore from between his teeth as he grit them, his knuckles white as he tightened his grip on the bokken. "I'm not losing to this," he said, shaking his head. I'm not going to live in that shadow anymore. For as long as Alkor could remember, his battles had always been clear cut. The victory was all that mattered, and defeat meant he wasn't worthy. But this sensation, the fraying of his nerves, the utter lack of concentration- this wasn't going away. This was a fact of his life that he had always tried to push to the side and pretend simply did not exist. He could lose here by throwing up his hand right now, and for a fleeting moment as she scored the second point on him and he folded backward, he had considered it.

But was the real victory in stepping out with a flawless victory? He wasn't frustrated about losing, because he had lost before. He could always go back to training. He could always advance, but right now, if he looked away from that specter of his father and let it convince him that he had not grown at all... wouldn't that mean starting over from the beginning again?

The rage in him was there. It would always be there. The pain was not going away. He would stand, and if he lost, he would lose on his own terms. He would continue to train- he would always continue to improve, always fight that unseen battle, but in this moment, he had to give Lessa a response. "Don't you dare go easy on me," he told her, his voice stern but still shaking. 

She had grown beyond the fragile woman he first met. Before, she was afraid. She let those insecurities rule her, and she'd held a grudge. Now, despite the fact that he was struggling, she was able to lift her sword and hit him. Her words proved that Lessa was still Lessa- still concerned for her friends, for the people she cared about- but she was strong enough to act without the influence of those feelings. She asked him if he wanted mercy, she asked him if it should end there, and he spat on the floor.

"Give everything," he said, "otherwise, how can you tell whether or not you've grown?"

He inhaled one last time, and when he exhaled, he adopted a proper fighting stance.

If she showed him mercy, if she did anything less, it would invalidate any growth he'd seen. He would be given the same freedom he always was, the ability to look away from the ugliest parts of himself and pretend like they did not exist. Alkor refused to walk away like that. It was no different from running away- just like she'd told him not to do, so many times.

Don't you tell me to run away now.

That burning star, the paragon of everything he admired, the golden light that was Lessa...

What would her answer be?

Lessa: 2/3

Alkor: 0/3

Tie

The instant he saw her name opposed to his, Alkor paused.

Around him, the world was silent, frozen, a glassy replica. The myriad sounds of excitement and anticipation drowned as the air thickened around him and his heartbeat became prominent in his ears. There were emotions in the abstract that he still did not understand, and perhaps he might never understand them. He felt like he was choking again, the familiar tugging inside his throat that threatened to close it when he looked at the expectations thrust on him by his parents. What was this? They aren't here. 

He took a breath, his thoughts on his sword and nothing else. Just another obstacle, he reminded himself. He assured himself.

The images were still there. Overlapping Lessa, overlapping the crowd, jeering, haunting. He saw their faces scrutinizing him and filled with disdain. "Shut up," he muttered. He hadn't meant it toward Lessa, or toward anyone else. The words came shakily out, and as he clutched his forehead, Alkor closed his eyes and tried to push the crushing sentiments out of his mind. You're a failure, the masculine voice railed into him like a landslide. He felt his grip slipping, the control he worked so hard to gain falling away like his word had been for nothing from the very beginning. He clutched the bokken, facing not Lessa, but the reproachful and overwhelming presence of his father.

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“This time, there’s a date on the line. It’s a shame you won’t be able to treat that perky little Astreya to dinner.”

He heard Lessa's words. They broke through, and for a moment, he was drawn back to the present. He saw her, saw the movements. It would have been easy to respond-

A date? You? You've never given a woman a second glance. He brought his weapon up and parried- or he thought he parried- no, damn! Lessa hadn't even moved yet! He was swinging wildly, clumsily, lashing out at the voice. "Focus," he spoke more loudly now, his voice a low growl.  He had to bring himself back from that place, from the void that threatened to drag him farther away, down from the pinnacle he had aspired toward. 

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“But I thought you only dated girls with pink hair."

By the time his weapon was up, Alkor had already been struck. He felt the impact, if not the pain. With a loud, frustrated yell, he punched himself in the face.  "Stop fucking with me!" he yelled. The voice receded for a moment, but he felt the leering gazes still. The weight of them made his body feel sluggish, clammy, and chilled. He wanted to focus, not on anything else but the fight. There was nothing that could have warned him, nothing that could have stopped this outcome. Lessa had become important in his mind, a figure he looked up to, someone who cared about his growth. Someone who he could let down, just like his parents.

His cheeks were on fire, flushed as he took deep, heavy breaths. This had been about getting stronger, it had been about proving that he wasn't a failure, and now in the midst of that turmoil, he found himself failing again.

Look at you, panicking. All it took was the smallest amount of pressure, and you cracked. You've always been such a disappointment.

He gripped the training sword with his head down, shaking his head. It shouldn't have come to this.

Alkor was looking at Lessa, but his eyes were staring through her toward something else. He was looking at the apex, the place that seemed farther away now than it ever had before. He wanted to scream.

"Your point," he muttered, his gaze dropping to the ground. At this point, it was all he could do to manage to stand and fight. He wouldn't run away. Not again. Never again.

This was the best defiance he could manage. 

To lose with dignity.

Alkor: 0/3

Lessa: 1/3
 

Alkor continued to watch the Treat passively, still in a crouched position as Freyd ruminated over the scene. "You hadn't noticed?" he asked quietly. "They come here only to mourn." He reiterated the sentiment, only it had been rephrased into something less cryptic. "Ellesmera is the domain of the Elves, but they don't claim anything else. Life is their domain. Their culture keeps death separate. Sacrosanct." The blonde gestured idly toward the Treant, twisting his wrist slowly to indicate the space around them. "This place doesn't belong to just the Elves." He watched the blind guardian free itself from the ruined dirt and detritus fall away from its groaning, creaking form. 

Freyd's words were answered by a croaking, drawn out laughter. The Ancient coughed and choked on the dust and ashes accumulated in its maw. Its eyes moved, seeking the source of the voice, and it fixed its gaze in the direction of the two men. "What. Know. You. Of. Tragedy?" the behemoth lurched to and fro, its sightless gaze disapproving.  "Saw. You. The. Cost. Of. War..." its tendrils of wood undulated over the ground, writhing and fumbling across the myriad stones. They radiated in response to the touch. Alkor noted this strange phenomenon, then glanced back to the Treant.

"But. War. Wages. On."

Alkor frowned.  Was it going to attack? He stayed low, but prepared his body to respond quickly if an attack came. "Elf. Treant. It. Matters. Not. As. You. Said," it leaned forward, a fetid stench spewing forth with its breath. Alkor blinked rapidly several times, suppressing the urge to gag as his <<survival>> skill activated. "All. Things. Die."

"For all the reverence that they place on the souls of the departed, they have done nothing to stop souls from departing," Alkor intoned at last. "No matter how many times they learn, the lesson never sticks."

"Harmony. Never. Came." It answered Freyd at last. "No. Peace."

There was pain in the howl that followed those words. Alkor winced and took a step back unintentionally, harrowed by the utter anguish that had been unleashed. The sundered marker beneath the beast smoked, as if it had been ablaze. It was like a hen nesting her eggs, careful to keep the warmth close to them. The Treant hovered close over the monument, loathe to let the light fade. "Whatever power clung to that monument is fading away," he whispered, "it was trying to prevent the loss, and used its own body to stem the flow."

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"I'd say good fight, but I think we both want a rematch at some point, eh?"

Alkor nodded. The way the event was engineered did not allow either man to fully gauge his own strength, let alone the skills of another. It was a simple metric, points based on hits, to examine the aggregate abilities of each player based on their efforts in a vacuum. He would not consider the loss representative of Koga's potential. He would not consider his victory a statement of any kind about his own. Instead, he saw victory and defeat in this setting as a litmus for how much or how little training he needed. Had he been too relaxed, or-

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 "Her. From what I understand, she should be your next opponent, unless something's changed."

His gaze slowly moved toward @Nari-Lanrethfor a moment, quietly considering her. She was small, her features were pallid, almost like a porcelain doll.  Her bangs fell in front of her eyes, almost to the point of obscuring her face. She did not ooze the confidence that the others did. This woman was taking part in a tournament for swordsmen? His expression was stern. The system did mitigate the natural weaknesses of players to a degree, and even enhanced what innate skill they brought with them into Aincrad. He knew better than to underestimate someone based on how they appeared, but she had the look of someone who did not belong, who was frail. It felt inappropriate, almost tasteless to endanger her.

It would not stop him, in the same way it would not stop any mindless creature in this world, from bearing down on her with his full strength.

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 "Like, yeah!  Nari's your next opponent, but for looking you, you better look out for me!"

This time, golden eyes snapped toward @Astreya. This woman, in contrast to the other, was the same height as him. Her eyes were shining with a radiance he couldn't match, though he noticed something familiar about the smile she wore. Her voice was louder by far than her peers, and the way she exaggerated her speech, the directness with which she approached... 

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"Cause if I win, I'm gonna take you out on that date!"

His eye twitched as her words took on new meaning. What he thought was a challenge shifted into jaunting. She wanted to take him on a date? "Why?" Alkor did not bother masking his skepticism when he asked, regarding the woman with the same scrutiny he would any opponent. If this was her tactic for unnerving him, perhaps @Koga had set her on this wayward path? He shot a look toward the man, but before he could admonish him, the other woman finally spoke up.

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“I’m Nari. I hear we’re to spar next. From what I’ve heard, you’re a capable fighter. I look forward to our contest, and hope that you provide a challenge.”

Any reservations that might have existed in him died in that moment. His gaze moved slowly toward the woman, like a predator fixing its hungry gaze on prey. If she felt bold enough to speak that way, she had the stomach to accept whatever came next. "I'll let my sword do the talking, if it's all the same to you," he bowed his head slightly. Alkor straightened his back as she quickly disregarded him, much in the same way he had thought nothing of her at first glance. She was another obstacle. Nothing more, nothing less.

He turned to look at the rest of the group gathered after the first round, leaving the others to their conversation.

Ladonian and Galtean clashed in destined conflict. The shrill sounds of metal clashing screamed through the bowels of the airship as Alkor hurried forward, squeezing past tight quarters swordplay toward the corridor that led to the upper deck. Another solider whipped through the door and thrust at top speed. Alkor batted the attack deftly aside and hurriedly shuffled to one side, which sent the soldier sprawling behind him.

They had no time to engage in a melee, let alone try to hold the breached lower deck of an airship against an indeterminate number of enemies. If they wanted to put any kind of dent in the movement of the fleet, they had to wrest control of the airship from its crew.

"Restrain those who you can," Alkor called to the girl, "but focus on pushing forward!"

His voice was strained over the sounds of combat, but he had hope that it would reach @Blueberry, the girl he did not know but who had chosen to play attaché to his boarding party. "I'm going ahead, if all goes well, regroup with me at the-"

He had no time to finish the thought, as a wild looking blade hooked through the doorframe and nearly took his head off. Alkor immediately identified the greatsword for what it was, though he had hardly expected to see heavy infantry here. The assailant was armored in Obsidian black, armor polished to a reflective shine. "Elite!" one of the rebels from the boarding contingent screamed. 

"Elite!" Another screamed. The alarm system raised the hairs of every Galtean aboard, and they pressed their attack to find whatever hasty advantage they could. "If there's elites, we need to -- shit."

The sound of chains rattled across the deck, whipping and dragging as they kept time with slow, steady footfalls. Another heavily armored knight, this one armed with a massive spiked flail and lengthy chain, ambled out from a different corridor.

The pilot glanced to his countrymen and grimaced, one after another, before he turned his gaze to Blueberry finally. "Beg pardon lass, but it was all we could do to get you aboard. We can hold the Elites here, best case scenario, just long enough..."

He didn't finish those words. Instead, he took a breath. "...what I mean to say is, you have a much more important job. Please, let us handle this."

Crack.

Alkor spun beneath the massive blade, still wedged into the wall. The armored attacker was slow, but the power behind his strikes was nothing short of immense. If he met this man head on and engaged in prolonged combat, it would only waste precious time. 

Creaaaaak.

He could hear the blade dragging free, slowly. He had to make the decision now. Alkor slid to his feet on the opposite side of the Elite Knight, scrambling toward the staircase. The hulking mass grunted and growled in annoyance, but continued to work at his weapon. Alkor seized the opportunity to rush above deck, head first into a small cadre of Ladonian infantry who were just about to join their friends below deck.

Alkor huffed as he slammed shoulder first into the closest of them. The man was young, not much older than Alkor himself. The effort drove him off his feet and robbed him of the air in his lungs, and it managed to send his fellows into a state of shock and panic. With a deft turn of his body, Alkor kicked the Knight square in the gut and sent him over the railing, screaming. "You guys are in the way."

His blade was in hand before he completed the spin, and he drove the wicked blade Witchfang into one of the others who had thought to seize the opening. The blade erupted from the other side of the man, gasping and gurgling as the blight spread through his body rampant. He seized and went limp, bleeding from the festering wound. Alkor stepped over him and glanced around quickly.

He had to make it to the bridge, and there were more of them closing in to bar his path.