Sloan Connells was always an impatient man. If he grew tired of waiting and became bored, he would always find use of his pyrotechnics. That is what the Hylian specializes in when it comes down to assassination. For Sloan, nothing destroys a man more than the blazing flames that he can produce. He has spent his entire life perfecting the technique, and he is never afraid to get a little bit of extra practise in.

Lerimus Dublin had come by an hour or two ago, just as Daemon had said he would. The first thing Sloan thought of was how best to concentrate enough saliva into one spit. But Sloan is just like that. Always hateful, and usually always angry as well. This is why the fire element suits him so well. Some say he was once blond, but exposure to too much fire changed it to red. Or perhaps it was the blood of all whose lives had been set afire. Sloan does not care, either way. When asked to bring back the head of Arco, he had responded by saying that the Sheikah's head would not be recognized as that after this mercenary's methods have been put to use.

Although Sloan is a master of the fire, he has found many ways to advance his techniques. A circle of alcohol, sugar and other easy-burn substances runs around the area that he has chosen to fight Arco in. At first sight of the bard, the circle will be illuminated and there will be no escape for the Sheikah. Sloan loves toying with a rat in a cage, and this is exactly what Arco will become.

The fire-haired Hylian leans against a tree and waits silently for his target, ready to destroy Arco and go home to Calatia with the rest of his unit.

OOC: "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery." *hint, hint*
IC:

Arco was always a patient man. If there was too much going on and he became tired, he would retreat to the recesses of his mind where he could wait out the action. That is what the Sheikah specializes in when it comes down to life in general. For Arco, to wait is the most potent riposte available to him. He has had a whole lifetime of practicing it, and according to the old adage, with some more practice, practice, practice, maybe he'll perfect the technique.

Or maybe he's just boring. That is to say, to describe him, or to describe the way he walks... it is nothing less than the quintessential artist's exercise of realizing the intrinsic difficulty of portraying the utterly normal. Too often we we may be rather pleased at ourselves for producing something like "jaunty step" or "drunken swagger" or perhaps even "hop, skip, and a slither." Yes, it's because we're great writers that we can manage such paradigms of vivid image. Then someone like Arco comes along, and we end up embellishing out of desperation. This happens to be the plight of the current writer. This happens to... oh, bother it all. You'll see...

Arco walks in a westerly direction, every footfall a step forward, half a pace in front of the last. Ninety-nine out of a hundred steps could be be classified as unspecific variants of agito vulgaris--or, "common movement." There is nothing else to note about how he covers ground--that is, his mode of travel. Dressed in a clean-pressed long-coat over a maroon shirt and earth-toned pants, he is unsmiling, but unfrowning, hands-free, but not necessarily unburdened.

In his mind, he is digesting the mental counterpart of what his stomach is working on in a freak example of parallel universes. As his digestive system processes a particularly good meal, his mind digs through the same meal with somewhat more incorporeal tools.

Was it paprika that I tasted in that Deku-nut pie?

Er... well, one way or another, his mind is occupied by idle thoughts (and a couple diligent ones, too) as he heads forward. Now, if he had noticed Sloan's volatile circle as he stepped over the ring's edge, the sense that perceived it will now have to get in line in the queue of Arco's intellect. No cuts.

Unless, of course, something happens. In which case said thought will rush to the forefront of his attention and scream, "I told you so!"

But as it is with every cry of "I told you so," it may all be too late...

The man stepped away from his tree as Arco the Sheikah wandered unknowingly into his trap, if it could even be called that. For now, it is simply a soured ring of odd materials, each bringing their own strange and unique odors to the madman's delightful game. Although impatient, and always wanting the current situation to end in a matter of seconds, Sloan enjoyed the hours of anguished squirming that occurred when his opponents had been fried, burned and literally cooked under the exposure of his life's intrigue: fire! He couldn't believe that his prey could be so... careless? Yes, that is what Sloan considered Arco to be. The Hylian had never been fascinated with the Sheikah race, and always wondered how they had become so revered throughout history. By protecting the Royal Family? No, by feigning extinction and playing the "nanny" during Hyrule's great crises. Daemon and Andrea he was fine with. But he knew he would have a lot of "fun" toying with this particular Sheikah.

Sloan had trouble deciding whether or not he should spring his devious intention so soon; he did not recall reading about Arco's stance on violence in the report. The entire document was small, of course, with much of it relating the Sheikah's hibernation. Sloan had skipped this, wondering how it could be possible to blank out portions of one's life. He had gone over the physical description of Arco, and little else. He had earned of the bard's use of a "Hurdy Gurdy," and shuddered as he thought up scenarios of a sickening noise overtaking him. I'll be sure to incinerate that before I finish him off, Sloan had thought to himself, displaying his distaste of instrumental and vocal music. And what else was there besides those? Sloan hated all music. He preferred the roar of a good bonfire, naturally. Eradicating another bard would be one of the only feats capable of placing a smile on his face. And he was long overdue for one of those.

"Welcome to North Forest, traveler. Or should I say, welcome to the end. Not of the forest, I daresay, but of your long road. Arco! You have spent much of your life in slumber. I have been tasked with the almighty chore of sending you back to this state... forever." Sloan knew that his death threat sounded far from perfect; it had been a long time since he had been graced with the opportunity to think of one. He had practised this short speech for the past days, but even he knew it was poor. He winced, knowing that Arco was probably laughing at him. Who wouldn't? Sloan didn't care, though. He was too busy fumbling with a sleek, metallic rod that had been hidden in the sleeve of his cloak. A delicate bonfire jewel rested atop the great staff. This was Sloan's custom Flame Rod. He treasured it dearly, and each swing conjured a new wisp of fire from the magical red rod. The ring of flammable materials was instantly set ablaze, locking Arco and Sloan inside the clearing with no escape for either.

Sloan's voice amplified itself over the fire's crackling roars, his sadistic laughing echoing throughout the forest as he pointed the Flame Rod in Arco's face.

OOC: Hope you don't mind if I match your past tense ^^. Oh, and hopefully all the weird internal stuff makes sense, sorta?

Something had happened. Arco stopped walking and turned to face Sloan. An ever-striving instinct to try to fit in found him with his hand outstretched, as if to shake with the odd red-haired man.

But already a warning thought was weaving through a column of other cogitations that were also vying for Arco's attention. Some of them were saying, "Oi, you, back in line..."

Arco's hand had dropped back down to his side, as he had chosen to, instead, listen carefully to the speaker. It was a nice speech as far as the Bard was considered; every speech, every unit of speech, had a potential of niceness and had something that could be learned from it and tucked away. Only... it wasn't a very nice speech, was it? Was he humoring or serious? Arco could do serious, but humoring was tricky...

As some thoughts vouched these possibilities, the Warning Thought was gaining momentum. By now it was shoving other thoughts to the side, pushing ahead to the hub of the mind.

Arco was now keenly aware of the small, curious rod. It was pretty, he supposed, but then... Fire.

The Warning Thought kneed another thought in the back and heaved it aside (this, in fact, was the Stubborn Thought that felt that the appearance of the rod was of vital importance). Now at the forefront of Arco's attention, it gasped, "This isn't good."

And then the laughter.

It tried again. "This is very bad."

And Arco understood. Regardless of the laborious process it had taken for him to come to the judgment, the following all happened very quickly. As if his body had melted, he assumed a very natural fighting stance as he locked eyes with Sloan and took a step back from the Flame Rod. The Sheikah's eyes--normally a nondescript gray color, not as much ugly as boring--now seemed to come alive. It was as if you were looking into a mirror and all of a sudden your reflection went "Boo!" His eyes were on fire, a mirrored "Boo!" of the flaming circle around them.

And Arco moved first. He crouched, and then leaped vertically, hanging at the apogee. At that point, time seemed to freeze: nothing out of the ordinary seemed to happen, but at the same time something very strange had already happened. His hands, instead of the measly, calloused little things of a musician were, were... it was as if each fist were cloaked by the fists of a Goron fist fighter, but with incorporeal claws. And sort of not. Like everything about Arco, they were... nondescript.

And then he made a curt circle in mid-air and dropped, digging claws first. A blur, and then a flurry of debris, accompanied by the sound of a bomb exploding inside a large pot. The noise ebbed for a moment, and then drifted away to silence.

Once the fog mixed with the smoke of Sloan's flames had cleared away, there was only a hole in the ground where Arco had been standing a minute before.

Sloan nearly jumped in shock when the Sheikah plunged into the earth directly in front of him. He could sense the odd man's presence below, when a startling notion crept into his head. He can escape underneath the ring down there! thought the Hylian, enraged that his clever tactic could ever be so easily cast aside. But Sloan knew escape was not on Arco's mind. The bard had stood in a stance that Sloan had witnessed many times before. A traditional fighting stance. The arson laughed slightly, but focused on the ground.

Sloan knew his damage would be mitigated by the dirt that Arco had chosen to flee beneath, and so he realized that any attack would not have any effect. There was naught the Hylian could do in a situation such as this. He became angry and began stomping madly at the ground, wishing that Arco would resurface to fight. He was impressed by the Sheikah's Goron-like abilities, and couldn't help but wonder if his ally Martir was capable of them same techniques.

The file said nothing about Arco being a coward, so Sloan knew that his adversary was likely waiting for his foe to drop his guard. At that point, Arco could easily surprise Sloan with an attack. The paranoid arson was not overall pleased by this thought. He would never drop his guard to the likes of a Sheikah.

It was only silence for a moment, then grew in volume again, moving horizontally--someone like Sloan would be able to track the vibrations, surely--underground. The noise crescendoed suddenly and erupted again, but this time...

To the sound of music. A weak, tinny melody could be heard, winding in circles through the heated currents of the air. It was Arco.

He was outside the flaming circle, both hands active in the playing of his hurdy-gurdy, which was propped up on one knee. He stood there, crane-like, staring at Sloan through the rippling flames. Beside him, a hole like the one he'd left behind when he'd initially burrowed. At closer inspection, dirt and clay clung to his clothes. And he continued to play resolutely; a rhythmic, metallic, and generally very ugly tune. But why such an unpleasant descant?

The answer lay in the relationship between musician and listener. As Sloan may or may not have understood, warrior Bards have to develop a unique ability to play music and direct that exact music only to the ears they would like to be able to hear. Those excluded from the Bard's strains would only hear the most unpleasant overtones and weakest undertones of the instrument's range, and in the case of enchanted songs, they would not receive any of the thaumaturgic benefits.

And so only Arco heard this song: first variation on the Will of Farore. His right hand turned the crank steadily, his right pressed the keys deftly, and the music reached his ears. In a change of atmosphere that seemed to have come into existence while you were busy blinking, the Bard now glowed a faint light-green, and when you closed your eyes after staring at him, ginkgo leaves danced in your mind.

And then it was all over; only the glow remained as Arco finished his final note, let it ring, and then hid his hurdy-gurdy away somewhere about his person. His hand then re-emerged, this time with a small, oblong wooden shield strapped tightly to the back of his left forearm.

And Arco, in stance, stared at Sloan with those horrible, horrible flame-mirroring eyes. Your turn.

Sloan had never heard such an awful sound. As Arco's Hurdy Gurdy cranked and emitted the tinny melody, the arson could do little but shudder and mumble strings of curses, all in an attempt to shut the humble bard up. He could see little value in shouting at Arco, and was forced to endure the Will of Farore for its duration. When the simple tune ended, Sloan laughed anxiously while a Deku Shield emerged and found its place on Arco's arm. Glaring deviously through the smoldering ring that encircled the clearing, Sloan's ideas formulated quickly.

In a swift movement, the assassin leaped towards Arco, swinging the Flame Rod in a wide, horizontal arc. A string of glorious flames exploded towards Arco, but were met by the already blazing ring. This had been Sloan's intention. The encirclement was immediately accelerate, and it grew to twice its size in an instant. Arco's arm came just close enough to the fire to be set ablaze. The Sheikah's standard Deku Shield was instantly incinerated, as was most of the cloth on his arm. What remained was his smoking limb, but no real damage had been caused. Apparently, the shield had at least been able to serve its purpose... but only once. Sloan's laugh echoed yet again throughout the forest. One would claim his laughter could be classified as "villainous" or even "diabolical," but the truth of the situation was that Sloan's laughter was simply spiteful and sadistic.

Sloan had been through enough of Arco's shenanigans by this point. He had become fully prepared to end the battle, although it had only just begun. Ceasing all laughter, the arson portrayed a serious expression and waited for Arco to retaliate. He knew the destruction of the bard's shield would be somewhat infuriating, and was prepared to take on the billowing rage of the powerful Sheikah. He returned Arco's glare with his own.

Caught off guard by Sloan's move, Arco barely had enough time to crouch down defensively; shrinking, as it were, almost his entire body behind the small shield. And as the wall of flames roared through him, there was a small, baritone cry.

Then, smoking, Arco stared at his own body for a moment, lost in his typical carefree wonderment. But it only lasted for two, no, three seconds; as if a switch had been flipped, something in the Sheikah's demeanor melted away, and another kind of icy visage seemed to have been frozen on.

He shook off the tattered leather straps--now reduced to something like jerky--of the destroyed shield coldly, and then tore off the remaining scrap of clothing on his left arm. Bare up to the shoulder seam, one could see the grayish, muscle-less skin.

Arco's mouth then seemed to curl oddly in a single movement; you could almost swear that you heard a "click" of the teeth snapping together into an ugly smirk. And as this little detail passed through the mind, there was a little ebbing of a green glow, and Arco was suddenly not where he was, but instead very close to the arsonist: now beside Sloan and facing the fire behind the Hylian. And as Sloan would be aware of the greenish aura adjacent to his right, so he might also notice the Sheikah's dagger winging a circle towards his chest...

OOC: Sorry about the... incomprehensibility of this post ><. *moves words around in vain* Might switch to present tense soon, for the benefit of the "uncertainty principle" of the fight?

OOC: It's great, actually. I'm just taking so long because I've had a full day of procrastination and inspirationlessness... Yes, that's a word... in my vocabulary, at least

IC:

Sloan did not expect Arco to appear by his side so quickly. Seeing the odd green aura out of the corner of his eye, he shouted an odd profanity and attempted to leap out of the way, or at least fall back to avoid the dagger's menace. Unfortunately for him, his speed was not nearly as reliable as he had believed, and he soon found himself gazing in awe at the insulting weapon that had pierced his sternum and had narrowly missed his heart. Wooden, but sharp nonetheless. Sloan had grown accustomed to seeing this type of weapon amongst targets; it seemed that weapons crafted of iron, bronze and other metallic ores were becoming rarer each year. Not every warrior had been graced with the ownership of a decent weapon like the Flame Rod.

He felt a variety of mixed feelings at the moment. Pity, knowing that Arco would be forced to endure battles with a dagger that had probably been whittled by a far greater knife. Joy, knowing that it would make his job that much easier. And Shock, knowing that he had just been stabbed in the chest! The red liquid poured from his wound - a deep gash that he ever would have expected sharpened wood to create. Something inside the wound was digging into his obstructed flesh. Had Sloan not been faced with the threat of a capable warrior directly beside him, he would have examined it, finding the thick splinter and extracting it. As it was, Arco was his primary concern.

It was an odd tableau; if any being had witnessed the fight, they would have been thoroughly stunned by the image. A Sheikah stood with dagger in hand, the weapon plunged deeply into a Hylian's chest. The Hylian stood with an expression of rage on his face, his bright red staff appearing to connect with Arco's head. Sloan had swung his staff at his target like a club, finding the musician's cranium and hearing the resounding crack as his sceptre struck home. There would be no reason for a Pictograph of this scene to sell like candy.

OOC: Inspirationlessness... well, it has as much ring as "incomprehensible," and it's certainly a familiar state of being for many writers. I'll add it to my dictionary, too!

IC:

During a fight, the senses of a warrior tend to strip away, leaving behind the essential elements of combat: instinct, reflexes, and the empty mind. Unfortunately for Arco, this made the fight a lot less interesting. But fortunately for Arco, this made the fight a lot less interesting. That is to say, an interesting fight is usually one in which your life flashes before your eyes because, guess what? You're dead.

That is also to say that if he was to survive this battle (and even less so if he wasn't), he probably would not remember the feel of his dagger slowing as it traveled into Sloan's body, or the sound of the squelch and cry coming from his target, or the vision of of the flames, reflected off of Sloan's metallic staff, which happened to be dropping straight d--

--crack--

--own. Arco tumbled forward violently.

Very violently. In fact, one might say that he dropped forward with a suspiciously exaggerated violence, since the Bard seemed to roll forward as much as he fell forward. And, over-italicization aside, it would be safe to say that Sloan's Flame Rod had indeed struck true, and fair enough to assume that it had really hurt, as well. The dramatic spurt and sizzle of Sheikah blood into the flaming circle allowed such assumations.

And that's why, all things considered, an uninteresting fight is preferable to an interesting one any day. A boring fight generally hurts a lot less.

Anyway, what seemed to have actually happened was that, thanks to the Will of Farore, the blow had been cushioned to a degree; a degree that was enough for Arco to keep his reflexes straight and--instead of reacting directly to Sloan's strike--tumble in accord with the natural arc the attack would draw, thereby lessening the damage.

From there, it was all clockwork. In mid-fall, his dagger managed to transfer itself to his left hand. Then, somehow, his legs caught up underneath him, allowing him to spin in a tight circle, swinging the dagger up and over in a diagonal arc--a smear of green fog--which was cutting right, as he found when his eyes caught up with it all, towards Sloan's neckline.

It was hard to remember any other details.

OOC: Sorry it was so late. I became unexpectedly busy...
IC:

Sloan was careful to keep Arco's dagger from coming anywhere near his throat. An attack like that would have the capability of killing him instantly, and Sloan had grown accustomed to the dangers of close-quarters engagement. Swiftly grabbing hold of the Sheikah's arm in mid-thrust, the assassin pulled his target towards him, circling around behind him while maintaining his grasp on the arm. He let go suddenly, tapping Arco forward just slightly. Before the bard could even react, a hefty kick was aimed at his backside, sending him sprawling to the ground a few feet ahead of him. Sloan had not had much practise with techniques like these, and was proud that it had been pulled off correctly. Better than a cut to the jugular, he thought, laughing at his opponent's inability to administer a full attack. He rubbed the spot where a demonic stab had plunged into his chest, angry that he had not seen it coming.

With his target helpless for the moment, Sloan began to hurl multiple balls of fire across his already compact battle area, some of which narrowly avoided catching the felled Sheikah. The ring of fire was compressed, making the space between Arco and Sloan much smaller, and making the temperature of the fight far more unbearable. His sadistic laughter was lost among the roaring flames, their embers flying in every direction as the blazing fingers of fire stretched higher and higher.

OOC: Not a problem; I'm not exactly Mr. Punctual, myself. I really had to think about how to reply, though, and eventually decided to give you one of my crazier posts ^^.

IC: That Arco's attack left him pivoting on one foot as he attempted to strike Sloan's neck didn't help his balance any, a point on which he reflected as the kick made contact with his back. Slamming into the ground without grace, the Bard barely had enough time to flip over and see the fireballs flying towards him. Those he did not avoid by rolling out of the way, he estinguished in the same action.

Still, a lingering smolder was evident from the smoke rising lazily from his shoulder as he pulled himself up slowly, staring at his opponent. Somewhere in his mind he was calculating his next attack, but at the moment he was occupied with the thought: this is really hot. His glance flicked around him, observing how close the flames had drawn.

Have to finish this soon.

And then Arco seemed to melt, his figure dripping and disappearing away to nothing, from his hair to his soles. However, the frenzied light from the circle of fire made successful Shadowmeld impossible, instead illuminating his figure in erratic flickers. The net effect was that of a strobe-light... where you see the attacker rushing towards you at the same time you feel the hit.

This was essentially what happened to Sloan, only it wasn't a hit: it was several hits. His dagger twinkling in and out of visibility, Arco jabbed in and out, bottom to top, a six-point consecutive-strike: left knee, right knee, waist, left shoulder, right shoulder, chest. Weak attacks, but quick, and repeated...

He reappeared a small distance from Sloan, as far as he could away without roasting in the flaming ring. As he eyed the Hylian to view the effect of his attack, you could see his song's green aura wane, and then disappear all at once. But Arco couldn't help but smile--that is, curve his lips in a way that reminded you of a smile, but lacked a certain something--at the thought that the added agility was no longer necessary. Not if the target was disabled.

There was always a time in battle when one could relax and watch their opponent squirming for dear life. The short aftermath of Sloan's firestorm tactic had been just such an opportunity, and he took advantage of it by standing still, and doing what he always did when a target was in grave danger. He laughed. Clearly, Arco's agility boost would allow him to avoid most of the flames, and Sloan found this to be an incredible technique. I really must find a way to use that... without the aid of music. he thought, watching the miniature bonfire alight on the Sheikah's shoulder. The sight was not far removed from hilarious; at a time in which seriousness was not of the essence, the Hylian would have doubled over and engaged in a childish fit of laughter. It was never difficult to perceive that Sloan lacked many of the characteristics of a grown man; his life's passion was simply a reminder of days spent burning ants with a thin piece of glass as they scurried to the seclusion of their colony's hill. Which Sloan would proceed to kick down upon the impending escape of any of his minuscule targets.

What Sloan did not expect was for Arco to attempt Shadowmeld. It was far too bright in this compact disc of fire, which seemed to be shrinking by the minute. The bizarre effect left the assassin speechless, and there were several surprised emotions running through him. Mostly curse words, expressing his disbelief for what he was seeing. Had Arco intended for this type of attack? If he hadn't, it was still an excellent technique. Sloan was caught completely off guard by his target, and at the last second, he could swear he saw Arco standing directly in front of him, dagger ready, slashing in several arcs at separate intervals on the arson's body.

Sloan noticed Arco again at the very edge of the ring, and decided that he had imagined this odd attack. But his disbelief gave way to... more and more disbelief, actually. On six different areas of his body was a series of slash marks, each running across him sharply, but not nearly as deep as the bard's first strike. Although the attacks were indeed weaker, Sloan could count six. Altogether, he knew he was suffering far greater damage than the first stab. There was a moment of silence, and even the vicious roars of the fiery circle seemed to hold their noise back. It wasn't until a loud scream - "AAugh!", or something close - was heard that the raging melodies of the battle reappeared to break the silence. Sloan could not tell which gash hurt most, but he was certain of one thing; Arco would not get away wit this.

His arms now held out in front of him, and the Flame Rod laying in the smoking grass a few feet behind him, its shining red, metallic shaft burning intensely under the heat of the fires, Sloan conjured what would be his strongest attack. It had been ages since he had been graced with the chance to use it. "The Bomb," he had called it. Thousands of sparks seemed to shoot out from his gloved fingers, making it impossible for either participants of the battle to view the happenings of the attack. But Sloan knew very well what he was doing. Every so often, the sparks would be accompanied by a raging ball of fire, and in the air behind the spark-shield, an enormous floating bonfire seemed to be growing by the second. The power of the ball was so magnificent, it almost appeared beautiful. In this situation, it was a dangerous tool of death, one of which was hurled at the slowed bard directly ahead of it.

There were very little ways to describe this technique. Ideally, a "boom" was heard, although it was a boom of a much larger sale. The sparkshower seemed to encompass its target, stinging away at random pieces of flesh, while the main entity of the attack hovered directly in front of Arco. This was when the "boom" occurred, an explosion of fire so powerful, Arco was sent flying out of the circle. Or at least, on normal circumstances he would have been. By this point, the ring had grown to be very thick. Arco landed just in the center of it.

OOC: I didn't realize this post would be so long...

The Bard had only enough time to marvel at the beauty of the fiery display before he hurriedly crossed his forearms in front of his face and tried to fall backwards--

BOOM

--but could not escape the full force of the attack. Hurled into the growing flame circle as if a giant, pyric hand had siezed him and thrown him there, the Sheikah's sillouetted form could be seen, leaping up from the bed of embers, his hands going up to his face, and letting loose an anguished scream so vehement that for the briefest moment, even the flames billowed away from him.

That scream. Anyone hearing it, and certainly Arco himself, would remember it for years--although Arco would probably remember more than just the scream. Someone burned at the stake, without any ability to resist, would scream in a similar way, but from Arco, with a fighter's defiance of death, the scream was exponentially more forceful. Such a scream, melting out from a melting mouth? It would not only curdle the blood of a listener, but coagulate it, too.

And then Arco's bestial howl dropped off, as if he'd finally gathered his senses about him. In the fire, his figure could be seen briefly crouching, and then... something rolled out of the fire... In front of Sloan, the Bard unfolded from a Goron's flame-retardant balled pose, and stood up, the clothes of his upper body burnt to ashes. He stood, his eyes wild, and body literally on fire, then jumped into the air. There was a strange, speedy sound--

whop

--And there stood Arco on the ground again, all flames estinquished. True, he was severely burnt and almost crippled--in fact, "stood" was an exaggeration; one knee had collapsed on the ground--and his sweat glands had been reduced to a state of disfunction... but there he was, not even smoking. What had happened, a physicist would later theorize, was that at some point during Arco's time in the air, he had quickly spun his body in a tight circle, fast enough to create a vacuum, which had suffocated the flames of their oxygen.

But unlike Sloan, Arco could not stand still and laugh in the middle of a battle. No longer being on fire was like taking shelter only after being in the pouring rain for an hour: you were still wet. Stoically, he lifted the dagger to his face, close enough to lick, blade facing outward, and brought himself to a wobbling, but upright stance. You could just note that something dripped from the blade--horribly, it seemed to be his own blood and body oils; why they were on his blade was, at the moment, incomprehendable.

And then Arco leapt the small distance between him and the arsonist. It was a much slower movement than his very first strike--that is, you could actually see him coming--but how much quicker could Sloan be now, himself? And in the last body-length, Arco stretched forth his mutated, wooden dagger, aiming it straight at Sloan's upper chest...

And then a strange thing happened, something no one would ever be able to guess whether or not Arco had planned it all along. A few inches from Sloan, the dagger burst into white-hot flame, the raw heat of the atmosphere and Arco's overheated inner temperature igniting the dead, oily wood of the knife.

From Sloan's perspective, it was like a small, concentrated, and pointy fireball plunging towards his heart, chased into him by a monster of a luridly-bloodsoaked Sheikah.

OOC: Guess that was longer than I expected, too. ^^ Oh, and please don't ask me about the physics of any of that. *laughs*

It had seemed like the perfect plan; an instant kill, roasting the flesh and meat on Arco's body quickly enough that even the smallest of movements would force any and all apparatus to slide freely from the bones, which were also meant to be incinerated by the rushing of the fire. And although Sloan did not intend for Arco to be flung into the deadly ring of fire, he smiled when it happened. It would save him the trouble of continuing with the battle; he hated to admit it, but he was running short of energy. It must have been the blood loss, or perhaps the laughter had made him lightheaded.

Only when Arco reappeared did he truly gasp. Standing in front of him was a charred Sheikah; Sloan was surprised by the grayish hue to the Sheikah's skin. He stood, mouth agape, at the furious man standing inside the ring. How he had managed to extinguish the fire was indeed puzzling; it shocked Sloan that his "Bomb" had not killed him, and this expression was not subdued at all when Arco was able to survive the aftermath of the attack. Namely, the intense burning. The piercing scream tore through the clearing, and somewhere in North Castle, there were surely quite a few tourists holding their ears. Sloan, unfortunately, was at too close a proximity, and took the awful outburst of agony in full force. He shuddered as the scream faded, hoping that he would never hear such a horrible cry again, or at least, for quite some time. In normal circumstances, the sadist would take joy in listening to his enemy's torment, but this was becoming ridiculous.

Sloan Connells was not prepared for Arco's retaliatory attack. Now, he could easily have deflected the blow, as Arco was no doubt far more fatigued that himself. At least Sloan had not been cooked alive. He had enough time during Arco's slowed movement to gather his Flame Rod and take a decent stance, indicating to Arco that he would be able to resist the pitiful dagger no matter what. A smug grin formed on his lips. Although, had it ever left him aside from when Arco's attacks had managed to hit?

And then the unexpected, happened. That is, the other unexpected. Everything abut Arco had been unexpected, but this in particular. When the blood and body oils dripping from his dagger were revealed to be tools of his newest tactic, Sloan could not even find the words in his mind to describe his shock, nor his anger. Unbelievable would have sufficed, but Sloan was far too amazed by the display of pyrotechnics to grasp that obvious thought. Blinded by the quick flash of white fire, Sloan could do nothing but stand stock still, thoughts racing back to the incoming dagger.

The arson did not know which hurt more; the actual thrust, or the pain left behind afterwards. He dropped to his knees then, gagging and spitting up blood; the bubbles of saliva sizzled in the heat of the clearing, popping and sending droplets of the red liquid into the air by the second. This detail was minor, however. The true oddity was the refreshing downpour. Yes, as Sloan lay sprawled on the ground clutching his deep, scorching wound, it began to rain. The clouds opened up and dumped their wet load on the ring, and in a matter of minutes the terrible, blazing circle had disappeared completely.

Sloan could scarcely move. Somehow, despite all the pain inflicted on Arco during the fight, Sloan had lost. He attempted to roll over, and in doing so, he showed signs that he was still alive, barely. His heart had been pierced. In a matter of minutes, he would surely be dead.