THE SIXTH PARTY
#/#|L|#/#|D|#/#|F|#/#|2|#/#
A Vision of The Eternal Duelists

It was not hard to find the site of the deaths; there was a crestomisean symbol on every tree in the thicket from the route into the Dark Forest. There was also a lightly weatherworn carved wooden work of the same basic design, standing upright, stuck in the soft soil in the center of the close pocket clearing.

Dale stood before the carving, staring at it with distant concentration...and got sucked into the past, the future, or perhaps the moment; he was never to be sure which....

{+}*|+|*{+}*|+|*{+}*|+|*{+}*|+|*{+}*|+|*{+}*|+|*{+}

It seemed as though the air around him took on a haunted, misty quality in an instant, not damp as of fog, but dry as of smoke. Dale had heard that the presence of spirits made you feel cold, and wondered why he did not feel so.

He watched ~ for the time being with emotional detachment ~ as two figures phased slowly into vision.

They were dressed, one in red and yellow, the other in black and blue, both in the traditional tight dress of disrobed swordfighters, and both facing him.

They did not acknowledge one another until they had first half unsheathed their swords in salute and given him a half-bow of honored respect.

Then they turned and embraced one another after the fashion of comrades in arms, men of a trade, brothers by the drawn blood of an undecided duel.

Dale was becoming more interested; indeed he sensed the fondness between the two figures before him, and that made the experience more real.

They released their embrace and stood back at arms length, their hands still on one another's shoulders, to look one at the other, as though they had not seen each other in a very long time.

To this point they had not smiled in the truest sense of the action, but now they did, and spoke some words between them that Dale could not hear; he supposed they were not meant for his ears.

And then he beheld the two friends ~ for he saw that they must be so ~ step back from one another and assume a lazy duelist's stance of 'pseudo en garde'. For what could two friends fight seriously about?

The story of their stances proved true, for it could not be mistaken as they traded several careful blade strokes, that they were just sparring in fun, after the fashion of 'for old times sake'.

But in the back of Dale's mind, he knew that in reality it could not be so; the one had died before the other had ever known him.

The amiable companions could not trade strokes jestingly for long.

Dale's eyes widened in alarm as two scythers appeared from the hazy outline of the growth of the Dark Forest's border, beyond the sparring friends from his line of sight.

Both poke`mon had a neutral expression on their sharp serpentine faces, as they stood watching the seemingly unawares swordsmen for some seconds.

Then they raised their scythe blades and moved in on the humans at matched right angles, with obvious intent to engage them in battle ~ perhaps to the death again, even of their souls.

Dale was moved to shout a warning which he was thankful did ring out in his own ears, but whether or not it could be heard by those it was meant for, the two friends were already turning from facing one another to engage the closing poke`mon opponents.

In the space of the next twenty seconds, each engaged pair had met blades in more inside 'guard halts' and inner and outer 'half' and 'full' 'offending strokes', than Dale could count; indeed than he was probably even subconsciously aware of.

The lightning of six blades through the mist was near impossible for even a Master of the Crossed Swords to track, and Dale could only wonder ~ so wish ~ that one day he might be a Sword Master of such high caliber as he was seeing exhibited before him now.

And a Lonesword Master who could hold his own against a scyther for anything over ten seconds, was the more impressive, because the blade ratio was two to one.

Dale realized as he watched, entranced, that there could not be heard the familiar sound of striking, impassed blades at the moments of cross contact; that was why he could not track the blade strokes easily.

As the two dueling pairs met lightning stroke after lightning stroke between them, there came a fifth party(for Dale did not count himself present in the truest sense), from the neathering fields of the Dark Forest.

It was another scyther, but more fearful to behold than the first two, for he had two, clean, 'furrowed' scars on his face, high on his leaven-scaly cheeks, just below his eyes; they served well to accentuate the glare with which he studied the paired, fully engaged combatants before him.

Again Dale called out warning to the human duelists, but this time it was not so much out of fear that they could not see for themselves, as it was out of indignation that another opponent should enter the even fray and tip the scales against them.

It was apparent that the scarred newcomer did not register him, even hear his call, for his gaze never wavered from where it had been set ~ Upon the sword master arrayed in blue and black.

The scarred scyther came forward, raising his scythes threateningly at neither one of the humans in particular; rather Dale recognized it as a challenge to the both of them at once and with measured deference to his fellow ~ if not friendly ~ scythers.

The two scythers before him, however, were determined to fight with honor ~ one on one with their respective opponents ~ without allowing a third party in on their side of the affair.

Both of them trusted in the honor of their opponents so far as to turn their attention for the moment to the newcomer.

They gave him angry looks and raised their scythes warningly, even as the deadly forged swords of their opponents also were pointed at the scarred scyther, who ~ despite the heightened odds of six blades versus two ~ still looked ready and willing to do battle.

But words from the red and yellow arrayed sword master broke the intruding scyther's spirit, and this time Dale could hear them:

"Having committed the sin of backstabbing once, no swordbeing should allow himself to duel again; the second time he commits that sin, he condemns his soul ~ Scarface..."

Scarface's blades fell to his sides. [Scare words!] he hissed accusingly, but his voice held no conviction.

He seemed to realize this himself and hung his head, which made the impression of his dejection complete.

Looking with pity upon the crestfallen scyther, the specter in yellow and red went on to suggest doubtfully, "If it is not to the death ~ if you trust yourself ~ perhaps that young master over yonder would give you battle. Of course, would he trust you?"

At the insult, a fire of fury lit in the scar faced scyther's eyes, and he made an extremely rash double slash with his scythes at the man's neck and torso.

But in honor and good faith, the other two scythers reacted with sure swiftness and they each scissor-locked one of the scarred scyther's blades between both of their own.

The fire in Scarface's eyes died as suddenly as it had been born and he tried to hang his head in a pleadingly penitent fashion, yet hastily yielded to the persuasion of Ean's blade held under his pointed chin, to lift his head back up.

"I do believe you are the most wildly impulsive poke`mon I ever knew," Ean observed, 'tickling' the scyther's jugular vein with the razor tip of his sword. "Being for that matter," the man added thoughtfully, as Scarface closed his eyes and appeared to shiver at the sensation.

"Now, either invite the young master over yonder to trade some strokes with you, or skedaddle and leave the four of us to duel in piece."

Having so said, he signaled the restraining scythers, who loosed Scarface's scythes without any outward signs of feeling misgivings as to doing so.

Together, all four duelists backed well away from Scarface and Mark turned sideways and pointed at Dale with his sword. "So what's it gonna be ~ the young master or the Forest?" he demanded of the lone scyther.

Mark turned his head to look at Dale and inquired of the boy respectfully, "What say you, young master; will you draw to this scyther?"

Dale blinked in astonishment, as he realized he was a sixth party to the other five before him, and as ~ with an eager but milder glint in his eye ~ the third scyther lifted his gaze to regard him with open interest; he was humiliated and, therefore, primed to get riled in battle.

Having recovered himself completely and nodding to Mark and then to Scarface, Dale drew his sword and raised its blade outward toward the badly scarred newcomer ~ A formal challenge of battle to a point of honor.

Further, he dared to twist the angle of his blade, ninety degrees to the right ~ the invitation of 'Blade Strokes to the Death of One'. Should the scarred scyther raise his 'blades' in Acceptance, the duel would be sealed.

With a glaring smile of satisfaction, Scarface brought up his own 'blades' from 'submission' and waggled them both cockily three times, even as he took his first step toward Dale.

He had eyes only for his opponent, as he continued to stride forward and the two previously matched pairs of duelists parted more fully to let him pass cleanly.

Not unexpectedly, the wild fire came back into Scarface's eyes and his carefully measured steps and the angle of his torso suggested clearly that he intended to charge and deliver his first blade stroke with great force.

Dale himself took a half step forward with his left foot and planted it firmly as 'lead' and angled his right as 'balance support', taking comfort in the knowledge that this was all just a dream.

The nagging doubt that he was sleeping gave him pause, however, as he watched Scarface come ever nearer, and he determined in a sudden attack of nerves that he would not trust to the unreality of the situation, but would defend himself against the likely brutal onslaught, with every bit of skill he dared credit himself with.

He wished suddenly that he had not made the challenge 'to the death of one' and began to pray silently that he would wake from this episode, when any killing stroke came too close to home.

[A pity to kill one so bold,] the ghostly swordsmon hissed, his voice suggesting he felt it was to be quite the opposite for him.

[What say you 'young master',] he continued in tones of acidic sarcasm, dripping contempt, [for such a young FOOL I would extend the opportunity of Craventi's Call?]

Dale's instinctive response was to bare his gritted teeth and glare his darkest glare at the threateningly looming poke`mon; he refused to speak to a dream figure or an apparition, in this instance.

Not the least amused, Scarface served a final warning, [Until the count of three...]

He angled his raised scythes; [One...] leaned forward in his stride as Dale had fully expected; [Two...] dug in what was to be his leading foot, and at the breath of [Three!] launched himself at Dale in a carefully blade guarded leap ~ a completely unexpected opening move from Dale's viewpoint.

But the boy's reflexes made him react with a desperate counter-stroke, a gamble he might not live to regret if all was as real as it seemed. And if it was just a dream, what would there be to regret?

For the first time in this dream or twisted reality, Dale heard the ringing "CLASH" of two blades meeting in cross contact....

_,.,_,.,_,.,_,.,_,.,_,.,_,.,_,.,_,.,_,.,_,.,_,.,_

^~_/[Author’s Note]\_~^
There are dreams we wish were real, and nightmarnes of reality we wish were not. Some embrace their dreams as an escape from their realities, and some hold their realities the closest to keep their minds from the dreams they feel are impossible for them to attain to.

Is this nightmarnes or dusky dream of Dale's a reality? You decide…

SVVC ~ A.K.A. The Phantasm

P.S. Ten votes for 'reality' will get you the full story behind this vision.