Flash of the Blade, Part 1 [Bastian/Invites]

2:27 AM
February 4th, 2012
International Airport, Irkutsk

A lone store owner in a white, button-up shirt unlocked and lifted the cage door that served to protect his small shop from burglars. With a slow rub of his eye, the man with skin of a darker persuasion yawned before he looked to the few passengers that had just loaded off their respective flights. Seemed to be the usual bunch of tourists and missionaries. One stood out more so than the others, however, his green hair and out of date Japanese attire causing the man to stick out like a sore thumb.

The samurai gave a quick nod to the store owner before he passed by. He had business to attend to here, though no one would be able to guess as to what exactly. One man knew, and one alone. Cael Gladius himself.

Still on his training expedition before he would be called away to enter the tournament of a mad Archdemon, Cael knew he had little time left to prepare. Two weeks at the most, more than likely. He had recently received word from Matiz, a rare experience indeed, that there was something of interest within Irkutsk. What it was exactly Matiz wouldn't say, just that his former pupil would enjoy his time.

Exhausted from the flight, the swordsman stepped into the lobby and plopped himself into one of the many empty seats. With a yawn, he placed a brochure that laid in the seat next to his over his face and prepared for a good nap. He hadn't been in Inferis for a few days, so his usual energetic demeanor had been cut quite a bit. That was the least of his worries for the time being though. He just needed some rest.

A bit... of sleep...

The flight's touching down upon the tarmac had come as a reasonable affair, but at a completely unreasonable time in the morning. Many people had arisen half an hour earlier from their respective seats upon the craft groggy and sluggish, though the South African, who had performed the trip many a time before, and was a veteran indeed of the flight itself, simply felt his eyes flicker open without much resistance, and removed his baggage from the overhead compartment, before moving to leave the plane.

Wheel-luggage was a real essential boon when you only had a single limb on your upper body to be making use of, but carrying weight was something Bastian van Staade had long since become used to in both the metaphorical and literal manners of speaking. Through the corridors he continued to move slowly, expending no more energy than was necessary, garbed in simple black slacks and a thick grey shirt, not to mention the glistening polished combat boots which had seen the Siberian snow many a time before. Over it all he bore a longcoat, which on his left side he actually wore, but for the sake of avoiding questions pertaining non-present limb, simply let hang from his shoulder on the right, doing his best to disguise the remainder of his arm.

Sometimes he made the trip through Inferis; but it was a hell of a trek, whether he was used to it or not. Getting right to the border of Johannesburg, entering the tear, walking a few miles then crossing back into Earth to magically appear in Irkutsk sounded simple, but calculating it wrong meant you had to trek for another ten, fifteen miles through a Demon-infested void. It was tiring, it was lengthy, and it was risky. The plane was expensive and a different type of exposure; but sometimes, it was a breath of fresh air as opposed to a twenty-mile crusade through entirely hostile territory that could take, on a good day, up to seven or eight hours, if the roads through were particularly busy. The terrain of the Tundra wasn't exactly accommodating, either.

It wasn't long before the South African found himself in the arrivals lounge. Having caught some semblance of sleep on the plane, the hulking, stoic giant moved with a thunderous step over to the mostly-empty twenty-four hour coffee joint, and slid a few ruble notes over. "Green tea." Helped rest the mind. Anything went, really, when it came to food; but after such a journey, Bastian had found long ago that the endeavours of the soul and psyche benefited greatly from the warmth of tea without the expenditure of one's physical balance on the caffeine in regular tea or coffee.

A few moments later, and the bright young girl at the counter, still smiling in spite of the hour - a true Russian beauty - passed over the beverage and chalked up his order. The man silently responded with a bundle of Ruble banknotes, and felt a stray burst from the air conditioner blow the slack, resting side of his longcoat open, exposing the tied-off stump of his former limb, which she had the decency only to stare at with those vibrant cerulean eyes for a few moments, before stuttering in Cyrillic apology. "S-sorry." Bastian did not respond.

When she presented to him a bundle of change, having already turned to leave, the man simply waved the issue away and pulled his coat around tighter. Money was a luxury many people couldn't afford, but the Hunter luckily had his sources - and generosity at the oddest times of day seemed to be one of the smaller virtues the truly driven man possessed. It was moments before he found himself walking back into the mostly-silent lounge and scanning the area for a free seat. Most people had used them to slump down and get a little rest before leaving the airport proper - most were waiting for friends, family, significant others, even just taxis or buses they'd probably miss. Either way, Bastian picked out a seat next to a shorter man with a brochure over his face, snoring heavily, and walked over, grumbling.

His bag made a gentle clap around the floor, and stoically, the giant settled into the chair which was comically not even close to big enough to suit his stature or bulk proper; but even if the handrests were pushing into his ribcage somewhat, it was somewhere to kick up and just get a few moment's peace, before he walked out into the desolate, frigid, Siberian waste of a city; one with a climate that grasped him in a freezing vice-grip with every return he made from Johannesburg, and one he had enough familiarity with to brand his second home.

Cael's snoring stopped as he felt weight shift next to him, and nearly jumped up. Instead he fell forward in his seat, and the brochure that was on his face fell to the floor. The swordsman gave a dazed look in the direction of the other man. Their eyes locked, and Cael's body seemed to wake up immediately. An aura of intimidation surrounded the mass of muscle that sat next to him, but he made no verbal note of it. Looks, he knew, could be deceiving at times.

"Hey." His half-assed greeting followed with a short wave. "Would you happen to speak English? Not to imply anything, just been a while since I've talked with anyone." A shaky chuckle passed through his throat, and he turned his attention back to the brochure at his feet. For a second he could've swore he'd seen Belial's face, obscured by his war helm, upon it, but he shook his head quickly and chalked it up to his brain still being tired. Knowing that he had to be back in Rome soon wasn't exactly helping the thought though.

Moving to the seat across from the man, not wanting to feel intrusive to his space now that he was awake, he sighed. "Of course, it's not exactly every day I fly into Russia. First time here, in fact. Maybe you could help me out?"

"Hey." The snoring man next to him sat upright. Bastian, hunched with his impressive stature into a seat that was completely too small for him, turned and blinked at the man, the comical sight of him sat there with a steaming up of green tea, wearing his longcoat in the less-than-fitting climate of the Irkutsk airport. He waited for the man to continue to speak. "Would you happen to speak English? Not to imply anything, just been a while since I've talked with anyone."

Hmph. American. He didn't really like Americans. "Yes." Was all he replied with, turning slowly, as if his head was on a swivel, back to stare forwards with those cold eyes, sipping at his tea. It was warm - a somehow welcome scalding hotness that brushed over his tongue - and bitter, but still not yet ready. With a gentle grunt, he continued to tug at the tag the teabag was attached to, letting the further tones of the crushed leaves and plants within flush out with a swirl of off-green pigment in the heated mixture, within the polystyrene cup he treated as a holy grail of warmth.

"Of course, it's not exactly every day I fly into Russia. First time here, in fact. Maybe you could help me out?" Bastian grunted. Did he look like a fucking tour guide? He continued to stare straight ahead, and with the one good hand he had - the other stump hanging limp under the covering his longcoat provided, hopefully still giving the illusion of a present opposite limb - rose the tea again a few silent moments later, taking a taste. He wasn't ignoring the swordsman. Just trying to take in the atmosphere of the place. Colder than a witch's tit or not, he found nighttime scenes somewhat spectacular; and with the Siberian February snowfall outside, the landscape was rather impressive.

But now was time for the retort. He bothered not with turning to face the man whose heritage he was currently unaware of, and instead just replied facing straight ahead, lowering the tea and ritualistically tugging at the attached strings once more. "Asking foreign strangers for help in a country you've never been to is a great way to end up beaten half to death on the side of the road." Finally, Bastian removed the teabag in full from the cup, rolled it down - still boiling - into his hand, and flicked it into a nearby bin with a sigh. "Especially in Russia." He stoically quipped, before taking another sip.

Though he still hadn't given the kid an answer. With a grunt, he leaned back, and took a quick look at him, before another sip of his tea. Release. Warm, tangy, somewhat bitter, and oddly fruity release. "I'll direct you to the nearest hotel." He bluntly stated, Johannesburg accent layered on heavy over the top. "And that is all." Bastian finished, turning back, ever-so-slowly, to glance out from his little vantage point, taking a sweeping look over the airport, back to the huge glass panes he'd been treating himself to the early morning site of. Perhaps he'd stay here for the night. It was more hospitable than the harsh Stygian wastes out there - and the knee-deep snow he didn't fancy wading through to get to his apartment.

"Will that be acceptable, groenkop?" He let slip a minuscule smirk at his conjuration of a fresh nickname. Had this been anywhere else, he wouldn't have been nearly as hospitable or jovial as he was feeling today, but this was only a kid, and here was... here was friendly territory, a second home, a safer place than most. It wasn't Inferis. Even after his run-in with that fucking Cajun, apparently, he could still be somewhat personable. But he wasn't wasting time on leading a clueless tourist - and ever worse, an American - through the snow. He had no time for hopeless tagalongs. Especially ones that weren't going to keep up.

The man definitely seemed blunt, straight to the point, and, oddly enough, the samurai couldn't help but feel a familiarity in the mammoth. He hadn't heard such sternness in a person's voice since his time training with Matiz. The Spaniard talked to him differently now, of course, but the coldness was there. Something that hinted at experience in life. Experience in hardships and the lifestyle of a warrior. With thoughts of his previous mentor circling within his mind, it was then Cael realized it.

"I appreciate the offer, but... I believe you're actually just who I'm looking for." He stood up and extended his hand to the stranger, eyes at the ready for any sudden movements. Why this guy? "Cael Gladius. I trained under a swordsman named Matiz."

While not subtle in the slightest, Cael knew the type he was dealing with here. Some men you had to jump through hoops for, and some you had to be straight forward with. Then there were the other sort in which you had to do both.

"You piloted the helicopter that brought me out of my final test. I wouldn't imagine someone like you would forget a place so hot. If you're like me, as I assume, you've been in much hotter though, haven't you?" Cael's eyes hardened, cold as steel at these last words. Assumptions were one thing, but he knew he remembered this man. Not by name, but by face of rescue. If Matiz had sent his former pupil after a person, not an object like thought, then there was something important to them.

"Let me to reintroduce myself, omone." He came up with his own nickname for the hulking soldier just as quickly. "Roman Cael Gladius IV. Demon Hunter."

"I appreciate the offer, but... I believe you're actually just who I'm looking for." Bastian arched an eyebrow in surprise, for once. That was... something he didn't hear often. Turning back to the green-haired tourist, he blinked once, and waited for further expansion, hoping this wasn't an expression of some sort of fanatic devotion and/or love. He'd been trying to keep his reputation down just a little. "Cael Gladius. I trained under a swordsman named Matiz."

Halcon Matiz... now that was a world away. Bastian straightened his posture in an instant and, locked eyes with the younger man. The Mexican. The one who he'd trained with and sparred with. And the one who'd beat him senseless in a martial arts class many a year ago. Though that was a victory he'd never truly let slide; it was Matiz versus a one-armed man, weight constraints or not. But scanning the green-haired youth up and down again, he inclined his head and tipped back the last of his green tea, slotting the polystyrene cup into the nearby trash can. "So you did." Bastian murmured in retort.

Cael came back all too quickly. "You piloted the helicopter that brought me out of my final test. I wouldn't imagine someone like you would forget a place so hot. If you're like me, as I assume, you've been in much hotter though, haven't you?" Bastian's eyes sharpened. That was a hell of an accusation to make. But the link from the good Hispanic Maestro - even though he'd had no access to Inferis himself - to the hunting of more supernatural threats was not a completely intangible one. The green-haired youth had caught his attention, finally.

"Don't be a smartass." Bastian retorted all too quickly, standing up ever-so-slowly and accepting the man's comparatively tiny hand in the grasp of his own single limb, wrenching his smaller wrist up and down for a brief shake, hoping he wouldn't crush the hand of the lesser man with his own giant, steak-sized palms. Matiz' pupil was indeed correct; but the South African wasn't one for conceding ground so often. Hunters were Hunters. With a grumble, he retracted his appendage and waited for Cael to continue.

"Let me to reintroduce myself, omone." Bastian grunted. His nickname had been funny. Especially considering he understood it. Italian wasn't a language he was fluent in. "Roman Cael Gladius IV. Demon Hunter." He almost felt like letting slip a snarl. Was this child stupid? What if there had been Templars around? Did he have no regard for the fact that the watchful eyes of the order - and the members of Lucifer's court - were stationed and placed everywhere through this world and the other? Junior Hunters. They were always like this. It was part of the reason he'd never joined a team. People died too quickly in groups.

With that, the South African sat back down. The chair creaked beneath him, the handrests returned to jutting into his sides, and he let the Italian-American stay standing. "Bastian van Staade. Likewise." He grunted. "Now, why don't you tell me what Matiz wants, and then get out of here?" The misguided Hunter presumed that this relative child was still a pupil of the Hispanic's. "I have business in Irkutsk that you would probably find yourself less than concerned with, student."

Resting his head back against the pillar, he cast another look past the green-haired man he found now of little consequence. The Hunter gene was a genealogy many shared; but if this child was to convince him that he had surpassed the student tier and was no longer a pupil of Matiz's, if he was to find Bastian and fight alongside him, call him a peer as his tutor once had, then things were going to have to get a lot more impressive.

The large brute let himself fall back into his seat after shaking Cael's hand. Seemed the swordsman had his work cut out for him if he was going to be getting anything from Bastian, but he had dealt with worse. He could always remind himself that, all thanks to Matiz.

"Well, Bastian, you're wrong to assume that Matiz is who wants you, or even that I am his student any longer." He chuckled and sat back down as well. "Halcon simply gave me the location, I am here of my own will, and that man has not called me hijo in a long time. Believe it or not, we see one another as equals." The younger hunter then pointed at his chest, his eyes narrowing as if in pain. Here was the real hard part to explain. His honor as a Demon Hunter was on the line with this situation, but he had no other choice. Cael needed help.

"I've been caught up in the game of an Archdemon. I must train if I wish to survive his tournament, and my life is forfeit if I don't show up." He brought his hand into a fist and pounded it against his chest. "Maestro Matiz believed that I would find something here that could help me, and it isn't any coincidence that you'd just happen to be here."

"Well, Bastian, you're wrong to assume that Matiz is who wants you, or even that I am his student any longer." The child was still here? Hm. Matiz not wanting his attention or presence was of no real consequence. He had not heard from his sparring partner properly in years. The pair of them had gone their separate ways; and the trip out to the desert in the liberated helicopter was a favour Bastian owed; charity wasn't his strong suit, but as a man of honour and a man of his word when he offered it, when he was called upon, by all means, he truly delivered, irrespective of who it was - just today happening to be the Maestro himself.

The walking tank grunted. If that was the case... it meant that Matiz had sent this kid for some other reason. But the question was for what exactly? Was Bastian supposed to assist this... "groenkop", this green-head? He was nothing more than a child; a novice, wet behind the ears. And though he saw - as good a judge as he could be - a fire burning in this boy's eyes, and a knowledge in his stature that spoke worlds more than many immature, his face was not yet worn as the likes of his or Halcon's. "If that's the case, then what do you want, groenkop?" Visibly the South African's brow furrowed.

The Italian-American - Roman Cael whatever - continued to speak after that. "Halcon simply gave me the location, I am here of my own will, and that man has not called me hijo in a long time. Believe it or not, we see one another as equals." Hijo... Spanish. He could tell what he thought it meant; student, inferior, a child under his tutelage. And in that Bastian stifled a chuckle. The Matiz he knew, humble as he was, would not so lightly call a child his equal. But as he saw no similarly trivial response to his smile, his eyes narrowed and he realised now that this boy was telling him no lie; there was no exaggeration of the truth. He had learnt the hard-hearted Maestro's respect fair and square.

Bastian inclined his head with a grunt of realisation. A serious atmosphere gripped the air between them. "Hmph." Was his initial response. This was somewhat more perplexing, then. What did he know that Halcon wanted him to tell this boy? "You're not lying." Had he not known this boy's tutor he would have asked further for clarification about what Matiz had sent him to find. But he knew it was just as much a mystery to the young green-headed man. It was not the way of the Maestro to simply divulge all information he knew; for him, the journey had always been the biggest reward.

"I've been caught up in the game of an Archdemon." And THAT was when he was truly taken by surprise. Arch... Archdemon!? Bastian felt his skin tighten around his hands; around his knees; around his feet; every joint in his body. All his muscles contracted at once. He took a sweep from side to side. The machinations of an ARCHDEMON were what this boy had come up against? One of the leaders of Inferis?! For a moment he considered the fact that it could be a joke; but this man had seemed stoic and serious thus far - and caught up suggested it was more accidental than anything else. "I must train if I wish to survive his tournament, and my life is forfeit if I don't show up."

With that Bastian did stand to his feet, apparently now wide awake. A cold breeze began to blow the longcoat covering his right stump open, but the South African native pulled it tight and began to growl subsonically as he stared the boy up and down. An obligation on his very soul and existence to show up. That was a power only Archdemons possessed. With every waking moment he listened to this boy's story he began to consider the legitimacy and serious nature of it even more and more. And had Halcon been told that by his old "hijo"... yes, it made sense now. He had to train to survive; he had arrived on Matiz's orders. "Maestro Matiz believed that I would find something here that could help me, and it isn't any coincidence that you'd just happen to be here."

The retaliation came only moments later. "I am not to send you to find something, boy." Bastian inched forwards and closed the distance between he and the smaller, green-haired figure, lowering his voice somewhat to naught but a gentle growl, still aggression and sheer, indomitable determination permeating his every word and tone. "I am what Matiz sent you to find." It made sense. Cael needed to train; and Matiz had taught him all he knew. But the way of the sword, as effective as it was in dispatching Demonkind, it worked only to a specific extent. Inferis... Inferis was not about technique, nor stance, nor agility. It was a plane of the soul, of the psyche, of energy. And though this boy had grasped that concept, and knew all too well how to wield his blade, he had not truly yet embraced it. And that was why there was curious experience in his face; but less wear than was to be expected of one of Halcon's graduates.

Originally he wouldn't have even considered taking anyone under his wing; even skeptical of a disciple of Halcon's, curious as it was. But the boy had mentioned the magic word. "Archdemon". The truly abhorrent Princes and dukes of the legions of Hell. The ten who lead the armies. And for a chance to so much as whittle one down would make any the most famous Hunters in all of history's domain. First now he had only two things to ask. "Tell me what you know to do beyond the barrier of our world." Bastian grunted. He needed an estimate of some sort of learning curve before he could even consider taking this groenkop under his wing, even momentarily. "And tell me which of the Princes you have been shackled to this gauntlet by." Which one of the vile creatures that ran Hell had marked and branded the green-haired swordsman indeed...?

It would have been much easier to show the man his skills than to explain them. Still, if he couldn't do that for who could potentially become his new comrade, master even, he wouldn't be fit to stand here right now. The swordsman held his palm out and took in a slight breath.

"When in the infernal plane, I am able to summon a mighty blade to my aid. Much stronger than any of the swords the maestro trained me to use." A spark seemed to ignite within his eyes, as he could picture the very same spark conjuring his prized weapon. "I call it Honō no hajimari. The Beginning of The Flame." He put his hand back down and shoved both into his pockets with a chuckle.

"Other abilities show themselves to me as well, one of which allows me to imbue my blade with electricity, as well as perform a feat of speed which I call the 'flashstep'." In truth, he had scarcely used those new found skills yet, but he knew of them all the same. Things had changed immensely for the samurai since he had met another hunter in London.

"As for which of the Hell Princes it is that has forced me into this mess, he is the one who rules over the sphere of my grandfather's homeland. Belial, ruler of the Undercroft."

"When in the infernal plane, I am able to summon a mighty blade to my aid. Much stronger than any of the swords the maestro trained me to use." The glistening in the youth's eyes was a dead giveaway for Bastian. He knew this man was supernatural; he was no liar, his words were true and true enough. But he found himself frustrated at the fact that everyone and their sisters seemed to evoke their inner energy in the form of bloody swords. Seriously, what was it about simply pointy things? Katanas, broadswords, daggers: did the weighted balance of supernatural energy have something against blunt force trauma?

The bladesman continued to speak. "I call it Honō no hajimari." Bastian blinked once plainly, waiting for him to explain as he could figure the American would, for emphasis. "The Beginning of The Flame." He almost found himself smiling at how much this odd, green-haired boy, honourbound as he was, reminded him of Matiz, the old grouchy sparring Maestro in all his headstrong pride and the spiritual introspective connection he seemed to have that the explicitly pragmatic Hunter could never truly grasp. Whilst he and the Spaniard had only ever been sparring partners, in more ways than one, he considered Halcon to be a friend and a mentor - just as Cael did, albeit in a different context and manner.

"Other abilities show themselves to me as well, one of which allows me to imbue my blade with electricity, as well as perform a feat of speed which I call the 'flashstep'." Hm. So his prowess was not simply limited to the blade? That was... interesting. Clearly he was experienced in that vein then, holding an array of Evocations and not just the one as most did; recently Bastian himself had grasped the ability to remodel his prosthetic into a pair of fresh designs; one for the offensive close-range fights that require an... extended weapon, and the other for a heavily bolstered defense. The impromptu heavy-handed knight of Inferis it would seem. Worked very well for plowing through the more irritating demonic subordinates, too.

Cael rounded off his speech promptly. "As for which of the Hell Princes it is that has forced me into this mess, he is the one who rules over the sphere of my grandfather's homeland." His... grandfather's homeland? "Roman Cael Gladius" was a Latin name; and the fourth? With that in mind he browsed quickly through the corresponding spheres to each tear that he knew of, having memorised them decade upon decade ago. His familarity lied with the Tundra and the Ashland; but the young swordsman meant... Rome, he figured. Which was... "Belial, ruler of the Undercroft." Bastian grunted. He came to the conclusion almost just at the instant that the green-haired boy let it spill forth.

Irrespective that wasn't good. Archaic and canonised sources placed Belial - the Allsmith, as he was otherwise known - as being one of the more openly... vindictive of the Demons, whilst having acts of odd chivalry. His tones were renowned for making Mortals weep; though these were not simple facts recorded in holy scripture, but clandestine ancient Hunter tomes that were privy only to the eyes of few. Irrespective: Casul was known far and wide as an Archdemon that you did not trifle with lightly. And it appeared the boy had found himself up shit creek with a katana instead of a paddle. "Hm." That was an adequate summary.

"This is no small matter you have found yourself caught up in, groenkop." It was not often that Bastian considered a teammate, and hardly ever that he let himself so much as cogitate on the idea of a "student" under his wing as the Maestro had seemingly undertaken Cael as. But this was... an extenuated circumstance. And the boy was clearly talented already; just not so much as talented enough should it come that he would have to endure an Archdemon's machinations: and one as sadistic as Belial. "Very well. I will help."

An admonition of impromptu tutelage was something that had never really before uttered forth from Bastian van Staade's mouth; this was a rare, once-in-a-decade occasion. He knew himself not so much as a teacher or professor as simply an agent of not divine will but his own; perhaps some twisted sense of fate had prescribed him the path of the Hunter as a future, and he had oh-so-willingly taken it up. There were conditions however. He would not mollycoddle the boy, nor would he, if his abilities were not as grand as he spoke of them, hold his hand through the basics of combat; these would be advanced lessons. But Maestro Matiz had sent Roman Cael Gladius IV to him for two reasons; he knew he could help the boy no more, and he knew that he was ready for Bastian to bring him further in. This was no simple swordsmanship. This was something bigger. "But first you must show me what you can do." Not just tell.

Behind the pillar they had chosen their seating from, in the early hours of the morning in Irkutsk airport, they were isolated, somehow; alone. They had located a pocket of quiet inactivity. And they could cross. The ball was in Cael's court now. Whenever he was ready.