Parselenic

mylläkkä

Paraselenic

Mylläkkä / chaos and disruption
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Twenty-five year old Harry Potter groaned as he was unceremoniously pinned to the ground, a forearm digging into his throat hard enough to create little bursts of light behind his eyelids.

"I give, damnit!" he rasped out, gasping for air as the arm was finally removed. He glared up at the feline blue eyes that hovered over him, the shine to them the only thing that gave away the owner's amusement. Harry blew a chunk of his sparring partner's golden hair from his face and planted his foot in the blond's abdomen, throwing him several feet away. "Damnit," he cursed again.

The blond stood gracefully, brushing nonexistent dust off his pants. "I apologize, Mylläkkä, but you will never defeat me."

"Whatever." Harry snorted. "Considering I have a decimal point of your experience, I think I do well enough." Harry snatched up his daggers from where they had been lost in the fight, strapping them into their customary places on his person - one on the thigh in plain sight and one held with a spell at the top of his back, his long hair covering its existence. Harry couldn't help another groan as he stood, wincing when several joints popped.

Dante Pierce might have had the reputation as the most trained fighter in Sceaduwe Citadel, but he was also the most ruthless. He had trained around the world for almost a millenium picking up fighting styles of the ages, but his teaching style mostly consisted of beating the utter crap out of his student until they picked up enough to fight back. He had taken only two pupils in the last hundred years despite his highly sought-after status, and Harry knew to be grateful for the opportunity afforded to him. Nonetheless, any training session he had with Dante left him bruised, beaten, and sore for days in muscles he had forgotten he had.

"If you would simply acquiesce to a full Change, Mylläkkä, you would have much less difficulty in battle. It is your need to breathe which I am always able to use against you."

Harry glared again at the perfectly unruffled blond who was picking at his nails, looking for all the world as if he had not just kicked Harry into the ground. He cursed to himself, damning vampires and ignoring the fact that he was technically one as well.

He was not a vampire in the traditional sense, as his sparring partner had kindly pointed out. Normal vampires had no need for air and most certainly did not feel like they had been run over by a muggle lorry after an hour-long spar. Harry had imbibed the blood of the Citadel's lord, which graced him with many vampiric qualities.

He required blood, but with that came the famed capabilities for vampiric speed and strength, something he had concentrated on honing in the last years. He had been disappointed to find that such abilities were not natural with vampirism, though he had taken pride in training in the last years. Even with the changes to him, though, he managed to remain mostly living in the most literal sense. His healing was barely more than that of a human's and his need to breath did hamper his efforts to surpass his instructor, but he was rather fond of the daylight and had not wished to give it up, which all vampires had to for the first several hundred years after their Turning.

His partial Changing had been the only way he could come to Sceaduwe. Only those of Immortal blood could enter the shadowed realm that the citadel resided in, and it had been a compromise on Valerian's part for him to remain only as something of a halfbreed. Valerian had wanted to Change him on the same day he'd met him, but Harry had been very disgruntled with the idea of staying in his malnourished fifteen year old body for eternity.