A Storm of Demons and Death (Green Vs. Abruzzi)

The great stone disk floated defiantly in the sky, refusing to budge before the power of the swirling tempest that tormented the sky like the wrath of an angry god. It was about sixty feet in diameter, and it slowly and steadily rotated, indifferent to the intense winds. The edge of the grey disk was lined in vicious, seven-foot metal spikes pointing straight upward. Blinding bolts of lightening lashed these steel thorns, sending surges of electricity through a grid of flat, wide metal strips that were bolted into the surface of the disk with massive screws. The squares of polished stone between the eight-inch lines of metal were a little over two feet; large enough to stand on easily, but tripping or stumbling at a bad moment could be disastrous.

Orun’s leather boots hit the stone disk with the deep, muffled thud of a war drum. An extreme sensation of vertigo overtook him as he felt himself falling for a drawn-out moment. The drop ended with a surprisingly dexterous landing. The green-skin’s knees bent reflexively on impact; it was an instinctive reaction that he’d developed during his childhood in the mountains of Salvar. He grunted slightly from the force of the impact. He could feel the blunt end of a large metal bolt press into the sole of his boot. As he glanced around, Orun saw the silhouette of the massive bird that had served as his transport flying away.

For all the magical power that it must have taken to craft such an arena, it would probably seem odd to have the combatants fly through the storm to reach it on the back of a bird. Certainly, the fighters could have been teleported there, but the storm was more than combat hazard. It was served to test the resolve of the challengers. Only those with the hearts of lions and wills of iron would brave such a storm. That, or anyone with the skill to detect the protective enchantment that kept the bird and rider safe for the trip up. A destructive shard of lightening descended from the dark sky, slicing into the magnificent bird, blasting it apart in an explosion of feathers and gore. Apparently, it was only a one-way trip.

Orun adjusted his footing immediately, placing both feet onto the slick stone. A mere moment later, another jagged dagger of light lashed out against the darkness, striking the spikes surrounding him, charging the wide metal grid covering the floor with deadly electricity. It had certainly been an interesting twist of fate that had placed the half-Orc on the stormy disk. Out of boredom, the green-skin paid a visit to the Dajas Pagoda. He wasn’t even exactly sure of what it was, but that detail didn’t seem important at the time. Then, he won his first fight and was offered a place on the Hierarchy. How could he say no and still cling to his claim of being a warrior, let alone his Orcish pride?

The arena itself was a different story. He’d gotten the idea from a chef on a Coronian Naval Frigate while serving as a mercenary. The chef, Christopher Knighton, if Orun’s memory served him, never shut up about anything; he was always telling stories and being generally annoying. One interesting story that the chef told in passing was about an arena of truly epic proportions that he’d supposedly found himself in during a visit to the legendary Citadel in Radisanth. The half-Orc hadn’t really believed the story, and didn’t pay the tale much attention until one of the Pagoda monks had asked him what he desired for his battlefield. Thinking about it now, at least Orun knew that it was at least possible for the irritating chef to have been telling the truth.

Some distance away, Orun’s keen ears detected the remote squawk of another great eagle. He tried in vain to find it in the swirling gloom. The wind-swept rain might as well have been solid stone, pelting his skin and stinging his eyes like needles so that even his Orcish eyes failed him. Whatever was coming, he wouldn’t be able to see it until it arrived on the disk. Orun gripped his small iron ax in his hand, feeling the muscles in his forearm tighten in anticipation, and readied is round wooden shield. His red eyes flashed as lightening slashed the ominous sky as he waited for the coming of a different kind of storm.

When I was over at the Pagoda stakin’ my life on an arena match, I asked the recordkeeper where I’d be fightin’.

“I can’t tell you,” he says. The prick.

Can’t, or won’t?

“I can’t. One of our warriors will accept your challenge, and he’ll choose the location of your battle.”

So it’s a secret.

“Well… sort of. Think of it as a surprise, not a secret.”

I never liked surprises.

Last time I was ‘surprised’, the offendin’ party left the room with three broken fingers. This time, he won’t leave at all.

~8~8~8~8~8~

A piercing squawk cut through the storm like fine Salvarian steel. Lightning spread across the sky like an enormous fissure in the stars for an instant, illuminating the form of an enormous eagle carrying a single rider.

Darkness.

The lightning flashed once more, extinguishing the life of the second eagle in the same way as it had the first.

Jack’s booted feet hit the ground with a thud, then slide forward a good six inches on the slick stone, planting his toes dangerously close to the electrically-charged grid. The howling wind, bone-chilling rain, and enveloping darkness were bad enough, but the arena just HAD to be rigged with electrical booby traps, too.

Okay, no problem’. This ain't any worse than Jimmy's at Christmas.

Beautiful. Reminds me of home, Grigori hissed within the confines of Jack’s skull. Keep low to the ground. When lightning strikes, get a bead on his position and plant a bolt right between his eyes. He’s about fifty feet in front of you, slightly to your right, the creature continued, giving his human host limited insight into his situation. Let your inhibitions go. Give me control, and I will eat the heart of this man-creature before the night is done.

Jack gritted his teeth and pressed his palm into his forehead, futilely attempting to rid his mind of his incorporeal ‘guest’. After taking a moment to collect himself, he removed the heavy crossbow from his back. Once he ensured that the device was loaded properly, he aimed in the general direction of his opponent, waiting patiently for a chance to strike.

“Guess we’re skippin’ any formalities,” he muttered to the wind, shaking a few drenched strands of ebony from his eyes as the seconds dragged on.

Jagged swords of light cut spectral gashes into the writhing darkness that strangled the sky. The wrathful flares illuminated Orun’s bestial face and reflected off of his eyes so that he looked like a creature from Hell. He snarled as the sound of the second eagle cut through the storm, closer than before, and formed his mouth into a toothy grin. It was time.

Such was his experience as a Warrior of the Pagoda that the process had become mechanical. Land on the disk, wait ten seconds, and then sprint to the other side where his foe would be. His eyes, though not supernaturally keen, were very well adapted to the environment from his experience. The half-Orc expertly picked out the silhouette of his opponent, even in the darkness between lightning flashes.

The storm’s bombardment continued, sending deadly surges through the grid and stinging Orun’s ankles as discharged electricity coursed through the water. He continued his surprisingly dexterous charge unabated. Needles of rain peppered his face and exposed arms, but they barely registered as unpleasant. The green-skinned demon would be upon his foe in moments. But… something was missing. He needed something different. Suddenly, inspiration struck him.

He roared. With the destructive malice of a war god, he roared. Like a kraken from the deepest seas, he roared. With the fury of a dragon swooping down on its prey, he roared. And of his prey? Why, it stood crouched before him, awaiting his predator, holding a… crossbow!

Orun growled a foul oath in his native Orcish for such a foolish oversight. He was too close now to rely on the wind to divert the projectile. His light armor stood little chance against a well-placed shot. Knowing that panicking would be his undoing, the half-blood continued his furious advance, not even slowing as he placed his shield in front of him as fast as he could, hoping that it would not be too late.

Jack Abruzzi has exceeded the ten day time limit.

As such Green is the new black wins the battle by forfiet, and gains Winner's GP. He has also asked me to close the battle.