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Congratulations for making it into the Tournament of Champions. Both teams receive two Fate Points for making it this far! Posting can begin at 1 PM EST on the 7th and the battle closes at 11:59 PM EST on January 28th. Good luck to both teams!
Arenas were arranged at random, and your prompt is as follows:
You will do battle within an empty steel mill crammed with industrial tools and deadly furnaces.
The Cabal remained silent as their leader flipped through applicant after applicant; even sweeping aside entire stacks of papers, scattering books worth of information across the dark floor much to the chagrin of the ones who had so painstakingly compiled the pages. The table was a perfectly shaped circle with more then two dozen figures scattered across it at various intervals. They came in all shapes and sizes and even dimensions with their only common trait being the shadows that obscured them. The more important the member’s position in the clan, the closer his seat to the leader while the hunched back figure directly across from the Cabal captain was so far away, he could barely be heard without the use of magic.
"What do you mean when you say they lynched our messenger." The leader came to a sudden pause, throwing the page to the table and tapping a finger against the specific line.
"Exactly as it sounds," a bored voice sounded off down the table.
"I want details," the man said sternly.
"They grabbed a length of rope, approximately three inches thick. After they had beaten him into incapacity, they arranged the rope into a noose with a particularly well-made knot. The--"
"You weren't joking? How interesting." A grin split across the shadows lips, a thin line of darkness against the dimly lit room.
"Those people are beyond help. They don't even want to hear your proposal." But as desperately as he tried to reason with their leader, every member of the Cabal could see that he had slipped deep into concentration. The only voice that could reach him now was his own and even then, it was muffled. As one, they groaned; this was going to be a very long night.
Several hours later, the Cabals members were in various states of disarray. Some were doodling on abandoned pieces of paper while others further down the table had splayed out across the furniture with their heads resting in the crooks of their dark robed arms. While most members of the Cabal had long since passed the need for sleep, they had been unable to rise above the universal enemy known as boredom. The ones closer to the leader were as ridged as boards, their hands occasionally twitching and looks of pain crossing over their faces. They dared not act as lazy as their companions lest they suffer a demotion. Finally, the leader piped up, throwing a piece of paper to the center of the desk.
The page lit up of its own accord, the letters emboldening themselves on the paper and becoming clear to everyone, no matter the distance.
"Him. I want him! Ixidar Kalahari!" The leader was like a giddy school girl, practically falling out of his seat. When one had lived for thousands of years and accomplished everything, being an uptight prick had gotten boring a long time ago.
"How romantic, don't you think? A fallen hero who only sought to avenge his family, but in doing so, threw himself to the abyss! But even when his kingdom abandoned him, he did not abandon his kingdom. What a guy..."
"It says here that he's dead," a previously silent member of the Cabal piped in. Horror flew across the leader’s face, mixed with disbelief. "Committed suicide about three thousand years ago."
"Well then, revive him!"
"His family sealed him away," a female said hurriedly, trying to get the meeting over with already.
"Is there no way we can contact him..." The leader sounded on the verge of tears.
"There is one way..." A united groan shot through the entire table as the nosey bastard spoke up.
"Shut up! How? Tell me. I must have this Ixidar Kalahari character!" The leader slammed his fists to the table, sending a rattle through its surprisingly fragile shape.
"His people sometimes seal their ancestors inside of weapons, so that they may be of use later. All we need to do is find one of those. The problem is, most reports say that his home planet was completely destroyed..."
The Cabal members hurried to work, opening up long closed magical pathways and seeking out traces of the Ixidar family line throughout the weave of the universe. Finally, they found their key, a single tool hidden deep within' the prison planet that had served as Ixidar's home for so many years. They were lucky too, the weapon was completely intact!
The Cabal quickly arranged themselves in order, papers were swept under the desk and sleeping members were beaten awake with sticks. When all things were in order and all members looked perfectly ominous, they summoned as one. A flash of light flooded through the room, a showy display meant only for intimidation. As the light faded, a sword stood upright in the center of their table, its point digging into the finely carved oak and its rich yellow metal shining with the aftermath of their magical display.
"Welcome, spirit. You have been summoned by the Cabal. Choose quickly your path: to hear us out or be cast back into obscurity!" the leader spoke with a calm demeanor, his voice magically carrying to the edges of the room.
"State your name first though."
"My name is Imperius, I am the sword who is charged with finding the next king of the Imperium. I will answer any questions you have for me, provided that you do the same."
***
Imperius watched with a bewildered sort of fascination as Isis attacked the steel mill’s door with her mouth. While the villager’s reports had said that the steel mill had been completely abandoned by the reigning Baron many years ago, someone had installed a high-tech palm scanner. A lot of trouble just to keep people out of an empty building and luckily for once, the Ixidar sisters agreed for once.
The youngest sister had decided to take the most direct route to the problem. Like an animal stalking its prey, Isis had spread her hands out on the cold steel to either side of the lock, trapping it in place, while she slowly snuck up on it from the front. Then with speed that would make a viper blush, she swung in, her pearly whites smashing down onto an exposed corner and grinding down on the steel. The reader turned red for a few seconds, sparks shooting into the air as it slowly bled out with Isis giving a twitch or two as the electricity flowed into her body. She stayed crouched for several moments, even flicking her tongue through the metal at some points to catch every last bit of electricity, and when she finally pulled away, there was an audible click as the door became disabled.
“Well, you did say that you would help me if I found a way inside.” The younger sister with a broad grin.
“Yes, but I didn’t think you would actually bite the door to open it.” Masika turned on her heels, ready to bolt from the scene before security came down on them like a hammer, specifically her.
“Don’t tell me you’re a chicken, Masika. You can’t back out on a deal once it’s made.” Isis shot a venomous glare into the back of her sister’s head.
“Yes, yes I can. We’re supposed to be on our way to Althanas, not playing Dick Tracy out in the boondocks of the Frontier.” Masika started to storm away, but she found the surprisingly strong hand of her sister curled around her forearm and tugging her right back.
“These people need our help, Masika. You heard the story; this Baron von Wulfenslayer has been forcing them to work in facilities like this for years without any explanation on what they’re producing. Now the environment is deteriorating. Don’t tell me that’s a coincidence.” With the strength of an ox, the youngest Ixidar began to drag her sister through the door, one step at a time. The whole time, Masika battered at her sisters arm, feeling thoroughly embarrassed that she was being overpowered by a woman who had rightfully never stopped being a child.
“You’ve been reading too many novels, not everything is in---“
”OY!!! An Orc came shambling out of the facility. He wore a dirty pair of giant-sized overalls with a simple white shirt beneath and a perfectly matching cap, all of which looked silly considering he was the size of a gorilla and lime green. The sisters were stunned silent as the beast man swung a four foot wrench from over his shoulder, using the tool more like a club to smack the ground imposingly.
”Whoz you? I dun remember no packagez cumin ta’day,” he said with a light grunt, the pair of tusks jutting out from his lower lip bastardizing every word.
“My sister here is just a bit touched in the head. Please do forgive us, sir.” Masika straightened up her frilly skirt, patting Isis on the head. The little sister had dressed for the occasion, with a pair of dirty denim pants and a button up shirt rolled up at the shoulders. With the puffy hat on her head, she looked the part of the annoying paperboy on the corner of New York that everyone wanted to punch.
”You kno da rulez, no humiez allowed in da’ forbidden zon---“ the Ork had been half way through shoving Masika to the floor when Isis sprung up from the ground, planting a knee firmly in the crook of his throat and audibly crunching the green meanies Adams apple.
As Isis turned to comfort her thoroughly frightened sister, the Ork struggled back to his feet, stretching an arm out for revenge only to find a pair of shoes planted firmly on his face. He would wake up the next day and whatever happened, his boyz were sure to place the blame squarely on his shoulders.
“A gang of Orks watching over an abandoned Steel Mill? Are you really going to tell me that’s a coincidence?” Isis crooked her knee up, whipping the sole of her boot off on Masika’s skirt when she wasn’t looking.
“I guess… we can go take a look.”
“Great!” Masika had barely finished sentence when Isis grabbed her hand, leading her over the unconscious Orks body and through the truck sized steel door.
Inside the mill was as heinous as one might expect. While it could be said that the Mill was empty of workers, it was in no way shut down. Machines larger then some trees lurked in every corner of the facility, their holes arranged to look like monstrous faces and glowing with the bright orange of fire. The pipes running all along the room shot sprays of steam at timed intervals and there was an even running conveyer in the far side of the building. For the most part though, the building was taken up by empty steel grating, fashioned around a massive stack of pillars that rose up from the middle of the building to the roof and beyond. The first floor was deceptively named, as it was large enough to make up a full five stories, but there were still other floors. Stairs and elevators were clearly labeled, some leading up and some leading down.
“Could this place be any more creepy? Where are the starved underage workers?” Masika unconsciously stepped closer to her sister.
“Actually, the children work in Wulfenslayer’s slaughter house,” Isis stated quite poignantly.
Masika could only stare bewildered as Isis made her to the stairs. What the hell had the Ixidar sisters gotten themselves into this time around?
(Bunnying of Arsene approved.)
"User could not be identified from our archives. Please place your palm upon the scanner and try again." A diminutive, feminine voice inside the mechanical contraption squeaked from beneath a giant, fleshy hand.
Upon hearing the voice, Brom jerked his hand backwards in surprise and grunted as he bent over to gaze at the glowing pad that seemed to have spoken to him. Poking the device's face once or twice as he awaited it to speak, the great warrior barked, "Why don't you talk anymore? Say something!"
Standing side-by-side with the primitive who was contemplating the mysterious wonders of technology, the Russian sniper known as Aleksy rolled his eyes and breathed a long sigh and uttered a curse in his native tongue, "Brom. Brom-Hey! You're doing it wrong."
"Whuh?" Brom muttered as he turned around scratching his head at his companion, "What'd you mean, Russkie? What is this thing?"
Aleksy shook his head and stepped forward, pushing the brutish ape away as he fixed his gaze on the console. Although Aleksy was born in an era where wonders such as computers and cellular phones hadn't been discovered yet, he was still mystified at how out of touch with society his comrade really was. The barbarian was a terror on the battlefield and a force to be reckoned with when it came to survival, but when it came to everyday things he was just well..
"..Durak.*" Aleksy finished in Russian as he placed his hand upon the scanner. After a moment a shining green light ran up and down his palm as a mechanical whirr and the audible crunch of numbers gave the pair a cause for concern.
"User could not be identified from our archives. Please place your palm upon the scanner and try again." The female voice repeated as Aleksy turned and spat on the ground in disgust.
Railing off in a chain of russian curses as he inspected the machine, the sniper was taken by surprise as the great hand of his comrade closed upon his shoulder and pushed him to the side to confront the architect of his frustration. "H-Hey! Wait a second, Brom! Wait!"
But it was too late to reason with the Salvarian. Taking one last look at the scanner, Brom turned and lifted his sledgehammer of a fist and swung forward with all of his might. Before Aleksy could stop him, he froze and sunk back onto the balls of his feet as he watched the warrior's fist collide with the scanner. A loud crunch and crumpling of steel, wires, and other things the barbarian couldn't even begin to pronounce were pulped on impact. A shower of sparks flew to the ground as the scanner bobbed and was smashed into the wall like a miniature crater.
The Russian was mystified as he watched Brom turn to him and shrug with a smug grin, "Problem solved."
"Ya tibah nye veryu.**" Aleksy said flatly, his jaw hung slack. For whatever reason, the Russian was always surprised by the way Brom chose to handle things, even though he knew he probably should have expected it. Might makes right, he thought as he watched the warrior push the large steel door open, duck under the threshold, and disappear within.
Taking one last look at the sun behind him, the young soldier shouldered his rifle and followed his ally into the maw of darkness that seemed to deafen with a cacophony of strange noises native only to a factory. He had good reason to believe that would probably be the last light he saw for a long time.
***
An eerie wash of oranges and yellows had bathed both Brom and Aleksy as they walked into the mill, a glow cast from the large giant vats of molten steel called crucibles that laid smoldering beneath them. They were upon the second floor, if one could call it that. The giant vats of molten steel were almost like giant bowls that towered above the ground and were connected to each other by a spidering network of catwalks. Despite the vats and the burning steel, the place was obscenely dark and poorly lit, giving all of the tools and factory grade machinery an almost sinister presence despite the great panes of glass that lay upon the roof acting as both the mill's windows and it's only source of light.
Aleksy immediately wondered what it might have been like to work in a place like this at night. Though it caused the Russian to shudder, his imagination probably wasn't that far off. Because of how clustered and how massive some of the machines were in the factory, they blocked a lot of the light pouring down from the heavens above, making the steel mill a dark, dank and dirty place. Covered in soot and confined to dark places, the workers probably developed some sort of keen sense of sight in order to navigate in a place like this.
Almost a league away, Brom could spot a giant, rectangular pool almost the size of a football field laying below. From this distance, it was a bit fuzzy, but as he tried to focus, the warrior could see the protective walls or bulkheads that surrounded the pool and a large series of funnels that connected all the way to the crucibles that sat on the second floor with them.
A series of stations or workshops that were outfitted with presses and different devices to refine or mold steel for specific purposes were littered throughout the mill like dust upon parchment. But, despite all this, Brom knew nothing of such a place or such arcane objects. The noises and very sight of the place reminded him distinctly of what he imagined to be a smoldering caldera filled with machines and devices so alien to him it'd have been akin to explaining to a caveman the uses of fire.
To Brom, the steel mill was almost magical in appearance, and seemed to strike a deep, superstitious chord within the giant, but hadn't crossed the border into fear yet. It almost seemed too big to absorb with malice, especially with somebody who could easily be construed as simple-minded. Though, however great or striking as the giant, yawning room was, it still hung empty. Not a soul stirred within the building that the barbarian could spot, nor would he for quite some time.
As they took it all in, it was Aleksy who broke the silence as he nudged the shoulder of his dumbstruck companion, "You ready, Brom?"
The barbarian snorted as he placed his hand upon the hilt of his broadsword at his side. Even though he was out of his element, Brom would never back down from a fight. "What do we do now?"
Unshouldering the strap from his rifle and cradling it in his arms, the Russian grinned, "I've an idea. Make yourself scarce and wait for me to find some cover. When I spot the enemy, I'll let my friends or my gun do the talking. Two shots. Understand?"
Brom nodded and moved towards the edge of the crucible, "And if I find them before you do?"
"Don't go looking for trouble, Brom." The sniper snapped, sensing his companion's dangerous lust for battle on the rise. "We're in this together. So if you think you're going to try and do this alone.. Especially in a place like this, you might as well run yourself through with that frog sticker of yours right now."
"Fine." The barbarian said flatly as he looked defiantly into the shadowy darkness below, secretly daring his enemies to show their faces so that he might deal with them proper. To the warrior, violence was the only solution. But, as he reaped the fruits of wisdom as he has grown older, learned to hunt, and master the forces of nature, one might say that Brom had grown an appreciation for the subtle, methodical methods of stealth.
With little so much as a goodbye or a 'fare thee well', the two parted ways. Aleksy taking to the far corners of the factory while Brom slunk into the shadows and skulked about the catwalks like a great cat stalking its prey amongst a sea of boiling steel and darkness.
* "Stupid."
** "I don't believe you."
“I think we should go up for a better view of the place,” Masika said as she stared at the two options in front of them. There was an elevator across the room and right beside it was a stairway, both of which could lead up to the second floor. Her golden eyes gazed questioningly down at her sister as a loose strand of her short, straight stormy-blue hair fell over her forehead. While the majority of her hair stayed neatly combed to the side, the single errant lock stuck to her tanned skin which had gathered a layer sweat from the ambient heat produced by the lava. Even in the dim light cast off by the molten steel held in the containers and the overhead ceiling lamps, her exotic features were still visible and vibrant. She was dressed in a white overcoat that covered the entirety of her arms and stretched down into a skirt that stopped just halfway above her knees. Buttoned up the middle, it featured a strap at her neck and a belt along the waist that held it to her tall form. The supple skin of her legs accentuated the fact that they were much longer than the upper portion of her body, ending with a pair of boots.
“Stairs!” Isis shouted eagerly.
Masika walked over the stairway and shook the railing on it firmly, expecting it to hold, but to her surprise, it instead snapped off. She gawked at the broken handle in her hand, which was covered completely in rust. “When was the last time they cleaned this place?”
Isis shrugged. “People don’t hire Orks to clean.” Still, she walked defiantly over to the rusty stairs and began advancing up on the flight of steps. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
Before the younger girl could walk more than a few steps, Masika grabbed the back of the girl’s shirt and pulled her off the stairs, falling straight into her waiting arms. “I’m not letting you try to walk up stairs,” Masika said in a motherly tone as she tried to calm the struggling girl who was pressed up against her large chest in a hug.
“Fine! Just stop pushing your milk udders into my face, you cow!” Isis yelled, straining against the hold so that she wouldn’t get smothered by Masika’s breasts.
Masika released the indignant young girl who let out a small series of retorts and curses which she ignored. It wasn’t like there were any new insults that she hadn’t heard before. Walking over to the elevator shaft, Masika pressed the up button and waited for the elevator’s doors open before turning back to Isis. “Come on,” she said, waving a hand for her to come over, but the view that met her was her sister shivering at the sight of the big steel box. She slapped her hand to her forehead in exasperation as everything that just happened finally began making sense. “I thought you got over your fear of elevators months ago.”
“Well, I didn’t!” Isis screamed, her teeth awkwardly chattering together as she shouted. “Now, help me already!”
Masika sighed before she turned her back to her sister and bent her knees to lower herself. Still, a small smirk slowly played on her lips. Isis was still a child sometimes, but she didn’t mind. It just reminded her of better times, when there wasn’t any worry about fighting or death, just routine work as a young maid and the chaotic task of raising her little sister from a budding baby to a youthful woman. It also reminded her about the regret that she felt when Isis decided not to continue her education. She never had a formal education, just one collected together from random books that she managed to get a hold of. If her little sister had never happened upon that damn talking sword, Imperius, then the younger girl might have finished her education and have gotten a nice, relaxed job instead of going off on a wild goose chase through the multiverse to become the king of some destroyed empire. Who wants to be the ruler of ruins and artifacts?
As for the younger girl, Isis needed no further prompting as she bounded over the short distance, having lost the apparition of fear that haunted her just moments ago, and jumped onto the back of her older sister. She landed on her sister’s shoulders and quickly wrapped her legs around the neck while her hands held onto the head.
Masika grunted from the impact but quickly shifted her weight to accommodate the new cargo on her shoulders. Now finally prepared and ready, they proceeded into the elevator, but it was Isis who demanded the right to press the button. The elevator stalled for a moment before it began screeching its metallic protest as it just grinded to start.
The inside of the elevator was mostly bare steel except for the buttons paneling and a taped-up old poster with frayed edges. The faded advertisement featured a group of Orks dressed in worker’s clothing and united under a banner which flashily displayed the words: “Ork Unionz.” Masika lifted her foot experimentally, feeling the mushy stickiness of something wet that had once been spilled on the floor and never cleaned up. She really didn’t want to know what it was.
“Ugh, this is disgusting—hey, what are you doing!?” she yelled indignantly as she felt Isis’s wandering hands from her hair and instinctively reached up to stop her.
“Your short hair looks ugly. I am giving you a new style,” Isis responded playfully, pushing aside the offending hands before resuming her play-dough masterpiece.
“Stop that! Wait, what is that wet—augh! Did you spit in my hair, Isis!?” she screeched. “I swear if you did, I am going to throw you off my shoulders and leave you here.”
“As if you can.” Isis wrapped one arm around her sister’s head while her other hand continued to mold the blue hair into a Mohawk. “Besides, it’s not spit.”
Masika groaned, knowing that Isis was right. With her sister’s strength and the grip on her head, she would more likely take off her own head first. “Ugh, what is it? Wait, don’t tell me. Just stop messing with my hair, brat,” she growled threateningly, or rather, what she thought was threatening. In reality, all it did was make her sound like a whiny cub; which had the complete opposite effect on Isis as the girl’s efforts only increased. Just as she was about to try to grab her mounted sister’s chaotic hands once more, the elevator came to a grinding halt and the door spread opened to reveal a Caucasian man dressed in mixture of ripped fur and broken pieces of armor. There was only one person that this could be and by the agitation she could feel from her sister’s legs squeezing on her neck—which was quite uncomfortable—she knew that Isis had figured it out as well. She had to do something quick before her sister does something rash. Her right hand struck out in front of her with her index finger pointing directly at the Viking while her other hand patted Isis’s leg to calm the girl.
“Baron von Wulfenslayer!” she yelled with her accusing finger still directed at the man, even though the impromptu Mohawk took some power away from her words. “Release the children from the slaughterhouse, you Nazi!” Her point was punctuated by the ding of the elevator as the doors slid closed, obscuring the warrior from sight. In that moment, she immediate redirected her finger from pointing to pushing the button for the third floor.
“What are you doing?!” Isis questioned lividly.
“Stalling for time,” she answered as the machine began to move once again.
For any average Russian, the break room was seen as a communal gathering of brothers in industry. Seating was marginal and often ignored, as men would stand around during their short lunches and discuss the newest events circling the Kremlin, or local gossip of whose daughter put out. Food was shared, and bread broken up among the gathered.
However, Aleksey found such tales impossible. His father had to have been lying, for the room he stood in lacked candle or song; bootleg copies of American music were nowhere to be seen, and mid-morning vodka was absent from an ill-maintained icebox. It was drab room that put any Soviet kitchen to shame. The sink was rank and stained from brown minerals that hid in the water. Each flicker of the obnoxiously bright florescent light sent shivers down the soldier's spine, as he caught glimpses of what he hoped was mold clinging to the wall. It seemed while dull lights were best for the rest of the steel factories facilities, the break room required a display for it's sullen gray bricks and cheap cherry wood counter top.
Aleksey smiled to himself. He hadn't come in to admire the decor, or read the silly babbles of the working class. Instead, he nursed a mug of old, chilled coffee as his gloved hands rummaged through piles of posters and papers. The sniper knew he needed a map of the place if he was to have any advantage, and while the Soviet Union was behind the times in many respects, it always had a fire escape plan mounted somewhere easily accessible.
"Spasiba!" He cried, before remembering his voice would echo in a hollow, empty industry. It was a crudely drawn map with an illegible legend and disproportional sides, though the odd coffee stains helped to class it up. Like a boy at Christmas, the soldier went about rolling the paper with care and ease, grinning from cheek to cheek. He had dumped the coffee in the sink, where it dredged to the bottom and became one with the sludge there. Sickening though it was, Aleksey snuck through the doorway once more and into the darkened factory. The droll hum of thousands of lights in unison was maddening at first, but grew peaceful with every flicker.
His eyes were well trained, but had yet to adjust to the light. The orange glow of molten metal merely made for blurry picture. He held the map tightly, careful to give a listen everyone few seconds to keep his flank safe. And as those sharp pools scanned corner to corner, they spotted a small square that filled them joy. "The emergency staircase"
It was hidden between two large pieces of machines whose only job seemed to be made up of obscuring such a stairwell. The soldier, for the life of him, couldn't understand why such an important place was hidden. But, it was also within a short jog, and that's all that mattered. At once his riding boots flew across cold concrete, dodging the occasional misplaced tool. His heels made a noticeable click, but by that time the sound was drowned out by the rusted movements of a far off elevator.
He passed the plainly painted door twice before he finally squeezed between two large machines, and took firm hold of the handle. Pistol in one, knob in the other, a sniper never took the chance of passing a doorway unarmed. The Russian turned the handle quickly, slamming against it with his side. The loud thud was expected, but never the alarm.
Half the florescents in the factory shut off immediately as a high pitched squeal echoed off every surface. Emergency lighting draped the floor in a dreadful light, prefect for seeing in smoke. Non-essential electrical systems shut off quickly, in hopes that any fire would damage a bare minimum.
And thankfully, as the soldier darted up the small stairwell inside, the alarm covered his cursing as well.
”Certainly! Fair is fair after all, so please make yourself more comfortable. A human form perhaps? Being a sword must be so stiff…” the Cabal leader swept a finger through the air, swirling the dust around for a few moments and like magic a stool grew from the center of the table.
“Very well…” the sword said contemplatively. There were no flashing lights, the sword didn’t melt down or reform itself in any way. Where there was once a weapon, there was now simply a person.
What a person it was too. Standing somewhere just below six feet tall, the majority of ‘his’ body was covered by a plain brown robe that dragged against the floor and left everything to the imagination. The body was flat, lacking in any form of masculine muscle or feminine curves while the face was smooth like granite and just as nondescript. His head was shaved so close to the scalp that the room’s magical light could be seen reflecting off of it at certain angles. A blindfold was wound tightly around his head which had been clearly folded many times over to ensure that no light would ever find its way through. Imperius was in a single word, plain. In fact, so plain that it seemed forced. Likely because it was…
“I’m not feeling the comfort here,” one of the females of the group muttered beneath her breath, receiving a sharp hiss of air from another for her troubles.
“Imperius… if that is your real nam—“ the leader began.
“It isn’t,” Imperius cut him off snappily.
“Then, for the sake of our budding friendship. What is?” Much to everyone’s surprise, the leader didn’t seem to mind the previous interruption as his voice remained chipper, if not more eager, to learn about the magical weapon.
“I do not remember.”
“Why ever not? A name is the most important part of one’s identity!” the leader shouted passionately.
“In a class based society like the Imperium, there is great need of an impartial judge. As such I am not allowed to retain any pieces of my identity. I have forgotten everything about my past life, but do not cry for me, it is a duty that I would gladly bear for the planet that I love.” Imperius inspected the stool with a cautious foot, sitting down only once it was clear that it wouldn’t crash beneath him. It was several sizes too small and it was a hassle to balance his elbows on his knees when they were so close to his face, but somehow, he managed it and clasped his hands together in front of him with the tightly knotted fingers hanging just in front of his face contemplatively.
“How romantic…” the leader fanned himself off with a loose piece of paper, drawing several awkward stares from those around him and an arched brow from Imperius.
“Surely, you don’t want to talk about me though. I am little more than a place holder.” He tried to hurry the conversation along as the tension was growing more awkward by the moment.
“Very well…” There was a pout evident in his voice, but he kept going. “Ixidar Kalahari. I want to know everything about him, so tell me quickly now.”
So Imperius told them of Ixidar, his rise to prominence and his eventual fall. No fact was left unturned; he told the Cabal everything that he knew regardless if he was under magical compulsion or not, all the way down to his children’s children and their children after that. Every last detail was divulged…
***
The empty steel mill wasn’t so empty anymore. The wailing siren echoed through the cluttered halls, bouncing off of every hollow piece of metal and increasing until the only way to find any reprieve was to put your hands over your ears. Luckily Orkz couldn’t feel pain. The hulking green men squeezed out of doorways in two’s and three’s, exchanging confused glances with one another. It was hard to tell whether an Ork was an angry or not as their forearm sized teeth were packed tight into their mouth and heir lipless faces gave bore them constantly. At least it was hard to tell until one Ork punched another, it happened no less than five times in the next minute as burly green bodies slammed into each other and insults ranging from ’grot’ to ’humie’ were slung back and forth. But that’s how the Orkz were and after all the punches had been thrown and every Ork had a sadistic grin on his face, they stomped across the catwalks, pounding oversized wrenches and hammers into railings while whooping and hollering. There were humans on the loose in the factory and the Orkz wanted their pound of meat. After all, regulations were regulations.
A particularly thoughtful Ork stopped by the empty kitchen, glancing into the mold filled room before giving a loud shout.
“Someone dun’ left da’ nursery open! All da’ littl’ Orkz is out n’ about!”
“Aaah’ who carez. Dey gotta learn to fight sooner or latah’.” A bigger Ork shouldered past him with a grunt.
The thoughtful Ork didn’t take very kindly to getting shoved and before his companion could make his way past the door, he grabbed the green brute’s arm and yanked him into the kitchen. As he prepared to launch himself into a frenzy, something curious caught his eye. A dozen little green trails lining he catwalk and walls… catwalls? He wasn’t too sure what it meant.
The wasted second earned him a hard punch in the temple.
***
The dutiful eye would have noticed that were no females among the Orkz. While it was common for most Orcish clans to leave their women at home, there was an entirely different reason this time around. The Orkz weren’t male or female. They were little more than self-sentient fungus, violent asexual creatures that reproduced through a series of spores. Spores which then grew in to mold and mold that then grew into little Orkz who would one day become the big Orkz of the next generation…
The Russian man had no way of knowing it, but the particularly Un-Orky room he had entered hadn’t been a kitchen in little over five years. There were no posters and nothing was painted red, there weren’t even bullet holes, just mold and lots of it.
It was in dark dank rooms like this that the Orkz grew their children, if they could be called that. Aleksey was closely followed by a pack of suck creatures. Some came sized like toddlers others were half as tall as he was. It was hard to think of them as children; they were as wildly disproportionate as their adult counter parts, little more than shrunken versions of their parents really with the same massive heads and mouths. They had the same angry expressions as their parents and they grunted the same vulgar bastardized English as them too.
They were however, fairly good at being stealthy, what with the alarm going off in the background like a missile strike was incoming, but the stairs were an entirely different obstacle. They paused, having fell in line behind the largest of the pack instinctually. Then they broke down. It was every Ork for himself, some were stepped on after they tripped and some were tripped and dragged down the stairs on purpose. But they all wanted to be the first to get their hands on Aleksey and using each other like stairs they were catching up fast.
From beneath the rushing wave, one of the more adult Orkz stretched his gorilla arm in front of him, fingers just an inch away from curling around the Russians leg. Even at his height, a single grab would be like a vice around his calf, it would be enough of an impediment for the other twenty or so younglings to spring on him like a pack of rabid wolves. They weren’t quite as well-versed in the art of the beat down as their parents, but they would experiment with everything from bites to head butts.
***
“He just activated the alarm. It’s your fault you… you… you cow!” Isis was absolutely livid, pulling another thick piece of green Ork gunk from the roof of the elevator and rubbing it into her sister’s cheek out of sheer spite.
“It’s your fault, you little devil! We should have never came here in the first place. Did you see how large Wulfenslayer was!?!” Masika grabbed at her sister’s wrist desperately, trying to keep the sludge at a distance without getting any of it on her.
“That isn’t Wulfenslayer, cow.”
“What? How do you know? Stop calling me cow too…” A confrontational look shot across the demure older sister’s face, her brows furrowing together. She didn’t mind the abuse so much after all these years; it was just how her sister expressed her feelings, but Isis had a nasty habit of only telling enough information to get by. She enjoyed it when Masika had to piece together information herself and Masika couldn’t stand the sneer on her sisters face every time she was wrong.
“Little Timmy says Wulfenslayer’s moustache is way cooler.” Isis pulled the offending hand away, jabbing a thumb at the thin air behind her. Masika squinted once, then twice. There was something there alright, but she couldn’t quite make out what.
“Timmy died working in the factory after his mother got sick. Since his father was eaten by the Orkz, he was the only one who could take care of her and his two little sisters,” Isis stated as a matter of factly with a coy smirk on her face as she exchanged glances with the childish ghost right next to her.
Little Timmy was a perfectly Caucasian child in her eyes, his scruffy blonde hair and bright blue eyes were only accentuated by the smudges of dirt on his pale white cheeks. The overalls and the bastardly grin of his gave the impression of an almost Tom Sawyer-esque hero.
“That’s… that’s horrible. Did his family make it out okay?” Masika asked with a stutter.
No they died of starvation… or was it freezing?” Isis glanced over at Timmy who shot up a single finger. “Yea, starvation.”
“…”
“Timmy ‘s been showing me around since we entered; he knows his way all around the factory. He told me to put the Ork gunk on your face too.” Masika followed her sisters finger all the way to the roof, catching sight of a whole mess of gooey Ork pieces hanging overhead. The worst part wasn’t the sickly green barf color, but how they had obviously been in the place for months and still maintained a jiggle like fresh jelly.
“Urk.” Masika had to duck away, putting a hand over her mouth in her best attempt to suppress any vomit. Once she had swallowed her lunch for the second time that day, she wasted no time to shout violently at her sister. “Screw you and screw Timmy too! We are getting out of this place now!”
“Nooo~, we’re going up the fifth floor where Wulfenslayer’s office is.” Isis pointed back to the paneling, the number five had already caved in and was bright yellow.
“When did you do that!?”
“Somewhere in-between you feeling sorry for Timmy and you screwing Timmy.”
“Well, we’re going down.” Masika tried to reach for the elevator button before Isis rudely grabbed her finger. The sisters spent the rest of the elevator ride slapping at each other’s wrists and screaming in girly voices. Even after the elevator came to a sudden stop, rattling a few times inside of the shaft before the doors spread open.
It was Timmy’s first ever cat fight. He enjoyed it.
(Bunnying of Arsene approved. Sorry about the delay, took me longer to cook this one up than I had expected. Given the approaching deadline, though, I decided to fit as much as I could before the round ended.)
"Baron Wolfenslayer!" The woman cried as she pointed an accusing finger at Brom and screamed for him to do something that he couldn't quite catch. Before the barbarian's brain could catch up to what was going on, his future enemies were swallowed up by that steel box of theirs and were gone just like that. Watching the box he would eventually come to know as an elevator disappear into the darkness above, Brom was left very confused.
But, it didn't take long for him to realize that those two girls, whoever they were, must have been his enemies. Aleksy had forewarned him of the possibility that they could be up against terrible odds in a tournament that had brought monsters and men from all walks of life, but he had never once thought that he'd have to butcher these two. However, the barbarian settled to cross that bridge when he got to it.
For now, the question became how he would reach the two women that had eluded him.
As the Salvarian approached the shaft that had aided the sisters in their escape, he observed that it was made up of steel mesh and the holes that dotted the shaft were big enough to give a normal man the proper foothold to clamber up and down the towering cage at will, but they were just too small for the large warrior. Putting his hand against the steel doors that had sealed the portal, Brom chanced a glance up the shaft to notice the tethered steel cable that ran up and down the shaft.
It was in the nature of the Salvarian not to question certain tragedies that might have involved him if he had chosen this path. Such as, would he be able to survive if the elevator came crashing down while he was under it? Could the cable support the weight of both him and his equipment? No, to Brom the only thing that mattered to him was to seize an opportunity when he saw it.
The barbarian's hands were upon the portal in an instant, his fingers searching desperately for some sort of space or crevice large enough for him to get a grip of so he could pry the doors apart. As the heat within the factory began to rise and sweat beaded upon his brow and trickled down his back, Brom's great muscles flexed when he had found a spot.
"Hromag!" the barbarian swore as he began to pull the doors apart with all of his might, even as they grinded in protest. Upon bated breath the barbarian saw his chance to finally get to the enemy when the doors had slid away enough to reveal that large, meaty cable.
However, as Brom became more and more absorbed in this task, he had chosen for the first time in many years to ignore one of his more primal instincts. He didn't watch his back. And it was for that very reason alone that the Salvarian wouldn't hear the heavy footsteps that clanked behind him. As Brom wedged his humongous form between the two doors that he had struggled to open, he managed to look up a second too late to see the humongous, slavering creature that stood only a few paces away.
Before Brom could react or even negotiate the doors and find a way to his broadsword, the beast let loose an awful howl through its porkish lips and charged.
"No!" the barbarian managed to cry before his ambusher was upon him, hitting him with the force of a battering ram. Whether it had been the intention of the orc or not, Brom's footing upon the catwalk slipped and he fell into the elevator shaft. However, with one last desperate grab in an attempt to save his own neck, the Salvarian caught hold of the beast's giant wrist and pulled it in after him, allowing the forces of gravity to do the rest.
In a matter of seconds the barbarian saw one last glint of orange light cast by the crucibles on the second floor and was soon plunged into darkness.
***
It had all happened so fast that Brom could barely recall to Aleksy afterwards how he managed to keep from falling to his death. With the orc and the barbarian tumbling to their doom, they were quickly lost from sight and swallowed into the abyss. With a short, brutal exchange of blows, the pair sought desperately to untangle themselves and reach the cable, but with each passing second it seemed more and more unlikely that either of them might survive that terrible fall.
The barbarian managed to steal a glance at the large cable that would ferry the elevator up and down until it either broke or oblivion came. Whichever came first. But, while he and his attacker were tangled in this brawl, neither of them could safely make a grab for the cable without the other latching onto them in an attempt to save themselves. Naturally, until the orc or the barbarian were either dead or unconscious, trying to get a grip on the cable was tantamount to suicide.
Landing a quick jab to the orc's side, Brom swung again and again until he pulped the soft organ that must have been the kidney. Letting out a howl of pain, the orc clawed at his face with huge, green fingers in a savage attempt to find something precious of the barbarian's to destroy.
He found it.
Recovering just enough to swing another punch, the fiendish orc caught the Salvarian in the nose with enough force to crack the delicate bone inside of it and drive it hard into the warrior's head. If they had actually been on level ground and the orc's punch had just a bit more force behind it, it would have killed him.
The pain ran through the warrior like a white hot needle through flesh, sparking a kind of anger and thirst for vengeance that must have given the Salvarian the drive to live that ultimately saved his life. With his nose broken and the fires of anger stoked into rage, Brom let loose a terrible roar and smashed his gauntleted fist again and again into the orc's face and anything soft enough that he could find to break.
Again and again the flurry of punches were met by soft thuds and a quick rasp for air, and as each of them disfigured the other with whatever they could muster, it was Brom who ended up doing the most damage. It didn't take long for the barbarian to gain the upper hand in time to see the factory floor rushing to meet them.
As the Salvarian swung his titanic fist one last time into his enemy, he could see it in the orc's eyes that this was it. Cracking him hard enough across the jaw to hear something snap, Brom watched as the orc's brain finally gave out and he slipped into unconsciousness. Untangling himself from the orc and freed to save himself, Brom managed to grab hold of the elevator cable with his hands and used his greaves to grind against the side of the shaft to slow his fall.
With his gauntlets managing to absorb most of the searing heat from the cable as he continued to fall, Brom felt himself actually begin to slow in his descent as he watched the orc finally plunge and hit the ground in a bloody, gory heap. Bending his head to try and avoid the sparks that were produced from his gauntlets and greaves meeting friction wildly hit his flesh, the Salvarian managed to slow his fall enough to land on the ground with a thud.
Hard upon his legs, the fall hardly crippled the barbarian as he wheezed through his busted nose and stared down at the ruined body of his oppressor. Pausing to catch his breath, it wasn't until he heard that familiar grind that caused him to look up in horror at the bottom of the metal box the two sisters had been riding as it came barreling towards him.
Realizing that there wasn't enough time to pry the doors open again and that the remainder of his life could easily be measured in seconds unless he found a way out of that shaft, Brom looked around in the darkness for the way out. As he felt the solid sheet of steel that was the only thing standing between him and freedom, a kind of hunger stirred itself deep within the warrior's heart. The steel had to be only wafer thin and the barbarian could practically taste freedom.
Moving away enough and careful not to trip over the orc's body, Brom leveled his shoulder like that of a linebacker and hurled forward with the fury of a rampaging bull. Feeling a sharp throb of pain as he tried to free himself, the Salvarian ignored it when he was rewarded with the sound of crumpling metal as he crushed the door on impact.
If that weren't enough, a glint of orange light hinted from the cracks in the door that it was working. Smashing his shoulder again and again into the door and eventually resorting to trying to tear the door apart with his bare hands, Brom screamed out in despair as he saw that the elevator was no more than thirty paces above him.
With half of the door already gone and revealing the sinister glow of molten steel from various parts of the mill, Brom grabbed either side of the ruined portal and pushed with all the strength he had left in him. Sweat beginning to drip into his eyes and the pain of his broken nose getting the better of him, the barbarian's colossal strength managed to save him that day as his muscles of steel rippled and tore the door from whatever was keeping it attached to the shaft.
Stumbling into the open and away from the elevator in time before it hit the ground with a loud, wet smack, Brom didn't even bother to see the curious orcs that were surrounding the elevator shaft to see what exactly was causing all the bedlam. Turning to meet the metal box as it's doors began to part, the Salvarian instinctively drew his broadsword.
"Finally a fight." Brom wheezed. Whether or not he was aware of how much pain he was in or how much he had endured in getting to the ground floor, the barbarian managed to ignore most of it and still seek to pick out another fight. It was almost a testimony to a barbarian's fortitude as he stood at the ready, sword in hand, and peered inside to see what exactly that grim elevator contained.
A shrill ding echoed from the speakers on the ceiling the small elevator, but only when the doors spread opened did the Ixidar sisters finally cease their quarrel. Directly across from the elevator was an impeccably dressed middle aged man. An ironed white dress shirt with a red tie adorned his muscular physique while the light brown vest that hanged over it gave him an educated aura, emphasized by the smooth black dress pants that he wore. He twisted his long brown handlebar moustache with his fingers as he stared at the scene before him. A short silence seemed to hang the air of the room as both parties gaped at each other openly, but it was soon shattered by the man’s sudden laughter.
What a ridiculous scene before him! A child barely into her teens pulling at the edges of her young mother’s mouth while the parent struggled to restrain her daughter. The man coughed to clear his throat as he brushed back his spiky brown hair, affixing his sharp gaze upon the two. “I was expecting two men of more…rough standards,” he said casually. “But that is of no consequence, Madam and young Missus. Welcome to my office. It is humble, no?”
“Wulfenslayer?” Masika tentatively stepped forward into the room while Isis bounced off of her shoulder to land in front, her stance held stiffly at ready. The room, while small, was sparsely furnished with an exquisitely polished desk stationed at the far end which was only marred by the copious amount of empty water bottles on top of it. Behind the desk, the man was leaning casually against the large pane glass window that encompassed most of the wall without a single worry for the situation at hand.
“I’m afraid I am at a disadvantage, Madam. You know of me, but I do not know of you, yet you present such a…rebellious figure with that Mohawk, no?” Masika turned red in embarrassment and tried to futilely smooth out her hair with her fingers, but Wulfenslayer ignored it as he continued, spreading out his hands in a helpless manner. “But alas, I can not let you leave.” He snapped his fingers. The two sisters turned around at the sound of an explosion, just in time to see the elevator falling downward as the doors finally slid shut.
Wulfenslayer slowly stepped around the table as he straightened his vest. “I was watching your progress through the mill with great interest, ever since your daughter destroyed the door pad. I am very interested in your abilities, but I can't let you leave after seeing all this. Why not join me?”
“Wait, I’m not her mother. She’s my sister,” Masika protested.
Wulfenslayer hid his face behind his right palm. “Alas, to hide your mature age, you try to keep your daughter’s identity hidden. Shame, shame, shame.”
Masika smirked. This was her chance. With a quick flick of both of her wrists, several throwing knives sprung into her hands from beneath her sleeves and were sent flying straight towards Wulfenslayer’s head. The right hand that was covering his face suddenly sprung into action, smacking the bladed projectiles aside with careless ease. His skin was shredded but beneath its fleshy exterior was a metallic arm that was only scratched by the attack. The robotic arm was composed of steel muscles that were surprisingly flexible as they stretched to allow him to wag his index finger at Masika. Wulfenslayer’s eyes were still closed, but there was a knowing smile on his face.
“Don’t think I just have two eyes. Let me ask you this: how can I watch you trespass on my steel mill if there is no computer in my office?” Cameras that were unnoticeable when they entered the room shifted all at once to focus on the sisters. He opened his eyes, giving them a confident and unworried stare. His right pupil flashed a bright blue color as wall and ground compartments throughout the entire office opened to reveal polished robotic machine gun placements that turned to aim at the two sisters. Tiny holographic windows of many different sizes could be seen appearing and disappearing on his surface of his eyes. “Speechless, no? Let me answer for you.” The weapons fired.
Thank you for participating! Alias will judge this battle within about a week’s time. Please do not contact your judge regarding the judgment until after it has been posted.
I apologize, it should not have taken me so long to judge something so short, but it turned out to be a rather busy weekend for me and I just couldn’t find the time or concentration. I’ll give each of you a quick paragraph on your writing and then score the individual teams. The Ixidar team will be blue and Stalin for Time will be red.
Isis Ixidar – I’m not sure if the play on cliché in your words is by accident, or completely done on purpose. It comes off as ridiculous and funny though, so if that’s what you were aiming for, you achieved it. In your first post you called the enemies Orc, which is correct, then quickly switched over to calling them Ork’s for some reason. There were occasional missed words throughout your posts and I found them exceedingly wordy. Actions took place just to fill it and make it long and winded, when that really is not necessary at all. What was with the sword storyline at the very beginning? Perhaps had the thread actually been finished it would have made more sense, but for the most part it just confused me since it seemed to have very little to nothing to do with the battle.
Masika Ixidar – I could almost say that the same writer plays both Masika and Isis, either that or you two have written together for so long that you know how to play each other’s characters very well. I would work more on your pacing though. When moments should have a lot of tension, you write passively instead of actively and the moment just gets lost.
Saxon – Saxon, you have unnecessarily long sentences and can come dangerously close to being run-ons. Not to mention the reader just gets lost in the words and loses whatever the original point to the sentence was. Try not to be so wordy. You can say what you’re trying to say in half the words sometimes. Not to mention you don’t need to be so wordy, you’re a good writer.
Arsene – I only had the chance to read one of your posts, but it was quite enjoyable. A good amount of setting and pacing and I didn’t notice any grammatical or spelling mistakes throughout it.
Storyline
Continuity: - 2, 2
Setting: - 7, 6.5
Pacing: - 10, 10.5
Character
Dialogue: - 8, 8.5
Action: - 10, 10
Persona: - 7, 7
Writing Style
Mechanics: - 7, 7
Technique: - 6, 6
Clarity: - 7, 6.5
Wild Card: - 2, 2
Total: - 66, 66
It’s a tie!
Good job guys!
Ixidar Legacy moves on to Round B
Stalin for Time moves on the Fate Slot in Round B