Matches begin at midnight tonight CST and last for two weeks! Will the wolf eat the goat, or will there be some Daniel Bryan like killing up in this shiz? Fight!
Printable View
Matches begin at midnight tonight CST and last for two weeks! Will the wolf eat the goat, or will there be some Daniel Bryan like killing up in this shiz? Fight!
It wasn't something one would usually imagine.
The sun-bleached sand pinched between bare toes as the hundred same-dressed men circulated the vast yard. They kept their heads low, eyes bared to the feet of the man before them, tracing an endless ring as one silent party. Some steps were in syncopation, others were random, stumbling because of some injury gained during their weekly torture session, but they kept on pacing.
Pacing this unending circle under the overbaring eyes of the crimson clad guards.
A hundred men. So much silence. So much restrained anger and frustration. Fathoms of loneliness. And it took one word to break that solitude.
"RIOT!"
A single pebble was kicked up with a mound of sandy dust into the living open eyes of a man behind. The victim screamed, something more filled with estrogen than testosterone, and swung around in reflex. Arm and shoulder snapped back, then forwards, energy ripping through the muscle to collide knuckles with cheek. A rageful crunch of bone on bone occurred, as well as a hundred cries of jeering laughter.
"RIOT!" The prisoners yelled out as one voice of chaos. "RIOT!"
They kicked and bit and charged and roared. Splintering bone, sticks and stones as weaponry, blood and broken skin; the pandemonium was swift and short in coming, and consumed the men in one fell swing of action.
The guards were knocked off their feet. In the yard loud bells rang out but they were to no avail as the rioters kept fighting. More guards appeared on balconies, one was a mage and he began to prepare a spell. As the punches grew more brutal a figure appeared among the men - one moment she was there, the next she was not. It took two seconds and amongst the prisoners the faun-whore stood, in this most unusual of Citadel arenas.
Quote:
Please be aware that Fox has not been well, and we planned with her starting, hence the late beginning to this Tournament. I myself am rather busy with University work, it being the last week of studying, and thus it has been difficult also, to post here.
“Riot. What a sweet word to hear to someone who has been stuck in prison before. Actually, that someone was stuck in one now,” I thought as I observed my surroundings. Apparently, the monks setting up the match had decided to play a very unfunny joke on me and make me a 'prisoner' complete with the horrible smelling, itchy, scratchy, black and white prison outfit. They even had the nerve to steal away my trusty longsword.
“I asked for an arena where I could let out some of this bloodlust. I guess these guards fit the bill but next time, I'm going to have to make sure those smartasses don't steal my clothes and sword.”
Supposedly, I had some opponent to beat but the juicy guard down the hall was too tempting of a target to resist. In my half transformed state, I silently snuck up on him. Apparently, he was expecting prisoners to attack from the other side thus leaving his back exposed. With a roar of victory, I tackled the man while ripping out part of his juicy neck with my wolfish teeth. As the dying guard tried to gasp for breath, I took the moment to pick up his iron sword. It was a bit shorter than my one but should work fine when my opponent showed.
As I decided which way to go, I ripped off a 'snack' to take with me. Namely a nice tasty piece of raw meat. “Guard or opponent, either would be fine I guess. I just hope their 'meat' was a bit less tough and easier to chew,” I thought while biting down on the bloody steak.
The Bastard flung around at the prisoners, battering them down. Still within its sheath the sword simply thumped, and did not slash. Less pain, less screams, more bodies just falling around the faun-whore as she strode through the crowd, the fighting and gnawing and vehement crowd. And anyway, these people weren't really real, right? They were part of the arena, the match. The Citadel, in all its glory could create many things, including temporary life. Magic was as it was; a type of illusion. That was what these criminals were, an illusion.Quote:
Throwing herself deep within the fray Philomel kept up her sword, still covered. Her hooves kicked out when they could, catching men in their balls and their kneecaps. Kneecaps, after all, could be shattered with one quick snap of bone and muscle. All it took was a precise blow, a fast movement, a direction. The calf was also a favourite destination - however it did not have the same sweet splintering effect, coupled with a screech of agony.
She found herself frolicking almost; a true free spirit of nature. It swiftly became a dance, gaining through this riot. Prisoners were easily riled, and they posed a rather intriguing challenge, especially in this situation.
For months, for instance, these men had not seen a female form. And then suddenly one appears - in the centre of their yard walk, just in the beginnings of a riot. And she is fair, she is exotic, she has breasts like a whore. In fact she is a whore, but they do not know that. All they see is pink flesh and large horns upon a head, something human except not quite, staring back at them with lividity. She pauses, subtly ... then throws herself into the fighting.
Such beauty, such life.
The men ran forwards eagerly to meet the faun-whore, they fought each other for claim. Yet one by one she threw them aside. Ignored their taunts, forgot about their offers of payment.
They were of no use to her today.
Headbutting the last prisoner out of the way, with a large heavy thwack, Philomel strode forwards, The Bastard still sheathed, over to the nearest door of the building. The guards, surrounding, were too busy with trying to calm their charges down. Yet more were streaming from the same door, barely looking at her for whatever purpose. It was easy, therefore, to stride forwards, her eyes flittering from being to being, trying desperately to search for her opponent only described to her as, "WOLF."
Philomel advances to Round 4 of the Redemption Bracket.
Wolf Oden Luka Frekad is eliminated.