Overcoming Perception / Playing on a Higher Scale

[Jörgen Älvestam]

(open)

A brilliant creation had fallen under the eyes of Vorphalack Seiszer during the years he had already spent in the country of Corone, it was the famous citadel. A building supplying a multitude of magical battlegrounds feeding from the imagination of whoever set foot upon it, sown and held together by the very energy that moved the universe – knowledge - or so he believed. The Citadel's battlegrounds were sources of pure Mind Magic, Illusionary Magic, Mesmer Powers, however one may call it - it was one of Vorphalacks primary purposes in life, the very research of that said power.

The time had once again come to lay himself in its comforting embrace, yet today it was not for the sake of research but far more the entertaining component of it all. Quietly Vorphalack sat within a darkened arena, upon a chair of brand new leather with the warm color of orange-brown. His leather trench coat flowed gently over the round curves of the chair, his fingers tapping alternatively an un-played rhythm on the armrests, his head lowered in a way that shadows enveloped most of his devious face. Opposite of him was another chair of the same fabric, empty. The floor beneath was of black marble, finely polished, glinting here and there within the unusual lighting to which we will now come.

The arena seemed to have no distinct boundaries, more or less they were unseen, and of course there was an idea behind this all – the arena was created to actively feed from one’s mind…what this meant was clear to the mercurial man already situated amid, but would it be of quick, slow, or no knowledge at all to his adversary to come?
Somewhere in random distances around the arena projections flickered greenly in the dimensions of squares, framed and thwarted by steel constructions hovering as well in mid air. These forms of sorts determined vaguely that the arena ground was to originally be seen as a circle. In the dark skies above flashes of a soft green illuminated the venue below. What would certainly throw one or the other contestant off at first, concerning this facet, would be the pure white light illuminating either of the chairs centered on the floor of this area. It threw shadows as if coming from atop, yet in that very direction there was no source whatsoever.

Everything about this arena was completely unnatural; the sparseness of objects that stood within it, the untouched and sterile status of everything within, a light seemingly coming from something as odd as another dimension, and the shapes, constructions, and forms of those never seen in any city, let alone any continent of Althanas. Though one would feel humble with these forms, one would certainly not think to build like this. They seemed like a step future architects of this world may take in centuries to come.

Abruptly the illusionist stopped rapping his fingers unto the armrests and reached into the right pocket of his trench coat, retracting from it a pair of thin leather gloves. With slick movements, dodging the usual trickiness of slipping ones fingers into a glove, Vorphalack slid his hands into their adornment concealing attire. Without further action he rested his arms at the chairs side once more and began anew with the tune he had drummed afore. His long and currently unbound hair lay smoothly upon his shoulders and chest, reacting not to the artificial breeze sweeping across the illusionary arena. It was as quickly as the gust came that it vanished into thin air once more, leaving everything as it was before – so impeccably sterile that it almost seemed dead.

It was up to whomever it may concern that enters this arena, to prepare for a battle surpassing the brute and relentless exchange of swings, thwacks, punches, and stabs or jabs. This bout was to be carried out upon a higher scale…

[Molotov]

“So, you bloody entered yourself in the Cell,” Molotov thought to himself. “You spend a sodded year in Shanleh doing bloody nothing but training, and now the only thing you’re going to do with it is enter in the Cell? Can’t you think of anything better?”

The mutant had to laugh at the irony of his thoughts. He had been away from most of the politics of Althanas for quite some time, and a great deal had changed in the interim. Raiaera had been liberated from the undead, General Damon Kaosi had died and some new heroes had been found as a result of the Serenti Invitational. All that while, Molotov had been laying low, for fear that the Forgotten Ones and Ashiakin might be coming after him.

As much as he hated to admit it, the Cell was an important aspect of his return. He had returned from Shanleh because he was tired of living in shadows, there would be no better way to make his presence known to both enemies and allies alike than in the pressure packed atmosphere of the Cell. Molotov knew he could handle it, if there was one thing in which he was well trained, it was dealing with brutality. Emerging through the finals of the Gisela open was enough to ensure that.

Now, coming to the Citadel was going to be an effective tune up before his big battle. It had been over a year since Molotov last remembered being in a fight with a genuine opponent, one who was capable of doing as much damage to him as he could do in return. Plus, more pointless as Citadel matches could be, the mutant had to admit that a battle was a more productive way of spending his time than milling around the Radasanth bars.

Thus, Molotov now took a deep breath and entered into the first Citadel room that had caught his attention. It had been his recollection that there were often one or two rooms that were designated for “experimental battles.” Molotov had never participated in one, but he’d heard about them before. Instead of the usual challenges of brawn that always attracted a large crowd, these were a chance for the Citadel monks to test out their newest designs in a lower pressured setting. Participating always ensured something unique, but it was rare that there would be many spectators outside of the monks.

Molotov was fine with being an unknown, and at the moment, he actually preferred it. Given what an impact he hoped to make on the field at the Cell, keeping his notoriety down would have been preferable. With unique piercings and a bright mohawk, he would undoubtedly be identified by all the rabid fans of the Cell once the tournament started. He needed no more hype than that. Anything more would just be ostentatious.

As the mutant entered the room, he found he was the second person there. It was a certainly interesting setting, his opponent was seated and there was an empty chair for him. Every last color in the room seemed just the slightest bit off, and the entire arena seemed to be full of exploding mists of bright pastel colors.

“Like a bloody painting by a pretentious sod in art school,” the mutant thought snidely as he took his seat. He offered off a slight smile to his ‘opponent’ and introduced himself tersely, merely stating his name and politely offering his opponent a cigarette.

“Know what the rules of this particular little game are?” the mutant said as he cupped his hands over his lighter and then took a deep drag. “I’d bloody like to get this started soon.”

[Jörgen Älvestam]

At the introductory words of his newly arrived counterpart Vorphalack Seiszer ceased his fingers’ drumming. With a slight smirk at his obverses manner to speak, the leather coated man began to focus his own on the eyes of the man calling himself Molotov. The creation before him posed somewhat decadent, at first, yet Vorphalack knew all too well not to judge a book by its cover so to speak. Then, with more than enough time to prepare, Seiszer’s words began to invade the anomalous one’s mind…

“What could one possibly say…”, the telepathy began, “…to someone who ignores his way, who’s never been touched by grace. How could one eventually express, all that tension, all the stress, that can’t be read on his face.”

The leather clad man then retracted his connection, focusing on what was around him. He knew there was more thought to this man, he was requesting for him to show it. Yet how the opposing mutant creature would evaluate the source of the words that echoed in his head was another story. Suddenly the square projections hanging in midair, encircling the arena, began to flicker. With sudden flashes of light words appeared upon them in the color of white, just as Vorphalack began to speak.

“Why so rushed, is there something better you have to do?” Vorphalack started, a clear, edgy accent carrying his words, “Like drinking at a bar and talking about the unimpressive things in life with a greasy host, whose only job at night it is to keep his bar clean and listen to the humdrum and banausic stories of drunkards, or the fine philosophy of how beautiful that barmaid to your left is and how wonderful it would be to exercise the horizontal with her?”

Vorphalack brushed his goatee before offering a solution, “If so then leave, where the door is situated I believe you remember…or not? Where has it gone? It is seemingly not there where it has been…oh the peril…”

On and on the words he spoke began flashing up on the projections around them, illuminated their framing steel constructions in the go. Again Seiszer gazed from his concealing shadows into the eyes of his adverse, establishing a connection on an unseen plane.

“The rules are simple. Overcome your superficial ways of thinking.”

This time nothing appeared on the floating squares which they were amidst of, only the usual unruly flickering of the projection continued undisturbed. Vorphalack now focused on the arena once more, on the very substance it was of. In silence concealed a pitch black staff, about the length of six feet, materialized beside his foot, this was not a power of his own – ‘less one would count the mind’s imaginative power. How his mutant obverse would percept this maneuver was a riddle, V. Seiszer would see soon enough though if it had even been noticed amid all these shadows.
To cast aside any wrong thoughts, it was not Vorphalack’s intention to indulge in an exchange of hits just yet. His true goal was to make his opponent lay his body of thought on the table. V. Seiszer longed for a conversation beyond the tiresomely mundane.



[OOC: Vorphalack’s accent can be imagined as that of a (german)-Swiss or Russian, sharp and edgy, and his voice rough and gravely.]

[Molotov]

Molotov already could tell this would be one of the monk’s less successful experiences. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “There are just two of us in here, is there really all this need for telepathy and that rot? Yes, I’m sure it makes you feel like you’re dark and mysterious and all the wannabe vampire sods that run around the dark alleys of Corone are impressed. However, I’m not one of them.”

The mutant exhaled a long stream of cigarette smoke. Admitedly, he was a bit uneasy about this battle, but his opponent seemed to really annoy him. Immediately, all the bright pastel mists began to darken around him, and Molotov fidgeted a bit uneasily in his chair. He had wanted this battle to be a quick tune up, a chance for him to brush up his skills of battle psychology and timing. He had absolutely no intention of trying to bear his souls. “The bloody monks in Shanleh tried to do that enough,” Molotov thought.

However, the mutant knew now there was no way out of the battle but through. He was better than the average person who spent their time in bars and chased after women, but his appearance would largely be deceiving in that regard. Most of his time since returning from Shanleh was spent in taverns like the Ruby Soho, where he did little more than drink, discuss politics and eventually find a buxom woman to spend the night with. He had told himself that he would wait until after the Cell, when his name was reestablished among the important players of Althanas.

“Anyways,” he sighed. “What is it you want to know. I grew up poor, in a bloody little town in a bloody industrial town in Alamarter. I went to Jamison Academy on scholarship, got expelled, killed a whole bunch of wankers, should have won the Gisela, have been chased by some bloody demons from the time of the tap and now I’ve ended up here…” Molotov took another quick drag of the cigarette before continuing. “So,” he added. “You could see why I am less than impressed by an event like this.”

If there was anything that Molotov hated, it was people with pretentions. During his days in Jamison Academy, the mutant had heard student after student, teacher after teacher discuss the problems of rural poverty in Corone and their incredibly simplistic solutions by with which they could be fixed. Most irritating of all was the people who said the problem was little more than a bit of application, that the poor would have uplifted themselves if they’d only possessed the drive. It was all a bunch of rot, politics exchanged among people so tired by their mundane existences that they tried to pretend like their lives were something higher. “Like if you took away their riches those sods wouldn’t be digging through the mud just like the rest of us,” the mutant thought. “They come up with stories to try and pretend that their lives aren’t so different, so that they can make themselves believe they’re living on some higher plane.”

Molotov chuckled. “I would love to overcome my superficial ways of thinking, or whatever fuck term you called it,” the mutant said. “However, as you may have noticed, I bloody only have one mind, two hands, two legs, one mouth and one stomach. As it is, mind is too busy trying to figure out how to use my hands and legs to fill my mouth because my bloody stomach is looking for food. I’m sorry if that isn’t the kind of conversation a wanker like you has at a cocktail party with the sodded duke of Radasanth, but to me it’s the highest level I have. Survival in the world of hard knocks.”

[Jörgen Älvestam]

“What is it that makes you think I care to converse with the stupefied upper class of these countries and states. They are only puppets to a higher force. To think that they speak only one word without having been told to do so is a truly simplistic, if not idiotic, train of thought. I am also sorry to disappoint you that I’m not a prodigy of filth - as you would seemingly prefer – nor am I the twisted outcome of an aristocratic upper class education.” Vorphalack was beginning to feel the uncomforting emotion of agitation, noticing that his opponent had not the slightest intention of committing himself to a conversation beyond what he thought was obvious. “And I am truly sorry that feeding yourself already seems to exceed your mental capacities.” Seiszer continued in thought.

“Well then…let us begin, I would rather not waste my precious time with this type of useless chit chat any further, as I expect you are a busy man too…to some sort of extent.” Vorphalack muttered in a mocking tone, visibly annoyed by his opponent’s insolent behaviour.

Avoiding further hesitation the leather clad man brushed his hairs back and tied them into a knot in order to keep them out of his face in what was inevitably coming. With a quick grab to his feet Vorphalack picked up the staff that had materialized about half a minute ago. The things of leather he wore squeaked and crunched as began to elevate himself from the seat beneath his hide.

“I reckon you get up with haste…”

After having risen to his feet the chair he had sat upon began to emit black smoke, before vanishing into a cloud of smoke with a loud blast. The definite same was happening to the chair which the man named Molotov had planted his rear on, yet if he had stood up in time was uncertain, nor was it of any concern to Vorphalack. The evidently vexed man made about ten steps in the opposite direction of his opponent’s position before turning around. He couldn’t see the Mohawk-styled man amidst the smoke that was only slowly clearing, yet Vorphalack knew he was this general direction.
Uncertain when his counterpart’s first strike would occur, Vorphalack’s gloved hands tightened themselves around what was a piece of this arena in form of a staff. His left hand reached to the mid section of the staff, backhand facing downwards – his right hand cradled the bottom section of the pole, backhand facing away from his body.

The external agent was not impressed by whom he faced. He even felt insulted by the words that ensured his opponents opinion on him, who seemed to think that there was not more to him than being born with a silver spoon in hand, which wasn’t even the whole truth. Who seemed to think that the history of himself was even the slightest bit of interesting information to Vorphalack Seiszer, it was more than an insult to the illusionist.
He could have cared less about the juvenile days of the man who he faced; it was the very body of thought which he wished to decipher. A being develops on its own, there are far more things to ones thoughts than their history. It plays a definite role within the composition of one’s personality, but does not make up the whole. Vorphalack wished to investigate the very notion of a being – and why it was the way it is – with a counterpart tarred by at least a similar psychological brush. Not the scammed politics or pseudo intellectual philosophies of these countries’ leaders – who were the very puppets of something he was part of not to mention.

Whatever and wherever his opponent was, he was certainly not on the illusionist’s good side. Nonetheless Vorphalack was prepared for just about anything.

[Molotov]

Molotov was about to snort and offer a sarcastic remark about how it seemed unlikely that a self righteous man could ever be brought to a more deserving place when his chair began to shake. The mutant got up, and he’d noticed that his opponent had done the same. Unsure of what was going on, it was less than a few seconds later when his chair evaporated in a mess of smoke. Suddenly, all the bright colors that had surrounded the room before were enveloped in a hazy black fog. It was thick and dirty, and it made the air hurt to breathe. The mutant coughed and wrinkled his nose. The stench of this foul mess was nauseating.

“Thank god at least for the sunglasses,” Molotov thought. They kept his eyes from watering up because of the noxious smoke. The dark tinting made vision difficult, but even if the mutant had removed the glasses, he wouldn’t have been able to see anyways.

He exhaled deeply but was cautious to move quietly. Molotov was getting the impression that he was nothing more than a puppet in the game of his opponent. First, he had been asked to sit and share his life philosophy. Then, upon putting his opponent’s elaborate pretensions in their proper place, the entire room had exploded in a mess of smoke. Now, Molotov made his way back towards the exit, not because he wanted to escape, but because he figured that the most breathable air had to be closest to the wall.

“Or near the ground, he realized as he had backed away. Immediately, the mutant crouched down. The thick black smoke was rising, and while the air below wasn’t particularly clear, it provided a bit more vision than the rest of the area.

There, Molotov could get a good enough glimpse of his opponent’s legs to have an approximate idea of where his opponent was. Though at first, the mutant’s plans had just been to wait for the smoke to dissipate, he knew that was something he could ill afford now. While he couldn’t be certain, the smoke was likely poisonous. Anything that smelled that foul couldn’t be good to inhale. Plus, if Molotov’s suspicions were right, and he was really caught in the playground of a petulant would-be philosopher, he would have to end the battle soon to have any kind of a chance.

“Lets throw this wanker off his game,” the mutant thought coolly. He opened his palm and released a small translucent yellow beam that was headed straight for his opponent’s knees. It cut through the smoke hazily, and Molotov didn’t doubt that releasing the beam would give his position away. Still, the mutant couldn’t resist the idea of bringing about delirium in an opponent who had just seemed so utterly smug.

[Jörgen Älvestam]

Vorphalack stood calm amid the gradually lifting haze which was the smoke, breathing slowly. Most definitely the air had a bitter and somewhat toxic aftertaste, but in this illusionary arena it was far from being truly harmful. There were two options as to how this battle could continue, as far as the ill-tempered illusionist was concerned. For one, his opponent could spring through the fog, into Vorphalack Seiszer’s general direction and wildly flail his weaponry at him – or there would be an indirect attack of some sort, most likely a magical power.

A pair of brown eyes tried to pierce through the smoke before them, trying to make out the slightest harmful thing beyond. Then suddenly they singled out a yellowish beam nearing at inevitable speed. There was certainly not much time to think now. Jumping? – impossible, the beam was aiming too high. Run? – and run towards it was.

“So be it! If you cannot think you shall feel – feeble-minded halfwit!” A possibly final insult into his opponent’s direction and it began. An obvious brute exchange of thwarting punches and jabs.

With a quick spring Vorphalack launched himself through the smoke and into the direction of the yellow beam that was aiming for him. It had given the current position of his opponent away almost too perfectly. Staff raised above his left shoulder, the beam now made contact with the antagonized pole wielder’s body. Unsure of what effects this magical beam would have on his body, Seiszer lunged himself forward. His torso already twisting rightwards, staff sinking, ready to smash unto his opponent at first sight, no matter what would come he would attack at least once – and be it the last thing he would do.

The diagonal manner in which Vorphalack Seiszers staff was lashing through the blackened air would allow him to focus his attack on a wider area. This again, would give his opponent only two options, to either spring backwards a good distance in order to avoid the attack – or to parry it with a weapon of his own.

“Amongst my anger there is almost pity…” Vorphalack’s thoughts drifted in the back of his mind, subconsciously defining the resentment concerning his opponent, “…pity for this man, a victim, lost to apathy.”. Nonetheless he was just as concentrated about the battle at hand.

Would his attack hit, Vorphalack was intent on releasing an entire barrage of jabs, butts, and thwacks as long as his body would support his actions. As long as whatever magic his foe had unleashed upon him would not cause his body to give in.

[Molotov]

Molotov couldn’t have been sure if his beam had hit his new rival or not, but immediately after casting it, the mutant felt a bit regretful. “To bloody think I wasted my best chance like that not on a sure thing,” he mumbled. He realized that his opponent had got into his head. It was something that the mutant knew should have never happened, generally it was Molotov who played the mind games so successfully. What had happened to him? Had Shanleh somehow made him soft, in purifying and strengthening his soul, had he forgotten the path that had got him to where he was? If so, was it even really a loss. He had been a murderer before, with a sense of justice that had been violated so harshly that it couldn’t reset itself.

That was not who Molotov wanted to be again, but he wondered what kind of a price he might now have to pay. He who had always been so cool, so bemused, so uncaring was beginning to realize the truth. Ideas like truth and justice stoked the soul, creating feelings and emotions that could take control of an otherwise rational being. Molotov’s earlier attack was just the simplest example of this.

“Cool down, bloody cool down,” he warned himself. Suddenly, Molotov realized he couldn’t afford to think about these trite philosophies any more. Emotional or not, his opponent’s footsteps had quickened, and the man was charging right at his direction. Almost immediately, Molotov suppressed any thoughts of his doubts or ability to outthink his opponent as he concentrated only on the strategy of the upcoming attack.

However, dodging this attack would be more difficult than he had planned. He had given away his position, and if his opponent was even half as intelligent as pretentions would indicate, then the fact that he was crouched lower to the ground would be known too. Since he had already been moving backwards, Molotov’s back was almost against the wall already. Even if he had wanted to slide back, it would have been near impossible. Most importantly, while his opponent was charging, the mutant couldn’t see the swing coming at him, so he’d have little opportunity to block or dodge with a weapon of his. “Get low, you can dodge this attack and then let the bloody delirium take over that sod” he realized. It wasn’t a favorable solution, but it was probably the best. If he lay flat on his stomach and rolled forward, the mutant knew it was likely that his opponent would trip forwards.

“Maybe the wanker will even hit his head on the wall,” Molotov thought hopefully, as if he needed a little more convincing that his plan was the right course of action. With that, the mutant got down onto his stomach and began to roll forward, ready to trip up his foe.

[Jörgen Älvestam]

With the noise of shuffling emitting from the ground, the thwack of his staff into something soft, and the levering force that it provided after being blocked Vorphalack was sent flipping through the air like a pole jumper. His staff had been stalled against something moving in his direction, resulting in flinging him upwards and onwards. The illusionist’s downwards aimed swing must have landed somewhere upon his opponent, where exactly though was impossible to tell. Proof that he had landed a hit though was given by the fact that if Vorphalack would have instead smashed his pole unto the marble floor below a loud cracking noise would have sounded, unlike the dull thud that it had really made.

Whilst being launched through the air in an uncontrolled flipping manner Vorphalack knew that a wall was coming closer by the second. Instantly his mind trailed the very fabric and source of this arena once again, before finally tapping the very state of being in which the wall was. Vorphalack didn’t have the time to ponder further if and where his attack had struck his opponent, not with the thought of crashing into a wall after being catapulted through the smoke. The illusionist’s entire and only thoughts were focused on the dematerializing of that very wall and the extension of the floor behind. After all there was bleak nothingness, a literal bottomless pit between the semi-high walls and the projections that floated about the arena.

Soon enough it was clear to him that he had managed to avoid any injuries, at least to a certain extent. Vorphalack hit the floor beyond the wall becoming further translucent by the very second, tumbling, skidding, and hitting his head on the black marble floor.
After sprawling his limbs out to avoid further sliding and tumbling Vorphalack regained control of his personal situation. Immediately he sprung to his feet, rubbing his eyes with one hand before returning it to the lower section of his weapon.
The smoke had almost lifted completely revealing the vague figure of his obverse as well as the new shape of the battleground. The arena itself had for some reason lost its entire encircling wall, opening itself to be an even larger battleground, though it’s true edges which lead to the darkness beyond where hard to elucidate within its shrouding shadows. Whilst the marble floor beyond his opponent was still clearly decipherable, the shadows in which Vorphalack stood made the newly created extension beneath him seem like a plane of black matter. Possibly being an advantage.

“Crux damnit! I must give you this – if that was a planned maneuver, it was good thinking.” Vorphalack complimented in the direction of Molotov. “Now, seeing as we will engage in something so simply beautiful and intimate,” The leather clad man continued with a sarcastic tone, “…such as battle, the name is Vorphalack.”

It was the very moment that followed that it returned to his full consciousness, the yellow beam which had struck his body only moments ago. What would the effects be? He had not the slightest clue. A feeling so unnerving overcame Vorphalack that his hands began to shake. For once he had not the slightest idea of what was going to come and it visibly made him panic. The tip of his staff hovered shaking in mid air, his breathing started to become irregular, this was his opponents chance to dominate would he take advantage of the situation. Additionally the trick to solve this arena’s riddle had just been performed before the very eyes of his counterpart, if the mutant would also learn to solve this…

[Molotov]

Though the mutant had got down on the ground, it was to little avail. His opponent’s staff was long and the attack was particularly sweeping. Molotov screamed as he was hit on the left side of his flank, groaning in pain and the entire shock of the wound. Though, his plan had been an adept way at cutting his losses he still bore the brunt of his opponent’s quarterstaff. Though he hurt, the mutant knew that there was no time to waste. Despite the foul black stench that covered the room, the mutant was going to need to find his way up. Finally, he had begun to sweat a little. It lubricated his joints and joined with his adrenaline to give him the motivation to pick himself up from the first attack.

Sore, Molotov now held his side and listened for his opponent hitting the wall. In the mess of black, the mutant knew that there would be little chance for him to see the carnage, but at the very least he should be able to hear the end of his opponent’s footsteps with a sickening thud. There was nothing, his plan had failed. Now he was wounded, neither his trenchcoat nor chainmail had shielded him from the quarterstaff. Molotov’s entire left side was now sore and likely to bruise.

There were few options now for the mutant. He had to hope that his beam had hit and delirium would take over his opponent soon. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to keep up against a faster opponent. He doubted from the trajectory that it would have missed, but the delirium was still a complicated spell, one that the mutant didn’t always find as fast acting as he would have hoped.

Now on his feet, Molotov listened to his opponent’s pithy attempts to sound superior and took a few cautious steps, taking extra care to make each of them sound confident. In the dark morass of the smoke, the mutant knew the longer he could hide his injury the better it would work to his advantage. Ranged combat now suited Molotov just fine, especially because time was on his side. Not only would delirium take over his opponent, but fluids in the mutant’s body would begin to heal him.

“Better stall then,” Molotov thought. “Keep this sod guessing for a bit, then maybe I’ll be able to get my back in this again.”

Knowing that was unlikely, the mutant spit out his cigarette. It had been crushed when he’d dropped to the ground anyways, and now it was just one less thing that Molotov felt like he wanted to deal with. He gripped his tungsten rod strategically, holding it more to parry an attack than to launch an offensive of his own.

His opponent had introduced himself. Molotov smiled, that was a good sign. “Not sure what kind of a higher meaning this Vorphalak wants, but lets bloody see how long he’ll sit around to find out about it…” the mutant mused.

“Well then Vorphalak,” Molotov replied. “Why don’t we make this more again? You think this battle is meaningless, so do I. Even though you’re a ponce, I don’t really care to hit you. If you’d like a discussion on the finer points of life, I’ll oblige you if that’s really what you bloody want…”