Semi-Finals: (1) Blank v (18) Circus

[Max Dirks]

The semi-finals will begin on Friday at 12 AM EST. Good Luck!

[chumley]

Chumley rode into the amphitheater on a unicycle, wobbling as he pedaled over the uneven cobblestones the pathway into it was paved with. Two fat Mexicans smoking hookahs they balanced on their voluminous stomachs cycled in after him. They all wobbled in place for a few seconds, their tires rolling slightly forward and back, before Chumley hopped off his seat and onto the ground.

"Thank you for the race, kind gentlemen," he graciously said to the enormous men, who nodded silently, puffing their avocado flavored smoke. "It was most kind of you to take a break in your busy schedules to attend to my desires. But I wonder, where might the audience be?" He looked around the silent arena, seeing naught but cold gray bricks and tumbleweeds. A bust of wind rolled one of them across his shoe, and he kicked it into the air.

"They're all watching something called 'The Cell'," a man in a straightjacket said, appearing from the shadows. "I don't think they expected any of you to show up." Chumley took off his hat and scratched his head in befuddlement, a shower of handkerchiefs falling around him. "And from the looks of it, you're the only one that has!" Cackling madly, the man hopped through one of the archways between the outside world and the arena, disappearing from sight. Chumley pulled a cigar from his jacket and took a bite out of it to comfort himself.

"Who the H--l was that?" he asked, but his Mexican friends said nothing, only slowly wheeled out after the straightjacketed man, their puffy faces silent. It was then that Chumley realized that he wasn't in an arena at all. The entire thing had been an optical illusion caused by the glint of sunlight off a swamp-gas filled weather balloon.

He was actually in the courtyard of a giant mansion, much like the one in which he had encountered the ferocious Mama Mia and MechaChumley not more than a week ago. The two mansions differed, however, in the fact that this mansion was very well kept, smelled of lavender and puppies, and had a black and orange color scheme.

"Yes, it was an optical illusion," a voice from above called out. Chumley looked up at the balcony above his head to see a thick-necked gentleman dressed in khaki and a pith helmet, with a moustache the size of a toupee. "You see, I had to find a way to trick you into coming here. I brokered a deal with the Lornius Corporation to allow one of the roudns of their little tournament to take place on the grounds of my vast estate. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Archibald Reginald Featherington McFeerery, IV, attorney at law and big-game hunter."

"A pleasure, Mr. McFeerery," Chumley bowed low, causing another flurry of handkerchiefs. "If I may introduce myself, I am..."

"Chumley de Rochfeltingham," said McFeerery, chuckling. "I have it all in my file. I ALWAYS DO RESEARCH ON MY PREY BEFORE HUNTING!" He roared, lifting an elephant gun and waving it above his head. "You and your opponents in this little battle may find yourselves fighting not only each other, but also me!"

"But why?" Chumley asked, frowning at the thought of dealing with this buffoonish fellow. "Why are you interfering in our tournament like this?"

"Because," McFeerery retorted, "I want to hunt the most dangerous game... man. And elephant. And ice-demon. It's really a toss-up when it comes to the most dangerous game." With that, he leapt over the side of the balcony, landing beside Chumley with a heavy thud. He began jogging in place rapidly, his muscular legs a blur. "I'm warming up," he said, doing a few lunges. "I suggest you do the same, for you do not have this to aide you!" he held up his fist in mid-lunge, showing an amulet tied around his wrist.

"What a charming bracelet, hee hee," Chumley said, giggling at his own play on words. (One he had misused the word "pun" and a large bearded man had accosted him for not using the word in the same sense that English PhDs do when they analyze poetry.) McFeerery scoffed.

"It is the Amulet of Ba'arck'ordoth," he said, using as many unnecessary apostrophes as possible to show how fantastical and magical it was. "It gives me unlimited energy, strength, intelligence, speed, wit and libido. As you can see, I make a formidable opponent." He began doing push-ups with his tongue. "For now," he said in a rather strangled, garbled voice, like a retarded child singing underwater, "We wait for the rest of your teams to appear."

((McFeerery is an NPC you can use or ignore however you like. You may describe the mansion and grounds in whatever manner suits you.))

[Ranger]

The rattle of wheels on an uneven, cobblestone road came to a slow halt as the coach stopped before the grand mansion. Looking through the small window Ranger could see where the next round was to be held. It was just as he had expected it. The house was as fine as any he had ever seen, well kept, and yet had an undertone of danger. Columns much like those favored by the wealthy of Corone rose to form the façade of the house. Spiraling around those columns’s, and very well onto the low walls and shrubbery surrounding the manor, were delicately small vines with even smaller white flowers dotting them. Overhead the sun seemed stunted in its mute glory, held back as if the tree’s canopies were thick enough to stop all but the most necessarily dim light to flood through.

Ranger sighed.

One of the locals had bartered with the Lornius Corporation, allowing him to host the semi-final battle at his estate. The idea was somewhat ludicrous to the drow, who held little love for the inflation of prestige only for those that could afford it. Egos would be inflated, relations would be made or strengthened, and in the eyes of the people it was the estate and the host they would remember just as much as the battle. It was a gross prospect, but one that Ranger quickly had come to realize for what humanity called ‘diplomatic’.

The prophet slowly pushed the door to the carriage aside. His partner had opted not to ride, apparently, and for that the drow was curious. Though his partner Chumley had never been absent from a battle, it was worrying to an extent not knowing when or how he would arrive. The battle that they were both looking towards was no slight manner either. Two of the toughest people of Althanas, the strongest team registered – as Ranger had been informed – where the next opponents.

“For Hromagh’s blessing,” Ranger thought was his first, tentative step lead him away from the already dispersing cart and towards the open field. Cool, calculating eyes searched through the lightly interspersed trees for more people, for unexpected attacks. “Thayne guide my steps, and permit me to the next round if it is your will.” It was by the grace of the gods alone that Ranger had found his partner and advanced through so many rounds. It was for the will of the gods alone, for their blessing, that the drow continued.

Promises of Hromagh’s blessing were enough for Ranger to continue with the tournament. At the end, when the deity had deigned he had shown enough strength, the drow would be shown the way to his temple to train with the faithful of Hromagh. That prospect alone allowed the steps of the drow to continue through the soft grass and cool shade.

“Welcome!” The voice erupted towards the drow. Without showing surprise Ranger shifted his platinum eyes on the one who offered the salutations. It was a man of surprising girth, sporting a second and possibly third chin, wielding what the drow could only assume was a ‘gun’. “You must be Ranger. We have been expecting you,” the man said with a loud chuckle. To his flank was Chumley, the gray elephant with the fluent tongue. “Yes, you must be the drow! Sharp ears, dark skin, though you have a significant size difference compared to your brethren that I have hunted in the past. You will be most interesting to fight!”

The drow slowly shook his head as he looked past the large man, and his especially sharp moustache. He drifted around the man, gliding like a shadow and offering enough room to feel safe as he approached his partner. Emotion was withheld from his visage as he came to the side of Chumley, never fully taking his eyes off of the man. With a calloused, worn hand the drow pushed back thick strands of silky, silver hair.

“What have we here?” Ranger asked his partner as he began loosening some straps and tightening others, preparing for battle. “Is this some sort of joke? Or does this human intend to interfere with our battle as we fight it?”

[INDK]

After the difficult battle against the Baneblades, the Adventurer’s Club had proved less than climactic. Damon had done little more than offer an initial attack against his opponent before the tournament officials had called the match off on account of an oncoming thunderstorm. It was a disappointing conclusion, but apparently, as Damon had been informed, the tournament organizers were by no means willing to risk one of their main draws in a match that would attract little attention due to adverse weather conditions.

Still, Damon wasn’t one to complain. Given how many mistakes he had made in the earlier rounds, Damon was glad that he’d at least made it through one battle without embarrassing Ashiakin. “He’s always nice to me and I’ve disappointed him this far,” Damon realized with a heavy sigh. He remembered everything he had done to keep himself sharp before round three. He had to remember that he wasn’t just fighting for himself, but for Ashiakin as well. Their cause was just, and even if they were thrown against the most disgusting underbelly of Althanas, they would find a way to see the tournament through. Damon truly believed it. Ashiakin was the most talented man the boy had ever met, and if the Ice Demon believed in Damon, Damon could believe in himself.

It seemed that Salvar had come to believe in Damon as well. Ashiakin had been given an entourage right from the start of the tournament, and after the third round, the King had decided to award Damon with a squire of his own. Unlike Edwin, the sixteen year old boy who had become Ashiakin’s squire, Salvar had consciously considered Damon’s inexperience before appointing him an assistant. Instead of a teenager struggling with the dual issues of warfare and pimples, a rather old man had come to look after Damon. A toothless, wrinkled man by the name of Verun, Damon’s squire was particularly adept at keeping weapons in good condition and making sure that the boy arrived to his battles on time.

Now, the two waited in the forest out by what they had originally believed was the setting for the semifinal. However, recent developments had left them both rather confused. Where there had originally been a large arena, replete with modern vendors and a pair of dark skinned men smoking Hookahs, now stood an elaborate black and gold mansion.

“What’s going on?” Damon asked quizzically. The boy was understandably perplexed, especially after having spent the last few minutes going over proper strategy for an arena with Verun. “You told me it was some kind of arena? What’s going on here?”

“Couldn’t tell you master,” Verun replied nervously. “Perhaps this is just something that Lord Ashiakin arranged to make the battle more suited to his liking.”

Damon frowned. “That’s ridiculous! Ashiakin would never do that!” the boy declared, perhaps a bit too loudly given that he could see a rather large grey beast in the distance. Damon looked Verun straight into the eyes and spoke with the utmost sincerity. “Many others, the Baneblades, Adventurer’s Club, and perhaps even this Circus have used underhanded tactics in this tournament. Ashiakin and I will always win by fair play, alright?”

Verun paused for a moment. Damon wasn’t sure why, but he assumed it was because the elder squire was reconsidering his ways. However, it was far more likely that Verun had been confused by the boy’s heartfelt soliloquy on tournament etiquette. “Perhaps you’re right,” Verun said. “But your opponents may not think that way. Look, they’ve already tried to outnumber you!”

“Outnumber me?” Damon asked. He hadn’t considered the possibility.

“Yes look!” Verun replied. “See, there is a man over in that window, a dark elf out in the courtyard… and some kind of creature with a long nose and big ears…”

Damon was a bit surprised by this. He had never considered that the animal was a competitor in the tournament. “It’s just a beast!” Damon protested. “It’s probably some kind of ride, like Ashiakin’s hawk that he never brings to battles!”

“It walks on all fours,” Verun replied. “It may be a demon.”

A bit nervous now, Damon thought for a bit before replying. He hadn’t considered the possibility that the strange beast was some kind of demon. He had, however, been informed that the evilness of a demon was directly proportionate to their ugliness. Ashiakin, a very attractive demon, was utterly trustworthy and worthy of the highest acclaim and emulation. However, a fat ugly demon with floppy ears and an atrociously long proboscis meant trouble.

Damon exhaled, bracing himself for the battle. Once again, it was up to Blank to rid the tournament of an undesirable element. “We should wait for Ashiakin…” the boy said.

“That would be prudent,” Verun agreed. “It is fortunate that we came through the woods instead of the cobblestone pathway. I’ll go up ahead a bit and see if I can’t warn Lord Ashiakin. This is quite a tragedy indeed, our spies had predicted this battle would involve dancing on ice.”

The idea of dancing on ice wasn’t particularly appealing to Damon either, but he refrained from offering his opinion on that subject. With his attention mostly focused on trying to discern what kind of demon he was dealing with, Damon offered little more than a vacant acknowledgement of Verun’s suggestion.

“Alright then,” Verun said. “Stay hidden in the trees.”

“Fine,” Damon muttered. He unsheathed his longsword, just in case.

(Circus, you may feel free to find Damon. Also, if you’d like, you can have McFeerery notice him)

[Ashiakin]

The ball was turning out splendidly. To commemorate Blank’s victory over Circus, the largest ballroom in all of the McFeerery estate had been decked out in full glamour. Ornate chandeliers from Fallien and Raiaera hung from the ceiling, bathing the dancers below in rich light. Long tables draped in white table clothes stretched up and down the long sides of the room, decorated with platters full of fine Coronian cuisine and Lyridian hors d'oeuvres. Opposite the hand-carved double doors that lead into the spacious chamber was where the band—a large and accomplished orchestral group from Salvar—had set itself up. The melodic hum of their music wove itself in and out of the graceful motions of the dancers, weaving under and over the low roar of conversation and idle chatter, filling the ballroom with victorious sound.

Ashiakin stood off to the side of the dance floor close to one of the tables, surrounded by his advisors and assistants. He was decked out in blue silk and white lace, all of the armaments he normally carried apparently absent for the festive occasion. The others around him were also finely dressed. Athdor Gallostoke, his bearded public relations consultant, had likely spent more money on his clothes than the nearly three-hundred people in the ballroom combined. Even Edwin, Ashiakin’s clumsy, sixteen year-old squire, had managed to make himself look presentable. Vissal, his battle-mage bodyguard, had refused to wear a dress, but did not look half-bad. Ever since Vissal had set a highwayman on fire with a lightning bolt and cut off his head with her sword, Ashiakin had kept his jabs about her less-than-ladylike looks to a minimum.

New to his group of core counselors were Ramsay Convengate and Mildred Herekerne, both recently arrived from Salvar under the orders of King Iorlan I Rathaxea. Covengate was a thirty-something in a black suit who was an expert on island warfare and Mildred was a withered old woman in a tea-colored dress who supposedly knew everything there was to know about Lornian culture. Both of them had been very quick to impress.

“You really are so clever, Ashiakin,” Mildred was saying as she touched the demon’s arm, her voice barely peaking above the noise around her. “And so generous! This ball is turning out magnificently. I can’t remember the last time I saw an event like this.”

Ashiakin smiled easily. “You flatter me, lady,” he said, “but I’m afraid that I cannot take all of the credit for this—Athdor had to push me into. Rather violently, I might say.”

Gallostoke bellowed at this. “Nonsense, my lord!” he said. “This was as much of your idea as it was mine. I think it’s only fair that you claim the lion’s share of the credit.”

The demon simply nodded, taking a sip from the glass of Raiearan wine he held in his hand. “If you insist,” he said simply, pausing before continuing. “Still… I feel that it’s only right that we honor the man who made all of this possible. If I had not found this fine estate and met Archibald McFeerery, none of this would be happening now.”

“Oh, of course!” said Gallostoke, with the others echoing agreement.

Ramsay Convengate took the opportunity to speak up. He was often a quiet creature, and when he spoke people tended to listen. “Please tell us again, Ashiakin,” he said, “the story of how you happened upon this estate and discovered that Blank had won. It’s really rather interesting. And I do believe that Mildred has yet to hear it.”

Ashiakin nodded and smiled, only saying, “Oh, if I must.”

He took another sip of wine before launching into the tale. He related how he and Damon Kaosi had defeated the Adventurer’s Club in round three in almost record time, the round being called early by officials because of an impending storm. After the victory, they were told that they were going to be facing the team Circus on some sort of ice rink. However, on the way to the ice rink, Ashiakin and his entourage of almost three hundred had stumbled upon the vast and magnificent McFeerery estate.

Archibald McFeerery turned out to be one of the main officials of the LCC—he had all the proper documents to prove it—and a rich and generous man at that. He had informed Ashiakin that the team Circus had withdrawn from the tournament and that Blank had won round four by default. Ashiakin had been skeptical at first, because he had heard nothing of the sort as of yet, but he eventually realized the man spoke the truth. McFeerery, in his endless kindness, had insisted that Ashiakin and his hundreds of followers stay on the estate until the finals. He had agreed, and then he and Athdor had cooked up the idea for this victory ball. McFeerery had thought it an excellent plan, but curiously made them wait a day to hold it, even though he had done nothing the previous day. But such a kind and wealthy man could be forgiven his eccentricities.

As Ashiakin finished his tale, all of his counselors remarked upon how splendidly things had turned out. However, Ashiakin noticed that Edwin was nervously whispering something to Vissal, who did not look amused. “What is it, Edwin?” Ashiakin asked.

Edwin froze and looked cautiously at Ashiakin. “Er…” he stuttured, “I—I was just w-wondering w-where your friend D-Damon was… He hasn’t shown up yet…”

Ashiakin shook his head. “It’s all right, Edwin,” he said. “I’ve told Damon that the battle is being held on this estate. He isn’t even aware that Circus has withdrawn and we won’t even have to fight this round. It’ll be a nice surprise for him when he walks through those double doors and finds this party waiting to congratulate him.”

Edwin simply nodded, and again his counselors echoed their agreement with Ashiakin. The ice demon turned back to them and grinned. “So,” he said, “as I was saying earlier, I think that it’s only right that we honor the man most deserving. I propose a toast!”

He lifted his glass and the others did the same. “To Archibald Reginald Featherington McFeerery, IV,” he said. “May the crown never forget the fine deed he has done!”

Now where on earth has that blithering nutcase gone? he wondered.

((Any of your characters or McFeerery may happen upon the ball.))

[chumley]

"Dear Ranger," Chumley replied to his teammate, "I'm afraid this gentleman wants to hunt us down, one by one, like mere beasts! Beasts!" The elephant became so indignant at the thought that he flung his arms in the air, flinging handkerchiefs about like confetti. "He tricked us into coming here so he could engage in a rather underhanded pursuit. No doubt he's a recent immigrant. I'd not stand close to him, he probably has typhoid fever!" Chumley moved between Ranger and McFeerery, trying his best to protect his friend. "I suggest you run," he hissed over his shoulder to Ranger. "I believe I hear the distant sound of music. There may be a party upon these grounds, unconnected to our current predictament. Perhaps if you sojourn there, you may find someone who is willing to aid us against this horrible man."

"Your plan is doomed to fail!" McFeerery responded while leg pressing one thousand pounds of weights. "For who can stand against me and my amulet?" Chumley furrowed his brow and scratched his chin with his trunk. "The pride cometh before the fall, as the Good Book states," he thought to himself, looking McFeerery up and down. "Perhaps his strength will be, in an irony worthy of O. Henry, his weakness. If I can distract him long enough for Ranger to find help, we may defeat this fellow yet."

"RUN FOR THE BALL!" He cried to Ranger as he leapt forward, slapping McFeerery across the face with a glove that he kept in case he had to challenge a gay Frenchman to mortal combat. McFeerery, fazed slightly by the attack, gaped at him for a few seconds before raising his elephant gun with a cry of triumph. Chumley turned and ran toward an open doorway, like the gates of Hades left unguarded by Cerebus, that led into the innards of the mansion. Running in a zig-zag pattern to make it harder for McFeerery to draw a bead on him (A trick he had learned while fighting the Mexicans in Baja California.), he pushed himself to go as fast as he could, his heavy feet pounding on the bricks.

"You have miscalculated for the last time, Chumley!" cried McFeerery. "This isn't an elephant gun at all! IT'S A RAIL GUN!"

"Great frollicking fire demons!" Chumley replied. "Such a thing can't exist!"

"Au contraire!" Screamed McFeerery, who fired off a shot. It moved at the speed of light, smashing through the side of the mansion and shooting out through the woods that surrounded it, unimpeded by physical objects, until it shot straight into space. "See, you can dodge it!"

"You just have miserable aim!" Chumley replied as he made it through the door, running down the hallway, lined with doors on either side. McFeerery, losing sight of the elephant, roared in disgust, threw the rail gun aside, pulled a machete out of his back pocket, and raced after Chumley. Looking back over his shoulder, Chumley saw the hunter approaching, running faster than any man he had ever seen. With a squeal of terror, Chumley jumped through the nearest doorway. McFeerery followed him through. They both appeared from a doorway on the other side of the hall, and disappeared through the same door. McFeerery appeared, two doors down, and ran up the hallway, followed by Chumley, and ducked in another door. Chumley ran through a door and saw McFeerery, four doors down, running across the hall in the opposite direction. They chased each other up and down the hall in Shriner's cars. A great dane and the Harlem Globetrotters (TM) chased Chumley out a doorway and they all split up, going through different doors on the other side. McFeerery chased Don Knotts down a stairwell that fell from the ceiling and up the wall. Finally, McFeerery stumbled through a door, huffing and puffing, and stood in the middle of the hallway, catching his breath. Chumley bumbled out the door in front of him, and they leaned against each other, gasping. Chumley suddenly realized who he was leaning against and jumped two feet in the air, his eyes leaping out of their sockets.

"RUH ROH!" he cried, and his legs flashed in a cartwheel, kicking up the carpet beneath him, and he fled back out to the courtyard, making himself a ten-foot tall sandwich as he ran. "Running from hunters really gives you an appetite! Eeheeheehee" he cackled. He jumped in the air, sliding across the hood of a car that was in his way, and smashed through a plate glass window. Doing a head-first roll across the ground, he snatched up the rail gun and leveled it at the approaching McFeerery.

"Dodge this," he said, suddenly feeling like a pasty-faced actress with no sex appeal. As McFeerery's eyes widened, he shot a single bullet toward the hunter. It was like time stopped as the bullet, going the speed of light, moved through the space between Chumley and the hunter in so little time that it was almost unmeasurable. Then, time began again as McFeerery jumped through the ceiling in a rain of plaster, shot through all four stories of the mansion, and landed in the cockpit of a helicopter.

"WHY IS THERE A RAILGUN AND A HELICOPTER HERE?" Chumley cried, tossing the gun aside. McFeerery shot a missile at the courtyard that Chumley was standing in, and the elephant leapt aside, landing in a fountain. The water protected him from the explosion, but not from the creeping feeling that he was in over his head this time.

[INDK]

(Because of time constraints, I am going to go on and not wait for Ranger.)

Damon looked on at the ensuing battle, and he was particularly confused. The boy wished he hadn’t relied on Ashiakin to study his opponents, for now he understood little of what was going on. Either a long nosed demon was being chased away from the battlefield by a well equipped LCC combatant, or a demon LCC combatant was being terrorized by an unwelcome stranger in their battle. There were also a great deal of other strange things and people, some of which Damon was sure were aliens. It was particularly confusing for the boy. It didn’t require being alive for all that long to know what was going on was quite odd, even for Althanian standards. He sighed deeply and wished Verun was with him. Had he not been so concerned about staying hidden, he would have called out to his squire.

Shortly after the explosion, Verun returned. Damon was a bit surprised by the appearance of the older man. The squire’s face seemed much more grave now than it had a few minutes ago.

“So, did you see Ashiakin?” Damon asked anxiously.

“No,” Verun replied. His voice sounded much hastier. “And you can’t afford to wait for him now… Whatever is going on there is too important.,,”

Damon blinked. “What do you mean?” the boy asked, somewhat confusedly. “It is just a couple people fighting, a demon and someone there who can create explosions. They’ll fight each other for whatever reason, and we’ll wait for Ashiakin to tell us what we should do.”

Verun ran his fingers through his hair. It seemed to Damon as if the old squire was so frustrated that he practically wanted to pull out every last strand. “They are taking your glory!” Verun insisted. “People will remember the fight with the explosions and the elephant before they remember the aerial hijinx at the Pagoda! You need to do something, or people might forget how much of a draw Ashiakin and you are in this tournament.”

Being a draw at the tournament was always the last thing on Damon’s mind. He didn’t particularly care much for the attention lavished on him. Had the tournament been designed to Damon’s specifications, no one would have known of any of the details of it until after he had won. “Let them get the glory then… people will pay attention to us when we win!”

The boy thought that answer would keep his squire happy, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Verun now rubbed his hands over his face with the same frustrations he had taken out on his hair only minutes before. “The problem is you need people to remember you…that’s how Ashiakin is going to become duke…”

Damon was about to reply but fell silent. He didn’t know how to respond to that. Damon had always thought of the fans as nothing more than an albatross around his neck, a source of unnecessary attention and expectation that he didn’t want or need. However, this brought the whole tournament into a different light. Before, Damon had only thought fair play and valor had mattered. Being popular had never been a concern of his.

“Don’t worry though,” Verun said. “I will run to the town and hire a few mercenaries to come and fight for you. If these Circus people will have three men and explosions, it will only be justified.”

“Ashiakin and I would not approve,” Damon said sternly. “We fight fair, like I told you before.”

Verun let out a deep exhale. “Do you really think Ashiakin would mind that much, you can’t get as far as he did without getting his hands just a little bit dirty, don’t you think?”

Damon’s face turned red hot with anger at that statement. How could someone accuse Ashiakin, of all people, of being so dishonest. “And even someone from Salvar, who is supposed to help him in the tournament!” Damon thought angrily. However, before the boy could muster any kind of a reply, his thoughts were interrupted by another.

“YOU THOUGHT YOU ESCAPED ME!” boomed the man with the gun that created explosions. He stood from the courtyard and seemed particularly perturbed that Damon had avoided him for this long. “I will hunt all you LCC semifinalists, none of you will escape me!” With that, another missile just like the one that had headed towards the long nosed demon soared straight for the woods.

Damon’s eyes opened wide and he suddenly forgot all his anger. For a few seconds, he was frozen in fear, and he only recovered to run once Verun had screamed at him. Immediately, the boy took flight, knowing nothing other than the fact that the fountain had seemed to shield the demon from the most of the blast. Verun seemed to be panicking now, and he ran in the opposite direction, as if thinking that their chances of survival were better if they were to split. Damon moved quickly, but he couldn’t get to the fountain in time. The missile crashed against the trees behind him, causing an explosion that knocked Damon to his feet. Debris from the tree expanded all around, some of it even landing in the boy’s calf. Damon howled in pain, stumbled to his feet and then leapt into the fountain.

While he knew it was dangerous to be caught in the same water as the demon, the boy didn’t know what else to do. His leg was throbbing in pain, and at the very least, Damon knew that demons could be fought with swords. Some of the other things he’d seen at the castle seemed like they were the conjures of a malevolent sorcerer. Damon doubted that they could be killed by ordinary means.

[Ranger]

The shocking revelation of the man’s rather brusque plan to interfere was only bested by the passion that Rangers elephant partner demonstrated. Its ears were as quick and sharp as the drows, which were stretched and twitching with the chimes of music on the distance. The elven prophet turned from the leaping pachyderm, hearing only the curt slap of the glove on the face of the hunter. He had little desire to turn to find what the source of the noise had been, knowing full well that the elephant was giving of himself for the protection of both of them, and the very inviolability of the tournaments foundations.

Ranger pushed a hand before him, throwing a thick bolt of light towards the closed doors with alacrity due to the situation at hand. The double doors, as grand as any the drow had ever seen, threw themselves open before him without so much as a protest of ‘squeeks’. The pristine, black walnut doors, gilded with silver inlay displaying the ruinous greed for which McFeerery prized, were but the beginning of the grand exhibit that accompanied such unrestrained prestige.

Beyond was a sight that would be pure rapture to most of the denizens of Corone, even to those of the council of Radasanth. Staircases inlaid with gold, candelabra’s of the finest silver, pastel silk draperies; they all caught the platinum eyes of the elf as he charged towards them, barreling through a hallway filled with doors. His mind focused on but pieces of the room at a time as he moved, making all haste in hopes of procuring assistance against the crazed McFeerery. At their end the music was heightened, sweetened. A delicate euphony that was pleasing to the ears of the drow.

CRACK

The peals of thunder unleashed by the gun were the antithesis of the music. It rang in a cacophonous tone, roaring as each lead shot was released in chase of the prophet and his partner. Ranger turned to see the rather comical chase unfold within the hallway of doors, but did not remain near long enough to see the climax between the two. Instead he turned again, loosening his twin blades from their place across his back just in case the fight came to him. Panic and the need to secure aid was fueling his endeavor, pushing him through the doors.

Finally he burst through the last door he needed to. The wide expanse covered by the dual doors was thrown open fully as the drow once again attacked the knobs with strands of light. What he found on the other side caused him to almost stumble over onto his face, as graceless as a human.

A grand ball was at the foreground of the scene, very little of the actual ballroom – including the rugs and tapestries – came to mind. With the resonance of the doors crashing open the attendants had stopped in their fluid movements and all turned towards the elven prophet. His eyes could barely choose with face to focus on. The melodious tunes skipped a note, the harp twanging with an irreplaceable error. Something was wrong, the drow knew, something was very wrong.

“Dear people,” the drow cried in a huff. He sheathed his swords before bowing to the crowd of people, his lungs rising and falling heavily after so sudden a jaunt through the manor. “I implore your forgiveness for so rude of an intrusion on my part,” – the least he could do would be respectful and courteous for intruding on the ball at hand – “however, I must humbly request your aide in a dire situation. One, Archibald McFeerery has taken it upon himself to intrude in the battle between myself, the Prophet Ranger Nailo, and my partner Chumley de Rochfeltingham, against such prestigious opponents as Damon Kaosi and the ice demon Ashiakin.”

Ranger turned towards the open doors, the whirring of the helicopters blades in the distance (though the cause of the noise unknown) whispered of ill will for the expectation of survival on the elephant’s part. “If any of the present company has the will to stand with me to halt this menace please step forward. I beseech you on the grounds of saving a friend alone, and would fully understand if none of you would care to stand with me. However, the act on your part could alone be what saves the tournament and the very honor of the Lornius Corporate Challenge.”

[chumley]

Chumley rose from the fountain, standing on a giant lillypad, eyeing the lad bobbing in the water beside him. Smoke and embers twirled around them, wafting through the air, ash landing in the water. Flames licked up the charred sides of the mansion, and the kicking wind from the helicopter blades spurred them skyward. The elephant looked from the maniac face of McFeerery in the floating flying machine above, and then turned down to the boy.

"Only together," he said, "Can we defeat this menace, which threatens to destroy us all. McFeerery does not work on the side of good, but of evil. He is the cipher of all that tries men's souls and turns them toward the fiery pit. We gathered upon this bloody ground to fight in the combat of true men, of those who fight to forge the bonds of undying friendship, of the camaraderie of battle, which has allowed those tried by war to share their innermost hearts since time immemorial. It is a sacred rite, which this demonic man has interrupted and twisted for his own fierce means. Only together, spurring ourselves forward with the strength of the values we came to share together, can we defeat this scourge. Join me, lad, and join the company of true men!"

Chumley jumped from the fountain, did a cartwheel, leapt over a pile of rubble, catapulted through a curtain of flame, and snatched up the scored, sooty railgun. He raised it to his shoulder and fired one shot at the helicopter, blasting its tail section off. The contraption immediately began twirling sickeningly, McFeerery roaring in anger and frustration, barely audible over the whine of the stalling engine. It crashed into an unseen wing of the mansion, wood, plaster and stone flying into the air as it exploded. Chumley knew that somewhere in that inferno of death was McFeerery, protected by the magic of his accursed amulet. "By the Mercy of Jehovah," Chumley stated. "I will not rest until he is defeated!" He looked back at Damon, hoping the lad will be willing to help him in his crusade.

[INDK]

Damon wasn’t sure why he believed the long nosed demon. Perhaps it was out of desperation, perhaps it was the eloquence of the grey creature, though it may have just because Damon was looking for some kind of direction. Nodding bravely, Damon prepared his longsword for the battle. “My name is Damon…” he said. “I will fi-”

By that point, the long nosed creature had already leapt out from the fountain, ready to fight. Though he was soaking wet with water and a bit surprised, Damon knew he had to follow. The boy watched with a bit of awe as his newfound ally glided with impressive agility through all the pitfalls of the battle, making it through rubble and fire as if they were nothing more than minor obstacles. Damon lacked that kind of ability, and he was unsure if there was anyway he could really take on McFeerery successfully. With the man high above the air in a helicopter, Damon didn’t know how he could reach them.

The boy looked around. He didn’t want to go inside the house, for there were likely even more nefarious traps inside there. Damon shuddered a bit and quickly was forced to run for cover as McFeerery opened fire. “At the very least I’ll be able to distract him…” Damon figured. He moved quickly, as gunfire caused the boy to run straight back for the trees.

As Damon moved closer to the forest, he was terrified to run back. Dirt and grass kicked up at his shins as bullets continued to fall but inches from his calves. Once he’d moved into the trees, McFeerery had moved off, perhaps because the hunter thought it would be better to go after the long nosed pachyderm. Damon shuddered, wiped a bit of sweat off and exhaled a bit. He allowed himself the luxury of a moment of relief before leaning back against a broad tree before trying to figure out how he could go back on the counter offensive.

Damon knew he needed to fight now, even if he couldn’t find Ashiakin. He had made a promise now to the strange demon, even if the creature hadn’t stayed around long enough to listen to his response. Damon valued his honor, and he valued the honor of his team. Now he was a bit rattled and soaking wet, and his calf throbbed with pain. Adrenaline had allowed the boy to run on it, but now that the gunfire had stopped it was beginning to hurt again. However, Damon knew using any of these problems as a crutch would be a poor excuse. Undoubtedly the demon was no less tired, and McFeerery wasn’t going to stop on account of his pain.

Soon, Verun made his way back towards Damon. “What did the demon do?” the old man asked.

“He’s honorable and everything,” Damon replied between breaths of air. “He’s going to help me beat the man flying up in the sky…”

Verun nodded. “Stay with him then…” the squire instructed. “Once your common enemy is defeated, put your sword in his back.”

Damon’s eyes were wide open. “Did you hear anything I told you about honor? If you make one more suggestion like that, I will tell Ashiakin…”

Verun exhaled deeply. “So what do you want to do?”

For a few seconds, Damon bit his lip and looked up at McFeerery. The man’s helicopter was now level with some of the taller trees. “Help me climb,” Damon said. A plan was beginning to form in his head.