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:
Your battle takes place within a massive abandoned castle. Trod carefully, for there are many dark places to hide.
Last edited by Christoph; 01-07-09 at 02:48 AM.
Retired Administrator
Elijah Belov, "Everything else is just a chef!"
Bitterwood -- Red-Stained Night
Zhang Konji stood in the shadow of a dead kingdom. Before him, in a decaying display of endurance, stone and mortar walls stood strong against the ravages of time. The ages had nonetheless left their mark; the vaulted ceiling was cracked and weary, the magnificent rugs were mottled and musty and the remains of a splendid chandelier lay strewn about the greeting hall.
The wanderer closed his eyes a moment and dreamed of ancient glory. All around him was gilded and glimmering where wealthy feet walked- but their eyes were empty. They were ghosts that gossiped and boasted and sought noble company, bedecked in silk and down cloaks to guard against a too-long winter. They were but his dreams.
Reality drew around him tightly and the darkness with it, deep and forbidding. Hazel eyes gleamed when their lids flickered open, pupils dilated to draw in what light crept its way inside. He saw three great archways at the end of the hall, as well as a spiral staircase winding up into oblivion before them. It is empty, thought the wanderer.
But am I alone?
Six feet and six he towered over the low, broken pedestals that had perhaps once displayed extravagant trophies. A wild mess of brown hair flared outward, dark against skin weathered and tanned by many years beneath many suns. Beneath steel pauldrons, boots and gauntlets was a layer of hide, and beneath that an unyielding body, hewn lean and powerful by a lifetime of dedication to his art.
In his right hand, a staff of yew. Simple and unassuming, it was painted with thin black lines that flowed and shifted and wound its whole length. It had helped him through the foothills and up the cliffs to face the portcullis and answer his summons. Here his first battle of the Tournament of Champions would be decided… if his partner managed to make it.
Conscious of his exposed position he calmly made his way closer to the left wall, intending to investigate the doors at the far end of the hall. The carpets, though beyond repair, were so thick as to mask his gentle footfalls and kept the silence undisturbed. Zhang kept his horizons broad, though- he sought the glow of Ryu Hasigawa’s plate armor, listened for the voice of his living sword.
Be swift, sayir, but be wary. We know little of our foes.
Last edited by Atle; 01-07-09 at 09:53 PM.
Balance in all things.
Out of Character:
"Hey! Is anyone here?!" Ryu called loudly, his voice echoing through the shadowy corridors of the deserted castle. The plate armor he wore gave a soft, whitish-blue glow as he walked cautiously through the darkened halls.
clank... clank... clank... clank...
Ryu could hear his own foot steps as his armored feet slowly carried his body towards what he hoped was the door to the exit out of this foresaken place. Traveling here alone was not the smartest thing to do after all... But it wasn't like he was given much of a choice, he had slept in a bit too long today and had been forced to try to catch up with Zhang. A fat lot of good that had done him. He had reached the castle before anyone else by the look of it and had waited outside for something... anything that resembled the spirited old man he had joined up with.
The young boy shivered, nervousness gripping his stomach as he neared the old oaken door. A shaky hand reached for the iron handle. The silence amplified the sound as it let out a high screech as he turned it. The fourteen year old winced as the sound peirced the air. and stood perfectly still, a cold sweat starting to bead on his forehead as he imagined what terrible monsters lay in wait behind the door. The boy sighed, trying to calm himself as he built up his confidence to go into the room. Ryu quickly pushed open the door and plunged forward.
DIE INFERNAL HUMAN!
The boy's brown eyes widened in shock and fear as he faced his invisible enemy. Unable to surpress it, he let out a yell and charged forward into the shadows, his adreniline kicking in. As he ran, he imagined claws racking his back and fangs finding his neck. The dark, serpintine voice laughed a malicious laugh that would have sent chills down even the bravest of warrior's spine... however, Ryu felt himself relax at the familiar chortle of Kedjat. Slowing to a walk, Ryu's face turned red with embarassment and anger as he looked down upon the Katana that hung at his left hip.
"Kedjat! You-!" Ryu yelled, unable to finish what he was thinking. The sword only hummed in the sheath, intensifying the humiliation Ryu was experiencing.
You humans are so absurd! What's so scary about a little darkness? The imprisoned dragon laughed from the confines of the sword, his voice echoing in Ryu's mind. Oh! but the look on your face! Priceless!
"Kedjat, you better stay locked in that sword!" Ryu threatened as he looked around the torch-lit room, the fear that had gripped him a moment before no more than a distant memory. Huge, white pillars surrounded him. Each pillar was like the trunk of a tree in a thick forest, reaching up into a dark sky, hiding the tops in the shadows above him. Upon further examination, there were two exits to the room he had entered... one around 10 meters behind him, the other straight forward about 40 meters from him.
"Hey... Kedjat, you think it's safe?" Raikou asked, almost wishing he hadn't the moment the question left his tounge.
There's only one way to find out...
Ryu smiled at the familiar reply as he stepped forward, begining to make his way towards the door.
Maybe... for once, just maybe things weren't so bad!
Ha! Yeah, right!
"Why do they always put these things in such cliche' places?" Taking a look around the dining hall in which he had taken up position in he sighed a bit. The room was enormous. Three large tables made of the finest solid oak, ten feet across and 100 feet long each, ran the room length ways, taking up nearly nearly all of the main floor. At the far end of the room, about ten feet from the end of the tables was the far wall with a single large door set into the center of it. At the opposite end of the room was a raised dias, about five feet raised and about 30 feet deep to the back wall it had a 40 foot long table running width ways across it from side wall to side wall, leaving only about five feet from each side wall.
Peering around from his position at the head table, his feet propped up on the table and leaning back in the chair he smiles. In each side wall is a small door for entering the room from the more common areas of the castle. Along each wall are large statues set into recesses. They seem to detail the rulers of the castle in its history, but time has washed away the features of most of them.
With a small smile he looks up, his keen ears picking up the sounds of clanking from the distance. Dropping his back to its feet, his own feet hitting the floor squarely. Listening intently he looks from side door to side door, trying to pinpoint which door the sound is coming from. Finally pinpointing it coming from his right he slowly pulled the handcrossbow from its holster at his side. "Glad I picked this place to make my stand. Nice and open, lots of room to maneuver, and an ideal to place to ambush anyone wandering in." Sliding a small bolt into the crossbow, one his few with a hollowed shaft filled by a small vial of liquid made to cause an explosion upon the vial being broken by the bolts contact with a hard surface, he reached out with his free hand and concentrated, bringing forth a ball of impenetrable blackness in front of the door, setting the thirty foot diameter ball so that anyone of average height would walk through the door and see nothing but blackness, while still allowing him to be able to see the bottom of the door to know when it was opened.
Taking a deep breath he raised the crossbow and set his arm on the table, using it to steady his aim. "Whoever it is, let him come. Maybe I'll get this first round finished faster than anticipated." Glancing around once he shakes his head. "And Qaron, wherever you are, I hope you're having as easy of a time as myself so far."
Out of Character:
It was one of those times where Qaron really regretted her heightened senses. To a normal human, the ruined castle would smell dank, a bit earthy and dusty. To Qaron, it was worse. The musty smell of mildew, dirt and dust almost drove her insane. It was almost over powering, but only almost. She could still smell the recent additions to the castle: the two humans and her partner, the Drow. The curious thing was, she couldn’t smell her own wolfish scent. She had never been able to. The fox never smells its own.
Qaron had arrived at their current location sometime before the others had. She had perched, an unmoving gargoyle on the sand-coloured stone parapet battlements of the castle roof, and waited. She had time to survey her surroundings while she waited, frozen in place through sheer will. The ruined castle was once a magnificent sandy colour, but time and weather had turned into a dull, dirty grayish-brown. The outer walls were crumbling in some places, but the majority of the outer casing stood firm. There were holes in the roof, aiding in the decay, destruction and dampening of the tapestries, lush carpets and other fine ornaments that once decorated this noble dwelling.
Her head had moved only a fraction when the scent of the elder human had wafted up the walls, carried along by a slight breeze. She swept herself off her perch and onto the roof of the castle, running swiftly towards a large hole in the crumbling stone. Her boot heels drummed a resonant staccato on the stone as the she-wolf ran, her strides covering the vast distance quickly. Qaron dropped silently through the hole in the roof, landing on the lush, ruined rugs that covered the majority of the floors. She began stalking silently through the corridors, tracking the new comer.
The old werewolf did not look old. Nor did she look like a werewolf. She certainly did not look like a warrior. Qaron was dressed in knee high boots, the black leather gleaming from a recent polish. Her dark brown leather pants gleamed and were tucked into the top of her boots. The wide black leather belt she wore was intriguing and was decorated with small white and yellow bones and teeth, no doubt dental and skeletal trophies of her kills. The buckle was a dull black, painted that way so as not to throw light around to announce her position. Tucked into the belt was a simple white singlet, and over that was a brown leather jacket, that ended just below her breasts. It was a wonder that the jacket, which was so small, was able to cover her chest at all.
A sharp, black nail sliced a shallow groove into a wooden pedestal that stood at the top of a large, spiraling staircase. The staircase was dirty now, crumbling slightly in areas, but under the grime it was once splendid white marble, with flecks of gold and silver imbedded in the once pristine surface. The owner of the nail sniffed at the air, and smiled. Her human was in the chamber below.
Qaron considered swinging her way silently across the beams of the ceiling, biding her time, waiting until he was so nervous that he was about to wet himself and then drop silently down behind him, and rap him on the head. She shook her head and laughed a low, wolfish chuckle. That was so cliché it almost made her want to scratch her own brain out for entertaining the thought. There was no point in stealth at this point. They all knew what they were there for.
She caught a thread of feeling, her mind brushing a mind she knew. Kalar was here, and he was feeling a little disgruntled and sorry for himself. She chuckled once more and made her decision. Qaron’s descent of the stairs was particularly graceful, her long hair twisting out behind her in the slight breeze her movement created. It was deliberately slow, her heels marking every step with a harsh click.
“Hello,” she said with a smile. The smile really brightened her face. Her white eyes glowed slightly in the low light. Her voice was strange. It was at the same time decidedly feminine and also dripping with hate, malice and a horrible chill that seemed to cut to the core. It sounded somewhat manufactured, metallic. Someone had once said to her that her voice was horribly cold, but so beautiful that they'd rather be told by her that they were going to die, than not hearing her speak at all. It was an oddly compelling and enthralling voice, despite the fact that a lot of danger and violence seemed to lurk behind the words.
She continued her descent with the same measured pace, and finally stood before her opponent, silent and still. The wolfish, girlish smile was still in place.
She was beautiful in the dark, and strikingly so- her eyes pierced the castle’s soul of gloom like twin pearls. He had detected her arrival with senses attuned to the ways of men and beasts, each footfall little more than a gentle vibration before her heels had clicked so audibly against the dying steel of the staircase.
Now she stood before him and as his eyes adjusted, it was clear to Zhang Konji that her beauty was tarnished. Indeed she struck him as a tragic figure, a roadmap of ancient scars drawn around empty eyes, a void-figure which spoke to him in spiteful tones. But they did not grate against his soul, which had listened to the formless abominations beneath the universe. He simply regarded his foe in gentle repose and did not bother to wipe the hair from his eyes.
“Hello,” said the wanderer at length, dipping into a low bow at the waist, never moving his gaze from her for a moment. “I am called Zhang.”
His voice was oddly accented. An eclectic mixture of intonations harvested, combined over many years from many worlds and cultures, its core remained a lilting Orominian. The forest-folk, it was said, could speak in ways that soothed all but the coldest hearts. But he said nothing else. Their agreement needed no words. They all knew what they were there for.
Out of respect he began, bringing his quarterstaff to bear and striking out with a single broad, sweeping stroke. His spacial awareness ballooned to fill the room and registered their position relative to each wall and each pillar, honed instincts prepared to keep their lethal dance in constant motion. The wanderer thought to fight like the sea and keep mobile, keep fluid and powerful, consuming his foe in a relentless tide of blows.
Last edited by Atle; 01-14-09 at 04:00 PM.
Balance in all things.
[bunny attempt accepted by Kalar]
[if bunny is not what Kalar would do, PM me with modification please]
The boy stood in front of the big wooden door. What wait at the other side? What stories remained untold for this boy to bear witness to? Furthermore, What was this odd sensation of malice which hung so thickly in the air? The boy frowned as he reached towards the handle and turned it. Upon opening the door, a familiar twang would be heard coming from somewhere infront of him. Ryu's innitial instinct kicked in, his head bowed down and his chest caved in, making himself a smaller target by bending forward. Something whizzed over him and the hair on the back of his head waved as whatever it was flew over him. Ryu was about to look behind him when there was a loud noise.
BOOM
the small boy flew forward, landing on his hands and knees. He had been protected by his armor and he was only a little shaken by the surprise attack. Ryu's eyes shot up to where the thing had come from... but he couldn't see anything. Thinking fast, Ryu got to his feet and ran full speed to his right. The supernaturally fast boy would quickly exit the ball of darkness. The first sight he saw was a wall quickly approaching, he skidded a little distance and looked to his left to try to find his attacker.
He introduced himself, and Qaron’s smile faltered for a moment. She felt the emotions pass through his mind; the admiration of her form, and the knowledge that she had been coming, yet she felt a sharp, familiar stab in her chest, when she felt the pity coming from him. She felt it as revulsion and her heart broke, just a little, as it often did. The woman had once been considered a great beauty, and until the unfortunate events in her past had occurred, it was a title she had happily carried. Now, however, though most still considered her beautiful, she felt the slight hint of revulsion when they first beheld her.
“Qaron,” she said in reply, just before he began his strike. She was grateful to him for beginning the fight, as initiating a planned battle was something she detested. Lycanthropes in their animal form, like most wild animals, will try and kill you right out of the cages simply for existing. Qaron, in her human state, detested this. She disliked not being able to gauge an opponent before she decided how much strength she would unveil, and which powers she would show first. She liked being able to plan her moves, as much as any battle allowed.
Qaron leapt backwards, her hair flowing around her in a salt-and-pepper haze, his staff brushing through it hard and fast enough to rip some strands out. Her arms were straight out to her sides, and her powerful legs were straight: she had done an aerial back-flip without any form of propulsion, a feat impossible for a human. As she was at the height of her flip, her feet in the air, head towards the ground, her arms moved to cross her body, as though the Lycan was hugging herself. As her boots neared the ground, she flung two of her stilettos, one aimed high at right shoulder, the other aimed low, at his left knee.
Her highly polished high heels landed on the ground, silent.
Qaron.
The name danced in the higher eaves of the wanderer's mind as the impressive acrobatics display came to its climax, retreated into shadow as he detected glimmering pinpoints of steel by moonlight.
Zhang was already moving by the time of her descent, left leg sliding outward in an attempt to seal the gap she'd opened. Qaron's stilettos sang out his name in quiet, constant tones- and then screamed against steel, tore through leather and flesh. The armor over his leg deflected the first and the second scored a long, shallow wound the width of his upper arm. The marble tiles underfoot were flecked crimson, but he was not deterred. In fact, he could not help but feel a touch of admiration for her. First blood had been spilled.
As her feet touched down he was there to meet her with a punishing thrust of his staff, the whole might of his body channeled through his right arm and into the rod. The head cannoned through empty air toward her sternum, seeking to break her exquisite balance.
Sighting down the weapon's length he froze a moment in time, captured her image in his memory forever. She filled his view not for her beauty or the scars that riddled it, nor for the lethality of her presence, but for the depth of her sorrow. He saw into her eyes and they told him of a heart broken many times, suffocated by fear.
So the wanderer thought to lift his foe from despair- somehow.
Last edited by Atle; 01-20-09 at 05:50 AM. Reason: Clarifying attack.
Balance in all things.
The sound of the humans' blood dripping onto the pure white marble seemed to echo throughout Qaron's head; the silent drips to humans and most other creatures sounded to her like someone throwing a small pebble into a deep, deep, dark well. The ripples and the sound echoed through the deep, dark well of Qarons' mind and made her salivate. He smelled exquisite, but those who fought always did. Perhaps it was simply the challenge of food that fought back. Lite and Easy* never did entertain Qaron, despite being told by her Ulfric** long ago that she shouldn't play with her food.
Qaron shook her head, incredibly wolf-like, as if to banish the taste and smell out of her mind. Suddenly, she froze. The woman ignored the staff rushing towards her and listened.
This was one of the bad things about having a telepathic gift that you weren't strong enough to control as yet. She could not aim the gift, she simply heard and felt everything and every emotion. Qaron felt a faint brush of hope from Zhangs' mind. At first, she thought that hope was directed at the posibility of him catching her off guard and damaging her, but a slight probe, which took a lot of effort from the mind-leech***, showed her that the hope was not for him, but for herself.
The Lycan was stunned; stunned that anyone would ever feel something like that for her, since her scarring. Her body completely relaxed at the relevation, and she focussed once again - in time to notice the staff headed for her sternum.
She caught the staff between her hands, but it didn't lessen the blow. It crashed into her sternum, the shock waves running down her wrists, ribs and spine. She felt a crack appear beneath the staffs' end, and she gave a short, clipped scream of pain as she fell to the ground, landing heavily on her back.
Qaron lay there, panting for only a second, before she rolled back onto her shoulders, her knees tucked up to her chest, and then springing onto her feet with a grunt of pain. More cracking could be heard from within her chest, as her sternum began to repair itself. She couldn't use her arms to the greatest effectiveness, as the repairs to her sternum were causing a great deal of pain. Instead, she whirled and kicked down a column of stone with a roar of pain and effort.
She sagged slightly, her arms hanging loosely by her sides, the cracking sounds still coming from her sternum, and suddenly the hollow whiteness of her eyes began to glow. The crumbled stones and ruined parts of the column lifted into the air, no higher than chest height, and the nine heavy blocks of stone - the smallest the size of a hand, the largest the size of a human torso - flew towards Zhang, as Qaron stood behind her protective group of projectiles to recover.
Out of Character:
** = Ulfric, propper title for Wolf King, the head of the pack or clan.
*** = Mind leech, colloquial reference to anyone who hears others emotions/thoughts without effort.
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