Cage Number One

[Molotov]

As Molotov saw the squire’s counter, he would have laughed out loud had speaking not been so difficult. All the adrenaline and fear that had begun to pulse through is body almost immediately faded away. “And to believe I almost thought you might be a challenge for me,” Molotov snickered to himself. The mutant kept this snide remark silent, only because of the injury to his face. Otherwise, he would have most assuredly said had it out loud. From the squire’s retorts, Molotov could tell he was dealing with a boy without much experience in these matters. The mutant had known it was only a matter of time before he’d cajoled the squire into doing something stupid, and now he’d had his guarantee.

First, the squire had gone into a needless spin. The attack was aimed for the shins, and Molotov knew well enough that if he dodged it by a jump he might be in for a bit of trouble. The ground was uneven, and with his opponent down low, he would be in a dangerous position when he landed. Instead, he stomped down upon the blade, bringing his foot up just enough so that he would dodge the initial attack and then catch the blade underneath him.

Molotov’s eyes glowed with pleasure. He tore off his hood and sunglasses, revealing his brightly colored mohawk and icy cool eyes. There was a collective gasp from the audience, people who Molotov had been paying limited attention to until that point. Now he chuckled, as he could imagine what was going through their heads. “They’re wondering what’s next for me after this,” Molotov knew. “And bloody how its going to effect each and every one of their sodded useless lives…” He didn’t doubt already that one or two of the nobles in the audience were already planning to kill him, and that made the mutant snicker with glee.

He may have been gone, but he was not forgotten. His spirits raised and he couldn’t help but speak, even though the injury to his face had spread blood down all over his neck.

“You should have just fought the blonde…” Molotov said as he pulled back on his tungsten rod. “She probably would have fallen for a two bit attack like that.”

He chuckled, and then lashed the rod straight for the foolish squire’s temple.

[Arsenic Ruin]

Flip it to first.

Where are we? Oh right my attack…

Well the sword was sailing, gallantly forward towards the shins of my opponent. Victory was a taste to savor in moments like these. Though obviously it was a careless move I whole heartedly believed that it would land. But sadly it wasn’t so, the weapon bit the ground a bit too much maybe. Or the angle was off by a half an inch, or it could have been that the swing was to slow. I couldn’t tell it all felt perfect to me. I had my three seconds in heaven. My thoughts of grandeur nothing more than a delusion, falsified to make me feel comfortable in such a ruthless setting. At any rate I have to adapt to this situation, no matter what the pit falls lay within the supposed perfect works of combat knowledge. The application was where I needed to excel.

My opponent jumped, the cloak swirling around his body rising slightly giving way to the clothing that lay beneath it. Nothing clear just a mesh and blur of colors. The fluidity of his movements was astonishing, borderline breath taking. His feet plant firmly on the blade of my weapon pinning it down into the wet ground dirtying it. The gall of such actions usually would make me upset, but I had not the time to react in such away. I allowed a brief glance at his shadow, there was a shift in his pole arm but any move would be too late. Even with the lucky glance at the shadow, there was still the impeding shadow that was closing in on my face. So with a last minute lunge I rose on the balls of my feet, raising my shoulder into striking position, hoping the iron plate would take the brunt of the attack.

As luck would have it, the iron with stood the initial force, giving me working room as my momentum was shifted backwards. Maneuvering myself at close proximity towards the knees of my opponent, with my opposite shoulder at this distance with would at least give me some working room with the sword. Whose handle I had relinquished in sacrifice for this break neck movement, my hands moving outward to wrap around my opponents legs to grapple him, if I didn’t connect at least I would get the sword from under his foot.

My armor was dented, and all that was left to work with was getting my opponent down and out. Though even with the force block provided, my arm throbbed as I moved. Giving me a split second hesitation in my actions moving towards the grapple; dread filling me as I thought of failure. Arsenic pull yourself together man it isn’t going to be that bad, and with that thought I continued on the same track.

[Molotov]

Had the mutant realized that the squire was going to withstand his blow, then he might have been prepared for the grapple. As it was, Molotov fell to the ground with the squire on top of him, hitting the sandy ground with a wet thud as he landed once again on his back.

“Bollocks!” the mutant exclaimed as he landed, desperately wishing that for the moment he had something sharp with which to finish off the squire. He had sworn off bladed weapons for fear of the effects spilling blood would have on him, but now he just wanted some way to be able to kill the menace that had grappled him down to the ground.

Taking a deep exhale, Molotov knew he could settle the battle quickly now. Once again, he blew ice straight into the face of the squire. Hoping that the ice would provide enough of a distraction as he prepared to finish off the battle, the mutant held one hand out to rearm himself. Everything in the battle had faded, save for this young knight. At that moment, Molotov might have not even remembered who his alliance partner was. A small jagged piece of ice began to form in the mutant’s left hand, made from the water that had fallen thanks to the earlier barrage of rain.

“Bloody time to end this,” Molotov muttered through gritted teeth. He held out his other hand, ready to block any attack coming his way with his spiked bracelet and then finish off his opponent quickly with the ice dagger he had just created.

The mutant was a bit surprised he was thinking so quickly with everything that had happened, it seemed like he should have been bogged down with thought. Every last thought that was rushing through his head; even lyrics to songs for which he couldn’t remember the tune.

[Arsenic Ruin]

HAHA! Victory is mine!

My hands wrapped around Molotov’s legs taking him down, the weight shift was dramatic, and at the same moment I pushed off to the right allowing my opponent to fall alone. Scrambling sideways for my weapon, but sadly that course of action was too late. Catching a face full of snow, though by tilting my head back I was able to remove the majority of the damage, I was still rendered mentally unable to continue. The freezing cold apprehending my face, freezing my jaw into a standstill grin, eyes half closed as I try to protect what I can from the biting cold. Body arching backward striking the moistened sand, pain following the cool burst I felt it all going black.

Vision skewed by a fragmented blue, my puzzled contorted expression only further proof of the off guard attack. Hands scrambling against the sand as I propped myself up, though the heat was oppressing, and my breathing would soon be cut off, I couldn’t manage to find a way to remove the ice from my face. The bugger rendered me almost blind, what I could see was disjointed, or followed by that mental “Objects may be closer than they seem” sign. I patted the ground like a blind man looking for his cane struggling to come to grips with my weapon.

A blind man with a sword...

I held my breath, for the duration, standing up shaking it was all I could do to keep myself from completely blacking out. But to no avail time was closing in on me, with no air my face discolored. Pain filled my lungs, and in a desperate attempt for freedom I brought the pommel of my sword to the surface of the ice. Striking it moments to late, as my body capsized forward. Hitting the sand face first and slipping into unconsciousness. I was to far gone in the abyss of darkness, my gut wrenched as I was called to press on but I couldn’t muster the strength.

The crowd roared in my ears, and the lights dimmed. The spotlight was removed from myself the newcomer, and placed elsewhere. From the hit on the ground there was a crack, where air managed to seep through keeping me from biting the big one. But I was already sleeping like a baby, maybe next time folks. The grip loosened on my trusty weapon, allowing it to fall parallel to myself.

[Molotov]

Molotov snickered quietly. Everything had finally fallen into place. It had been a while, he had been nervous some, but he was going to defeat the squire. A heady rush of superiority filled the mutant’s blood as his fingers danced upon the jagged piece of ice in his hands. Molotov had known these emotions before, the ones that surged through his body right before victory. These were the thoughts that made him feel not valiant, but superior. The smile on his face was mostly relieved and a little part deranged as he sat up, and his icy blue eyes looked on at the young squire without any real sense of mercy or compassion.

“This is it…” Molotov thought. “The moment this bloody wanker has made you wait forever for…” The giddy feeling drowned out every other thought within Molotov’s brain, and as the squire fell down in the sand, the mutant wondered if the boy would bother to get up.

“Kind of tough for you, eh?” Molotov asked snidely as he picked himself up. “You didn’t bloody think stepping in for the bird wouldn’t be costly, did you really you wanker?”

He laughed hollowly. The mutant could barely remember the way he had felt when he’d first entered into the cell, his fears of atrocities had felt so realistic back then, so incredibly vivid that they were almost solid matter of their own. Now, all his fears seemed almost trite, the songs that he’d sung nervously an act of utter foolishness. He had nothing to fear from power, nothing to fear from winning the cell.

Already, Molotov could tell from the collective groan of the audience that they were disappointed he had prevailed. The mutant spun his little piece of ice around in his hand and soaked in everyone else’s disdain. Molotov smiled, for he had almost forgotten how deliciously refreshing it felt to be reviled by everyone he hated.

With his short-time nemesis now vanquished, Molotov kicked at the squire’s flank to turn the unconscious corpse over. The mutant snickered, and the crowd gasped. Waiting only for dramatic emphasis, Molotov held up the spike, ready to shove it straight into the heart of the squire, before he suddenly hesitated. The spike fell from his hand, as he remembered everything that had happened in the monasteries of Shanleh.

“You can kill, but let it be for others,” the monastery’s head monk had instructed Molotov. “If you kill for yourself, you will find your regrets will soon follow you again… Do well in the tournaments, but always think of others.”

The mutant blinked. He looked at the body, and now Molotov couldn’t help but to see something completely different in the squire who had just been a grating thorn in his side. No longer was Molotov dealing with an impertinent little boy whose dreams were too big for his swordsmanship but a vanquished foe that had fallen up short because of youth. The mutant sighed. There was considerably more honor in the latter. If he were to kill the unconscious squire, it would be an act of barbarity, something that would haunt Molotov for the rest of his life.

Molotov could have killed the boy, but it wasn’t worth the cost. There was no way he could rationalize it, no way that it would be anything more than the kinds of acts of wanton disregard for human life that he had promised that he was going to surrender. The fine line between this cage and the outside world was going blurrier, there were too many of the same variables inside and without. Pretentious knights, overwhelming desire, and the unbridled vengeance within him that Molotov just couldn’t erase were all parts of both worlds.

With his hands shaking, Molotov began to regroup. There was a bit more battling still going on in the Cell, though the mutant doubted much of it would effect him anymore. Everyone else seemed too tired to bother, especially when his injuries were only superficial. Molotov’s natural healing abilities were beginning to take care of them as well. “You won,” Molotov thought aloud, congratulating himself for his accomplishments. “You’ve taken your licks, gave a few knocks back, now sit and bloody enjoy yourself, now won’t you?”

The mutant stuffed the cigarette his ally had given him into his mouth. “Salvic Superior…” he observed appreciatively. “Bloody deserved.”

With that, Molotov began to hum another song.

(Bunny approved. Also, I'm assuming based on recent post trends, no one else will be posting. Hence I've offered a conclusion)

[Damion Shargath]

Strings of Damion’s hair clung wetly to his forehead whilst others danced up and down as he moved. Sprinkles of mud trickled from his armor, washed away by the sorcerous downpour. With the speed he was descending upon his foe it was inevitable that his weapon would strike something. Had he not been pre-occupied with lashing his blade at his beauteous opponent, the sickeningly loathsome man had probably laughed out loud or spat another degrading remark. With a half-hearted grunt he then threw a pint more force into his attack. To his astonishment the blonde sword mistress had managed to parry his attack just in time. All to his satisfaction, for it was not a severing wound he aimed for but far more a bludgeoned cavity.

Steel clashed and sparks flew, newly soiling mud was tossed and water droplets spattered about. Both contenders had now definitively engaged in a textbook close combat situation. It was clear that both the halberdier as the sword mistress were somewhat confident in their doing. They shared the same grin, one with a mocking demeanor, a smug crack across either of their faces. Whilst the woman’s current emotions and thoughts were unknown to the vile tempered man, he knew nonetheless that her coaxing gestures had been all but factual. As for Damion’s evaluation of her behavior, she was simply trying to conceal her fatigue. An additional thing of which the armor cast man was sure, was the soon end of this bout. The woman had performed a most impressive spin to counter-claim the offensive. Yet instead of following up with another of the magical blasts she lastly broke from her habit and commenced her counter-attack with a lucid thrust of her blade. She would soon find, to her own dismay, that Damion had been prepared for such an attack. Had she continued with her “usual” tactics, the blast force of such an attack would have probably torn them both to smithereens judging from the halberdier’s immediate proximity to her own body. Those at least were the pole wielders conclusions.

“Now you die…” Damion withdrew the blade of his weapon slightly, observing his adversaries blade thrusting forth, “…accept defeat, it is less painful!”

The steel grinded as it rubbed from each other, the tip of the sword mistresses’ weapon rushing bluntly forth. The grip the halberdier had affixed on his weapon would now extend to its full capacity. Immediately Damion snapped the battered blade of his weapon back behind his left, accompanied derogative expression.
Bringing back one side of the weapon also meant the other would rush forth at the same time. The woman’s blade would undoubtedly deflect from the mid section of his halberd and shoot aimlessly into the air, it was a sole question of time. Simultaneously the butt of his halberd rushed straight to the soaked head of Damion’s exhausted opponent. There was not a single possibility for the woman to dodge now, she could only hope for the best and pray that Damion’s attack would not split her skull.

Everything around Damion became dull, the berserk roaring of the crowd, the pattering of the rain, the squishing steps of his feet, the clashing of steel, it disappeared. Objects at the corners of his eyes became shadowy, hazy, up to undecipherable. His entire focus was now upon the woman, there was no chance for escape. His strength excelled that of the norm, as did his reflexes and his speed. Her sword would be deflected in a manner that it would simply twist further into her palm, she would have to submit to the pull of her weapon and lose control of her posture. There was truly no chance for escape now, the halberd’s rear would strike her down from the right.

[Christina Bredith]

Even during the few moments that their clash lasted, Christina could tell that Damion was superior. She had already ascertained that his speed was impressive; he had shown that throughout the round. She was fast, too, but it was primarily her quick-thinking that had kept her alive. Right now it was his strength that was tested, and it passed with flying colours. Her arm was already tingling, a sure sign that numbness was imminent. It was immediately all too obvious why she had not been fighting Damion head-to-head for the first part of the battle – she didn’t stand a chance against his strength. Even so, Christina knew that strength was only one part of the equation. She was relying on her speed to catch him unawares and end the battle in one swift stroke.

As it happened, though, her speed was not enough to win this battle. The woman’s silver eyes widened briefly as Damion’s halberd spun around his body to his left. It came around again from hers, brushing Rosebite aside at the last minute. Christina mentally cursed her poor fortune. Just one more second, one more blasted second, and she would have properly aerated her opponent’s face. Everything was happening so fast now, though; too fast, too fast! Christina could hardly keep up with everything. Her blade was deflected, and then – suddenly the left side of her head was burning! Damion had said something to her, but what? She had heard it, but couldn’t process it. Right now the only thing her brain could comprehend was pain.

When the initial wave of searing heat subsided, Christina’s brain began to flicker back to life. She was already on the ground, her right side and her back covered in mud, and the left side of her head was throbbing – nay, screaming with pain. Like a shorted computer struggling to find life once again, she began to recall the events of the past few moments. One by one the memories began to piece themselves together. Her blade had been deflected by the shaft of Damion’s halberd; that was the last truly clear memory she had before being knocked out. And then… yes, the throbbing indicated that he had continued to swing the weapon, crashing it into the left side of her head, using her own imbalance against her. Clever bastard. Christina had landed hard on her side, and then her body rolled onto its back automatically. Her thoughts were strained, but they were thoughts nevertheless. She was alive, but for how long? The woman had never been in so much pain; she had no way of knowing. The pain was subsiding in some parts of her body. Was that a good sign or a bad one?

Christina was aware of one thing, however: her opponent was still there, standing right near where her body had fallen. She might still have had enough energy for one more attack… just one. Would it be enough? Would it be too much for her body to handle? It was quite a gamble, that much was certain. Death was an impossibility here; the monks presiding over the tournament made it so. She could still go out with a bang. What more could Damion really do to her? Kill her? The thought brought an amused but extremely fatigued smile to Christina’s face. Rosebite’s tip was already pointed in Damion’s direction; she didn’t even have to move it. As her head rolled back to look up towards the ceiling of the cage, Christina’s ruby lips parted, and a breathless voice ushered forth. “Scream…”

Her blade had considerably more life and zest than she did. The silver gem flared to life one last time, and even through the mud its orange rune sparkled. One more blast of concentrated blue energy ripped forth, directly along the ground towards Damion, tearing a swath through the wet dirt. The counter-force of the blast rolled Christina’s body to the left, covering her completely in mud until she slammed into the opposite wall of the cage. She would never be sure whether the attack had hit Damion, because by the time her roll was impeded, Christina’s consciousness was already fading into the darkness.

Was this what it felt like… mom? He was right. It is painless…

[Ther]

Advancing: Molotov, Christina, Arsenic Ruin

Molotov -
Introduction: 7
Setting: 4
Character: 7
Dialogue: 5
Rising Action: 6
Climax: 5
Conclusion: 4
Strategy: 5
Writing Style: 5
Wild Card: 6
Total: 54/100

Damion Shargath -
Introduction: 5
Setting: 4
Character: 6
Dialogue: 4
Rising Action: 6
Climax: 3
Conclusion: 0
Strategy: 6
Writing Style: 5
Wild Card: 7
Total: 46/100

Arsenic Ruin -
Introduction: 5
Setting: 4
Character: 6
Dialogue: 5
Rising Action: 5
Climax: 6
Conclusion: 3
Strategy: 4
Writing Style: 5
Wild Card: 5
Total: 48/100

Christina Bredith -
Introduction: 7
Setting: 6
Character: 5
Dialogue: 5
Rising Action: 5
Climax: 4
Conclusion: 0
Strategy: 6
Writing Style: 7
Wild Card: 5
Total: 50/100

Zieg gets 60 EXP
Udrik gets 60 EXP
Slayer gets 50 EXP.

[Ther]

Christina Bredith gets 2,250 EXP and 300 GP. Raises to Level 1.

Molotov gets 2,250 EXP and 300 GP.

Arsenic Ruin gets 2,250 EXP and 300 GP. Raises to Level 1.

Damion Shargath gets 675 EXP and 100 GP.

EXP added for all others as well.