Cage Number One

[Ther]

(Roster: Slayer of the Rot, Molotov, Damion Shargath, Christina Bredith, Udrik,
Zieg dil'Tulfried, Arsenic Ruin, Steamrow)

It was the greatest moment of Mendan Kinnity's life.

For the young dramaturge, hosting The Cell was the culmination of two decades of hard work, a symbol of his transformation from a sickly child of privilege to a well-muscled, handsome young poet, arguably the greatest of his young generation thus far.

Twenty years ago Kinnity had fled from his ancestral home on the outskirts of Radasanth, upset over the prolonged physical abuse he suffered at the hands of Cantinil, the longtime elf servant of his family. Wandering the streets of the great city, he came across a man promising tales of magic circlets and dragons, tales of bravery and boasting. After searching through his pockets, the boy produced a coin he had stolen from his home, and was admitted into the theater. There, like the rest of the audience around him, the impressionable Mendan was transfixed by the tale of a knight, who, instead of training for a tournament he had entered, spent his time bragging about what he saw as his guaranteed victory. The knight, of course, was slain in the first round.

When the story had ended, the audience left the theater satistifed - everyone, that is, but Mendan Kinnity. The boy stood frozen in one spot until Dalo Smaith, the owner of The Swift Hart, saw him there standing alone. When the old man asked the boy what he wanted, Mendan replied that he wished to tell stories like the one he had just heard, an answer which caused Smaith to laugh aloud. Smaith told the boy to go home, but when Mendan lied and said he had no home and no family, Smaith grew concerned and offered to let the boy spend the night in the actors' quarters.

One night turned to two, three, and then a week. Smaith, having married his craft at a young age himself, noticed that the boy was boosting the morale of his troupe and eventualy took Mendan as his own son, training him to be both an actor and a poet. Because Smaith's plays often involved mock battles, Mendan also learned how to handle a blade, hardening his body in the process. And when Smaith died fifteen years later, there was no doubt that Mendan should be the one who took control of the theater, and indeed he did, boosting the size of his audiences with his historical plays, violent melodramas the likes of which had never before been seen on the Radasanthian stage.

So when Mendan had heard that The Cell had no promoted this year, the playwright decided he would organize the event himself, hoping to spread awareness of his work in the theater. He had spent The Swift Hart's entire treasury in promoting the tournament, but no man knew what the people of Radasanth wanted better than Mendan Kinnity, and it was therefore no surprise when all four amphitheaters hosting the tournament sold out. If all went well, the theater would see its investment returned tenfold.

With the crowd anxious in their seats and the warriors locked inside the cage, Mendan rose from his balcony seat high up in one of the ampitheaters, dressed merely in the simple colored tunic and trousers of an actor. With his booming stage voice, the young playwright made his first of five speeches that day.

“Friends, welcome to The Cell,” he said, bowing and pausing for a minute to allow the crowd its applaud. “My name is Mendan Kinnity, and I am the director of The Swift Hart Theater. I wish to thank you, the unified people of Radasanth, for coming out this day, and for making this tournament the largest gathering of citizens ever for an event outside the city’s gates. Today we will see competitors from all over Althanas, men from as far as Salvar and men from exotic Fallien, competing with one another in a steel cell for fame, wealth, and most importantly, for honor. These men deserve your respect and your adulation for risking their lives today, and I have little doubt that the fine folk of Radasanth will give that to them. To the competitors I have only one message: mercy is shown in life to those who act merciful towards others. Victory need not come at the expense of another man’s life – there is equal honor in accepting a yield from a broken and battered opponent. But as wiser men than I have said, ‘Words find glory only in partnership with deeds,’ so let The Cell begin!”

[Molotov]

“Had sex this morning, wasn’t good, wasn’t bad.”

Molotov mumbled the little ditty in a tuneless way as he waited for the Cell to begin. The mutant had arrived in the cage particularly early, knowing that he would want to get a good glimpse of the arena before the match began. At first, the mutant had carefully noted the condition of the floor, the give of the chains, the height to the ceiling and everything else that might factor into the decisionmaking of a more calculating battler.

Now, some dignitary was giving a speech, and Molotov felt like not a word of it mattered. He huffed callously on his cigarette, letting the smoke breathe out in a light grey stream from his nose, and let out a despondent exhale. He had known why he’d come here, to test himself against Althanas’ best and let them know that he had returned back into their world. However, now he was beginning to wonder if it was really worth it. For a good time in Shanleh, Molotov had stayed away from fighting. He had worked in a monastery, initially doing nothing more than odd jobs in exchange for martial arts training. Over time, he had learned a great deal, not just about himself, but about forgiveness and redemption. It had felt for a while like he could make up for all his past mistakes- that redemption was really just as easy as doing the right thing from there on out.

Now Molotov felt as if he was jeopardizing everything he’d learned. It wasn’t fear for his physical wellbeing, though he knew a good number of old enemies would soon be coming after him when they heard about what he’d done. Mara Jade, Corone nobility and perhaps even Tel’Aglarim would be looking for him to punish him for some of the things he’d did to cross them in the past. Still, it was as much for them as it was for himself that Molotov wanted to announce his return. He knew he had enemies, but this way the mutant knew they would all emerge around the Cell, especially if he were fortunate enough to make it to the finals.

Thus it was not fear of bodily harm that drove Molotov to question himself, but a more spiritual question. Though the mutant had never been in the Cell before, tales of what had transpired in the previous edition of the tournament were well known throughout Althanas, and Molotov remembered one important detail. It had been a bloodbath. Now, the mutant was afraid of what he would do if put in that situation. He had only recently been reintroduced to society, so the idea of being thrown into such a barbaric structure risked bringing out the worst in him again.

Molotov wished he’d considered that possibility before he’d stepped into the steel cage. It might have caused him to reconsider. However, now he had no choice, so he waited. He leaned back against the wall, his tungsten rod in one hand as he puffed on his cigarette with the other. Molotov was certain he would remain anonymous for the time being. His well known mohawk was hidden underneath his dragonscale cloak, and he had abandoned his spiked trench coat in favor of this more traditional armor. Initially, it had been Molotov’s intention to wear the cloak so as to surprise Althanas with his appearance in the Cell at a particularly dramatic moment. Now, he just enjoyed the solitude that his anonymity had provided.

The speaker, whoever it was, finished his speech. The Cell had begun. Molotov’s fingers danced nervously on his tungsten rod and he took one last drag of his cigarette before tossing it down to the floor.

“Had sex this morning, wasn’t good, wasn’t bad,” he hummed again in a tuneless way.

[Damion Shargath]

The crowd roared furiously at the sight of their entertainers, their cheers causing the very foundations of the amphitheater to vibrate, glorifying the bloodshed that would imminently follow.

A massive cage standing in the middle of the amphitheater posed to be the absolute center of attention. The sand swirled up at the wind gusts that rushed through the building, forcing the beige granulate into every slit, mouth, and nose there was. Contenders of great diversity stood in each corner, minding their own business, eyeing their obverses, evaluating the threats, developing a plan. According to the rumors there were numerous newcomers with great potential, a myriad of veteran’s hungry to return to the battlefield, and a select few – but truly grand heroes thrown into the cages, eager to settle scores. The looming tension which floated like a thick fog through the air could be felt by every man around. So it came that the powerful stood aside the weak, the battle-versed amid the fledglings, the disheartened beside the confident.

Returned from two year’s of seclusion he situated within the south-eastern corner of the massive cage. Nobody here knew his name and that what physically backed it up, of that the man was certain, but if his assumption proved correct was another story. Though the chances were high that he posed as a no-name to those who didn’t venture the barren, icy plains of Salvar, or shunned the famous Citadel. Being cloaked in this namelessness could grant the halberd wielder a significant advantage in the coming battle. His head lowered in mockery aimed at his opponents, the ruthless slayer had entered the contest in expectancy of finding a worthy adversary in the field of close combat.

Suddenly the wind had stopped blowing, the clouds parted, and the sun had a clear shot at the venue, transforming the amphitheater into an unbearable heat source. Being accustomed to the sub-zero temperatures of Salvar it didn’t take long for the unfamiliar heat to force the first pearl of sweat from Damion’s forehead. The silky droplet ran down his face, raced along the many scars upon it, then parted from his chin unto his breastplate. A vexed expression shaped upon the halberd wielders face. He hated it, abhorred it with every inch of his body, the warm climate of this region.
Quickly having grown tired of the sticky, musty air he reached into his right pocket and pulled forth a set of matches and a packet of cigarettes. After having placed one of the tobacco sticks between his lips, his gloved hands scraped a match across the rough surface of trousers. The wooden stick struck ablaze at its tip before being guided gently to the cigarette. Having fulfilled its duty it was cast to the floor beside its possessor, who followed with a deep pull on the drug. The comforting taste of the burning plant embedded itself on Damion’s tongue, banishing the stale taste of the swirling dirt.

A contender to one of Damion’s flanks had the equivalent need for the nicotine stimulant, this he knew because he had seen him fingering a packet of cigarettes before entering the cage. There was something about the suspiciously dressed creature that sparked Damion’s interest. For some reason he felt not the need to attack the man, he felt there was a sort of connection between the two surpassing a regular rivalry. Then again Damion relied only on assumptions, and not on true facts. Regardless he grunted in the direction of the man, holding towards him the packet of cigarettes in a gesture of offering.

“Salvic Superior…” Damion muttered from beyond the cigarette in his mouth, taking into perspective that his obverse would possibly recognize the rare brand, “…incase you want one for later.”

The crowd grew quiet for a second, whoever had been speaking the speech of the needless had finished. At the host’s last words the crowd rose to their feet, threw their hands into the air and boomed with shouts of anxiety and joy. The usually content upper class section of Althanas’ countries jumped from their seats as did the proletarian fraction, the spilling of blood seemed to have the power to unite nations just as it could sever them.
Damion shot a glance upwards at the beckoning host, jolted his right hand to the mid-section of his halberd and began to waver it back and forth, anxious to throw himself at the next combatant. He was eager to show what men Salvar carved. It began…

[Molotov]

Molotov eyed the stranger offering him cigarettes for a moment before making any kind of a decision. He had been humming to himself before the battle had started, but now, this stranger had piqued his interest. To the best of the mutant’s memory, he had never known the man. He did, however, know Salvic Superior. “Best cigarette you can buy round Knife’s Edge,” the mutant remembered. He took one of them cautiously and stuck it under his ear.

“Thanks,” he said. “The name is Molotov…” He figured the name would have some meaning to the stranger. At the moment, the mutant wasn’t sure how to interpret the gesture of the cigarette. The most likely solution was that it was a peace offering, a request for some sort of an alliance. By accepting the cigarette, Molotov had agreed that they would team up together. That would have been fine, since he had just come back from his self appointed exile in Shanleh, Molotov had no allies otherwise. The people in this cage were largely unknowns to him, though the mutant knew a few of them by reputation. If this stranger cast in armor wanted an alliance, that was a deal that certainly suggested mutual benefit.

However, Molotov knew that he couldn’t be sure. The fact he’d been allowed to pick his own cigarette was a good sign, but he couldn’t know for certain. Mara Jade would have become an experienced shape shifter by now and was also adept and immune to poisons. This armor clad stranger could easily be her, and the cigarette would have been her attempt at poisoning him before the cell started. Molotov didn’t know how she would have known about his appearance here, but for all he knew she could have been involved with the tournament organizers somehow. It also could have been one of a myriad of the mutant’s other enemies that had passed off a box of tainted cigarettes to the mutant. The Salvic Superior brand didn’t particularly remind Molotov of any specific enemies of his, but he had enough enemies in Salvar that it could have been some kind of a message.

Thus, Molotov couldn’t be sure. Though it could have been innocent, cigarette was also cause for suspicion. Molotov’s response would have been the same anyways, so it was good that he’d taken the cigarette. Either way, he needed to stay close to this armor clad warrior. If they were to be allies, it would only be to Molotov’s benefit. If they were enemies, the mutant knew he would have to keep his enemies even closer.

He gulped, ever so slightly. These were the decisions he didn’t want to have to make any more. The quick ones made in times of peril when the only real consideration was survival. It was an uncivilizing experience, one the mutant didn’t particularly want to endure. The almost intoxicating adrenaline surges were already beginning to take its toll on the cage, the man who had just handed Molotov the cigarette was now waving his halberd around preparedly.

“Like a bloody little schoolboy right before the end of term,” Molotov said to himself. He exhaled. Molotov didn’t want to be drawn into a more trouble just because of this alliance that he’d made.

“Let’s watch what goes down here, eh?” Molotov asked tentatively, his eyes darting quickly between his supposed ally and the rest of the Cell. The mutant wasn’t sure if excitement had overcome the man so much that rational words would have little effect. “No sense getting busy til there’s something to be done…”

The last thing he needed was to be seen as the cage’s biggest threat. It would mean that everyone else would team up against him. “Was a good morning’s day until we decided to die,” Molotov hummed listlessly. He couldn't remember where he'd heard that tune before.

[Zieg dil' Tulfried]

The fire for battle was very apparent in Zieg dil' Tulfried's soul. He was the High General of the Demon Army and participated in all of the tournaments that he could. He was in fact the previous year's third place finisher in the Cell. All who saw the demon could tell he was a warrior. The blue and black titanium armor which covered his body and the two swords which hung of his hips were all the evidence anyone needed. Even his helmet, which was punctuated by a long horn inspired violence.

The demon knight was more than familiar with death and fighting. He had participated in hundreds of battles, more often than not emerging as victor. The leather grip of his demon blades felt comfortable in his hands, perfectly balanced for a person of his strength and stature. His armor was finely polished, sleek and gleaming in the bright lights of the tournament. Zieg's metal boots clanked lightly as he walked upon the rock floor of the Cell.

Emerging from the shadow of the entrance into the Cell, he found that only two of his opponents had already arrived. The other five had yet to make an appearance. He recognized only one of the two as Molotov of the Mutant Misfits, the army he succumbed to in the recent Gisela Invitational. The other was a complete unknown to him, though the way he carried himself implied strict confidence and a decent amount of power.

Zieg ignored them both as somewhere high above the patron of this tournament was speaking mindlessly. He walked along the the chained wall of the cage, running his hand along its rough ridges. He was in his own little world as he focused for this intent battle. The previous year, he had brought Xeppa along for the tournament, but this year he had decided to go solo. He wanted no handicap nor any crutch to lean on as he fought this year. Instead, Xeppa and Zieg's son, Kaza, were up in the stands, cheering Zieg on loudly.

Zieg pulled the Gamygym from its place at his side and ran his gloved finger along the edge. The blade was a piece of art, the only thing more amazing than its appearance was its power in battle. With a single thought, flames slid up the blade from the hilt, empowering the blade with heat directly from Zieg's heart. He was ready, let the Cell begin.

[Arsenic Ruin]

Caged like an animal, lead into the wolf pack like a lamb to the slaughter. He was green, or partially green his habits had been broken, and this was close to the final product. The air swirled with a mixture of must, and dirt. Tongue lapping at the roof of his mouth it was another environment he was put in to test his run of skills. Green eyes vibrant with life and that same lackluster smile that was put on for show, bluish hair cut to end just past his ear. Brushing against his cheeks as he stood in the north western corner of the cage it could be his final resting place, or it could be where he shined for this exuberant crowd to see.

His heart skipping a beat as excitement washed over him as he basked in the warmth of the turning sun. At this point the angle of perspective would shift as it always did focusing on the right eye of our dearest Hero. The spotlight was on him of course as he stood there in what glory he did hold entering the tournament on his own and of course alone in the midst of it all. Chuckling lightly as he inclined his head forward, his laugh rumbled shaking his body as he clenched his eyes tightly, fingers curling into fists.

Arsenic, the wandering free squire soon to be knight, the committee of many good deeds to his name, swathed in battered garments and garbs. An ode to his own glory to come, his head was soon raised to show his youthful face, his attire changing greatly over the coming months since he ventured out. Ripe with age and on the verge of being able to attain something that wasn’t to far out of his grasp. With steeled eyes he looked upon the competition, weaponry in tow for the lot of them he soon would soon be found a meager competitor against some of the greater weapons.

But pay that no mind, as he looked over himself, his previous armor traded in for something of an upgrade. His abdominal plate had been dashed to the rocks, as well as the rest of his armor, which was destroyed and pitched to nothing more than destruction and smaller peaces. Replaced with armor that looked seventeen years over used, but to him they were perfect. Arsenic’s breast plate meshing into a shoulder plates that held the curve of his broad shoulders, taking the place of his previous chest armor wrapping around to cover his back as well. The copper toned armor, worn over a silken under shirt that became rough over years of wear holes pitted over older spots. Scratches though marred the surface of the upper armor. While his legs were clothed in a rough, and resistant cloth for which he had no name, and on his feet he wore boots. Hands hidden beneath gloves, and his sword rest at his hip, the mahogany scabbard housed the long sword that he treasured dearly.

Damascus a blade given to him by his teacher, upon his leave as a form or type of “graduation” present, he touched the blades hilt with his left hand rubbing his thumb against the pommel as he soon heard the crowd draw to a clam. Arsenic inhaled deeply, before stepping to the middle of the Cage, doing nothing more than standing observing the competition as he securely gripped the handle of his weapon.

“Shall we begin my fellows?”

[Udrik]

“Words find glory only in partnership with deeds, so let The Cell begin!”

“Mr. Kinnity. Excuse me. Mr. Kinnity!!” Udrik ran to the edge of the cage, grasping at the links as though it would make his voice louder. It was no use. The roar of the crowd would not allow Udrik to be heard by the man whom he had sought so desperately to speak with. It had been just two weeks since the priest had left the Great Library of Khal’jaren in the Black Desert of Raiaera. Now he was mere feet from the completion of this journey, within earshot of the answers that would afford him the knowledge to begin his Great Pilgrimage, but instead he was trapped in a cage with a motley looking bunch who could easily end his life.

Udrik Alashan was but a novice Priest of Khal’jaren, but he had accomplished much in his short service to the Thayne deity. His studies had already brought about near as many revelations as the highest ranking of priests and his counsel and wisdom were highly valued among the fellow clergy. That was why Udrik had been chosen for this ghastly mission - many among the counsel felt that Udrik had been granted a special gift by Khal’jaren - that he was somehow granted a special protection from their all knowing Lord. So when it was decided that Mendan Kinnity was the one man who could help decipher the most ancient of stories from the most ancient of tomes in their most ancient of libraries, Udrik was the clear choice to be sent to speak with him.

What followed was a mini-series of misadventures. The short of it resulted in Udrik returning to his oldest friend, Alistair, the ranking Priest of Khal’jaren in Radasanth. Alistair counseled that a standoff like Udrik would not be able to simply approach Mendan and expect a sit-down. No, Udrik would have to prove himself in upcoming Cell tournament first. Not only was it necessary to reach Mendan, Alistair said, but it would prove to be a vital part of Udrik’s personal life journey, that great knowledge would be acquired should Udrik perform well. Of course he complied in short order.

So here he was.

Udrik turned back from the fence at the sound of conversation behind him. It had been what… something like three years, THREE YEARS!, since Udrik had last had to fight? What was he doing? He recognized many of the names of his competitors. Molotov The Mutant. Damion Shargath, warrior of great repute. And of course, Zieg dil’ Tulfried, Demon General of Haidia. Before these great warriors stood the unarmored, barely armed Udrik Alashan. It was little solace that he was of greater physical size then all but the demon. Surely they were all greatly more skilled in their martial prowess then he. His gifts were knowledge and wisdom; a trivial edge when locked inside a steel cage.

But Alistair would not have lead Udrik astray and he knew that. Surely there was some purpose. Yet for now, Udrik’s only thought was to survive.

[Christina Bredith]

Christina stood at one secluded corner of the massive steel cage, idly picking at something from underneath the well-manicured nails of one hand while the other rested on the hilt of her sword, Rosebite; the weapon had been released from its scabbard and its tip was resting on the floor of the cage as she leaned on it. Her eyes were not on that task, however; instead they surveyed the other warriors who had also found their way into this tournament. God, it’s like a who’s who of freaks in here. Off to one side, the woman noted a man covered in a dark cloak so that nothing but his nicotine addiction could be seen. Right beside him, in the corner opposite Christina, stood another man with a similar addiction, dressed in full platemail. He handed a cigarette to the first bloke, which caused Christina to tsk to herself. They’re buddy-buddy already. Wonderful. The woman tossed some of her golden hair back and surveyed the rest of the group. A massive man protected by more armor than a Larician warhorse towered over the rest of them, and so she hardly even noticed the timid monk who had entered. The Half-Drow would have gone unnoticed, too, except that he was approaching the center of the cage and goading them into beginning the battle.

Well, Christina could be sure of one thing: she wasn’t the black sheep among the combatants, but rather the only white sheep in the entire group. Each opponent looked stranger and scarier than the last, and it became quickly obvious why the Cell had such a reputation for bloodshed. Why had she entered, then? Because it was there, of course! Christina was on her way to Radasanth anyway, after leaving her less-than-hospitable uncle’s company, and when she saw the registration for the famed Cell, there was no resisting the chance to enter. Christina didn’t seek glory or victory here – all she really wanted was a chance to get to know her sword and its peculiar abilities.

Even so, victory was always a nice bonus, and Christina was quickly realizing that mere skill wouldn’t decide this battle. She was no stranger to bloodshed and violence: the battle that raged in her home town against the orcs that invaded it gave her all the experience she could ever need in that regard. These opponents were no orcs, however; as ridiculous and menacing as some of them looked, they were obviously a good deal smarter than those putrescent, green fleshbags, and that was to say nothing of their obvious talent. Perhaps she would have to form a temporary alliance with one of these brutes, just as the two chain-smokers seemed to be doing. It could work very well in her favour, especially since three fighters from each cell move onto the next round, rather than just one. If I play my cards right, we could both come out on top.

The woman figured they couldn’t quite begin yet, though. By her count, they were still missing two of the combatants, and she was absolutely certain that they would end up being even freakier than the other five. That just seemed to be the general trend of the tournament. Obviously its reputation has spread further and wider than just the island of Corone, because there’s no way most of these people came from here. If it drew a crowd from as far and as wide as the demon underworld itself, then Christina could rest assured that her abilities would be tested to their maximum. A pretty smile lifted the corners of her lips. This’ll be fun!

[Damion Shargath]

A grin flashed across Damion’s face as his newfangled accomplice plucked one of the offered cigarettes. It wasn’t, for a change, a snide beam of mockery or sadistic pleasure but one of innocent satisfaction. Gently he slipped the cigarettes back into his pocket before shifting the grip on his halberd. As the hooded one then came to introduce himself, offering in tandem a somewhat comedic advice Damion assumed a somewhat more offensive position.

“Don’t worry about my nerves, I can regulate my lust for blood…but do you see some of them trying to conceal the nervous looks on their faces at the sight of my twitching weapon? I think you get the idea…” Damion explained in an accentuated tone.

He shifted his right hand to the lower section of the pole-arm, his left to the mid section. This was a purely offensive grip, one of a very versatile kind. The leverage force the wielder could execute with his right hand was sheer immense, whilst the left hand regulated the aim ever so precisely. The mid-section grip would allow the carrier’s left hand to slide either further down for increased force, stay put for a mid range attack, or glide upwards in the direction of the blade in order to execute maximum precision at short range. All the while one’s right hand could shift flat unto the butt to thrust the halberd forth, thus increasing its range.

It seemed to Damion, that most important parts of this violent puzzle had arrived. First there was the warrior monk struck by aghast and visibly tremulous as he identified the veteran adversaries at his flanks. Second a deviously charming lady, her fatal mistake being the aloof behavior she presented towards her foes. Third there was a young hybrid growing a peculiar color of hair, draped in worn clothing, with the avid craving for battle, possibly too childishly fervent and over enthused. Lastly there stood a large demonic creature cast in full platemail, a leading force of the Haidian army, a creature to which the Salvic man looked up to in a sense of battle-capacity and experience. He had heard a many story about the grand beast, but there was one further competitor. Then again the man who’s presence was devoid had not sparked any of Damion’s interest prior to the battle, possibly this could emerge as the halberdier’s largest mistake. The missing piece was said to notably radiate power, but he posed too simple a construction to Damion, there was nothing to him that seemed out of the ordinary.

Nonetheless the most important part of this bemusing lot already stood aside the steel clad sociopath. The creature who thought he’d gone unnoticed in this great event, Molotov, a mutant with a foul reputation amongst many and a high toll of respect among the rest. The yet rootless alliance they had formed would prove most useful within the coming rampage.

“You see, there are those one deceives…” Damion eyed the other contestants about before continuing, “…those one trusts, and those that one buys to latter betray. This blow will enter in your top left quadrant and follow down to your bottom right. A forceful swing to the flat of my halberd’s blade should do the trick.”

At the completion of the warrior lingo, that must have seemed like gibberish to an outsider, the actual battle began – at least it was to seem so. Damion Shargath had now put all his faith in his hopefully comprehending counterpart. Thus, with a vigorous leap he launched himself upwards with a spinning notion. His body stretched in a most imposing manner, armor clanking in the go, almost as if one could see his muscles contract beneath the armor so intense and assured his movements seemed. After completing almost an entire rotation Damion brought his halberd down upon Molotov. As he had warned, the halberd came from Molotov’s upper left, aiming to his bottom right.

The quadrant’s Damion had spoken of were the four which mathematically created a vector matrix. What he was trying to say, was that the following strike he would attempt would draw a diagonal line from his obverses left to right. The aim of this action was to cheat the others encompassing them to believe that south-sided clash was none of their concern. Reality would be reflected though, in their glistening blood, upon both the ex-soldier’s and mutant’s weaponry. Of those things Damion was sure. The others were practically bound to divulge in their own skirmishes, as it was sure for any that would approach there could be arranged a more than untimely death…

Few were as cocky as the man in the multi-plate armor, though this was at the time certainly not a bad trait of character…

[Zieg dil' Tulfried]

"...let the Cell begin!"

Despite the fact that two of the participants in the Cell had yet to arrive, the lone demon in the cage stepped forward from the chain wall of the arena, eager to begin battle. His blade felt comfortable in his hand and he merely had to choose a target. The one who stood in the very center drew his attention at once, a human male that held a sword of his own. He appeared ready to begin the battle, unlike the others who were either speaking quietly or standing alone.

Gripping the Gamygym in both hands, Zieg sprinted at Arsenic, if Zieg remembered the program correctly. Cold calculated fury built in his mind as he sprinted forward, focused upon his target. A hollow voice entered into Zieg's mind, with words of encouragement.

Good luck, Zieg. Just stay focused and I know you'll win. Xeppa's voice echoed in his mind. Another voice followed closer behind the first. Good luck, papa! A smile came to his face at the cheering of his closest companion and son.

He slammed one last step into the rocky floor before pushing off and swinging his blade hard toward Arsenic's chest. The flaming blade sliced toward his body, leaving a trail of heated air in its wake.

Nothing around Zieg mattered anymore. Only those who entered the demon's awareness would be reacted to. His opponent was all that mattered. Well, that and winning the tournament. However, his focus may end up being his own downfall.