Cage Number One

[Arsenic Ruin]

Arsenic bobbed his head lightly as he felt a few eyes rested on him, he had that generic spaced out look on his face drifting between reality and his subconscious devising a stratagem. His left hand hung heavy on the pommel of his sword, the cooled metal somewhat comforting causing him to grin as he daydreamed. Big mistake, the canvas that covered the flooring of the cage shook as his first opponent bustled toward him. Moments before though this one’s weapon burst into flames, manifesting them from thin air, which was an interesting trick. Arsenic was snapped back to reality as the floor tremors rocked him. His senses were apt as he smelled the burning, he took in the heat rising and he felt the approach.

The battle began, his lips curled into a grin as he stood their watching the charge. His grip on his sword ne’er changing though he found himself compelled to draw his weapon. Eyes looking over the larger combatant as he came at him soon widening, pupils contracted to pin prick sided flecks in the midst of a white sky. Genuinely he would have felt nervous months prior, but his mind automatically flicked to his reason for motivation. Teeth gritting together as he didn’t see Zeig approaching him instead, he saw Arwan coming forward with a swing of his claw again.

Zieg’s arm sprung into action with the swing, Arsenic’s eyes raced along his attackers limb correlating immediately. This time though having adversed affects, where he staggered he felt himself become steadfast reacting on a moments notice flitting backwards allowing the blade to pass in front of him. Though Arsenic was sure in his movements his heart never ceased to thump loudly. His weapon had yet to be drawn though he did adopt a crouching posture, his right hand extended forward open palmed, while his left hung back hovering over the hilt of his sword on his hip. His armor never squeaked or groaned against his movements, and his face showed neither strain nor discomfort. Though his confidence well exceeded his actual chances that might be what separated him from the rest.

Twisted by association he compared his opponent to the pale figure he deemed a worthy adversary and rival. As well as being number one on his list of evil creatures to remove this world of. The young fighter would use this moment to approach his opponent; through common sense he believed that his opponent would be coming around for a follow up swing. Nothing more than that lay between the seconds of a second life, or the seconds of an actual death. The flames raged from the blade, and they burned unnaturally but nothing thus far in his journeys had been natural. With his own response to his opponents attack; Arsenic sprung forward off the ball of his right foot.

Be ready..

A spreading shiver as his body, sauntered forward in a few steps, which brought him face to face with his opponent, last minute movements come in handy as he brought his right foot down “stepping” wrong on it making it look like he twisted his ankle. His face displayed pain, as he sharply rebounded to the left. Immediately his left hand clasped down hard on the hilt of Damascus. Swiveling himself around behind his opponent he brought the blade upward to the back of his foe arm making a full extension, as his weapon would most likely hit. Swiveling the weapon split secondly to change his grip on the weapon Arsenic slashed downward from right to left form an attack to his opponents back.

[Molotov]

As his ally spoke to him, Molotov had just been eyeing the competition. No one had particularly stood out to him, but the mutant knew they were going to have to be particularly careful. If he was seen as part of a particularly cohesive alliance, the threat perception of him would greatly increase. Coming into the cell wearing sunglasses and a dark cloak had probably already unnerved some of the less hardy warriors in the cage, and the thought of his alliance with a man who seemed to be particularly capable would likely trigger similar alliances from some of the cage’s other known fighters.

Thus, he liked the plan very much. The two of them fighting amongst each other would keep the rest of the competitors away, and perhaps even allow them to save their energy until the rest of the competition had tired themselves out. With three people advancing, an ally could stay reliable all the way until the finals.

However, Molotov was still skeptical. He had yet to catch the name of his newfound companion, and he was less than thrilled by the idea of letting an otherwise strange man strike first. At the moment, Molotov had only the cigarette as a sign of commitment. Even a Salvic Superior would buy one little more than a drink most places in the outside world, so it should mean even less in a cage of death. Thus, as the strike came forward, Molotov hissed quietly towards his ally. “I’m bloody gonna block,” he said.

It would be necessary. Molotov had noticed that a blonde haired woman not that much older than him had been eyeing him particularly disdainfully before the match had began. Perhaps it was just because she didn’t care much for men in dark cloaks, but Molotov knew he couldn’t afford to take any risks. She may have looked just like another soldier in a Corone military, and perhaps one of the more fragile ones at that, but the mutant knew well enough that appearances could be deceiving. Not only did some of Althanas’ least muscular possess particularly damning magical capacity, but one of Molotov’s chief rivals was the shapeshifter Mara Jade.

“She can’t be left alive,” Molotov thought regretfully as he moved his staff downwards to block his ally’s halberd. “It’s a bloody shame, if she’s just a soldier then she’s a pretty little bird at that, but I can’t be too careful here…”

Once he felt the impact of the halberd upon his metal rod, Molotov spun quickly. He used the blade of the halberd like a fulcrum, plying his weapon off of it as he spun around. Acting quickly and without any explanation, the mutant was behind his ally within a few quick seconds. Immediately then, Molotov locked in a sleeper hold, putting one of his arms around the neck of his armored companion, and the other at the back of the head. Molotov held it loosely, so that there would be no cause for any kind of confusion with regards to his intentions.

The mutant grinned. This position was exactly what he needed to whisper strategy secretly. Molotov’s mouth was right near his ally’s ear, and his lip movement would be blocked by the hood of his cloak. It was a perfect opportunity.

“See that bird over there… the blonde one?” Molotov whispered tersely. “She bloody saw us make the deal, so she knows what we’re about to do… we have to kill her quickly and smartly, so that no one knows about our plan. I want you to push me away, hit me in the chest or kick me, I don’t bloody care. Then fade back towards her, I’ll shoot you with some sod thing and then you dodge to your left, okay? She’ll be hit and go down, and you can finish her off…”

It was a good plan. Molotov was certain of it. He knew his partner would agree. Even if it wasn’t for the necessity, the mutant got the impression that the armor clad warrior was not the kind of person to take much mercy on the pretty and poorly armed. It was a strange alliance, but Molotov felt like it was the only thing that would keep him grounded to someone else as the battle progressed.

Bunny approved

[Damion Shargath]

“Taken notice of...” Damion muttered from behind clenched teeth, trying to give away as little volume as possible as any surfacing of their plans would run them right into defeat’s clutches, “With a little spin we shall begin, then brace yourself for a kick coming for your torso, backpedal against the mesh to absorb the shock.”

Damion grabbed at Molotov’s arms as he remained for short moments in the chokehold, after all it shouldn’t look staged. Then with a rear kick at Molotov’s right foot, Damion hunched the skinny man upon his back. What followed was a forceful tug on his companion’s arm which resulted in twirling him from his back before of his face. Damion isochronally struck the butt of his halberd into the sanded ground to increase the astonishing effect of the coming pageantry. With Molotov simulating a staggering movement, the halberdier lifted himself into the air his feet aiming at the thorax of his comrade. The steel halberd posing a supporting pillar for his weight now enabled Damion to thrust his right foot into the chest it was hovering before. That done the steel clad man engaged a flipping motion backwards, with his left leg coordinating the force of the acrobatic spin. His armor glinted in the sun, casting shattered rays of light all about. As his arms contracted they took the ported halberd with them, sending a couple chunks of sand and dirt into the musty air.

It certainly all seemed more spectacular than it was, nonetheless it would impress one or the other. Amongst the cheering roars of the crowd Damion could barely make out the dull thud of his counterparts back against the steel mesh, but was put at rest as he did. It had worked as planned. With the gravelly noise of sand sliding over dry earth the battle-contortionist landed stable on his feet skidding backwards an unimportant account of feet. He stood a silhouette in a cloud of swirling sand, larger chunks clanking on his armor as they rained down out of flight. As his gray pair of eyes then trailed down unto his mouth, a slight feeling of miscarriage spread. The mangled snag protruding from his lips, which was once a cigarette, flew to the ground after being spat out in disappointment. Seemingly the white stick of tobacco couldn’t endure within all the twisting, twirling, and spinning.

“Very well my friend, now it’s up to you…” The halberdier thought as he twirled his halberd into a position destined for an uttermost distanced assault, “Not a chance, is what she has. She’s been deemed into the role of the damned. Your words the legislative force, my body the executive force, our plan the superior judicative.”

“You measly worm really thought that a cigarette had meant all that!? Your lesser sense of competition calls for pity it does not deserve! Prepared to be impaled upon the pole that drove so many others before you to their death, maggot!” Damion boomed from the enshrouding cloud of dust.

It was more than definite that his counterpart would understand these words as further actions which supported their plan, additionally it was doubtable that anyone else within the cage still held them for comrades.

Damion loosened his posture now, ready to spring from his current position and start into the direction that lay behind him. He was solely anticipating Molotov’s pseudo vengeful commotion, his heart pounding louder than usual once more. After returning from two years of seclusion, killing one unworthy contender after the other, he found himself alas amid a battle most vivid. A battle that actually managed to upkeep his interest, a battle that administered entertaining him more than any other before.

Bunny Approved

[Slayer of the Rot]

'Let's give them one last hurrah...'

Late as he was, the mercenary certainly didn't rush up the meticulously polished stone entrance to the Cell; instead choosing a slow and easy pace that drew little attention to him. The eyes were on the fray in the middle of the cage, and what few noticed him quickly forgot he was here at the ringing sound of a pair of clashing blades. Dan Lagh'ratham smirked; it was somehow so easy to be forgotten, but it didn't bother him. His mind was set on one thing only -- winning this year's Cell, though it did rather disappoint him that he hadn't noticed the bitch's name on the roster. He'd have given his left arm...again, to show her the wrath she'd invoked with that single dark and cold portal into nothing.

The bloodsport had started without him, but that stomach churning metallic scent wasn't lacing the air. The combatants were rather slow this time around. Dan paused at the only door to the cage, lowering his sunglasses and giving a small whistle at the thick, heavy padlock sealing it shut. It was one of the those high security sorts executives slapped on the doors they didn't need anyone to get through, the type that required two keys and a combination to open. Giving a shrug, he simply grabbed it and gave a sharp pull, snapping the lock, the latch, and half the door off with a brief groan and then moderate shriek of protesting steel.

"None of you are dead yet? Christ, what a bunch of fucking greenhorns," he called out, stepping inside, drawing his heavy revolver from it's holster on his left thigh. Light reflecting dully off the black matte of it's barrel, the smell of blood, his own, rising faintly from it, something he could sense far better than most of the others here. With a snap of his wrist, he flicked the chamber open tapped it against his opposite forearm, empty cartridges tinkling to the still clean, stone floor. Reaching behind himself, he lifted his shirt tails and took on squat bullet, brass and lead winking, loaded it, snapped the gun shut, and took aim at the first warrior he recognized. He squeezed the trigger and the revolver bucked in his grip, a minute annoyance to one of such strength, sending a bullet straight at the neck of Zeig Dil' Tulfreid, presently swinging a burning shortsword towards the chest of an odd looking young man with blue hair. Shrugging at the thought that he may have saved a later victim, the mercenary burst into movement finally, a blur of it, lunging forward at a full tilt sprint as he holstered his gun, leaping into the air, and summoning the Rotslayer, it's scuffed bladesweeping down so his hands held the stained canvas wrapped about it's rough hilt in a reverse grip, dropping down onto the demon and driving it's tip down, with quite enough force to drive the blunted edge into most anything that got in it's way.

'One last hurrah,' he though with a wide grin, feet slamming down onto the floor and causing a number of small spiderweebing cracks, expertly spinning the Rotslayer a few times before resting it across his shoulders.

[Molotov]

Molotov was a bit surprised by how good his ally was at pantomiming battle, almost to the point where the mutant was a bit suspicious. However, none of the kicks or twists had meant anything more than a little soreness, though Molotov now carried himself like he had been hit particularly hard.

“You wanker,” Molotov shot back, his voice sounding perhaps a bit too melodramatic for the situation. “I haven’t dealt with a single wanker as bloody stupid as you before, you tried to give me a cigarette, just to attract my attention. Now, you’re bloody going to die, and all because you bothered me. I’d have left you alone before, stupid wanker…”

As he spoke, a large shard of ice appeared in front of the mutant. It was at least five feet in length and two feet in diameter at its longest point. Conical, it was a particularly sharp missile at its longest point, and Molotov knew if he aimed it well, his problems with the blonde woman would all but be eliminated. Still, for a second he paused. The ice shard hovered in front of him as he pulled out one of his own cigarettes and lit it. While it was likely that his ally perceived his actions as merely buying a bit of time to get better aim, Molotov was mulling over his decision.

“To think I got that worried about a bird,” the mutant thought. Initially, when he’d come up with the plan, Molotov had been thinking only about his security and the strength of his alliance. Now, as he took aim and got a good look at the girl, he was increasingly dissuaded that she could be any threat. Granted, she could have been Mara Jade or another shapeshifter, and she could have possessed massive telekinetic powers, but in no way did she carry herself like that. Had the blonde girl been anything more than another nervous rookie in the cell, she would have been one of the better actors Molotov had ever seen.

However, now the mutant had obligations, not just to his partner but to himself. He had entered the tournament to announce his return, and there would be little way he could do that without killing someone here. Molotov wanted the nobles to tremble in their boots again, for Mara Jade to freak and go running into exile herself, and for every act of cruelty to come with a moment of hesitation out of fear for what he might do. The latter was a far stretch of the imagination, but unless there was some death at his hands, there would be no way that the mutant could make his statement.

“And where better to start that a Corone soldier,” he thought regretfully. With that, Molotov shot his ice shard straight towards the blonde, knowing that his ally was about to jump out of the way. “Let’s just hope she deserves it, it’d be a tough way to go otherwise, even for the Cell.”

As the mutant watched the ice surge forwards, he took a long drag off the cigarette. While he was exhaling, Molotov began to mumble the words to another song.

In case there is any confusion, this attack is at Christina Bredith

[Arsenic Ruin]

The clashing of blades rang out across the Cell; his attention was stolen for a moment. He caught the subtle movements of two other combatants out the side of his eye. Grid locked in the dance of death hoping to come out victorious. That is what Arsenic desired but wrapped up in his own ambitions he forgot his opponent at hand. He felt the heat still on his face even as he had taken the step backwards, but he wasn’t concerned it was that fight between the knight and the mutant that held his attention.

But then he was snapped back into focus from the screaming of the release of a bullet towards his larger opponents neck. Twisting his weight around as he backpedaled accidentally into the path of the ice shard. Catching a glimpse of the crystalloid object hurtling towards him out of his peripheral vision he rotated himself off to the left, swinging his elbow around towards the face of the woman he had no idea was behind him. These actions taken would cause his head to turn, as he brought his left hand upward to strike the shard with his sword he saw the woman.

As metal met ice, along with the half drow’s slight strength curve he struck the projectile four inches short of the tip. Causing it to be diverted into the air. The cause? The blade dug a diagonal groove like a hook into the chunk. So when the weapon was pulled upward it caused the shard to change direction. The blade raked across the underside of the ice causing a winter powder to loft through the air. The ice passing over his head rising into the air ultimately falling back down to the ground, as it would touch in the warm it began to crack. His head turned slightly catching the woman his sight face flushing luckily his arm missed her but barely he bowed deeply and apologized.

“I am so sorry Madame, I had no intent on attacking you purposely.”

Arsenic, after apologizing drove the pommel of his weapon towards the middle of the spider web cracks spreading through out the ice chunk. His breath discernible as cold air mixed with warm, the metal crashing against ice causing the cracks to become more noticeable on the other side he saw the distorted figure of the man that sent the projectile. Leaping over it would cause Molotov to be the next combatant on his list. His weight shifting mid air holding the weapon reversed as he brought his left hand to thrust forward.

He was protecting the lady, it was wrong he knew. This was a tournament; in such events one was expected to throw their life away if need be for the sake of victory. Almost like a war fought not on equal terms but fair enough terms. Weight shifting haphazardly as he spun through the air sending the blade directly towards the face of Molotov.

His heroic rage pouring on into the blade as he swung the weapon fiercely towards the face of his new opponent, angling himself forward so that the sharp of his weapon would pass clean through flesh and bone. As the weapon neared it sliced through the cigarette as conformation that his weapon was on the right path.

All nervousness dissipated his grip reaffirmed as his own heart burned with the desire to be the victor. His eyes ablaze with ambition, and his sword scream as it parted through the air. Blue locks brushing into his face lightly causing his vision to be fragmented and distorted but strands of hair moved as his descent sped up. Releasing his weapon as he hovered next to him, then he gripped the weapon regularly to improve the force of the strike.

[Damion Shargath]

It continued.

A pleased grin drew itself across Damion’s face as his comrade continued with their plan, something though was odd. Damion had fallen into questioning whether trusting his counterpart would prove as worthwhile. The suspiciously high amount of time Molotov had taken to fire the icy projectile into the halberdier’s direction made him question the advising words of the mutant. As far as the steel clad ex-soldier was concerned there was only one way to find out. It was to continue with their scheme.

“You honestly think you can strike me down with your petty magic!?” Damion roared ferociously, “I’ve seen innocent farmers do a better job at attacking with a hayfork, than you with your pitifully unreliable sorcery, fool!”

For a change there was a certain amount of truth in Damion Shargath’s words, he truly did not hold magic wielders for capable fighters. Nonetheless he knew there was more to Molotov, he could rely on the many stories he had heard or even distantly witnessed back in the frosty lands of Salvar. The frosty lands of Salvar, they probably shared the same temperature as the magical ice projectile aiming for the armored combatant.

A moist surface had gathered upon the cone shaped icicle, acting like a magnet to the dusty clouds it penetrated, losing its shine the further it flew. Soon it would not furthermore appear as the ice-elemental magic that it was, but far more as a geomancer’s summoning of an earthen projectile. Then at a well estimated distance, Damion jolted a good six feet from his current position leftwards. Streaks of sand drifted after him through the air in pretentious manners. Suddenly he became unsure if he could trust his newly acquired comrade. The icicle wasn’t easy to distinguish from beyond the distorting cloud of dust that swirled about him. What if left had been the incorrect direction to dodge, what if the magical missile would tear Damion’s upper half in two? There was no time for second thoughts. The suddenly insecure misanthrope would now have to lay his faith into the hands of another, and he hated every single moment of it.

With a piping noise the matted icicle rushed past his body dividing the dusty cloud beyond in two. Once more the gravely skidding noise sounded as the warrior’s boots made contact with the floor. Immediately Damion spun around and started off into the direction of the blonde haired woman behind. The halberdier thought it best if he’d set in behind the icicle, so that it could act as a dissimulating conduct. Thus he lowered his back, braced the halberd at his side, and followed in behind the trail of the glacial missile. An uplifting feeling came over Damion as he dashed through the cool trail of air the malformed hailstone left behind. Most likely the blonde haired woman, in her aloof behavior, would not notice that there were two dangers closing in. Nor would she probably know that if she was to dodge the prior, namely the sorcerous assault, she would have to deal with another far more versatile threat. The only chance she had to see through this farce was to coincidentally overhear Damion’s footsteps, which were being decisively muffled by the sheer eardrum thrashing roars of the crowd.

There was little the young lady could do. With a simple and quick spin, Damion could lash an area covering sweep into either direction. Then it came, a sundering shock. Before his eyes the bedraggled boy with the blue hair had thwarted their schemata by deflecting the frigid cone.

“How dare this…this insolent fool!?” Damion’s eyelids began to twitch with thoughts of rage as he closed in on the young man, who was now rushing towards his comrade, “You will now feel what it is like, to pay for your ignorance.”

Breaking from the middle of his run Damion twitched his halberd horizontally behind his back. Then, with his right hand he shot its blade outwards before the pointy eared one’s feet. It was Damion’s way of showing a person that they weren’t worth his time, a blunt strike towards them during their passage, before continuing with his original plans. The blade of the halberdier’s weapon would either separate the young man from his feet, or make him stumble to the toes of Molotov. There wasn’t much else he could do, unless of course he wanted to take himself into the air and become a sitting duck for the next ice missile of the mutant.

Nonetheless, the incensed warrior would notice later what exactly his weapon had caused the amateur sword wielder to do. This wasn’t further his concern as he knew Molotov wouldn’t have much trouble with the overzealous oddball. His main object of focus was once again the woman he had been ordained to erase from this battle. With his halberd in a dragging manner he wouldn’t have much time or opportunity to snap it into a proper position. He would have to make the best the young woman’s reaction to him advancing towards her with obviously malignant intentions. Being only the miniscule account of maximally twenty feet away from his destination, this moment would come soon enough.

[Christina Bredith]

Christina was not unaware of the battle as it began to rage. As soon as swords were drawn and iron clanged, her eyes were scanning the arena for her first target. Wise be she who waits for the first strike; that’s what the woman was set upon at the time. While the halberdier and the mutant were busy fighting each other, and with the titanium monstrosity’s attention grasped by the energetic Half-Drow, Christina found herself in an admirable position. She looked at each of her opponents in turn and sized them up. No, was her thought as soon as she looked at the mighty Zieg, who naturally caught her eyes first. There was no chance of penetrating armor like that. She would have to bide her time and wait for him to tire. With three competitors advancing to the next round, Christina knew she could leave that beast of a warrior alone and advance along with him in the end. She could, of course, decide to help him in the attack against Arsenic. There are no bonds as strong as those forged in battle, and by assisting each other they might both find yet another route to victory. But damned if I’m going to trust anyone in here.

Damion and Molotov seemed occupied with each other, much to Christina’s surprise. I guess good will doesn’t go as far as I thought. But the halberdier sure seemed to be taking it a bit over the top. He was acting like he was about to smite some enemy of God, what with the way he was talking, and yet all the cloaked man had done was misinterpret the meaning of the offered cigarette? And what’s worse, his opponent was responding with the same zeal. Like I said, she thought with an amused huff, a who’s who of freaks. Why, then, should the two least-freaky combatants not fight each other? The nervous monk was still unclaimed, and Christina decided that she would change that in a hurry. With a flick of her wrist, she brought Rosebite into a more conventional grip, and leaned back against the wall of the cage while she prepared to charge her new target.

That’s when something caught her attention from the corner of her eye. The light that filtered into the cage had flickered strangely, as though refracting off something crystalline. With her curiosity piqued, Christina turned her head just in time to see the spear of ice racing towards her. Damion had dodged right out of the way, and she was its next unwilling target! The woman’s silver eyes went wide as she saw the projectile’s advance, and her lip twitched. Better think fast! She swung Rosebite again, but her intent was not to hit the icicle – the so-called attack came much too soon for that. Christina merely cut through thin air, and planted the tip of Rosebite’s blade against the soft earth. “Up and awa—”

Her planned escape was interrupted by a different sort of relief. Who would have believed that the excitable Half-Drow would be her accidental guardian angel? The man stumbled into view just as Christina had been about to remove herself from the icicle’s path, and he caught sight of the weapon just in time. Her instincts were thankfully just as good as his, because when Arsenic spun around, she swung her own body along with him, in order to avoid getting belted in this head by his elbow. As it happened, Rosebite was unnecessary in her escape: Arsenic’s weapon provided it for her, sending the icy spear over their heads and out of harm’s way. The man’s apology was unnecessary in Christina’s eyes, and she saluted him with a cheerful grin. “No problem, sweetheart.”

There was no time to say anything more. Even now Christina was aware of the designs of her opponents. Damion wasn’t running in the direction of his assailant – he was chasing the icicle, and she was his target! If there was ever an irregular move in the history of combat, that was it. You never turn your back on an opponent, especially one who just lobbed an icicle at you. The only explanation, then, was that Molotov and Damion were not opponents at all. Should I be… flattered? she wondered.

But now Christina had an ally of her own. She didn’t know how far she could trust Arsenic, but at the very least he was the lesser of seven evils. As soon as Damion’s halberd swung at the Half-Drow’s feet, Christina lashed out with an attack of her own. She slashed her steel blade in a vertical arc in front of her body, and cried, “Scream, Rosebite!”

A silver gem on one side of the blade began to glow, and the orange rune carved into it flared to life. Where Rosebite passed through the air, a trail of blue energy was left behind in the shape of a crescent which raced towards Damion. Hopefully he would be distracted enough by his attack that Christina’s Sonic Sable would go unnoticed until the last minute – at which point its crushing, concussive force would be felt in full. If she knew one thing, it was that breathing at all with crushed plate mail would be quite a feat to behold.

[Molotov]

As Molotov watched the trajectory of his projectile, he cringed as a young warrior got involved. “Just what I needed,” the mutant muttered. “One of those wandering knight type people who run around saving birds they hope put out…” The mutant sighed. Molotov hated knights more than anything else. He eyed this new player curiously, wondering why the would-be hero wasn’t content just to fight a demon general. It was likely that the stranger would be turning towards him now, and the mutant held his metal rod to prepare for the battle.

Still, there was a part of the mutant that wasn’t all that regretful about the fate of the attack. Molotov had kept his eyes focused on that of the blonde as his projectile had headed towards her, and he could tell her confusion. She was not a shapeshifter, nor was she a sorcerer of great power. The mutant didn’t doubt that she would be mincemeat to his ally, and he couldn’t help but feel bad for that. At the very least, the mutant thought her death might be a bit more humane than being gored by a giant ice spike.

“Bloody worry about the big sods in here,” Molotov shouted, offering instruction to his ally. The mutant was ready to defend now, and he waited eagerly for the knight to attack. Already, Molotov could envision the mind-games that he would play against that kind of a kid, the kind that thought to prove himself in the middle of a melee by trying to get a date. For a moment, the mutant contemplated taking off his hood, so that the rookie would know exactly whose ice shard had been deflected.

However the would be hero was upon Molotov before the mutant could recognize it. It was barely all Molotov could do to spin his head away from the sword. Molotov winced, watching as his cigarette was cut in two right before his eyes. “Alright,” the mutant thought angrily. “Earlier on, this wanker was just trying to get a date… but now he’s bloody pissing me off…”

In retaliation, Molotov knew he was going to have to act fast. It didn’t matter exactly what he did, or even how much damage he managed to create, as long as he could get a bit of room. As he watched the blade flash before his eyes, the mutant chose to say absolutely nothing, for he lacked the time to recall any of the snappy things that he had thought to say but a minute ago. His entire attention was focused on a two prong attack, and Molotov started by moving back with his hands for a broad sweep towards his opponent’s thigh. In addition. Molotov attempted to stomp at his opponent’s thigh with the bottom of his boot as he fell back, knowing that the steel chains would catch him from falling too far back.

From there, the mutant knew how to continue. He’d fought far too many young paladins to be particularly overwhelmed by his newfound foe. Molotov didn’t even bother to call for his ally. It would have been overkill against a struggling young knight.

Adrenaline was beginning to surge through Molotov’s body, and the first sword strike had etched itself right into Molotov’s brain. Even though he was confident, the mutant knew he was going to have to stay sharp. It was exactly what he was afraid of, ally or not, Molotov had no choice now but to enter the world of survival.

[Damion Shargath]

A pair of dull gray eyes grew wide at the view of their new endangerment. The time had come to make a quick decision if he wanted to survive. The young woman before Damion had unleashed an impressive wave of force that would prove most difficult to bypass. A massive of cloud sand was rushing towards the acrobatic halberdier, some sort of visible wind gust at its head. Truly, there was not much he could do now aside from being rather sure about not wanting to test the strength of such magic. Nor was there time to think of a conventional method of evasion, the misanthrope would have to think out of the ordinary.

Thus, with a stalling twitch of his blade into ground beside, his feet lifted off the ground. Damion was now trailing a crescent line through the air, the grounded blade posing the axis around which he turned. The sonic beam passed right beneath his arm, its sheer force ruffling his hair and slowing his flight as it went. As he then entered the cloud of smoke it had left behind everything became a shadow beyond the distorting mass.

He was growing visibly annoyed by this fray, for the repetitive dodging of diverse magic was not his understanding of a battle. No doubt, he had been fortunate that his blade had struck against some sort of larger stone within the ground else there would have been no leverage force whatsoever, which then again would have resulted in an involuntary testing of brawn with the sonic beam.

Added a little luck, the sonic beam could now even strike her makeshift savior occupied with assailing Molotov, which is if it wouldn’t deplete of force on the way. With one threat down and another in the figure of a blonde haired woman to go, he plucked his halberd from the ground. His descent began.

“Well, I’m impressed.” Damion mentioned falsely as his feet contacted the ground, his body skidding only few feet from the woman’s range, “…but by the menial looks of you, I don’t see this battle exceeding the time of one minute! Please do at least try to defy my impressions…”

Both he and the woman were now trapped within the synthetic sandstorm. A distorted vision was not something to keep the halberdier from a battle though, as he was more or less used to it. One who resided in Salvar would inevitably learn to attune his eyes to storms of sorts, and this one was barely worth mentioning in comparison. The exceedingly malevolent sociopath was clearly in his element, the only irregularity being his dissonance with this region’s temperature.

Damion could almost distinguish the woman’s figure perfectly among the undulating sands. She stood with pulled blade, a matted figure, little more than six feet away from him and posed a perfect target. Quietly he slid the lower section of his halberd into his right, as well its middle section into his left hand. It was also then that he noticed the damage he had done to his weapon. The fact that the blade had been stalled against a stone in the ground probably didn’t do the somewhat weak material too good. It furthermore possessed no straight edge, instead displayed more of a jagged and wavy fissuring instrument now, and needless to say that Damion preferred a clean cut to his weapons he simply had no time to linger over such trivial disgruntlements. There would have been nothing more abhorring to the violent natured man, than being forced to sidestep another sorcerous assault.

With a grunt of brutish animosity he then lunged himself forth, going for a direct stab at the female’s torso. The problem with such an attack was that it posed easy to deflect, then again hard to completely eliminate. What was to follow, as Damion fully expected this attack to be swiped or dodged by its target, was a brute swing of the butt into his disputant’s lower extremities. This would undoubtedly force the fragile woman to her knees and leave her open for the blade of his halberd. A mechanism of destruction had geared into full throttle, and there was little that could stop it.

“Utterly inferior…” Damion thought with a snarl as he aimed to suppress any thought of being physically attracted to the innocent being in crimson, “ – Nothing more.”