Cage Number Two

[Serilliant]

At the tip of a descending staff stood a tine of solid mythril. Its form was flaccid, gripped uneasily by a frail nobleman foolishly lusting for the thrills of past adventures. The man's gaze that skipped apprehensively down the shaft of his weapon and a short distance across the floor of the arena landed upon the forms of men and women twisted in combat. It was a sound strategy, he had imagined, to keep sidelined, back pressed tightly to the mesh of the enclosure with lance erect and primed to be brandished to fend off any who may approach. In his head was pictured a grandiose figure clad in robes of brilliant azure with weapon readied. But in the eyes of the rabid observers stood an emasculated form in haughty attire with nothing more than a slack strut.

****

It was on the bow of his sailing vessel two days prior to the start of the tournament that a member of his crew asked of him, "Serilliant, why risk your life in a cage of strangers when you have nothing to prove?" He pondered that question for a few moments, and after drawing deep a breath of sea air responded, "because it's not the aristocrats I want to please anymore; it's the warriors and the adventurers who refuse to take me seriously. I once slew a hydra, and now the best I'm known for is a brand of mercantilism. It's not who I am." With that, he drew in one more shallow breath before turning away from the sailor and retiring to his bedchambers.

That night, he dreamed of the Cell. He toyed with images of a giant clad only in a sheepskin draped precariously around his waist. The monster's one single eye was fixed fearlessly upon him. Over its horned head it raised a spiked club doused in the blood, sinew, and flesh of his competitors. The crowd cheered wildly as it lurched closer. Serilliant looked to his right and spotted his sword thrown violently to the side of the arena. It had broken. He looked down and could see his armor pierced, a lance driven cruelly into his gut. He looked back up again and the beast was bringing down his cudgel. Right before the abominable impact, Serilliant awoke.

****

There were no giants of men in this arena now. The feeling of the dream's ominousness persisted, however. He watched a cruel female half-elf as he released three projectiles on three approaching men. For a moment, Serilliant saw her with one eye. When he blinked, the image was gone. He hoisted his partisan more defiantly now, and kept it tuned in the direction of that woman. His eyes darted untrustingly around the arena, looking for an approaching attacker hidden in the shadows. He felt increasing pressure on his back as he pressed harder into the mesh walls, fighting to take in as much of the scene as possible. Unrecognized faces adorned the bodies of all those around him, and Serilliant surveyed their scabbards for any sign of weapons capable of outreaching his. With lance fully erect, the young nobleman held steady, hoping to escape notice and relying on the length of his weapon to keep any potential attacker at bay.

This game was not one of killing, but one of survival.

[Witchblade]

The human was long winded. All he did was talk and for a moment the half-ling wondered if stepping between him and Izvilvin had been a good idea. If this kept up she wasn’t going to get any kind of battling in, all she was going to do was die the horrible death of being talked to death, which was not appealing. If she was going to go down, which wasn’t going to be anytime soon, it was not going to be pretty and it was not going to be so calm. It was going to be on a battlefield nothing the likes of this and definitely not for the entertainment of the human’s below her. Humans she would love to kill right now, especially with all their noise.

Witch didn’t bother to respond to the human, she knew Izvilvin and he was her ally, though she wouldn’t say she trusted him. She never trusted anyone she was just fiercely protective of anyone who she considered an ally. Whatever this human thought he knew she didn’t care, she did care however when his blade suddenly moved from his side. It was a quick attack, or was supposed to be but she stepped out of the way just in time to see Izvilvin run past her and attempt to slice open the human’s stomach, a move she preferred greatly when fighting since no one ever died quickly from it.

When he started talking to her in Drow she opened her senses and invaded his head understanding everything he was telling her. However once the Drow was finished one of the other human competitor’s snuck up behind him Witchblade didn’t have enough time to react.

”Izvilvin, look out!”

She wasn’t used to assaults like this where competitors came at you from every angle and neither was Izvilvin it seemed, he didn’t react quickly enough and the human stabbed him in the shoulder. Her first instinct was to run over and heal him but they were in a melee and her healing took too long and she knew that eventually Izvilvin could be one of her opponents, why give him a helping hand? If they had to fight in the end then so be it, she knew he understood this was a tournament setting and so did she, though she would prefer it another way she could handle it and him.

It was at this moment that the only other female in the cage launched her attack and Witch watched Izvilvin deflect it, she also watched the emotions cross his face and didn’t delve into his head to find out what was going on in there. The female had clearly done something to double cross him but she didn’t care.
Taking out her Titanium dagger, Witch approached the man who had attacked Izvilvin from behind.

”Izzy, you distract him from the front I’ll pay back the attack in kind.”

She knew he probably wanted to do it himself but she didn’t care. Stepping up quietly behind the man, Witch tightened her grip on the rough leather of her mythril dagger, a sinister grin flitting over her face as she attempted to bury the dagger to the hilt in the man’s back.

[Falcon Darkflight]

Canen swallowed hard as he felt The Valiance cut through nothing but air, the force of his swing staggering him out of position almost into a clumsy stumble to the left. He felt his feet shuffle below him, slipping on the stony dirt as if it were like ice, his female opponent sharp enough to use her wits and evade the fierce attack, but now the Nocturn had another problem. Izvilvin, the Drow with which he had journeyed to Fallien with and encountered the Nomad of the Desert Palace, had rushed to Canen's blindside with a great deal of speed and had launched a merciless assault of his own. As one of the Sai's penetrated the pale white skin on Canen's waist, everything seemed to slow down a great deal. The crowd's faces melded into a river of pale liquid, the torchlight simply specks of yellow and gold amongst an ocean of stone and flesh. The pain slowly crawled up his spine and into his brain like a vine of creeper, grasping him suddenly and coldly, and the black liquid of his bloodstream trickled in pungent forks over the surface of the open wound.

Izvilvin was anything but weak, and the force of the attack coupled with Canen's own misbalance was enough to launch him awkwardly against the side of the steel meshing, and bring the Nocturn to ground in a crumpled heap. As he raised his head up from the dirt he saw a watery, blurred ocean of chaos in front of him. Izvilvin had been attacked from behind, and the bitch he had tried to attack was pouring every ounce of effort into defending him. He just couldn't understand it.

Are they so unconfident in their own abilities that they have to depend on each other for survival here?

The cold steel mesh touched the side of his face as he lolled his head back, the cool touch sucking him back into real time. Since his wounding, no one had rushed to take advantage, to get an easy kill. No one had hardly even noticed him fall. Did they deem him unworthy of battle? Was he not even considered a threat? To suffer to deliberation of warriors such as these was an insult he couldn't forgive.

I remember this feeling. Is it the same hate? That familiar Abhorrence?

He slowly clawed his right hand at the honeycombed mesh and used the leverage to pull himself back onto his vertical base, locking his fingers around the hilt of The Valiance slowly and sheathing it into its ivory case on his back, the dull sound of scraping metal completely drowned out by a wave of cheers. By now, the woman whom had stepped in his path had made the mistake of turning her back on him to face another, one he did not recognise, and Canen sought to take the opportunity before it faded. He raised his free right hand into the air and let out a deep sigh, focusing every energy into his arm as he swirled it round, flicking the wrist in a circular motion as the temperature around him plummeted below freezing. Small and thin glistening particles of ice swirled in a majestic dust, colliding with one another to form a cloud of six inch long needles of frozen vapour, and finally remained in stasis a metre in front of their summoner.

Now...I will show you pain. The true, undeniable definition of writhing agony!

The Nocturn, now back to his feet, thrust his palm forward commandingly and the cloud of ice needles thrust forward towards Witch's back, magically propelled by his reserves of inner power. Their razor sharp points shimmered in the light as they shot through the air towards their seemingly defenceless target, whistling in a high pitched drone.

[Walter]

STAB
"tch..."
"Agh!"
FWUMP

It happened faster than Jon could react. He'd stabbed the black-skinned bastard just like he'd planned, and he was sure the drow would be feeling that one until the Cell was over. But the pointy-eared fucker had thrown him off and into the dirt. The glaive that had been aimed for Jon's backside whizzed by harmlessly. He wasn't even aware the crazy bitch had tried to pull something. Keeping his focus where it was at, the scoundrel rolled off his back. Jon wasn't about to let the mutant stab him while he was down.

Jon's left hand brushed against something. Groping the ground, Jon folded his fingers around another weapon; a sai. It had a good solid weight, and he picked it up as he rose from the ground. Straight across from him was the drow, and the look in its eyes said everything. The dark elf wanted Jon to bring it on. Jon cocked his knife-holding arm back. Y'want s'more, huh?! he thought, as his body heated up from the inside. He was going to show that cocky sonovabitch he-

STAB

There was a dagger in Jon's back. His eyes flew open and the wind was forced from his lungs. That stitch-lipped broad had shanked him when he wasn't looking! That bitch! Jon's cheeks flushed in inexplicable humiliation, even as he tried to look past the pain. Almost never, throughout the course of Jon's immortal life, had he been stabbed by a woman.

Without even thinking about it, all of Jon's attention had turned to the half-vampire freak behind him. He didn't consider that the drow was still on his other side; this was the tactical disadvantage of being flanked. Jon sucked in a lungful of air, snarling as he spun around. He bent his neck forward and rushed the girl, intending to slice into her with one of his two weapons. There was no way Jon could know she was being attacked from behind, and that didn't matter either. His rage had settled into the arena, and everything Jon saw was tinted red.

[Izvilvin]

Coming into the cell, Izvilvin had originally thought it would be less chaotic and he would be able to face one fighter at a time, moving at his own pace and keeping composed. But since the beginning of the hectic battle, he had been in the center of a whirlwind of steel, attacked from every possibly direction. It had only been a few moments! He could have prepared better for this, and he knew it, feeling foolish. For now, he would simply rely on his instincts, hoping they would be enough to save his life another dozen times on his way to victory.

The shoulder wound was not as bad as he'd first feared. The pain was excruciating to say the least, but Izvilvin was only hindered by sharp burning sensations as he moved that particular arm, and by some miracle, it did not effect the movement of the limb. It could have been much, much worse, but his quick response to the attack had saved him.

No less excited was the crowd, even if the Drow was still up and fighting. He had been wounded, which meant to many observers that their sacks would soon bulge with more gold. A chant of "kill the drow!" had broken out in some sections of the audience, and if Izvilvin could understand it, it might have thrown him off.

A tingling sensation poked at his forehead, and he heard the voice of Witchblade in his mind as she used her psychic abilities to communicate. He nodded without shifting his eyes from Jon, agreeing with her idea without surrendering to the man that they were working together.

But something in the air stirred, disturbing his senses in some metaphysical way he could not quite grasp.

Izvilvin had seen invocation magic performed perhaps thrice in his life. In Alerar, most magic he learned of was glyph and enchantment-based, few wizards chose to summon particles of the elements to do their dirty work. So it was with some surprise that he observed Canen in his peripheral vision, creating some strange coldness Izvilvin could feel even from this distance. To the Drow's surprise, needles of ice came into existence and whistled through the air toward the back of his mute ally.

"Faer!" He cried to Witchblade, the Drow word for magic. It was all that he could think to say as he charged forward after Jon, who darted at the psychic woman just as the spell was evoked. The man had burst into a run a mere moment after scooping up his bloodied sai.

The bastard back-stabber was looking to trap her between himself and the spell, a rather cunning tactic if it hadn't been completely accidental. Izvilvin himself would have employed the same maneuver were he in the same situation. But unlike him, Jon had a Drow charging behind him to even the odds.

He wanted to throw a sai with all force, but the idea of missing and hitting Witchblade instead stilled his anxious hand. Izvilvin did not get to him in time to stop the immortal's attack, and he cursed himself for it. Rheawien was not his immediate concern, but she was in the back of his mind, a lingering thought that made it hard for the Drow to focus.

[Rheawien]

“See? She’s just playing around a little bit. Trying to make it look good.” the sallow-skinned loanshark spoke again, his stone-cold face breaking into a smirk as three spinning projectiles missed their intended targets and the mass sighed in unison. But only for a brief moment, because the four in the middle of the cage were already going at it again tooth and nail, and there was chance of drawn blood yet.

“Uhm... I’m not so sure boss. She-She seems pretty pissed off.” the fat blob at the usurer’s flank muttered, his hands holding to the brass banister as he strained his eyes to peer further into the cage.

***

Her deadly trio missed despite her telekinetic attempt to guide them immaculately. Some were evaded by pure chance, some by deft dodging, but in the end the three spinning missiles whistled by the three men harmlessly. Rheawien wasn’t terribly surprised by the lack of concrete result. Her homing method was still in the early phases of training and as such far from foolproof. It was an immense strain on her mind to control even one object, let alone moving three in sync, and during such times her focus had to be at its best. Unfortunately, with thousands of nitwits screaming up on the platforms and seven foes that were (or would eventually be) out to get her, her concentration wasn’t at its peak. Not by a long shot. And especially not when she got back-stabbed at the very beginning.

Still, there was plenty enough for her to recall her glaives. The three damascus weapon stopped their revolving in mid air once they missed the three men, then reversed their trajectory and hovered back towards the half-elf. The battle between the four raged on, unhinged, no better then a bar fight by Rhea’s reckoning, with treacherous attacks coming from behind at regular basis. She could’ve joined in, get even more chaos into an already helter-skelter strife, but her mind reiterated that she had to play it smart. Let them wear themselves out by taking on multiple opponents at once. Let them be Letho with his head-on tactics – or rather lack thereof – and rigid battle plans. Once they’re done with each other, she’d pick up the pieces and dispatch of her would-be dispatchers.

By the time the three glaives returned to her side and were now levitating above her head like a trio of oversized hornets, the white-haired woman noticed another combatant. Clad in what looked like a lofty merchant attire, the man looked terribly out of place, a prissy nobleman that lost his way to his manor up in the Government district and wound up in the cage. If it weren’t for the majestic polearm in her feeble wan hands, Rheawien would have mistaken him for the Cell official or something akin to that (though she severely lacked knowledge on whether or not there was supposed to be one within the cage). However, the lance made it clear that this particular spoiled richboy came to compete.

Rhea smirked rather cynically. She hated pompous royalty and their holier-then-thou demeanor.

She left the four to whatever fate had in store for them – making a clear mental note to kill that black-haired bitch if she’s the last one standing – and walked towards the peculiar combatant. Her steps were precarious, intentionally feminine, her hips swaying gently as the three glaives fell behind her back and out of sight. Her left hand still had a telekinetic hold over them, but the power needed to control them was dissipating from her every second. Rhea knew that she had to launch them soon or she would spend too much energy on wielding them.

“Excuse me, sir. You seem rather out of place.” Rheawien spoke to the man, her voice callous, but her smirk was on like an omen. “Maybe I can put you into the right one.”

Her two fingers made a minute, unseeable motion and the three glaives sprung from behind her, one passing by her each side and the third one emerging above their head. The spun again, the sound that was now quite dulcet to the half-elf, and then darted towards the nobleman.

[Krugor]

“Flowers!”

Krugor cried out in a child-like happiness, like a mere infant who first witnessed the loving warmth of a mother. “Pretty flowers!” he cried out again, smiling from head to toe.
The skeleton lay on the ground of the steel cage rolling around in the dirty, yet not really uncomfortable sand. He had his arms covered around his own body and his eyes were tightly closed. The illusionary effects of the famous Gnork mushroom he cooked yesterday hadn’t gone away yet.

“Go away! My flowers!” he said suddenly, changing the sound of his voice to a lesser degree of happiness. The euphoric state of before slowly left his body. Bones started to rattle in their sockets once again as Krugor carefully opened his eyes and tried to get up.

Placing his hands beneath his shoulders and pushing himself upwards he shook his head and took a look at his surroundings. Where was he? He couldn’t quite figure out what was going on. Though it was clear that the place, wherever it was, was really crowded. The undead could hear lots of voices; screaming, roaring and cheering. He rubbed his empty eye sockets, but all he could see was a bright green glow, as if he was looking through sunglasses. Rubbing his eyes again he could swear there were some elephants near him. Krugor could only distinct really vague figures in his surroundings, for the bright glow that seemed to cover everything like a big, warm green blanket, hindering his vision. “Little elephant!” he said, pointing at the figure in front of him; “you took my flowers!”

Clearly not fully aware of what he was doing he sped towards the person in front of him. Waving his hands in the air he raced to the figure, not really knowing if he was closing in or not. But as if he just saw a ghost he instantly stopped. His lower jaw bone literally dropped to the floor as he bended his head a little. Krugor made some crazy noises, much like a man being chocked to death. Realising he lost his jaw he bended over to pick it up. “You’re no mean elephant” the undead said, while reattaching his jaw. “You’re a cute little fat elephant!” he screamed at the woman in front of him, slowly falling back into the careless euphoric state he was in before. Krugor raised both his arms up in an attempt to hug the person. Smiling he stepped forward. “Let me hug you, fatty!” he said in soothing voice, the tip of his tongue revealing through the side of his lips.

Little did he know that there was no elephant. Or even something similar. Though that little fact finally became very clear to him as he stood next to the former “elephant”. The elf like face of a woman became apparent through his blurry vision as he walked up very closely. “Wait. What?” Krugor scratched his pointy, boned fingers over his bald skull, closing his eyes to only leave a small opening for him to look through. He looked intensely at the female in front of him. The person became more and more clear, until he could suddenly see the white-haired elf in front of him, throwing several glaives at other vague figures around her. “Fatty?” he asked confused.

[Serilliant]

The shadow was a dubious ally, prone to betrayal and quick to compromise the defenses of those who sought refuge. It had taken only moments for the shadows to recede and expose the vulnerable Serilliant. He spotted the approach of his assailant rapidly. The woman seemed to taunt him with her femininity, letting three bladed projectiles dance untouched gracefully around her. As they floated, Serilliant's eyes shifted cautiously between each before arriving back at the face of the young woman, and then back to the weapons. His partisan stood straight out from his form as if a tumescent appendage and pointed threateningly at his aggressor. He waited patiently for the emergence of another weapon, figuring the three spinning glaives to be nothing more than showmanship.

And then, as if commanded by the force of pure will, the bladed triad cut through the air toward Serilliant. The attack was sudden, and the reflexes of the faux nobleman forced his body into a slight crouch. With eyes pressed tightly closed, he attempted to duck away from the assault of the first projectile. It cut into the mesh harmlessly but dangerously close to his right temple. The second was, by stroke of luck, deflected by the mythril tip of his lance. Certainly, the blessing of the great white goddess Bes was certainly on Serilliant this day. The third ran itself into the solid prevalida of his breastplate, clanging triumphantly and prompting a thunder of cheers from onlookers, but doing scant damage save for an unattractive scratch on its polished surface.

The assault left Serilliant momentarily breathless, and he eyed the glaive that had fallen to the Cell floor after making contact with his armor. The dull scratch was directly over his heart. Seeing its location caused the man to draw in an abbreviated puff of air as his grip loosened slightly. His gaze ascended to meet the eyes of the attacking woman and, fearing follow-up, he forced himself back to awareness and pleaded with his body to formulate a counterattack.

His subordinate hand left the shaft of his spear and was raised, outstretched, at shoulder height. Serilliant focused on building a bolt of mental energies in the palm of his extended hand. A tiny pocket of air began to grow more dense at his command and with the strength he could muster, Serilliant willed it outward toward the form of the young woman. Supposing that the woman possessed the strength of average human lasses, the energies should have been enough to render her slightly off balance in preparation for his next attack. Assuming her to be a seasoned warrior, Serilliant knew that this may be his only chance to take the upper hand before her superior experience overwhelmed him. Trusting the strength of his metal energies, he then stepped forward, partisan poised, and ready to thrust into her prone body.

[Rheawien]

Rheawien barely had enough time to witness her attacks failing yet again when she was blindsided by another combatant. A very peculiar combatant. He – or rather it – looked like something that ought to be six-feet under and pushing a fair amount of daisies instead of scurrying around the cage and attempting to... hug her? And what did it call her? An elephant? A fat elephant? The thing was clearly out of its mind... Well, if it actually had a mind inside that bony head. Given his current demeanor, Rhea reckoned that what little gray matter the thing might’ve had prior to its death became maggot food a long time ago. After all, he called her fat. Rheawien maybe didn’t work out every day, but elven panache was more then prominent in her curves.

“What the... Get away from me, thing!” the half-elf shouted, and for good measure – Fatty the wretched undead minion dubbed her?! – she fired a sideward kick with her right leg. It was aimed towards the skeleton’s crotch, an instinctive, anti-men assault that The Bitch perfected as of late, and only when it was done it occurred to Rhea that there might be no equipment down there to hurt. Her pride and vanity wanted to add some smarmy remark how telling the women that they are fat animals wasn’t a nice thing to do, but her mentations were curtailed before they became something coherent.

It was a shove that broke her train of thought, an unseen force that originated from the noble spear wielder. It was by no means dangerously forceful, but given the fact that Rheawien still recovered from the lesson she was kicking into the skeleton, it sent her stumbling backwards. Her arms were flinging at her sides, feebly trying to regain the balance she was robbed off. The follow-up came instantly. The spear was thrust at her, aimed to kill and it would probably succeed in that intention if a lesser woman stumbled backwards. Rhea, however, had a cat-like reflexes and an attack that would usually impale her throat like a sausage grazed her skin as she jerked his body sideways, rotating her torso at the very last moment. Blood trickled down her pale skin, descending down her collar bone and disappearing in the depths of her cleavage. A round of cheers exploded through the arena at the sight of drawn blood. And Rheawien was pissed for not being the one who drew it.

Her retribution was swift and relentless. The two hands moved in perfect sync, their movement fluid and resolute as they were guided to her weapons. Her left seized the dagger at her hip. Her right reached above her shoulder and wrapped around the titanium katana. A split second delay. Rhea smirked.

The smaller of the two blades moved first, unsheathed and slashed sideways in a single move that aimed to push the partisan sideways. Whether the two weapons clashed or she struck nothing was irrelevant because her katana came from above, preceded by the smooth sound of the metal blade leaving the scabbard. The slash was aimed to return the favor, immaculately diving towards the base of the nobleman’s neck.

[Krugor]

Krugor’s attempt to cuddle with Rheawien was ended with a hard kick in the genital area. It didn’t hit his groin, nor would it matter if it did, for the skeleton had lost all external signs of manliness long ago. It did, however, hit the undead’s pelvis. The strength of blow immediately dislocated the bone, forcing it to bend slightly backwards. As a result of this the bones of his right leg slowly raised up, making his left a bit longer. Krugor now walked totally crooked, with two legs not the same height anymore.

He was about to ask the woman why she just did that, confused about how such a friendly mammal could make such a dishonorable attack. But it never came to that for Rheawien got attacked by, what seemed like, a spear soaring by. Krugor held his breath as she rotated gracefully around the weapon, preventing it from killing her. He sighed in relief when she was safe. “Good work, elephant” he said. The illusion took him in it’s grasp fully once again as the woman moved farther away from him, for refusing to pay anymore attention at him the elf sped towards her attacker.

The skeleton watched the situation unfold as he tried hard to keep himself standing. He was still drugged and the entire area seemed to rotate wildly. It felt like he was floating on the ocean, like a horseback ride with some minor nausea discomfort. Krugor stumbled after the elf, not moving that fast, for it was really hard to walk around with a dislocated pelvis and one leg now longer than the other. And if that wasn’t enough, the blurry green perception of his surroundings still hadn’t gone away, in fact, it seemed like they grew stronger as his beloved mammal got attacked. He now leaned somewhat sideways and wobbled a bit as he moved to the attacker of his elephant. “Find your own!” he screamed at the figure.

Krugor grabbed the steel pot from his rucksack in one quick motion and raised it up high. Aiming for the man’s head he slammed it down vertically. But without any warning the skeleton’s body snapped the pelvis back into place, forcing Krugor to fall over with rude force. Mumbling he lay on the ground, watching everything move on without him interfering. He picked up the pot laying next to him and threw it with all his might, as if it was a last attempt to save his animal from getting killed. “Go, go cooking pot!” he yelled as he threw the thing towards the battling couple, not really knowing which one of the two it would hit.

After this he forced himself on his feet again and took the slender yew staff, that was attached to his backpack. Leaning heavily on the piece of wood, still feeling quite some pain from his bones snapping in and out of place, he looked intensely around the cage again, getting easily distracted from the battle in front of him. Several other figures where now more apparent and Krugor softly chuckled to himself. “So many animals here. Maybe I should cook them something nice.”