Cage Number Two

[Witchblade]

The blade slid cleanly into the back of the human before her, he hadn’t even sensed or heard her approach. She loved the shock that went through his body, she could feel it, she could sense it and it reminded her of one of the reasons why she loved battling so much. The rush of adrenaline through blood, the clashing of steel, that tiny thought in the back of ones mind that this may be the last, the last of anything and everything. She loved it all.

Sliding the blade from the back of the human, Witch smiled at her handiwork. The cool steel covered and glistening in his blood and dripping from the ends of it, there was no scream of pain and that saddened the half-ling however she would have plenty of cries in this tournament to settle her bloodlust. She could hear the scream of her own in the back of her mind, steadily growing louder and forced into the forefront of her thoughts. She pushed mentqally against it, returning The Malice to the corners and darkers reccesses of her mind that even she kenw nothing about.

If The Malice got a hold of her during this tournament, the amount of damage she could do before someone was able to stop her could be devastating. Powers kept in check could be unleashed and The Malice did not descriminate against anyone she called an 'ally', they would all be killed and she would be locked within her own mind unable to do anything. Then, there was of course the fact that anyone trying to stop her would not nicely knock her unconscious but kill her and she was not yet ready for that journey of her life. Dying was going to be a great adventure when it finally happened to her but right now this was an even greater adventure and she wasn’t through with it yet.

As the human began to turn towards her, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end and Witch had the distinct feeling of growing magic behind her. The thought was verified when Izvilvin yelled a warning at her and rushing forward though she knew he would not make it in time to help, not that it mattered. With the human’s attack on her, Witch stopped her Titanium dagger hearing the metal clang against the floor of the cage. She wrapped her fingers around the wrist of the human and twisted and pulled him in close at the same time. She spun him around, jamming his hand up into the small of his back, which was not against her front, then quickly turned to two of them towards the ice attack. If this work right then the entire force of Canen’s magic wouldn’t even touch her, but would instead hit her knew human shield.

[Serilliant]

Serilliant felt resistance as the force of air he conjured met the tense body of his opponent. Just as one might experience when physically shoving a foe, the sensation of mental struggle was readily apparent to those with psionic abilities. Moments into the push, Serilliant felt his enemy succumb to its compulsion, and she stumbled backward slightly. Realizing an opening, he thrust the brandished polearm at her maw, hoping the brutality of the kill would be enough to ward off any other would-be assailants.

Her intuition was as sharp as a shiv, however, and with a twist she averted the partisan's deadly path. Serilliant felt almost no resistance as the keen mythril blade slid along her collarbone, opening a small gash and tainting the bluish metal with a red hue. Realizing immediately that the mark was missed, he quickly tried to halt the momentum of the attack and recoil for a second strike. Before it could be done, however, light flashed into Serilliant's eyes from twin blades unsheathed and made to expose their cruel, stinging edges. Deciding immediately to abandon a second attack and move to a defensive position, he dropped his dominant hand from the lance's shaft to regain his balance. Before he could be of steady foot, however, the delicate albeit seasoned female made her strike.

A smaller blade, presumably some kind of dagger, embedded itself into a notch on the spear in which wooden shaft and metal tip met and began to force it away. With only one of Serilliant's hands on the weapon, it was easily wrenched away and tumbled unceremoniously to the Cell's floor. The wood collided first sending a dull, reverberating thud through the arena followed by a sharp metallic clang as the blade followed suit. A second chime came almost immediately after the first as if to herald a new arrival. That sound was generated by a curious yet perfectly normal cooking pot that had somehow found its way into the battlefield. The sudden unexpected noise lured Serilliant's attention, as well as the eyes of several onlookers. Both pot and partisan were easily within grasping range, and the man pondered for precious moments whether to rearm himself with his trusty polearm when his attention was rapidly returned to the half-elvan woman now making a second assault.

Those eyes that had been distracted quickly regretted their decision as they spotted a cherry blemish on the shoulder and right bicep of Serilliant's breastplate. An unseen katana had ruthlessly split the air to make contact with the disarmed man's nape. The twist that he had been forced into as a result of his lost weapon became a lifesaving endeavor as the sword narrowly missed Serilliant's head and met instead with collar of his armor. The unfeeling edge of the blade would not be satisfied with failure to feel of blood, however, and still managed to find an exposed trapezius between the plates of the prevalida shoulder. The cut was clean but painful, and Serilliant fell back onto his knees as blood splashed dramatically onto his cheek and forearm as the katana was withdrawn. His shoulder began to grow damp as the gash filled the inside of his armor, and a tiny tributary made its way down his arm, onto his hand, and into the larger puddle formed by both he and his opponent's wounds.

Serilliant knew that he was exposed and vulnerable. His mind turned away from his laceration and toward the schiavona in his scabbard. Summoning his mental energies once again, he willed the weapon from its sheath. Resting the weight of his upper body on his right arm that now reached to the floor, Serilliant grabbed the hilt of his sword and drew it out, flourishing its long blade and preparing to parry any other incoming attack.

From his knees, he knew that his advantage was lost, but concentrated on diverting whatever future blow may descend to give him, then, enough time to return to his feet and repay the wound. The young lass was a capable foe indeed, but in the end, she was still only a woman.

[Walter]

Jon ran across the dirt, nearly blind with rage. All that he could see was the stitch-lipped bitch, and all that Jon wanted to see was his knife plunged deep into her. He ignored everything else, even the stab wound that was bleeding through his stained, greasy tunic. This was the state of mind in which all men make their worst mistakes.

She'd grabbed him. Right when Jon had been close enough to hit her, the damn broad had dropped her dagger and caught Jon's knife hand with a solid grip. And then he was being pulled. The bum didn't even notice; he'd been trying to get close to the half-vampire, and now he was. His knife-hand was no good, so he thrust his free hand, the one with the sai, into the freak as hard as he could. Jon couldn't tell whether or not he hit anything, because the next moment he was spinning around and thrashing.

With far more skill than Jon could claim, the witch twisted his arm behind his back and pushed up. Having died once or twenty times, Jon was used to pain, but it had been a while since he'd felt his bones being forced to move in ways they shouldn't. The strain was intense, and all Jon could do was thrash against the grip of the woman holding him. She was staying away from his sai hand.
"LEGGO!" he shouted, spittle flying from his red face. And then he found himself looking at what was ahead.

Oh, shit. A cloud of blue-white crystals flying toward him. Tiny ice needles that would shred him apart. And he'd just become the bitch's meat-shield.

Oh, shit. Jon bit down on his tongue, trying again to break free of the lock. But there was no time to move, even if he could dislocate his limbs or vanish in a puff of smoke. He didn't have enough time to think.

"Oh SHIT!"

FWOOSH, the wind swept through Jon, and his body was pierced by hundreds of tiny needles of ice. Tiny wounds opened across his chest, some in his face, some in his throat. Some needles dove between his ribs, and plunged through whatever vital organs they happened to be near. These ice needles would melt of course, but not before their damage was done. When the storm of a split-second was over, Jon's body looked like a bloody honeycombed network of entry wounds. He screamed in pain.

Jon would recover from this. He always managed to. But the bleeding was bad, and his body felt like it was on fire from the inside-out. Goin' fixya fuddiss, bitch... Jon felt himself thinking. While still standing, whether or not he was in Witchblade's grip anymore, his vision clouded over and his thoughts became black. Here't comes... Jon collapsed, nothing more than a heavy weight of flesh.

[Witchblade]

A sick, twisted, sinister laugh boiled up from the throat of the half-ling, escaping through her somewhat stitched yet parted lips. She was covered in the blood of the human in front of her and it smelt glorious with every breath she drew through her nostrils. Heck, she could even taste it on her tongue and though a half-ling she may be, she didn’t drink blood but this was still glorious.

The human had taken most of the attack; a few small shards of the ice crystals had escaped her human shield and grazed her skin, one in particular cutting across her cheek where a long line of dark blue blood was flowing down her face. The wound was small, all the shards that the human hadn’t protected her from were small and the cuts were already healing. She could feel the pull of skin over the area, the forming of new cells and the healing as it quickened along on wounds like mosquito bites.

When the human she was holding became nothing more than dead weight in her hand, Witch let him go and watched him fall to the sand covered cage floor below her. Exactly where a human should stay, at her feet. He wasn’t dead, oh no, she could hear the beating of his heart, he was just unconscious and bleeding rather heavily, not that she cared. She did care abut the increasing noise in the stadium though, as the human’s body touched the ground the crowd started growing wild, screaming yelling, calling for more blood to be spilt this day. People thought she was ruthless, they thought her a heartless killer, yet they were the ones cheering along to her victory over this man, whom she’d barely laid a hand on.

“Perfect, absolutely perfect…”

In avoiding one attack she had taken out one of her opponents.

Glancing from the prone position of ‘unconscious human number one’, Witch looked over to ‘still standing human number two’. The one who had fired the magic attack at her in the first place, the one who thought he could get away with it and the one who assumed something like that could actually kill her. Oh, if the human wanted magic, she’d give him magic.

Bending down, Witch grabbed the handle of her Titanium dagger, the worn leather having gone slightly cool without her fingers wrapped around it. Witch did not know much in the way of magic and one of them was too powerful and too draining to use in this situation, she would most likely end up unconscious however the other one was nothing special, still it was fun to play with.

Walking over the human in front of her, Witchblade approached Canen, both her daggers at the ready. Conjuring up her magic, Witch whispered the one word to seal the excitement of the particles dancing around her hands, still holding their daggers.

“Ambross…” Her lips parting only slightly to speak the simple word and not have the stitching tear into her flesh.

Immediately her hands were engulfed in blue flames that did not burn her, in fact all she could feel was a gentle warmth flowing over her skin. Still walking towards Canen, Witch directed the magic to cover the blades her daggers. Within range of the annoying pest before her, Witch slashed at him with her left arm, coming from his hip up to his shoulder, then she flipped her blade around and slashed downwards with the same hand, attempting to stab straight into his throat. Her other hand coming in for the real attack, the one that the others were meant to distract him from and going straight for his bellybutton in an attempt to slide through flesh and then rip out at the waist.

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin shielded himself with both arms as the magic struck, in fear that some ice shrapnel would somehow leap over the two in front of him. When a moment passed, the Drow observed Witchblade standing in triumph and the cowardly human collapsing to the ground. He was shocked to see that Witchblade was able to divert the attack to the backstabber, but was gladdened by it was well.

The woman walked off to continue combat elsewhere, but Izvilvin remained where he was, looking down upon the fallen man who had brought the painful wound to his back. The crowd screamed for blood, screamed for more destruction, and he could feel their enthusiasm coursing through his body. The Drow thought to make sure he was dead, driving a sai into the back of his neck, but decided against it.

He took a quick survey of the arena, those perceptive lavender eyes taking in the surrounding combatants and anything else of note. Izvilvin thought to help Rheawien, who was engaged with a skeletal monster at one point, then a normal-looking human man. The skeletal creature seemed to follow her around, which raised some ire in the Drow for some reason he didn't understand.

With haste, Izvilvin broke into a run toward the creature.

His feet pounded against the steel, the thin layer of sand doing an admirable job of softening his steps despite how furious his approach was. He came from the skeleton's side, leaping high into the air and driving his sai forward butt-first, to try and smash through the creature's skull. The prongs of his weapons would likely do no good against a beast of bones, but the handle could likely induce some kind of trauma to its cranium.

Hopefully, it had a brain.

[Rheawien]

She finally drew blood, but not without difficulties. Even though her dagger achieved its duty faultlessly, preparing the man for a swift execution, her katana met significant resistance on its path to a clean cut. The bastard wore armor, and a remarkably impregnable one at that, her blade sliding down the metal surface until it reached the nook between plates that led her to living tissue. This gave birth to twofold results. Her foe lost his footing due to the pain and the gore, his lance clattering at his flank, and that was good. What wasn’t was the chip that was missing on the perfect cutting edge of her blood-coated weapon. It by no means rendered the katana unusable, but it was a mar that only added several degrees to the downwards slope down which this whole Cell hassle was going. The idiotic speech, the treachery, the cooky undead, the irksome cut at the side of her neck that even now pulsated with just enough prominence to break her every attempt at inviolable concentration... It was all going downhill. But given the fact that Rheawien approached the cage battle with enough cockiness for five combatants, it came as no surprise that she wasn’t able to just amble through her Cell leisurely.

The recognition of the chipped blade disabled her from a follow-up and that consequently wasn’t such a bad course of action. The man before her was down but not out, and his saber was unsheathed momentarily, held defensively as his emerald eyes stood locked on Rhea. Next to them, obviously unaware of either what was going on or where it was, the skeleton persisted with its ramblings, its bony feet on the ground, but its empty head floating in a world of its own. Rheawien was unable to determine whether this was an immaculate ruse or was the thing really a few cards short of a full deck. However, given the fact that they were all here with the sole purpose to see the other die for the pleasure of the crowd, she decided not to take any chances.

With her nicked katana still in her right hand, her left returned the dagger to the scabbard at her hip and replaced the small blade with a whip. The half-elf had no peculiar prowess with the squiggly weapon, but she had no intention to snap the wretched thing like an animal trainer in a circus. Instead, she let it unroll at her side before she swung it in a wide horizontal arc, sending it whistling above the nobleman harmlessly before proceeding towards the skeleton. Rheawien’s initial idea was to wrap the whip around the thing’s leg and give it a good yank, hopefully dislocating the rattling bones once again. However, halfway through her swing, a familiar dark-skinned figure came into picture. Charging like a bull, Izvilvin leapt at the skeleton with an intention to bash its skull. Rhea was surprised by this intervention, but not surprised enough to be unable to withdraw her whiplash. But she let it slide. She let it slide and even lifted it at the last moment to hit the drow instead. Nobody double-crossed her.

“Go fight with your witch!” she said in a bitter tone, regarding the dark elf with a frowning gaze before withdrawing her whip.

Her momentum was gone now, murdered by the bludgeoning appearance of Izvilvin, but she could still launch a hopeful attack at the nobleman. In her right the titanium blade glistened eerily, the cold metal now coated with both the blood and a faint translucent aura. Even though unseen to naked eye, it was her inner energy that coursed through the blade now like a current, substantially strengthening the metal to what would hopefully be enough to defeat the opposition of the armor. Now all that remained for Rhea to do was land another hit and proceed to dispatch the rest. Izvilvin included.

Her whip was once again in motion, swung in a similar manner, only this time it was the man’s blade that was the target instead of a bony leg. It was a move that had deceit and distraction as its prime goal. If it connected successfully, it could enable Rheawien to yank the weapon from the hands of her adversary. If not, it was still an effort that would attract at least some of the man’s attention. Perhaps just enough for him to remain blind to the thrust of her enhanced katana that aimed for the center of the chestplate beneath which was her ultimate goal – the heart.

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin would not get a chance to finish the strike. Rheawien's whip lashed at him like a striking hawk, catching his right eye with its titanium fortified tip. He twisted in midair, dropping both weapons and throwing his hands up to grab at his face. The Drow landed hard and awkward on his feet, but twisted an ankle, tipping over to land on his behind. He screamed out as blood poured over his black fingers, bringing an excited roar from those in the crowd who were close enough to witness it.

His good eye moved to observe Rheawien, turned and facing the other man. The glaive had not been a mistake, he knew that now. The Drow had heard her voice after being hit, though of course he couldn't understand her. Never before had he so wished to speak the common tongue, to know what she said and reply accordingly, or to apologize for whatever he'd done, or to simply understand her sudden desire to hurt him.

But for now, he did not know. All he knew for sure was that his anger consumed him, like flames about a burning tree; it was all he knew at that moment. He could feel the contents of his eye in his hand, but did not want to expose it and feel the blood pour out of his socket. It was a horrifying feeling, far worse than any experience he'd ever been put through.

And yet he stood up. He would not, could not attack Rheawien. If he had done something to turn such a close ally against him, perhaps he deserved the pain. He was not capable of betrayal against a friend, no... He had experienced that before, and didn't wish it upon anyone.

So Izvilvin faced Krugor, drawing the final two sai from the back of his belt. He was shaking, one of his eyes was blind and half destroyed, a bloody mess in the corner of his face, not to mention that he was still in shock. The impact of the whip had numbed half of his face. All he could do was fight on, hoping the feeling would pass in some small way.

He beckoned the skeleton to fight him, waving a sai to signify the challenge. The loss of an eye had wrecked his depth perception, but Izvilvin would not dare quit yet. There was too much to prove now. Not to the audience, and not to Rheawien or Witchblade, but to himself.

[Falcon Darkflight]

Canen had watched with a certain satisfaction as his magical assault proved effective against at least one of the combatants, watching with a sickly smile as that irritating woman held the knife wielder in front of her to absorb the full force of the attack. Each needle pierced the flesh with a stomach turning thwack!, the razor fragments of ice cutting through the skin and tissue like a butcher cutting through a joint with a cleaver. However, as the blue and white particles faded into non existence, the Nocturn's eyes narrowed and locked undeviatingly onto his approaching female adversary.

He had no sooner grown convinced that she was going to unleash something painful upon him than the mysterious blue flames of her magic enveloped and twisted around the blades of her daggers, swirling with a bitter and vengeful aura around their hosts. Canen unsheathed The Valiance quickly; he was too experienced in close quarter combat to let himself be bested by a dagger wielder, no matter how strong she thought she was. His reach with the one and a half metre long, thin and razor edged broadsword would give him that slight edge unless she got in too close.

The first attack was textbook and anticipated. Canen saw the tense muscles of his opponent react in the left arm, and quickly brought in the volak blade of his weapon from his right side in a diagonal arc, tipping away the attack before it could do any damage. The clang of the clashing of metal echoed momentarily throughtout the ampitheatre before drowning in the wave of cheers from the electrified crowd. His right hand still tightly balled by his side, the left locked onto the hilt of his weapon, Canen suddenly snapped forward, clasping his strong free hand around Witch's right wrist, locking the grip tightly and preventing her from attacking a second time.

Canen knew the bright blue flames would cause him pain, but had determined that the burns he would obtain from guarding against her attack were little compared to the writhing agony he would face at the daggers point. He clenched the wrist tighter, biting his bottom lip at the sheer intensity of the numbing, cold burns on his hand.

He had been subjected to such suprises before, but he was taken aback by the sheer amount of strength it had taken to subdue her arm. She was clearly no weakling, and all of a sudden, a feeling of mutual respect coursed through his pained body.

"It seems I was wrong about you..." He said, wincing in pain as the grapple continued, "...you're no weakling after all. But don't think for one moment I will let you get past me..."

With momentum finally on his side, he placed a firm boot into the chest of his adversary and released the deadlock grip on her right wrist, sending her crashing to the floor. As her body skidded slightly across the dirt, the Nocturn, still bleeding a stream of pure black liquid from his painful wound, raised out his palms. The vile, cellophane like material of his patented Black Widow spell spanned out like a dark net, attempting to ensnare Witch in it's deadly, paralysing grasp. If she didn't have her wits about her, she would be in a lot of trouble.

"On the floor. That is where your place is here. Now, show me what you have got!"

[Serilliant]

The crowd responded to something, but it was unclear what. They roared gloriously, but the sound somehow seemed to be coming from somewhere further away. It was as if the entirety of the ruckus was being heard from under water. It took only moments for the cheering to become so far away that it was drowned out by a beating pulse and huffing breath; the only two sounds that could be heard in Serilliant's ears.

The breathing quickened.

His eyes looked around desperately for the source of the sudden muffling. Perhaps the crowd had just willingly fallen silent? They appeared to be cheering still, but in slow motion and noiselessly. He turned and looked straight ahead, surprised to see a disappearing horizon replaced with a vision of the ceiling of the Cell's arena. He felt his back fall against something – the floor, perhaps, or a wall – and heard one quick clinging sound as if armor had struck solid ground. Then the sound was gone, faded to where the crowd had gone.

But the sound of the pulse quickened.

Serilliant's eyes were drawn downward to the source of a strange feeling in his chest. His armor appeared to him to be damaged. A weapon had pierced the breast of the mail superficially, but was still lodged between its plates. The blade looked wicked emerging through the gash, but there had been no feeling of penetrated flesh, so its edge must have met nothing of his chest. The weight of the armor felt so encumbering on his lungs, though, and it made breathing hard. He realized his position was prone and vulnerable, and with the discomfort of his breastplate, he knew he must get to his feet quickly if he were to escape the onslaught of the female half-elf. He shifted, but found his body not complying with his wishes. His arms would not even move. The sensation evoked panic, but his chest failed to heave.

The breathing slowly stopped.

From the cracks in his armor where the blade had cut flowed a river of blood. It tainted the reflective surface of the polished prevalida in a neat line as it traced the delicate curves until it hit the ground. The blood kept coming and stained the ground. The weapon turned red. Serilliant could feel his grip on his sword weaken until it fell helplessly from his hand. He tried to keep hold of it, but his fingers simply would not let him. He felt himself blink several times, trying to clear the obtrusive darkness that started to shroud his vision. He strained to watch as the blood poured out of his armor and down his abdomen and to the floor. It became gradually harder and harder to see with each blink until it seemed that the image itself was all a figment of a tired dream. It must have been a dream, in fact. The feeling that had been so dominant among all of this was the pounding of Serilliant's heart against his breastplate. And now that sensation was starting to fade away. It had to be a dream. And now he was waking up. His eyes closed.

And the sound of the pulse slowly died.

[Krugor]

Krugor hadn’t even seen the mysterious figure charging for him when his elephant suddenly pulled out a whip and hit it in the face. Hard. Completely frozen he watched the two battling. He couldn’t move a muscle or even breathe as he realised how close his attacker had been. If it weren’t for Rheawien he would probably be dead, or at least horribly disfigured. Clinging to his staff in panic he now entered a state of hyperventilating. Heavily breathing and looking around manically he tried to see if there wasn’t anyone else trying to get to him. How could they do this to him? He even wanted to cook them something nice.

“You’re not nice!” he screamed at the dark figure that attacked him. Krugor couldn’t quite grasp what sort of creature it was but it didn’t matter either. It was rude of him to attempt to slice of his head. The skeleton grabbed his staff in one hand now and raised up in front of him, facing the aggressor. Then he held it horizontal in front of his chest with his other hand covering his face. He took a deep breath.

Then suddenly he spun around 360 degrees and pointed the staff at Izvilvin. The mushroom that decorated the staff at it’s tip fell off and after a little bump it lay still on the ground. But not for long as it slowly started to grow. And grow, and grow. It didn’t stop growing until it was at least the size of a horse. The giant mushroom shook a little, then charged straight forward to the Drow. Moving at an extremely quick pace the massive thing clearly had the intention of taking down the man once and for all.

But as Krugor watched his beloved decoration do its mad charging he could feel something was wrong. It didn’t feel like the other times. Did something went wrong? The mushroom now looked much more aggressive and for a minute Krugor thought it would smash right through the cage if it kept up this pace. But that wouldn’t be possible for the thing always acted like a ball and even if it would miss his target it would probably just bounce back.

Bounce back? Krugor suddenly realised I need to get the hell out of here! As fast as the wreckage that he called his body would take him he moved away. Looking around desperately for a place that would be safe it slowly sunk into him. I’m in a cage!

There would be no place to hide and if the mushroom didn’t hit the Drow it would be a dangerous situation for everyone in the cage, for there was no way to control the thing after that. Krugor grabbed an iron spoon from his cooking set and faced his former attacker once again. It might be his last chance for things would get hectic the longer he waited. He charged forward, spoon in front of him. Slashing it sideways as if the tableware was a sword he yelled; “I’m going to smash you!”