Cage Number Three

[Ther]

(Roster:

Abenaki
Komosatuo
Artifex Felicis
Cyrus the Virus
Modrue
Shadar
Dissinger
Arawn )

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Cyrus the virus]

It had been so long since Luc treated himself to a battle that he'd forgotten about the glory it offered, especially when the struggle is presented on a grand stage. A tournament, whether it be Serenti or the LCC, often provided the mage with a quick ego boost to tide him over for months, but The Cell presented him with a greater reason to join: there was a live audience.

An assured smile splayed across his lips, Luc was convinced that the entire population of the amphitheatre, save for his opponents within the cage of course, was cheering for him. Figuring he'd done enough in his life to earn such a wide reputation, the man with the cape didn't question the fact that he was the main attraction in the cell. And why should he? Looking over the others, he could only put a name on one of them.

Luc was intrigued to see that one man, Seth Dahlios. Their last encounter had been less than pleasant to say the least, particularly in the way it came about and the events that followed. They'd come across each other in a bar in Radasanth, where Seth had taken it upon himself to mock the mage, mimicking his speech among other things. Luc brought the former thief outside with the intention of slaying the drunken fool in front of his newfound admirers, perhaps even wanting to deface the corpse afterward and further the message. Yet even drunk as he was Seth had proven himself formidable. Luc crumbled in the face of the powerful, even frightening Hex Magic, and ended up walking away from the experience with a strong desire to learn more about Althanas' different schools of spellcasting.

In truth, reliving the experience in his mind's eye brought Luc's blood to the brink of boiling, and those primal urges to simply do away with the Hex Mage rose up again. The feeling collapsed in the face of the roaring crowd, however, as the sound once again broke through Luc's thoughts to bring a grin to his face.

He kept his eyes away from Seth, not wanting to have to deal with the Hex Mage until it was necessary. Perhaps Dahlios wouldn't attack him until it was down to the wire. Luc had to hope for that very situation; he could not yet feel confident in having to deal with those horrible spells.

The sun pelted him with rays, bringing the first beads of sweat to the brow of the young mage, quickly wiped away by a gloved hand. He could hear the young announcer well, and by the rising tone of his voice Luc deduced that the speech was nearing its end.

A green aura surrounded him -- glowing about a quarter-inch from his body -- as Stoneskin was cast. No sense in taking chances, he thought, and considering how many times a tournament opponent had surprised him, it was a rather good idea. He thought about casting a Spell Absorb enchantment on a nearby opponent's piece of equipment, but decided to save the spell for a better time, perhaps when he found out who, if anyone in the cage, could use magic.

He didn't draw his blade, nor did he move from his spot near the edge of the steel cell. Rather, Luc waited, emerald eyes darting about the nearby foes, whether furry or drow vampire. Making the first move would single him out, not to mention make his significant powers known to the others, drawing a collective attack. Needless to say, that was not what Luc wanted.

[Arawn]

The river of life flows differently for every being. For some, it is slow and calm from its birth to its delta, where all released souls eventually merged into the ethereal sea. For others, it twisted and coiled at odd moments of its path, often spilling over its banks. For Hikari Ashigaru, existence in the last few months had been naught but struggling against overpowering rapids threatening to suffocate him under their chaotic white foam. However, the white warrior had never been one to go down without a fight. His incomparable will drove him to fight for what he believed to be so rightfully his all this time. He had battled tirelessly for the sovereign control of his body against the vampiric essence stirring within him. The war was still being waged, even now. It was a ceaseless battle with the most diligent of foes. At the darkest moments of the conflict, the vampire had even managed to overthrow Hikari’s control completely.

“But not today…” the drow said aloud to no one in particular, his dark eyes turned upwards toward the shining sun that had proven a great ally in his internal strife.

It was the vampire’s way to shun daylight above all things, preferring to lurk in shadow. This fact was the source of Hikari’s confidence as he looked at the faces of his fellow competitors, returned to a familiar setting at long last. Arawn had no chance to show himself in the well-lit cage at the center of the amphitheater. Hikari would govern his own form without resistance, for once. It would be just as the last time the Cell tournament had been held. At least, that’s what the drow hoped. He had been a finalist then, elevated among his peers to a place of such tribute as he had only dreamed of before. He recalled how he had felt then, without question the most rewarding moment of his life to date. Thanks to Arawn, he’d almost forsaken all hopes of similar accomplishment.

Yet, here he was! The thought kept a wide smile plastered on his otherwise unwelcomingly harsh face, most uncharacteristic for Hikari as anyone who knew him would know. He was placed in his cage with seven others, only three of which would be advancing to the next tier. Hikari stretched his arms and legs like a runner preparing for a sprint, completely unarmed as he awaited the commencement of their host’s speech. His upper body was completely bare, unnaturally white skin glistening for all to see. Of his opponents, he recognized only the one, Seth Dahlios. A pompous thief with delusions of grandeur, Hikari had once had the distinct pleasure of humiliating him in the Citadel ages ago. The rest were unknown factors in the day’s equation.

Anything can happen.

With his grin still in place, Hikari turned his eyes to the gathered crowd in the stands beyond the steel mesh. They cheered mightily, several directing their adulation towards him. It was gratifying to see he was still well remembered for conquering his adversaries in the last Cell, his features unmistakable in the land. Still there was on looking on his battle that was disapproving of his being there. His sole companion, Argen, was disguised as a Radasanthian human spectator. Blending effortlessly in the crowd, he kept a close eye on his master. Hikari had refused to bring his enchanted cloak, despite the dragon’s wishes that he take along some security. The LCC had proven it too much of a weakness so long as Arawn dwelled within Hikari. Besides, the drow had participated before without such a garment. His black diamond, too, was distinctly lacking. He was as he was all that time ago, depending solely on his powers.

Then Mendan Kinnity began to address the mass of individuals at large. It was when she mentioned honor in such a place of prominence that the white warrior’s smile faltered. The actions of his darker half still came back to haunt him, flashes of the slaughter of so many innocents for his feeding rising from the depths of his mind. A wave of revulsion overtook him as he recalled the taste of their blood trickling its way down his inviting gullet and he swallowed hard to keep it down, traces of his smile suddenly vanishing. Who was he to think of honor after all he had done? No victory now would redeem his actions. Yet, it had not been by his will that others died. Looking at his hands, he thought of how they became claw-like for Arawn, eager to rend flesh. It was his body that preformed those acts, but was his soul accountable for another’s sins?

He noticed a silence and realized the speech had come to an end. The battle had begun.

“It’s not my fault,” Hikari muttered.

Even in this sunlit arena, he was never truly free of Arawn. His content mood moments ago was now replaced with a chilled determination to prove himself for what he was, though even he was not sure of what that might be. He merely prayed it was not ‘monster’.

[Abenaki]

Jada's heart was racing, his blood pounding in his temples. With the sun beating down upon the confined space he shared with several other warriors and with the anxiety in his heart coursing through his veins, sweat was beading on his brow and chest. The waiting was killing him, tightening each and every muscle in his body like the coiling of a spring...

For two days Jada had been waiting for this feeling. Two restless days spent recuperating from his recently completed battle with the warrior Xanith. There had been too many mistakes made in the battle, by both sides perhaps, but Jada could only identify his own shortcomings in that short but eventful conflict. Fighting with Xanith in the bowels of the famed Citadel had brought about a swift and profound change in the young warrior. Jada knew now that he was not nearly the warrior he had imagined himself. Amongst his own people he had fancied himself as a great champion, but here amongst all the strange and wonderful peoples of Radasanth he was nothing.

It wasn't only the prospect of the coming battle, however, that was bothering the warrior. So used to the open sky and the freedom of the wilderness, Jada was beginning to find that being confined inside this metal cage was irking him. There was a small voice in the back of his mind reminding him that the only reason he had come to Radasanth was to find and rescue those of his people who had been taken away as slaves. It was the same small voice that was also reminding him that those people, those he had come to save, were probably also trapped in a cage. Yet that cage was different for them. They could not fight their way out and earn their freedom by defeating everyone else in the cage with them.

That voice was putting the warrior on edge, and that feeling was only intensified by the other warriors spaced out around him...

Jada shook his head, displacing the sweat that was congregating just above his eyes. His hand strayed to the hilt of the weapon hanging from his belt. It was his only weapon, and compared to the numerous and sometimes wondrous looking weapons waiting by the sides of his fellows, it was horribly out of place. Jada found himself wondering how long the old, worn weapon would hold up should he find himself locked in a duel against some of those weapons around him. In addition to his shortcomings in the weapons department, Jada was also painfully aware that he was more than under equipped in terms of protection as compared to his fellow combatants. Shirts, cloaks, and a variety of other adornments crafted from metals and materials he couldn't identify protected their respective wearers. Jada had only his buckskin shorts, and nothing more, making him horribly vulnerable by comparison.

There was a voice floating into the cage from somewhere outside it, probably the organizer or conductor of the event Jada now found himself a part of. The warrior wasn't paying any attention to that voice, however, for he was so focused on even the slightest twitches and movements of his opponents that he couldn't be bothered to focus on making sense of the language he had only recently come to know. Of special interest to the warrior was the man almost directly across the cage from him, who was beginning to glow a shade of green...

What have I gotten myself into? Jada thought anxiously, as he rose up onto the balls of his feet and shook out his tense muscles. He would need to be limber for this fight, and probably more than a little lucky as well. Lucky meaning that his well armed and armored opponents would hopefully dismiss the under equipped warrior as a mere nuisance, and focus on more threatening opponents...

[Modrue]

The spidermagi turned over a small orb, its depths as dark as the surroundings. An acidic hiss slipped from her lipless mouth as diseased and blighted hand stroked the crystal. The orb was everything. It was sight for the eyeless, hearing for the earless, and speech for the tongueless. In the cave, it was the N’jalian Spidermagi’s link to the outside world.

{“The Accursed moves again.”} Instead of words the communication came through a more telepathic link between the magi’s. The one with the orb pulled away from its abyssal depth, placing the prized crystal in its patch of thick moss once again. She already knew he was moving, already knew the demon had entered, as directed, the fickle tournament on Althanas. {“The Mistress is pleased.”}

The blank face of the twisted follower of N’jal turned as the six spider-limbs of her lower half skittered across the wall of the cave. In the distance an underground waterfall from the aquifer offered what little serenity the perverse Children of N’jal could elicit from it. It meant little to them, in the most part, but for a steady increase in humidity within the caves – and occasionally fish.

On the other side of the small cave, which was used solely to commune with the goddess N’jal, the female spidermagi dropped from the ceiling and moved out of the cave. It was time to alert the high priestess of the movement. It was time to twist their puppet in his battle against humanity.
~+|+~

To all sides the cheering and jeering of the crowd resounded.

It was a conglomeration of humanity, a jumble of rich and poor, weak and strong. The sound was deafening, and a slow sigh passed the thin, pale lips of the tainted demon. He raised his deep crimson eyes long enough to spot the ‘sponsor’ of the event, a wealthy person of some grand prestige. Modrue had forgotten his name almost as soon as he had heard it; the very idea of allowing the man to sponsor the next round was ludicrous to the demon. However, the event creators saw no harm in allowing one of the most prominent people of the island of Corone the opportunity to inflate his own ego.

“Humanity,” he sighed under his breath as he opened the front of his leather coat and loosened the cuffs of the sleeves. The weighted coat was as still as death despite the slow movement of its master. The muted light from overhead flickered across the titanium gloves that rested across the demons fists. “Pride will be their downfall yet…”

Behind the demon the closed entranceway to the cage was shut and sealed, there would be no escape for the weak. A cruel, toothy grin steeled itself, his thin lips parting ever so slightly. On either flank and before him the other seven in the ‘cell’ waited on borrowed time as the sponsor finished his speech. Modrue gave little more respect to the man speaking then he did the dusty, rock beneath his feet.

“Honor… mercy… words used by the weak to justify their inabilities.” The demon pondered slowly on which opponent would cry for mercy first, which would plead for the honor of the honor-less. He clicked his gloved hands together as he allowed the toothy grin to rise a bit further.

Whispers of glory and fame mumbled in the back of his mind. Murmurs of power and the promises of wealthy satiated the greedy lust. Modrue had been promised a good turn in the tournament, and with it a spurt in power that would be unlike any other. The shadow goddess inside his head had spoken, what she said was truth, what she said would come true.

[Shadar]

((I’ll be doing OOC notes on the illusions just to make sure people don’t get confused and think I’m really ripping holes in dimensions and all that. Please, no metagaming with this knowledge.))

Heh, he’s not here. Looks like you wasted your time.

He’ll be here if he knows what he’s doing. It would be out of character to miss this, Shadar explained to Jackal, who was currently nothing more than a voice in his head.

If you say so, Spiderman.

“Spiderman?” the half-elf mouthed aloud, trying to figure out what the dream demon was referring to. Unlike the other competitors, he wasn’t just standing around. He was up in a ceiling corner of the cage, his feet and hands pressed to the metal mesh for comfort, not for need. That must have been the reference.

“Spiderman?” echoed Brigitte as she put her face close to Shadar’s. Her buxom harpy form was curled next to him as best she could while anchoring her talons in the mesh. Curiously, she cocked her head to one side, which caused her long red hair to spill over her shoulder and obscure completely his view of their opponents.

Shadar found himself biting his tongue to avoid shooing her out of the way. The tension must have been getting to him if he even considered it. Though, it was understandable. After searching half of Corone for this one who had convinced many that he was Yari Rafanas, then walking into a cage full of bloodthirsty hero-wannabes, he was expecting to have some luck on his side and see a glimmer of his target. But, fate didn’t like him these days.

Closing his eyes, Shadar compensated. He looked at their souls. The picture was ringed by a thick, steaming glow. That was the audience, each member nothing more than a leech. They were the kinds of people who wanted the thrill of being on a battlefield, yet were too cowardly to put themselves in any real danger. If the real Yari was here, depending on what mood he was in, he’d either give them a show they’d never forget or rob them blind, probably both. Shadar just wanted to flood the place and watch their heavy gold-filled pockets drag them to the bottom. But, he couldn’t focus on them. His objectives were the others in the cage. In this dark space, they appeared as wispy ovals of light with fainter cones of light issuing from the head areas. That was where their thoughts were directed, essentially where they were looking. At the moment, each humanoid spotlight was snapping about too fast to keep track of in all the afterglow. Him and the harpy weren’t targets… yet.

Brigitte, upon receiving no answer from Shadar in the last few seconds, turned to look over the others. “I don’t see any spiders.”

“Jackal’s nonsense,” Shadar responded as he opened his eyes. In that first instant, they were pure black, but they quickly returned to normal as his real vision returned. “Don’t ask me to make sense of it, cause we both know that’s impossible.”

The harpy grimaced, though with a touch of sympathy, and leaned back against the steel again. As she scanned the area, she appeared more agitated. Just mentioning Jackal tended to have that effect on her. “When can we fight them?” she asked with an audible amount of pleasure at the idea. Her answer came not from Shadar, but from the backer of this overblown ego-trip. At the word “mercy”, she chuckled and glared harder at the combatants. Her eyes narrowed for a moment and, with another quizzical tilt of the head, she blurted out, “Isn’t that Seth?”

Shadar let out a startled, “What?” as he followed her gaze. There, locked in a cage with him, was the very man who had first told him Yari was back. Everyone who believed that story was a deluded fool, but Seth stood out. He actually served under that imposter, and he had enough of an ego that he wouldn’t listen to reason. Because of that, Shadar had given him a gift last time they met. “Hey!” he shouted disdainfully, “How’s the scar? Hope I didn’t mark up your pretty face too bad.” The laugh that followed suited his newfound smile perfectly; bitter, maniacal, and very dangerous.

[Artifex Felicis]

A lot of tournaments had gone by, and the grandmaster had taken part in quite a few of them, performing above and beyond what others had thought of him. He had risen, taking third place in the Magus Cup in Scara Brae, helped to save the elfin homelands from the Undead menace during the Adventurer's Crown, and performed a major upset during the Lornius Corporate Challenge. Bumps, bruises, scrapes and cuts all had been inflicted upon him upon his journey as he went along the path he had chosen. The Cell however, was different than the others in a way he did not expect. It felt almost clean in a way, more real than simply fighting some people in strange arenas and strange restrictions. The cat boy had not seen war, but he had doubts there was ever a time when there was true rest in the middle of the battle. Here in this arena would decide if the cat boy truly could fight, or if he was simply kidding himself.

The soft, yet strangely feel hard of the yarn in his hands was comforting in the cage. He could have fought the battle with everyone else with just tooth and nail, but something in him told him this was not going to be easy in any respect. . A steel mesh wall was looped around in a circle, enclosing the cat boy and the other seven combatants within it. The dirt floor was as clean as it could be, though the cat boy doubted it would stay that way for long. The yarn strands coiled around his hands, hiding them for their true purpose. The others in the Cell were all unknown to him, though he had seen enough battles to guess some of the other combatants. There was at least one mage he could pick out, and two of them were easily close fighters. A foolish grin played across his face as the roar of the crowd continued. He would have enjoyed hearing his opponents movement and taunts. There wasn't many things better than simply making someone eat their words.

The call for the Cell to begin was made over the roar of the crowd, and there was almost a silence within the battlefield itself. Not one of the fighters so much as twitched at the moment, each waiting for the rest to make their move. Slowly, making sure none of the others broke the silence and attacked him, his paw crept into his pocket, drawing out a shining steel weapon. He pulled at the string attached to the middle, letting the yo-yo drop to its limit. The crowd roared for them to fight to begin as the cat boy held the yo-yo at the ready again. He licked his dry lips, anxious at the moment and glad that he had donned light clothes instead of his baggy ones.

There was a very good thing about being an underdog. There was no ugly politics to worry about. No one offered him money, weapons, power or gave him threats before the battle. Nor for that matter did he have any true fans in the audience. They were all there simply for the fight. To see the warriors kill and be killed. He grinned again, thinking that he may have been the only person within the arena there just to fight. There were no thoughts of redemption or of fame clouding the boy's eyes. He had no tied to any of the others within the cage, and there was nothing he stood to lose.

He sidestepped slowly again, swinging the yo-yo around. It went slowly at first, barely making the string it was attached to taut. It began to swing faster and faster, looking like a shining blur in the sun. The cat boy was not used to using the toy as he was now, but that didn't matter. He let go of the shining yo-yo, the steel head flying towards the man with the green aura. All the Cell needed was a chip in the dam, then the flood of fighting would begin.

((I thnk it'll be a bit easier to just do it this way. Steel yoyo flying towards Cyrus. Weeee!))

[Komosatuo]

He should have never left home.

Home was where there was peace. Home was there was quiet. Home was where there was safety.

There was nothing of that here.

Here there was war. There was noise. There was danger. Here, there was The Cell.

So much was The Cell that it seemed no mouth could be silenced. Each flapped freely, spilling mounds of information from their bowels and each providing a more detailed insight as to what exactly it was he who wished he hadn't left home, was now currently facing.

Eight seasoned and battle hardened foes, locked down tight in a restricting steel mesh cage no larger than a tavern common room. At least, that was how it felt.

The rules? Survive and kill whoever you could, however you could.

It was a familiar scenario, but one that he hadn't been faced with yet. Even the graduation challenge at the compound hadn't been this brutal. He could see though, now, why it was the graduation ceremony at the compound was formed as it was.

The compound taught you how to be quick. Think on your feet. Remain alert under severe pressure and under extreme odds. He was glad now that he had found the compound as a child, it taught him a valuable lesson. A lesson that he was going to have to put into effect on this day, if he was to survive the night.

He opened his pale gray eyes and glanced around at the seven other combatants occupying the cage along with him. One, a lean human of medium height, glowed with a strange green light. He made a mental note to discover what this light entailed. Was it a physical enhancement? Perhaps an enchantment, making them harder to hit? He didn't let his gaze or his thoughts linger long on the man though; he turned his gaze else where.

The cat man. Quick, agile and deft with small arms. He had heard of him, from the tongues of the many that talked of the cell. He didn't know his name; names were of no importance to him however. You didn't need to know the name of every man you killed. The cat man might make a worthy opponent. Again he didn't let his mind linger and shifted his gaze.

He lifted an eyebrow at the next man. A drow? Here? This must be the one they all spoke of as the one they thought too win this time around. This, time around? So, the drow had been here before, and had placed close to the top. He was better off avoiding this one. He knew his limits and he didn't boast or boost them. That only led to a swift and merciless death. His gaze shifted, content that he knew all he needed to know of the drow.

Again his eyebrow lifted, but not because the next was a half-elf. It was because beside it, was a very large winged creature. He searched his mind for a name for the creature but could not find one. Still, the half-elf and his winged creature presented a major challenge. To have assistance from the air was a great advantage and one that must be dealt with swiftly. He made a mental note to prepare a few special items for the creature, just in case. He shifted his gaze and let it come to rest on a very peculiar individual.

Barbarian. That was the first word that came to mind when he set eyes on the bald, massive humanoid creature. But after a few moments of closer scrutiny of the creature did he realize that it was more like a daemon than anything else. The pointed ears and hollow, crimson eyes he had seen so very often in books that were devoted completely to the damned kind. He was slightly set back on the fact that he did not see any scales, daemons normally had scales but he thought that perhaps they were beneath the creatures clothes. It was probably smart to hide such a deciding feature, conserve its identity. Although the ears and eyes were valuable hints. His gaze shifted.

The next occupant was a human, young and of height and weight. He was also dancing on the tips of his toes, alert and ready for anything. That was when he noticed something odd about the way the human was acting. He was second doubting himself. This much was obvious in the way he shook his body, loosening muscles that should already have been stretched and loosened minutes before. The human was weak. A perfect target. He let his gaze shift once more and let it come to rest on the last individual of the cage.

He could only describe the man as, sad. Eternally sad, but all the same, very alert and terse. The man was an excellent warrior, this much was learned from the great many waggling tongues. The man was a major threat, one that he would have to avoid until the very end, should he survive that long. His gaze shifted once more, but this time to a speaker who was just coming forth.

The words that pored from the speakers mouth were of no concern to him. He didn't want to be distracted. His gaze fell back to others and he smiled again. He paused, letting the speaker continue to drone on, and slowly, inconspicuously, reached into two hidden pouches on either side of his thighs. From these pouches he pulled three weapons. One throwing knife in his left hand, and two throwing stars in his right. He leaned further back and tensed his legs and arms, preparing to throw.

The speaker’s voice stopped and all around the cage the waggling tongues began to scream and shout. The fight had begun and was proven such when the cat man sprang into action like a coiled spring. A shining mass of something flew from his hand, straight toward the man that glowed green and he smiled in spite of himself. This was the perfect distraction. Now it was his turn to uncoil like a loosed spring.

He tensed his calves and pushed up off the mesh of the cage with his elbows and back, bringing himself into a full and upright position almost instantly. As he rose he swung his right arm across his chest, flicking the two stars into throwing positions as he did so, and in one smooth motion threw them as hard as he could, straight for the winged creature beside the half-elf. Letting the forward motion of his right-handed throw propel him forward a single step, he twisted his left hand around to grip the knife in a throwing position, wrapped it around his chest and let it fly as well. Only, in the direction of the young human who was gazing at the man glowing green.

He took a second step and instantly dropped into a defensive stance, arms up and legs bent slightly, ready for almost anything. His smile never faltered. The greatest moment of his life had just begun, and Komosatuo Isachi Satuo wasn't one to go down without a fight.

[Shadar]

It was a pity. Shadar wouldn’t get to enjoy Seth’s response, for he was distracted by the sudden attention upon him. Even though he wasn’t immersed in soul sight at the moment, concentration as intent as someone aiming a projectile was like a ray of moonlight across his vision. There was enough time to follow the path of thought to a man wrapped in black silk. He had just risen, but two pieces of metal were already in his hand. Shadar tensed to dodge, which would be easy since it was a more flippant than focused attack. But, as the shurikens left the attacker’s hand, he noticed that the concentration was not directed at him. It drifted off to his side, directly at Brigitte.

Noticing Shadar’s sudden tension, Brigitte compressed her legs and lay her wings at her sides as opposed to wrapped about her as they had been. Moving with such desperate exertion that he drifted away from the wall, he swept an arm up in front of her. From the elbow-length black glove, a large square of mythril chain mail unfurled and intercepted the shurikens. Harmlessly, they tinked off the metal curtain and fell to the ground. Brigitte, her eyes wide, watched them fall before her as the mythril was pulled back up into the inky darkness of the gloves.

“I think it started,” Shadar said sarcastically, though with a tone of “You’re welcome” as he drifted away from the wall. An idea struck him, then. Instead of letting it be known that he could practically fly, he’d put Jackal’s suggestion to good use. The instant that he began to tilt backwards, when those below would expect him to begin plummeting, a long, thin leg shot out from his side. It seemed to sprout from his sleeveless coat, for it was the same color and texture. With a disturbing sound of flesh thumping metal, the leg latched onto the ceiling and Shadar swayed forward under it. More legs shot out, then, until there were two on each side. The half-elf laughed again as he hung there like it was natural. “You picked the wrong target, ninja,” he spat. His shoulders tensed, his eyes narrowed, and he extended both arms out to the sides. A glistening, two foot long, black claw grew from each fingertip like bones pressing through the skin.

Suddenly, from behind him, there came an ear-piercing, eagle-like battle cry that was harsh enough to make him wince. Brigitte had collected her wits and was apparently going to take things into her own hands, or wings as it were. Stepping from foothold to foothold, she quickly moved around Shadar amid the rhythm of creaking steel and launched herself into the air. For just an instant, she hung in front of him with near-golden wings spread majestically. Then, she collapsed her wings around her and dropped, screaming her shrill serenade all the way down. Right in front of the man in black, she snapped them out and hooked upward in the air with both taloned feet going for his shoulders.

The half-elf was on the move too. With heavy, rattling footfalls, he used the spider legs to sprint across the wall until he was directly above the ninja in the instant that Brigitte and him would meet. His right hand was tensed over his head and the claws began to change. Their bases narrowed until they were almost bending with just the force of gravity. Should the ninja dodge, or even if Brigitte succeeded in lifting him skyward, he would find those five darts flying toward his torso.

((Spider legs (both visual and sound) are illusions, he's actually flying in a jagged pattern to simulate walking with them. The claws/darts are very real. Anyone who knows his illusion tricks (Seth only for the moment) can see some transparency to them if they concentrate.))

[Abenaki]

Stay calm. Jada reminded himself. Stay focused. Don't get caught up in any one duel with any one opponent...

After having assessed each of his opponents as best he could, Jada had decided that the best course of action was not to get primarily involved with any of them. Any of the other combatants, even at first glance, could prove themselves to be more than a handful for the young warrior. Also, Jada had reasoned, that in a melee involving so many combatants it would be far too easy for any one of them to come in from the side or from behind and dispatch him if he was too involved with any one person. If he was going to survive this, Jada needed to be flexible. He needed to be the one dispatching enemies as they preoccupied themselves with the others...

Every enemy that is but for the man easily resting in one of the upper corners of the cage. Something about that man spoke of power that Jada could not match. Hell, it might have even been the fact that the man was suspended nonchalantly from the ceiling that gave Jada that impression...

Then movement caught the attention of the warrior’s keen senses. A small metallic object on a string had descended at the side of the one combatant that seemed more cat that man. His appearance was unnerving to Jada, who had never seen anything like him before; but not nearly unnerving enough to dissuade the warrior from his suddenly decided course of action...

There was no warning. No war cries, no taunts, not even a single introduction by any one of the combatants. It was as if something had startled everyone at once, jerking them out of their private conversations with themselves and throwing them into motion. In the blink of an eye the cat-man was swinging the metallic object, another man was throwing something in the direction of the suspended man's corner, and Jada was charging towards the cat-man.

Were he not already in motion, and not currently focused on the immediate task at hand, Jada might have noticed that a second projectile had gone flying in the general direction of where he had been standing not a second before. Yet, as it were, he was totally oblivious to the hostile intentions of his fellow combatant. Instead he was pulling his sword free as the cat-man launched the object at the end of the string in the direction of the man Jada had focused on earlier. The man with the odd green glow that had been standing opposite him. Closing the short open distance of the arena floor between himself and the cat-man, Jada brought his shortsword across his body in an upward angled, left to right slashing motion.

Jada was hoping that, preoccupied as he was with attacking his glowing neighbor, the cat-man would be unable to avoid the vicious slash of his weapon. In the blink of an eye the battle had begun with earnest, and Jada was hoping that in the blink of another, the cage would already be down at least one combatant...