Congratulations for making it to the third round of the Tournament of Champions. Both teams receive four Fate Points for making it this far! The battle closes after 11:59 PM EST on May 8th. Good luck to both teams!
Arenas were arranged at random, and your prompt is as follows:
Your battle will take place on a moderately-sized wooden vessel, perhaps a Trireme or a Longboat. The winds and waves are harsh, and the ship is on fire.
Retired Administrator
Elijah Belov, "Everything else is just a chef!"
Bitterwood -- Red-Stained Night
Out of Character:
What a welcoming committee.
Ryondel Shi’Nito, commonly referred to as DarkStrike, had never cared for The Eternity Hall, as his brothers had named the nigh-indescribable citadel, based on the fact that it existed on the fringes of reality. They believed that when all came to an end, that this place, because of its precarious location, would endure for eternity. Parrying high to block the strike of the one-handed hammer, known simply as Mjolnir, his eyes sought out his companion Morgoth. Locating him quickly - a dark shadow with pulsing tribal markings that glowed a deep red - he was able to breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that the huge, black demon he had created with a piece of his soul was holding his own quite well against Tyr, the Norse god of single combat. Stepping back with his right foot, the deceivingly lithe, black-winged angel twisted his shoulders in a clockwise motion, allowing Thor’s weapon of choice to blow past his face with the force of a thunderbolt. Clad only in orihalcon chain mail and wielding a powerful blade called Bane, which had the ability to morph into any weapon or combination of weapons, it was not in his best interest to let the angry god’s hammer strike anything dead on. In fact, he was going to try and not let Thor touch him at all.
Probably a good idea, master.
The telepathic communication from Morgoth, in response of DarkStrike’s thoughts, wasn’t uncommon. Because of the method Ryondel had used to create Morgoth, the angel and demon shared a bond both mentally and physically. They drew upon each other’s physical strength and could read the thoughts that the other had as they crossed their mind. Unfortunately, this was a bad thing if the other was injured, sick, or otherwise incapacitated and could virtually halve the strength of the healthier of the two. DarkStrike sent a vulgar response back that essentially told Morgoth to mind his own business while continuing to favor a defensive strategy of dodges and other evasive maneuvers. The Norse god, evidently becoming frustrated, showed clear signs of blind anger. Not a good thing if the god proved to be the berserker that most tales described him as.
In a blaze of fury, Thor brought Mjolnir down upon the shield that DarkStrike held. The Dais of the Seventh Realm, again, as DarkStrike and his brothers called it, rang with the sound of metal striking metal. The resulting shock didn’t budge him in the slightest, but he certainly felt it all the way up his arm. Luckily, he had tilted his shield away from his body so that instead of causing the god’s weapon to simply rebound towards Thor, the hammer slid in an outward direction and ricocheted to the side, leaving an opening. Fast as lightning, he slid Bane, currently in the shape of the shield and one-handed long sword, in a conservative thrust, reluctant to allow an opening for the mighty god. It was certainly hard fighting in these conditions because there wasn’t a lot of room for maneuvering. The Dais of the Seventh Realm was a large room consisting of several huge platforms that rose about fifty feet into the air, with the topmost landing being just big enough for one man to stand comfortably; it was here that beings entered and left the hall. Parrying high yet again, DarkStrike stepped back and to the left, dodging one of many white marble pillars that lay between the circular wall and the stack of daises that lay in the center of the room. It was these columns that gave the room a source of light because the marble in The Eternity Hall gave off a dim white glow that did not really brighten the room but made it possible to navigate the area.
His opponent reeked; despite being a god, the Norse character - whom DarkStrike had never expected to encounter - was utterly filthy, completely personifying the image of a warrior. Even though, Dark knew he had a good opening, and that his move prior to his attack had also been well played, he was not expecting Thor to recover his balance and guard with such incredible dexterity. Thor brought Mjolnir straight down upon Bane, defying all logic in the process; the sword, which had originally been pointed at the god's heart, instead struck just beneath Thor's groin. DarkStrike was barely able to gain enough control over the new momentum Thor had placed on Bane, but he was able to withdraw it and resume his defensive stance with his shield forward and the one handed long sword poised for a quick retaliation.
Damn these stupid, overgrown dwarves! Morgoth’s mental shout distracted DarkStrike long enough to watch as his demonic counterpart perform an amazing series of flips as he jumped over Tyr’s head. Out of the corner of his eye, he continued to watch with amazement as the demon dove behind one of the slender pillars immediately after landing as Tyr’s sword went whistling overhead, smashing into the same slender column. There was a deep gong-like sound; despite incredible strength as a Norse god, Tyr had only managed to cut a slender notch into the pillar.
“Definitely not marble.” DarkStrike muttered as he exchanged a series of blows, with two hits meant for his face, one for his feet, and finally one at his ribcage.
Nope. DarkStrike sighed as he blocked another shot at his torso; Morgoth always had to bog his mind down with trivial conversation.
Tyr’s roar of rage, probably from the shock of his blow, barely perturbed DarkStrike as he held his focus on Thor. He fought in eight directions and on three levels as his master had always taught him. Loud sporadic shouting, and noises in general, did little to distract him; he had taken part in his fair share of wars. Meeting a strike up high, DarkStrike pushed Bane against Mjolnir, not expecting to move Thor, but rather to give him a bit of backwards propulsion.
Thor responded in turn, and with a mighty heave, he sent DarkStrike sliding backwards, his feet leaving the ground for a split second before coming to a graceful halt ten feet away. With not even a foot between his back and one of the pillars, he decided to call a bit of magic to give him an extra couple of seconds to reposition himself. He raised his sword arm and balanced Bane between his thumb and palm while focusing on the air around his hand. As the amalgamation of disparate particles began, he could feel its solidity, like holding a rock in his hand rather than air. For a final touch, he imbued it with a measure of heat magic, which would cause the orb of molecules to quickly heat up and explode upon impact. Finally, he bent his will on making the ball of air soar towards Thor, who was striding towards him. Releasing the magic, the nearly invisible round object soared through the air like a dart, the passing marked only by a slight ripple of the atmosphere as it passed. Mjolnir was there to meet it, striking dead on with a vicious horizontal movement; though he could feel the heat from it less than four feet away, all it served was to cause the giant god to pause for a mere instant.
Well done master, Morgoth’s sarcatic thought came rolling in as he moved slightly to the left, freeing his back from the pillar. He almost laughed; leave it to Morgoth to have something amusing to say in the middle of a fight for their lives. But… was it really their lives Thor and Tyr were after?
Now that he thought about it, it didn’t seem likely. Morgoth and he had walked into the middle of a discussion between the two, and both of them had merely looked at them before simply nodding to each other and saying: “Them.” Without bothering to say anything to ether Morgoth or him, they had drawn their weapons and stalked towards them. DarkStrike found it amusing to recall how he and Morgoth had been so utterly dumbstruck by the appearance of the Nordic gods that they had simply stared with their jaws hanging open. He blocked another strike with his shield, meant for his chin, which brought him back to the present. Unfortunately, he had not been paying enough attention to the matter at hand, allowing his mind to wander aimlessly, and had blocked an uppercut from Mjolnir, rather than the typical bludgeoning from above and from the sides. That was a bad mistake on his part. With so much power, the hit was direct, rather than glancing, as had been the case up till now, and sent him straight up in to the air, causing him to leave his feet for the second time.
Under normal circumstances, this would not have been such an issue, but the close proximity of many different pillars was causing him problems. Flying twenty or so feet into the air, at a steep angle, it was all Dark could do to maintain control on his body’s movement. He hit a pillar that was behind him with his left shoulder and spun away to the right. Spinning out of control, DarkStrike had a sudden fit of inspiration and focused on his wings, causing them to appear out of nowhere and flared them outwards just in time to stop the turning and land solidly on his feet. He had a mere millisecond to do a damage check; realizing he had strained his right wing joint and his shoulder was going to be bruised, but at least he hadn’t broken anything. Lucky for him that his people, the Artarians, had developed an ability that allowed them to cause their wings to enter an ethereal state because their wings were like a vital organ, without them, the angel didn’t live long. He had barely finished this thought when Thor came charging forward, using his momentary disorientation to seal his place as the victor of the fight.
He was screwed, there was not enough time to prepare for the attack, and so he delved into his mind and called forth light energy, mainly from the room’s own light, to erect a hasty barrier against the pending blow. The dull glow from the pillars seemed to bend towards DarkStrike; as he did this it seemed as though there were a wall of light forming between him and Thor. He was too late though, the barrier had not finished forming and he barely raised his shield. In a dreamy state, he watched as Mjolnir crashed into the weak barrier, hindered for only a split second. With a smash, like the tinkling shards of a shattered glass, the barrier broke and the mighty hammer hit his shield head-on.
As he flew backwards for the third time, his only thought was to protect his wings, and doing the opposite as he did before, he caused them to change back into an ethereal state. He crashed into a pillar, hitting it with a solid thud and slid into a sitting position at its base. Then there was a massive explosion, as the energy required to keep Bane in its shield and sword state dissipated into the atmosphere instantly, causing a tremendous shockwave that sent all combatants to the floor and cracked numerous pillars in the immediate area. DarkStrike saw none of this as his senses fled, only sensing that the wave had ended Morgoth’s participation in the fight as well, and just as his last sense left him he felt, rather than heard or saw, Thor stand.
“Damn…”
Last edited by NightCast; 04-19-09 at 10:24 PM. Reason: Taking out too many hyphens in first post, patching up coding and such.
Out of Character:
With a final twitch, the bodies fell to the ground.
Honuse Relaiyent – abomination, Lawmaker, Elect of the Gods, and one who used to be called man – stood with casual ease before the ever-growing pile of corpses within the central courtyard of the tournament village. A light sweat separated his skin from the thick, matte black leather armor that encased his body, while his scarred and tattooed face stood emotionless beneath the grim executioner’s mask. Sol’s ancient cousin, the god that lit the sky far above this dismal, confusing world, would soon be retreating below the distant hills; though the light did not bother him, the Lawmaker knew that his opponents would grow ever more fearful of the giant without the benefit of their eyes.
Nearly a dozen men rested at his feet, their dark blood flowing freely through the worn cobblestone road; turning from the corpses, Honuse Relaiyent sought the next victim. It had not yet been a full day since returning from the fetid, stifling jungles of the outlier regions of the world, and yet he had already begun the wholesale slaughter of tournament contestants, without subjecting himself to the meaningless rules controlling such combat. Whereas before, the dvergr Hvastillitr had served as a counterbalance to his aggressive natures, the dwarf now lay dead in a burning expanse of decrepit ruin, allowing the giant to indulge his taste for bloodshed.
Sighting another man, armed with an elaborately tooled sword belt and a weapon with a finely jeweled hilt – suited more to a dilettante rather than a warrior – the abomination grabbed one of many small daggers from the sheaths along his ribs, flinging it towards the unobtrusive villager. Whether the man had intended to partake of the tournament action, or was simply an innocent spectator, his death would serve one of two purposes. The first, to which the Lawmaker ostensibly held closest, was that of Thor’s Pursuit; the acquisition of worthy souls to bolster Valhalla’s armies in Ragnarok. The second, however, was simply the sheer enjoyment of the slaughter. Though his actions served the Glory Whole, the song of battle nevertheless took sway upon the heart of the Elect.
Without a sound, the passing stranger collapsed, with an oddly sad expression being the only mark to show his awareness of fate’s cold grasp; the body rested against one of the many stone and plaster buildings lining the broad thoroughfare. It was nearly a certainty that this man, incompetent in not recognizing the danger and weak enough to die from it, was not worthy of Valhalla, and would instead join the endless hordes who had met a similar fate at the Lawmaker’s hands. Yet that did not limit the faint joy at seeing the corpse stumble and fall, or the amusement of hearing the screams of passerby. With several hundred years of baptism by combat, Honuse Relaiyent knew to indulge the simple barbarisms of his profession, rather than moan and writhe against the pitiable sorrow felt by mortals. His place was to sing the chorus of slaughter with lips of blood, not to rail upon the ineptitude and frailty of remorse.
With a mental shrug against his own inner dialogue, the Lawmaker turned his attention back upon the slaughter; thick smoke wafted through his vision, depicting the world within a score of feet as dark shadows, mere outlines against pale distortion. As his eyes were lost many lifetimes ago, the Vision of the Wraiths stood as his primary method of sight, though his own innate recognition of biological matter painted a vivid mental image of all living things within thousands of paces. Similarly, his ears and nose were immensely powerful, able to detect minute abnormalities at a considerable distance; such was the way that the giant learned of the approaching soldiers, several dozen in the least. They strode with a determined gait, heavy footfalls sounding with a definite pattern atop the rough stones.
Cabal enforcers. Weak armor, short swords, and heavy bleeders. He thought with amusement, referencing the interlopers; whatever insignificant organization had proposed and enacted this tournament had deigned to call themselves naught but the Cabal, a name sufficiently bland to make Honuse Relaiyent particularly joyful to release them from its service. Doubtless, they had come to determine why the giant was slaying their vaunted contestants in the streets along with the paying spectators, rather than fighting and dying in a more profitable manner. Their bodies glowed a bright viridian shade, to which the giant stood watching with a casual ease, slowly unlimbering one of a pair of short swords from behind his right calf. The weapon, which he held in a reverse grip with the blade running parallel to his arm, stood as a counter to the short blade protruding from the skin below his elbow. It ran out to a point several inches past his fingertips, splotched with the incarnadine fluids of recent victims.
The troupe of soldiers slowed to a trot as they drew near, fear and uncertainty evident upon their faces. Honuse Relaiyent, a victim of forced modification at the beginning of his career as a warrior, stood two full heads taller than the average man, being twice as broad and heavy, his body covered in thick muscles. They milled about, arguing quietly amongst themselves about who would attempt to communicate with the ill-tempered behemoth; many spotted the various corpses strewn about the general area, and the corresponding bloodstains on the Lawmaker’s armor. Finally, the ranking man amongst the ensemble stood apart from the rest, a blasé expression plastered firmly on his face to disguise the dread coiling within his stomach. In his hand was a simple weapon, a blade constructed of common metals, costing no more than was needed to allow it functionality in a brawl.
As he spoke, the words emerged as an inane babble; the organizers of the tournament did not speak the same language as Honuse Relaiyent, nor did he speak theirs, having come from a land far divorced from their own. Without a sound, he struck, decapitating the soldier in mid-sentence; without pausing, the giant plucked the head as it fell, sheathing the blade in his right hand as he did so. Casually, the abomination used an armblade to trace a rough outline upon the lips of the skull, forming the rune gebo; he spat upon it once finished, then held out his left hand to display the handiwork to the man’s former companions. Speaking with a slow, clear voice, the Elect forced his words out through the mouth held before him, able to speak in the tongue used by the Cabal.
“Do you come to offer yourselves to Thor’s pleasure?”
The soldiers looked amongst themselves, even more frightened as they stared at the face of their former captain. Finally, one of them answered, a boy who looked far too young – even by Norse standards – to have enlisted in a military organization. “No, powerful one.” His voice shook. “We have come to inform you that a new opponent awaits; far to the south, off the coast, a longboat taken from your own people rests anchored. It is there that you will do battle next.”
The words, interpreted through the disembodied head, did not please the Lawmaker. To suffer yet another pointless exercise for the sake of killing two more worthless pawns, ones who would meet their fate upon his steel within this very village before long, tested his patience to its utmost. If not for the bond placed upon his honor by his lord Thor, Honuse Relaiyent would simply hew down the tournament organizers, praying that they fared better than their supposed champions did. Yet such an eventuality was still possible within the constraints of his position; once the message reached its recipient, that being had only to arrive at the specified location and fight. There existed no such rules to state that the messenger must return bearing the combatant’s acquiescence.
Expanding his will towards the skull, the abomination began altering its components, utilizing the basic biological material within to fit his needs. The brain tissue quickly dissolved, forming the liquid needed for the task; various chemicals shifted in minute ways, forming a light explosive within a thick layer of mucus. With a casual motion, Honuse Relaiyent tossed the head toward the other soldiers, mentally igniting the charge within. It exploded, turning the volatile liquid into an airborne corrosive, a mist of debilitating acid that self-replicated as it fed upon living flesh. The cloud, which grew stronger exponentially, stripped the hapless men down to their bones within seconds, before finally dissipating in the light breeze.
Turning from the scene, Honuse Relaiyent sat upon the cobblestones, relaxing his body in the shade offered by a nearby building. With a casual thought, he turned the same power used moments before upon his own body, dissolving the muscle tissues within his legs. The matter spread through his body, forcing itself out through his back, to emerge as a set of thin, leathery wings. Rising into the air, the Lawmaker turned his face south, prepared to find his next victims; the wings, which he formed along a pattern he had learned many ages ago, were broad and powerful, able to carry him for days on end. Unfortunately, that did not mean that the trip would be satisfying, as it would be precious time spent that could otherwise be used in the pursuit of honor.
[hr]
”Rise.”
The voice called out from the semidarkness, deep and commanding. It was the voice of Thor, god of war to the Norse people, and master of the Lawmaker. To his side stood Tyr, the younger brother and stalwart god of honorable combat - the pair confronted a fallen devil, one who had haplessly wandered into the sanctum at the wrong time. It was here that the two had deigned to come, for the purposes of finding a replacement for Hvastillitr, the fallen dvergr tasked with accompanying Honuse Relaiyent in the pursuit of the Whole Glory. The Hall, which stood as a crossroads between the dimensions, was an ideal location for the deities to perform their task; yet as fate would have it, their search ended before it even began.
Of the two demons found wandering within the sacred corridors, one had passed through a thick marble wall, deposited within a portal to a location unknown to the gods. The second, who had suffered defeat by Mjolnir’s solid head, was showing remarkable resilience, having regained consciousness after a matter of minutes. The comparatively diminutive creature stood shakily, uncertain of what his future would hold. His hands clenched reflexively, as if subconsciously wishing they had their customary weapon to cling to in uncertainty, some measure of reality to weigh against the vision standing in the foreground.
“Tell us your name, demon.”
The being answered, a trace of defiance evident in his voice. “Call me DarkStrike.” He paused; though he was certain the words had come from his own tongue, his own will, they were not in the language that he was accustomed to speaking. The words, thick and odd in his mouth, had nevertheless sprung forth at a thought, despite his never having learned them. “And don’t bother introducing yourself, Thor Jotunbane. I’ve seen you and your brother playing fetch for Odin since the earth was born.”
With a faint smile at Tyr’s consternation, Thor nodded approvingly. “Your insolence notwithstanding, DarkStrike, I offer you amnesty for your crimes of trespassing within these hallowed grounds. Upon your arm is tattooed a rune of my own making; it will bind your desires to my own, while similarly imparting my knowledge of language and combat. This is how you speak our ancient tongue, and how you will come to know your partner.”
With a snicker, DarkStrike answered. “I know Morgoth just fine already, thanks. Any closer and I’d have to burn him out of my skin with a candle.”
“No, foul one. My champion, Honuse Relaiyent, is engaged in a tournament, within the island between dimensions. His former companion is lost, slain in combat the previous eve. You are to aid the Lawmaker in his pursuits, and fight at his side. Do this, and your crimes will be forgiven, with the eternal gratitude of Valhalla aside.” Before the demon had a chance to respond, Thor grabbed him by the neck, and flung the creature through a nearby wall. The marble shattered, depositing DarkStrike into a portal beyond; he vanished from all time and space, dead to the world around him.
[hr]
The sun had fully set by the time he reached the coast.
In a manner reminiscent of the previous night, thick storm clouds had boiled up from the ocean, casting a flurry of lightning strikes atop the water; the winds grew perilous, as the waves rose tens of feet into the air before crashing down once more. Honuse Relaiyent weathered the demonic manifestations of nature as he scoured the coastline, searching for the vessel promised as his next place of combat. After nearly an hour of searching, he found it nearly five miles off the distant shore; it bobbed in place, anchored down against the harsh weather. Unaware if his opponents were already aboard, or were still in the process of finding it as he had been, the Lawmaker formulated his plan all the same.
The ship, which was nearly one hundred and sixty feet long and twenty across, was an ornately crafted longboat, a war vessel from the giant’s homeland. How it had arrived in the median of realities, he did not know, nor did he care. His long experiences among such ships gave the abomination an advantage of knowledge, as he knew the weakest points; which joints were most susceptible to strain, which where the most flammable, and where the swelling ocean was most likely to rise above the guardrails. Hovering several thousand feet above and to the side of the ship, Honuse Relaiyent cast his indomitable will upon his own body, forcing it to respond as he desired.
Pale flashes of light illuminated his savage face, covered by rain; his black, winged form appeared more demon than man, though he was at once both and neither. Deep within his skeleton, an eternal wellspring of electricity sat waiting, eager for release; it had been stored there long ago, the result of the giant absorbing a blast of electricity from Thor himself. The energy poured from his hands, prompting reciprocation by the wildly dangerous night. A succession of lightning strikes hit the Lawmaker, igniting his flesh in white fire; the conflagration held for mere moments, before every erg was funneled around and out from his body, flowing instantly towards the wooden vessel below.
The result of three hundred kiloamperes, igniting the air around the bolt to tens of thousands of degrees, did not so much ignite the wood as create a spontaneous combustion. The electricity, funneled through the metal nails spaced evenly about the keel, encompassed the entire ship in a sheet of pure destruction, flash igniting it in a massive explosion. Pieces of the doomed vessel flew high into the air, comets of rampant destruction in the night. Several large chunks managed to survive, by virtue of being underwater at the time of impact; the water, while conducting the electricity, managed to cool the effective temperature enough to prevent combustion. Any warriors who had been aboard the vessel would have likely survived, as the structural components exploded outwards within split seconds of contact with the lightning. The electricity would have had nothing to conduct along, and similarly dissipated outward.
The explosion, which had appeared as nothing save a faint blossoming of light against the pervasive smoke, nevertheless pleased the Lawmaker. Should any have survived, their fate would be no kinder to them; save those with wings, as he had, the survivors would be subjected to the treacherous whims of the sea, stranded without hope of rescue, and a malevolent giant circling above. However, amidst his internal gloating, Honuse Relaiyent detected a new presence appearing close by, something very alien to his senses. Cursing, the abomination realized that the interloper could be none other than one of his enemies, saved from destruction and death, capable of flight even in such hellish conditions. Though such a combat would ultimately prove more work, it would similarly provide the greater amusement; resigning himself to the hunt, the Lawmaker set out to intercept the newcomer, praying for a fight worth the time spent arriving to the useless arena.
Out of Character:
Life, like a cherry blossom, ephemeral and fleeting.
The wild wind whipped wooden cinders into her face, singeing and searing with oppressive heat and the stench of the raging pyres. Stormy waves crashed against the hull of their little longboat, tossing it about the tempestuous ocean like an angry god’s plaything. The vessel would not last them for much longer, the young woman guessed, although it had fought an intrepid little struggle to survive this long under the wrath of the taifuu. Even the bravest of the crew had long since abandoned ship, leaving the warriors to their fate… and for this small blessing Yuka gave thanks. The last time that the Cabal had forced them to fight on board a ship in this little tournament of theirs, her opponent had taken a member of the crew hostage as a human shield. It would not be happening again.
All my life, I’ve never really wanted much.
The timbers of the ship shuddered unsteadily beneath her feet, and the heat of the deck beneath her seeped through her leather shoes, assaulting her from the cargo hold below. Her hands felt bony and frail amongst the rampaging elements, but she wrapped them tightly around the supple staff that was the focal point of her powers, gritting her teeth and holding her face high as she stood steadfast against the lashing rain.
The thick blanket of hazy cloud that enshrouded the sky obscured the dim light of the setting sun. Their foes would be appearing soon, according to the messenger from the Cabal that had appeared before them a day ago. How terribly fitting it would be, to do battle amongst the crackling smoke and tempestuous shuddering of a dying ship at the death of day.
To be free of the rules forced upon me.
She stood in the centre of the longboat, her eyes closed tight and her mind focused on her surroundings. It had been essential for the Kanamai merchant empire – and its assorted underground organisations – to instil self-discipline in its second child, to mould her into becoming stronger, swifter, more skilled than any before. Even when she had escaped her family’s direct influence by enrolling in the Academy, she had felt their eyes upon her, watching, waiting, reminding her of the role she was expected to fulfil. Only by accepting the offer of semi-permanent banishment to the daemon realm of Haidia had she been able to escape, and that in itself had cast upon her a whole new set of terms and conditions. Only by exercising that discipline had she been able to accept them.
To have the strength to defy those who attempt to impose their will upon others.
She had been thankful when the Cabal had spirited her away from her underground prison and deposited her instead in the midst of this so-called Tournament of Champions. They had offered her the means by which to gain the strength to enforce her discipline, although her first and second battles had left her with little more than frustration at how pathetically weak she really was. By now she was getting used to the sudden transition from scene to scene, the heart-stopping, gut-wrenching sensation as one reality suddenly warped into another, rain-swept rock suddenly replaced by stormy sea in preparation for yet another round. Only two things made the situation bearable… the faint promise of power at the end of it all, and the goofy grin on her wyrmfolk companion Lask’s face as he took in yet another set of surroundings.
And to see new places, to meet new people and to experience the wonders of the world we live in.
She smiled to herself then, faintly, a whimsical smile for the lost innocence of youth and for dreams that came true in the strangest of manners. A dim whisper of magic kept her tunic and cloak from catching fire as she removed her hood, letting her raven-black hair billow in the angry wind.
It was no secret that Yuka did not like to fight. The dull ache in her left leg, courtesy of a wound sustained in an earlier battle not yet completely healed, reminded her painfully of the consequences of such needless hate. Once again she allowed herself to dwell on the capriciousness of fate, that the very power she needed to survive could only be obtained by the one activity she disliked above all others.
I can’t stop now. I must go forwards.
Her senses screamed a warning as the lightning rained down from above, though she could not yet perceive a presence behind it. It was finely controlled, powerful and unrelenting, wreathed in a darkness that threatened to destroy her mind with its very touch. Her body was quicker to react, and was quite possibly all that saved her life in that eternal instant.
“Tenshujin.”
The sigil upon her palm expanded into a globe of bright light, cocooning the young woman and her draconian companion in its glowing comfort. Waves of electricity danced and dissipated along its surface, but as the longboat ruptured and splintered around them, the two Wanderers were safe from the effects of their opponent’s spell. As their footing swayed and buckled beneath them, inevitably falling prey to the hunger of the sea, it was all she could do to maintain her balance.
“Lask?” she asked, the urgency in her voice quite apparent.
“Up above,” the warrior responded, indicating the direction with a toss of his head and a grunt. “Stinks of so much blood, even the rain’s not hiding him. There’s only one, though…”
“… in which case we hit him with all we have,” Yuka replied. While we still can, she didn’t have to add, as her arcane barrier shattered like the shards of a thousand panes of glass around them. Her opponent’s spell had caused their ship to fragment amongst the angry seas, and what remained was rapidly becoming swallowed up by the storm. Although she fancied herself a relatively strong swimmer, skilled enough to win a prize in the Academy’s games at least, she did not rate her chances in the turbulent waters very highly. She spared another glance towards her wyrmfolk companion, his eyes turned hungrily towards the skies as rivulets of rain streamed from his glistening scales like intricately intertwined waterfalls.
One last faint smile tugged at her lips, before her face set itself in a grim expression. Magic touched her eyes as she looked towards the skies, whispering a faint incantation as she gathered her powers to the staff she held.
Last edited by Wings of Endymion; 04-24-09 at 02:54 PM. Reason: Disclaimer added! Changed minor wording.
-Level 5-
One with the sea as she is one with the wind
She stands listening to the rhythm of the world around her
Forever torn between two worlds
She cannot choose
Demon of the sea, angel of the sky
Why did they have to fight on water again? There were many words to describe his mental state at this point, his loathing of boats, water, and unreachable enemies, but they were terrible, exceptionally rude, and would have gone on for far too long. The only good thing about the situation they found themselves in was that the distressing smell of smoky wood was at least providing a good backdrop in which to track their opponent high above them.
He kept his eyes on the clouds. He could smell it before it came of course, but sight also helped, that momentary build up before the ‘rain’ would fall down again. Bastard thought he could use the clouds to hide – but water smelt like water, smoke smelt like smoke, and hellfire was a big neon sign…
“What are you planning?” Lask rumbled softly, his voice only just carrying on the wind as Yuka began to move again. The girl was fast for a spell slinger; had she been a moment or so slower they would have been nicely barbequed on a bed of charcoal with fish sauce. She didn’t answer at first, but then a little word tumbled from her lips like a lost abandoned child.
“Something.”
His tail twitched as his brain began to turn, the little cog-wheels connecting to much bigger things, over and over in a splendid contraption of mental brass and balls. “This storm’s pretty bad. Useable?”
“I could…I just don’t know…”
“Water. I’m thinking water. Water and wind. Carry the water up; let him have a taste…”
Her eyes shone, momentarily caught by a wayward lightning strike that sulkily arched across the sky, probably frustrated at Mister Sparky himself at its centre.
Lask took a step back to let her work. Half of the spell was already woven but the wind became stronger, more purposeful. He watched her arch her back and take a breath; raising his own head to the sky as she did, and pulled out his sword-
“There”
A few thousand feet was hard for the best of spell-casters on a fine day, but the storm itself was the fulcrum on which Yuka balanced her spell, the staff out of her hands and hanging in midair in front of her as it drew in the arcane energies she needed. The waves peaked, their makeshift raft riding with them, rising higher in a black seething mass as the wind sucked them upwards. It was no easy task to guide the elements. The only thing that made it possible was the fact that the storm was always ebbing, always flowing, but in the midst of it all, the fell beast was a stationary, physical form. Yuka’s eyes followed the blade’s arc, the wind traveling past her fingertips, swaying with the force of the natural energies pumping through her.
The wind tunnels shot upwards, scything easily through the clouds and picking up more water on the way. Their intent was not to truly harm the target – buffet him about possibly, mess with his wings perhaps, blow him off course maybe…but the water they carried with them had a more covert purpose.
Yuka was now holding her breath. Girl had guts.
The water carried up by the wind came together as she brought her hands forward, cupping them around each other. Lask frowned worriedly; water was a difficult element that really just wanted to hang out, chill with its fellow particles really, but as a mob -
Her palms came together with a wet splat. There was no ominous thunder roll, although a greater mage would have been able to time it just right for dramatic effect. But Yuka was business.
Above them, the column of water that had formed around the ‘Lawmaker’ broke…
…And Lask tensed, sword drawn, reading for the inevitable retaliation.
Last edited by Schrodinger's Nirvana; 04-26-09 at 12:45 AM. Reason: For clarificational purposes <3
AKA Gunther R. Bellum, AKA Lask Ventrist (ToC Participant)
Bright webs of crimson flashed through the verdant life before him. A being of considerable size, appearing as the fell breeding between valkyrie and god, floated on broad wings matching, if not exceeding, the Lawmaker’s own. This was a devil borne of the ages, an ancient malice wrought in the early days of reality. Yet amidst its demonic turmoil, Honuse Relaiyent felt an instinctual attraction, something that bore the apparent mark of his own land. Though he did not know it yet, his deeply subconscious loyalty to Thor brought his focus to the mark resting upon the demon’s body.
The interloper seemed dazed, held aloft by naught save the reflexive beating of its massive wings. The giant approach carefully, uncertain if this was to be his opponent; it was only the faint attraction that stayed his hand from delivering a blow, as he did with the boat below. Harsh winds blew the abomination about as he drew closer, while the omnipresent lightning cast differing shades through the smoke. Yet his inspection was far from completion when a new sense rose to his mind; countless bacteria were rising through the air at a prodigious rate, while the wind took on a shrill new sound. The elements had revolted against their natural order, rising in a terrible cyclone from the rough location of the decimated vessel.
Cursing at his stupidity, the Lawmaker regarded the quiescent form floating nearby, weighing it against the assuredness that at least one opponent waited below, able to strike fearsome blows with the very air around them. Should this indeed be the second of the pair, incapacitated for reasons unknown, it would be a fitting act of vengeance to thrust the being into the maelstrom rising from the ocean. While Honuse Relaiyent certainly enjoyed the glory of battle, there was a peculiar satisfaction to be had in the destruction of his foes upon their own machinations, bring about their own effective suicides through minor intervention. Beating his leathery wings against the gale, the giant closed the distance to the peculiar stranger, which he grabbed easily by the neck.
With a rotation of his body and a thrust of his arm, the Lawmaker cast the interloper down into the approaching wind tunnel, before quickly diving down and to the side. The watery shaft collapsed inward before dissolving, doing unknown amounts of damage to the sudden inhabitant. Honuse Relaiyent removed the thoughts of that particular enemy from his mind, having focused purely on his dive towards the surface of the ocean; it would not do for him to fail to recognize the partition between air and ocean, as his velocity would take him down a considerable way, in an element far divorced from his preferred locale. It was fortunate that the storm had brought so many ocean dwellers to the surface, creating a thick barrier of biological material against the floating bacterium to offer a comparative point of reference.
Arcing up casually, the giant skimmed the surface of the roiling ocean, flitting between swells to avoid detection. As he had been on the far side of the cyclone when it struck the interloper, and had reached the surface before it had fully dissipated, he could only hope that his opponents had presumed him trapped within the attack. Knowing that the strangers had the ability to affect the air and water around them, and that he did not have the time to remove both from the equation, Honuse Relaiyent opted to introduce a new dynamic. Waiting until he was a mere handful of hundreds of feet from the decimated vessel, the Lawmaker released a large portion of the adrenaline he stored within his body, prompting a massive surge of reckless energy. Forcing the electricity from his skeleton once more, the giant worked it through his bloodstream and out his skin, encasing his entire body in a flickering suit of incandescent power.
As he neared the ship, he rose into the air, dissolving his wings back into his body as he peaked. The biological material reconstituted itself as a pair of solidly muscled legs, fully formed as the abomination dropped heavily to the deck astride two beings. Without waiting, he drew Alsvid – a massive broadsword with an invisible blade and intricately tooled hilt – from the sheath upon his back. The electricity covering his body extended its field to the demonic weapon, extending the length from seven feet to twelve; rotating into a spin, the Lawmaker swung it horizontally at the pair of strangers before him, splitting the air with a fell shriek.
Breathing heavily from the unaccustomed use of her powers, she slumped to the rough deck. Sea spray drenched her thin clothing and threatening to tear her cloak from her slender shoulders. For a moment her wits threatened to leave her; with a mighty effort, she forced them to regroup, struggling weakly back to her feet.
“This thing isn’t going to last much longer!” Yuka hollered to her companion, a futile attempt at overwhelming the rolling thunder of the tempestuous gale and the pained shriek of wood as their erstwhile vessel struggled through its death throes. Structural integrity long since compromised by the enemy’s powers, what remained of the once-sturdy ship lay at the mercy of the powerful waves as they rapidly, inexorably, tore it apart. “I don’t know…”
CRASH!
… how we’re going to make it out of here, was the phrase that had been on the tip of the young woman’s tongue. But the appearance before her of a towering eight-foot giant, dark armour crackling with the same power that had destroyed the ship, quickly replaced those words with … how we’re going to make it out alive. Her legs froze beneath her, arrested by the overpowering darkness that emanated from the beast’s monstrous form as it reached to its shoulders for a weapon. Its movements seemed languorous and lazy to her petrified eyes, although in reality they were fluidly skilful and neither merciful nor hesitant.
“Yuka!”
Lask’s voice reached her ears at the same time as her mind screamed a desperate warning. Only reflex and instinct saved her head from the potent arc of the weapon as it split the air asunder. Only the fear pulsing through her limbs regained her footing from her tumbling roll, stabilising mere inches from the hungry sea below. Like a leviathan of the deep the waves lapped at her ankles, drawing inexorably closer in the contented knowledge that they were only moments from feeding.
So this is what it feels like to die…
Her staff hit the deck at her feet, almost instantly swallowed whole by the seas.
In which case, here’s to life.
Rain lashed angrily at her pale cheeks, tears of frustration and sorrow that swallowed whole her cry of defiance as she drew the kodachi from its ornate scabbard at her waist. The thin sliver of metal, seemingly so insignificant and powerless in comparison with the gigantic weapons that both the beast and Lask had brought to bear, glinted valiant silver in the flickering storm-light. The surface of her free hand danced with puissant power, channelling years of hard study and effort into shaky sparks of silent static.
Like a primal force of nature she threw herself across the unstable sea-swept decking, swiftly and fearlessly darting into the fray.
She never even got to see the sledgehammer of salty water that swept her from the raft like some sea deity's plaything.
-Level 5-
One with the sea as she is one with the wind
She stands listening to the rhythm of the world around her
Forever torn between two worlds
She cannot choose
Demon of the sea, angel of the sky
Out of Character:
Twice. It’s happened twice now.
With a crash of water, the cyclone surrounding DarkStrike broke, nearly drowning the demigod in its fury. His lament, lost without the mental connection that normally intruded upon his thoughts with the wry jocularity of Morgoth, testified to the demon’s own priorities in the face of combat. For the second time across a matter of minutes, he had been grabbed on the neck by a filthy, inbred Norse peasant, and hurled about as so much garbage. Such injustices could never go unpunished, though for the moment he would do well to focus on more relevant things.
Damn it all. Why don’t I ever get a chance to refuse these tempting offers?
Beating his wings furiously to maintain altitude, the dark, menacing shape reoriented himself towards the horizon, his gaze falling across the distant boat. Three figures – one of whom was the wretched giant that could be none other than his ersatz partner – stood there, before a flurry of motion from around the wreckage obscured the view. DarkStrike, his black wings conforming easily against the strong winds, settled into a shallow glide towards the bobbing vessel, gaining considerable speed in his descent. The water cyclone hadn’t been nearly enough to disorient him permanently, though the annoying sensation of water having pierced every opening grated upon his nerves.
I wonder if that guy would make as ugly a fish as he did a bird?
The half-destroyed boat, which had previously held the three combatants, was now wholly submerged underwater. Whatever force had summoned the tidal wave had little apparent regard for their own safety, as the furious ocean had swallowed the warriors as solidly as if a mythical beast had done so. Yet as he neared, the demon spotted activity just below the choppy waves; it was the serpentine motions of a predator, lithe and deadly in the hunt. With a suddenness that surprised even the demigod, who was used to such tricks of warfare, the ocean burst into a sheet of pure white light. Electricity danced across the waves, skittering in a maniacal pattern, fed by the lightning strikes from above.
Okay, maybe an eel, then.
With a slight twinge, the tattoo imprinted upon his arm verified that the sudden burst of electricity was the doing of the Norse warrior he had come to aid. Settling himself into a hover several dozen feet above the ocean’s waves, DarkStrike focused his attention upon channeling Spectura, the progenitor of light and darkness. His will imposed the element upon the still-flowing lines of electricity, imbuing them with a malevolent corruption; the tendrils of Spectura bonded with the living current, warping it into its own creation. With a sudden flash, the lightning strikes faded to blackness, though their crackling reports still sounded in the sky. The energy had served as a base for the demon’s own magic, which in turn circumvented the natural properties of the current to DarkStrike’s ends.
I hope that buffoon has the brains to get out of the water…
With a final bang, the electricity fell silent; in its place, an ominous roaring swelled from the depths. The seeds of Spectura, which could be manipulated at will be a skilled practitioner of the art, had the power to absorb the bright vitality of electricity into a potent wellspring of barely contained energy. With a basso rumble, the lingering tendrils of lightning imploded, collapsing to a singularity before expanding outward with the force of a stampede. The tangible darkness obscured whatever faint lights shone that night, while the sheer concussive force of the blast kicked up massive eruptions of seawater for nearly a square mile. The thunderous echoes of displaced water could be heard upon the far shores, while any aquatic beasts that had survived the initial electricity were tossed asunder in a maelstrom beyond anything the ocean had ever before experienced.
Hmm. I think I might have overdone it. Just a touch.
Per the Rules of the Tournament of Champions, The Whole Glory continues on. If they would like a judgment of their work for pointers to improve, they may request it and receive one, post judgment of the other battles this round.
How something is said, is just as important as what is said. -Anonymous
This judgment was requested by The Whole Glory, as this battle officially had a winner I instead asked the judge in question to give pointers and coaching advice. So, while this lacks numbers, the commentary is a bit thicker than normal. I would suggest you guys go through and read these comments as they are very telling, and very concise.
Sasurai, if you too wish a judgment like this, one can be provided. This only covers Whole Glory as they were the only ones to request a judgment;
Originally Posted by 016573
How something is said, is just as important as what is said. -Anonymous
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