The Aequitas Chamber

[Max Dirks]

This chamber will host the following players:

016573
Alis Grave Nil
Amen
Ataraxis
Duffy Bracken
Godhand
Hysteria
Neville Longinus
Squidi
Silence Sei
Taskmienster
The Daredevil

Please note that Godhand has replaced Letho on the roster.

The Cell will begin at 12 AM CST on Wednesday April 14th, 2010. It will end two weeks thereafter or until each player has concluded. Sometime before then I will be updated the gambling area and putting up a physical description of the Cell.

[Max Dirks]

After four long years the gates to the Mistician Assailing Arena in Radasanth were open once more. Thousands of people, heralding from southern tip of Fallien to the northern reaches of Berevar, had gathered at the Arena to watch their favorite warrior battle in Althanas’ most frenzied close quarters venue: the Cell. The weather was perfect for such a chaotic event. Heavy storms had completely consumed the city. But not even strong winds and heavy rains were enough to deter this crowd. The obsessive fans had completely packed the grandstands and standing room only extended well beyond the Arena, as far back as the Bazaar. For one day, the struggling economy, civil war and even Xem’zund were merely after thoughts for these people.

Sitting above them all, atop a large platform in the center of the arena was the tournament Grandmaster, Max Dirks. He was wearing his typical attire: a white jumpsuit covered by a long black trenchcoat. Beneath the coat his “Patented” and “Twin” Beretta 950’s were stowed in their holsters, easily accessible if needed. His two prevalida katanas were sheathed on his back. For Dirks, this tournament marked his return to Althanas prominence. After years of tragedy, heartbreak, and loss, the criminal was back to his old antics. It was traditionally the winner of the previous years’ competition that heralded the coveted position of grandmaster, but last year’s winner, “hushpuppy,” had “disappeared.” Though he claimed no responsibility for the prairie dog’s disappearance, Dirks was able to lobby the Lornian Battle Tour for the position.

Sensing the crowd was getting anxious, Dirks stood from his throne. Suddenly the booming thunder was overtaken by the roar of the crowd. Dirks looked below him. On his right stood the Treslizn Chamber and on his left the Aequitas Chamber, both appropriately named after Althanas heroes of old. The two chambers were completely identical and symmetrical. From the rocky ground at the bottom of the Arena to the level of the grandstand (15 ft) was a thick layer of adamantine. Spaced throughout were 12 doors, one for each competitor. Above that the Arena was completely open. The sky was completely visible, but no rain was hitting the ground. It was then that legendary magician Phagan Slater stepped forward. Once an enemy of Dirks’, Phagan had agreed to construct an incredibly powerful magical force field around the arena in exchange for some unknown favor. For all practical purposes the force field was indestructible. It extended 50 feet into the air in a circular arc. Nothing could pass enter or exit without Dirks’ approval. Dirks was similarly protected by a second, much smaller force field.

Dirks waited for a moment, then motioned for the crowd to quiet down. Originally he had planned to deliver a speech glorifying his return, but it was apparent to him by the continued roar of the crowd that it was unnecessary. No one had forgotten who he was or what he’d done. With a shrug, Dirks nodded to Phagan. Suddenly all 24 adamantine doors opened and the awaiting competitors were thrust onto the battlefield. Once everyone had emerged, the doors shut behind themselves. Dirks smirked and signaled the start of the tournament.

“Welcome to the Jungle…”

(Welcome to the Jungle is more than just a typical Dirks' cliche: it's the music by Guns and Roses that I recommend you listen to while preparing your first post to fully grasp the intensity and the pacing of the tournament. Please remember that you're expected to post every 24 hours or you will be removed from the tournament except if your post is a "conclusive post." I've added some information about "conclusive posts" to the Rules and Regulations Thread. Round one ends April 28th at 12 AM CST.)

[Amen]

Marcus did not feel well.

The young squire had never seen so many people gathered in one place before, and he could scarcely believe there were so many faces in the world. He would have been truly overwhelmed among them, or looking out over them, and so there was no word for how he felt now that he was part of their focus: one of a handful of men assembled to struggle and maybe die for their pleasure.

He entered the arena with his entourage, catching only brief glimpses of his opponents as they followed the same walkways in the relentless rain. When one of the chosen warriors was glimpsed, hundreds of voices cried out at once and mingled into a single deafening roar. Together the masses made a beast a hundred times more terrifying than a dragon, as thunderous as an angry god.

Marcus did not know how the crowd was kept back. He imagined some sort of magic had to be involved. There were people everywhere, and so they could hardly hope to secret him into the arena. Instead, they marched him through the sodden crowd like a messiah, one of twenty-four, and wide paths opened up in the teeming congregation to allow the gladiators through.

“Tell me again,” the paladin screamed next to the ear of the man nearest him, but his voice was a sigh in a hurricane, drowned out absolutely by the god-voice of the crowd.

The man was another paladin, a man Marcus knew. Marcus mouthed the words “why me,” and patted his chest. The elder paladin gave him a stern look, and the squire knew the man well enough to know what the look meant: we’ve been over this.

And they had. To the Brotherhood, it was simple. They had been a secret society, for their own collective protection, and now they wanted the world to know they existed – but not how powerful they really were. Thus, strings were pulled and their most promising squire was chosen to represent his order in The Cell. His instructions were simple: survive as long as you can.

Marcus wasn’t afraid of dying, and this is a truth separate from bravado and pomp, he merely accepted that one day he was going to die violently in service to the Brotherhood and so he had no fear of it.

There was fear in his eyes as he looked out over the crowd, though, unreserved and unmistakable. Death he didn’t fear, but this crowd, these people, the scale of what he found himself in today: that terrified him.

***

“Come on, get the jacket off,” Anya was saying. Anya was Marcus’ mentor, and had been permitted to join him just before he was to enter the arena on the Aequitas side. No more than ten minutes had passed since they had emerged from the crowd and entered the Cell. Everything was happening so fast.

His hands shook as he undid the buckle on his scabbard and shrugged it off, leaning his sheathed sword against a wall. He put his shoulders back and let his jacket slide off of his arms, and Anya pulled it the rest of the way off and folded it over her forearm.

“Stop that shaking,” she chided. “The shirt, too.”

Marcus raised one heavy eyebrow at his mentor, and but there was no humor on her face. “Your mission is to impress that crowd,” she said, “and that shirt isn’t going to stop any swords anyway. Off, now.”

Book sneered and peeled his shirt up over his head, handed it off to join his jacket, and then retrieved his sword. He freed it from its scabbard and relinquished the scabbard, too, for it would not be needed inside. Anya didn’t wish him luck – the Brotherhood didn’t speak of luck. She just nodded at him, grim-eyed, and walked away. A steel gate descended between the squire and his mentor, and then began to slide forward toward Marcus.

There was no going back.

He turned away from the gate and sighed, head bowed, relishing that last moment of relative peace and safety as the bottom teeth of the gate screeched ominously along the stone floor – the eye of the storm, relatively speaking. The first step was the hardest, but on he came toward what seemed to be an impenetrable metal wall. The wall was in fact a door, which opened slowly at the paladin’s approach, allowing a blaze of light and a crushing burst of noise to enter: the ever-present crowd calling for their champions.

The light from the arena filled the hall, momentarily blinding the squire and rendering everything around him a thin silhouette and the arena outside seemed impossibly vast. For a moment it felt like that last step out of the hallway would be his last, as if he would fall into oblivion if he took it. There was no choice.

But then, there never had been.

Somehow, he heard the door close behind him even over the colossal roar of the spectators. There was nothing left to do but join them now, and so he threw his head back and screamed his throat raw. Red-faced and eyes burning, he hoisted his sword up and advanced, as eager as the rest of the throng to see blood spilt.

[Duffy]

Into the arena stepped the hopes of fools,
A disciple of gods carrying world-bearing tools,
With dagger and sword and Tindergear primed,
Young Duffy arrived in the arena begrimed.


With chuckle and bounce the thief did announce,
“What’s occurin’ sirs?” With theatrical flounce,
He cocked his head surely and bounced between spots,
His hangover solid and his stomach in knots.


Here we can see but one face of twelve,
Each looking for glory into which they can delve,
What fate awaits each combatant within?
See the truth revealed, in the Cell born of sin!

[Silence Sei]

Crowds had gathered for a hero. The Cell was a tournament that could create a hero out of normal men. The Cell was a tournament that turned heroes into legends. The Cell was perhaps the most famous and violent tournament Althanas had ever seen.

It was because of this that Sei wanted no part in the competition.

The mute hated to get into altercations if they could be avoided. Fighting, in Sei's opinion, was something degrading that made little sense to the mystic. Fighting served no purpose other than proving that humans and animals were no different than one another. Scratch that, animals fought for food. Humans fought for bloodsport.

The crowd roared as the surprise guest stepped out from his door. Looking around the chamber Sei had noticed that nearly none of his opponents had arrived yet. This was good. He could try and determine who he was here to find, and who he was here to avoid. He could avoid violence with some, while trying to convince others that they were needed to save his beloved Radasanth.

The crowd's cheers faded in Sei's ears as he remembered the prophecy. Radasanth was to be targeted to be destroyed. Only by untiting eight other warriors could Sei even stand a chance of saving the city that heralded him as a hero. This was the mute's motivation for The Cell. While he had found several of the heroes through happenstance, the mystic knew that the massive tournament was the best way to recruit people into his cause.

The smell of freshly kicked dust filled Sei's nostrils and nearly caused the hero to choke. As his eyes scanned the crowd for faces, he had locked eyes with that of his daughter, Anita Orlouge. She was there to cheer her father on, to help spot any people who might fit the prophecy. Anita could 'feel' who was right for saving Radasanth, as it were. She was going to be Sei's strongest weapon for finding what he needed.

The orange haired youth then locked eyes with the grand master of the tournament, Max Dirks. Sei had shared several battles with the gun-toter. He had established the man as his biggest rival, yet one of his greatest allies should a need arise. Glancing over to Anita, the girl shook her head quickly. 'Uncle' Max was not one of the Warriors Nine. Finding himself a bit lost at this revelation, Sei met Dirks' gaze once more with a stern nod. He showed his respect to Max's title as Grand Master by giving him a bow.

The mute clasped his hands together in a prayer like motion. The mute closed his eyes and said a small prayer in order to get ready.

He hoped the Gods would bestow upon him the gift of more warriors to save Radasanth...

[Alis Grave Nil]

Alis felt as if he woke up, his pupils almost as large as his eyes, his hair blond, his skin pale. It was pale as if he was sick, suffering from a disease, yet he was not, at least not known to him, for he knew not of his vampire heritage. The Bow master’s face was tired and sad, to the point of depression, his head hanging, his eyes half closed, not caring to show emotions. The noble natured raised himself from his makeshift bed. Sitting up, he revealed his rather tiny figure that always where hid beneath his clothing. His pale skin was disturbingly white, to the point where he could outmatch the dead. As the wind broke about the area, he felt the breeze all to good, his eyes came to rest upon his body in a quick motion as he noticed he was barely with cloths.
With that though, his cloths appeared, within his eyesight, his ceremonial clothing. The white linen pants and shirt. The silk blue cloak and his leather boots also came on in a rush. With the feeling of the cloths on himself, the cold chilly feeling became bearable, and it would not take long before he would discard the cold feeling all together.

“Empty minutes, empty hours, empty days, empty years. Why is it so that my memories will not return, but yet haunt me with these emotions that are not mine to own.”

He questioned himself though he had done so many times before, almost like a ritual whenever he awoke from his slumbers.

Stabilizing himself the vampire was quick to find his belongings when he realized he was hearing voices, many of them and they where loud. Quickly he held his bow in his hand with the quiver on his back, with an arrow pulled back and ready in case he needed defend himself. He had never been here before, he knew not how he came to be here and the though scared him. He felt like it was like waking up in his grave all over again and his knees grew shaky from it. Slowly Alis Grave Nil, the vampire elf took his first step towards a dangerous path into the arena.

[Hysteria]

Dancing rays of light filtered through the gaps in the massive door just in front of Talen. His scared blue eyes were fixated on the large construct that succeeded in making him feel very small. Cool damp sweat had worked its way across the back of the black shirt that passed for fighting attire for the poor warrior. His tired greying pants seemed too tight, biting into his waist and constricting his movements.

Relax.... relax...

Empty words drifted through the boys mind without any effect on his nerves. His minds eye saw him as nothing. Dirt perhaps, to be scrapped off the boots of one of the famous warriors. Their names had been mentioned, but as his brain rapidly descended into a chaos of thoughts they were all lost.

There was thunder. The pale youth tried to focus on the sound but it was quickly overtaken by one even greater. Could that have been people? The thought was the only solid thing that Talen had been able to put together since being shoved towards the mammoth door. Something was about to happen, something other than being thrust out into the open and hacked into tiny pieces.... well that was actually yet to be seen. The door lifted open and Talen was thrust out.

The tall youth blinked vaguely and gripped his sword tightly. He held the stilled sheathed blade with two hands, one on the hilt and one on the sheath just below the other. His knuckles turned white as he looked around; his face fearful.

It seemed that he stepped out of the door near the corner of the cell, but that didn't register right away. Instead his eyes fell onto the other competitors who were emerging. The grave faces of the number of silent warriors nearly caused madness for the boy. He lacked any sense of calm, instead it felt like the slimy tentacles of a squid were wriggling through his gut; for the people he faced would not be cast down by a gods touch with a simple declaration. Nor would even the spear that had killed a god be any good in Talen's hands right now. He had been a duffer of a daredevil to take on such a task.

But he was there and he had to fight.

[Duffy]

Lost in a dream world Duffy jumped as the steward prodded him in the back. With a gruff "Move it," the thief huddled forwards, not entirely comfortable with the scruffy and bedraggled appearance of the event's organisers. He looked dazedly up at the storm clouds overhead as he walked and half-wondered just how long he had drifted off for. The whispers of a verse in his own hand spiralled off into his sub-consciousness and the impending battle brought home a few truths he was not ready for. He felt sick, and for once it was not brought on by mixing his drinks or eating too much sugar. It was world-bearing, far too responsible sort of lethargy.

It had been over five hours since he had awoken and he already looked worse for wear. His chin was bedecked with a five o'clock shadow verging on the eight and his once white clothes and tightly wrapped bandages were mud stained and sodden with dirt. He looked every part the urchin of Scara Brae, perfect for the rough and tumble that would no doubt follow, but not so flattering on the eye.

As he had warmed up and thought of a game plan, he had mused on the last tournament he had entered. It was over a year ago in the ill fated Magus Cup when his one chance at glory slipped away in the elven hands of a better, quicker 'solicitor of funds.' He was a lot older now, and whilst he was not altogether wiser, he liked to think he had learnt enough of the world to survive longer than the first round. When the opportunity arose to compete once more, not even Ruby’s disapproving monologue and witticisms could keep him from rushing out the door to sign-up.

His victory poem had been written in homage to his delusions of grandeur and as ever, it was badly conceived, cranky, and full of erroneous grammar. Writing accurately or for the pleasure of others was not this particular bard’s expertise, but he conveyed the required meaning and brought it to life through annunciation, spirit and flair, as opposed to cold hearted and clandestine accuracy. He was far too clouded by his own enthusiasm, and too stubborn to think of it as anything other than perfectly wrought that he recited it smugly as he padded up the foyer steps. His chunky boots chimed out an ominous rhythm like Death knocking on an octogenarian's door.

Even in the depths of the preparation area the roar of the crowd dominated the senses and purveyed a sense of enormity that bordered on the inescapable, on the dramatic. As he approved the port cullis and gate he stopped to compose his thoughts into something less distracting. Great oceanic storms broiled in the thief’s mind and he began to feel like he was alone, unguided and unfettered by the proclamation of his arts. He felt uninspired, which was something he had rarely been in recent months. Here he could not pretend to be an actor performing a role as his masque and his mien were now intertwined. As the doors opened and the swell of noise and intoxicating smells struck him like a tsunami, he instantly felt alone, instantly forgetful of his well rehearsed repertoire.

“I guess there ain’t no turnin’ back now!” He stepped out into the Cell and felt his chest tighten and the static in the air crackle and arc around his wrists and limbs. He clocked onto the other combatants and realised very quickly that this tournament would not be an easy endeavour. One, perhaps two opponents might have gone in Duffy's favour, but he was clearly out of his league, out of his mind, and winging his way into third place if he was remotely lucky. "If Lucian can do it..." he re-assured himself, begrudging his nemesis the time of day to give him the resolve and determination to live beyond the starting bell.

In the stocks and stands amidst the squalor of the city's poor, the Tantalum troupe erupted into a mini rendition of When the Cows Come Home and waved their little blue flags. There were several other gestures of support which should not have come from a six year old, and Duffy chuckled as Pete was pushed back into his seat and re-clothed. He pulled Tooth and Wainwright’s Dagger from their respective sheathes and span them around menacingly, waiting for the go ahead for the melee to begin.

[Squidi]

People, people, silence, listen!

It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for!

For those of you that have been living under a rock for the past twenty-something years, my name is Zooga Agooz, Master Thief.

Yes, that's right, Master Thief.

So you have heard of me?

Well, I'm hardly surprised.

My accomplishments in the field of robbery are infamous across the land.

Paralleled only by my accomplishments in stealing the hearts of women.

But tonight it's time for me to tell you a different tale, about the time I participated in the most terrible tournament ever . . . and won.

Oh yes, I remember it like it was yesterday.

Butterflies floating in my stomach.

Blackness.

Deep breaths, in and out, in and out...

And the crowd, vibrating your bones.

In an instant, though, the blackness brightened, and I knew it was time.

Opening my eyes, I stepped forth into the cell.

But to those observing my portal, they would not have seen a thing!

How, you ask? How was this possible?

Pssh... In all my years, I've learned one thing, and one thing only.

Pink is the ultimate camouflaging color.

Thus, wearing pink from head to toe, I was completely invisible to all those around me!

Fucking unbelievable, I know!

The odds were completely stacked in my favor.

How could I not win?

[Breaker]

The Breaker Boots rang dully on the stone floor like bells warning of Cronen's approach. The iron cage door was all that seperated him from the Cell. Two scarred, strong hands reached up and adjusted the hood of his light grey tunic, so that his face remained in shadow.

As the door swung open outwards, Breaker, the beast who was once a man, clawed at the cage inside Cronen's mind. The bars of that mental prison would soon dissolve, once Joshua judged the remaining combatants worthy of facing his vicious alter-ego. Too many times had he allowed Breaker to face an up-and-coming warrior in the Dajas Pagoda, his old training ground, and as a result subjected the unfortunate fighter to being torn limb from limb while still alive. Cronen had not come to the Cell to entertain the beast's torturous desires; it was the one place where warriors of a higher caliber were sure to be found.

"Put the weakest out of their misery..." Joshua noted mentally as he stepped into the ring. One of his callused hands remained beneath the cloak, while the other gripped the center bar of the cagelike door. The roar of the crowd covered the shriek of shattered screws as the door came off its hinges.

"... and then, maybe my old friend, we will meet our match." The first fighter to catch Cronen's attention was a fellow of about his own height, with odd pinkish skin, who stood twirling two daggers. Cronen pivoted and hurled the heavy iron door. It sped towards the Tantalum at waist height. A deadly piece of debris initiated combat in the Aequitas Chamber.