The Aequitas Chamber

[Ataraxis]

The beauty of the city’s skyline was tarnished by heavy rain, reduced to nothing more than a dark and gritty line of saw-toothed shadows against the weather’s sullen canvas. In every way, Lillian knew it should have been a disheartening sight; yet, even as she watched the raindrops pelt against the windows of the waiting room, the sixteen-year-old girl looked strangely at peace. She had been listening by the sill to the pitter-patter on the roof shingles, humming along the rain’s soothing rhythm, eyes following the timid raindrops on the glass as they softly trickled out sight.

Like this, Lillian looked every bit the typical teenager on a rainy day, making it that much harder to believe that this unassuming girl, a freelance librarian at that, was actually waiting to fight in the Cell. She knew she should have been anxious, scared even. Her heart should have been beating like a little drum, threatening to burst or leap out of her chest. In fact, she most certainly should have already run away screaming by now. ‘But then, why do I feel so serene?’

Lillian wandered closer to the windows, peering into the stained glass with a nostalgic smile. The clouds were darker than before, their underside flashing as thunder roared amidst a rain of ropes. A few stragglers were still scampering about the streets, unable to find refuge from the downpour; yet, the girl envied them. After twisting the locks above the frame, she forcefully lifted the window and brought down a mist that caked her with dust and paint chips. A breath of rain invaded the room, damp yet welcoming, and she took it all in. Lillian didn’t mind the deafening roars – not from the stormy heavens nor the awaiting spectators.

And she smiled.

This. This was why. To Lillian, this wistful scenery was the most soothing prelude she could ever ask for, a gift from above to hone her mind… right before taking her first steps into a cage of blood-thirsty titans.

There was a knock at the door, and she knew it was time. Lillian made her way across the dusty slate room, picking up the cloak hanging from the ladder-back chair and the weapons belt she’d left on a table by the exit. Her gaze lingered there for a moment, riveted on the dozen vials scattered on the rosewood… and on the few lingering red stains that tainted their insides. Her eyes clouded over with guilt as she began questioning herself, her motives, but the librarian quickly shook the doubt away. There was no choice.

“You have to, Lily,” she muttered to herself, curling her fingers into little white fists. “It’s why you’re here.” The girl tentatively picked a handful of the vials off the table, staring in dark wonder at the flecks of clotted blood that clung to the glass. Soon, her gaze hardened with resolve, and she carefully stashed the fragile tubes into a satchel hanging from the belt she’d just clamped on. Lillian sighed; with this, she was ready at last.

“To think I came to bleed giants,” the girl finally said with a scoff, throwing on her cobalt cloak in a flutter and a flourish. Fastening it on with the silken strings about her neck, the librarian finally made her way out the door. “Who would believe me?”

:::::

The sudden roar of excitement that greeted her when she stepped into the semi-circular battlefield had frozen Lillian there and then. She knew better than to think the audience was excited to see her, a quite literally nondescript nobody, jump into fray, and so she gave cursory glances to the left and right, registering all she could of her adversaries. The first thing she saw, however, was one of the twelve massive metal doors that lined the arena’s arc, careening through the air like an oversized discus. It missed her by an arm’s length, but the enormous swoosh of wind had knocked her out of balance, so strong it had almost blown her cloak right off. A heartbeat later, the wall of adamantine it struck rang like a monstrous gong, so loud that even the cries of the crowd could not rise over the din.

Lillian blinked, craning her head slowly to the right with palms smashed against her temples. “Great. is that… Joshua Cronen?” she asked herself in a tired drawl. Though he was hooded, his attack had knocked the cloth slightly loose, revealing the face of the Pagoda warrior, and she reflexively readjusted her own hood and cloak so as not to be recognized herself. They’d met in Underwood once, as accidental roommates in the Peaceful Promenade. Since then, they'd gone their separate ways on relatively good terms, but with what would ensue in the out-and-out fiasco this battle was becoming, the librarian doubted those good terms would last much longer.

Wasting no more time, Lillian solicited the surrounding shadows, most of which came from the streams of rain that drizzled on the force-field overhead. They gathered at her feet like moths to a flame, forming a pool of darkness that quickly climbed her small figure before seemingly vanishing. In truth, however, Lillian had become but a passing presence in the arena, manifold more unassuming than the girl already was – visible, yes, but substantially harder to focus on. Moreover, thanks to the otherworldly cloak she wore, even someone with keen eyes sensitive to the colors of magic would not be able to detect the shroud.

With a sweep of her arm, Lillian gathered bits and pieces of shadows from nearby sources: the trickling rain above, the indestructible walls of adamantine, even the foes she slipped by while slinking towards Joshua. Soon, another puddle of fluid darkness massed at her feet, until it burst forth like a jet of ink across the rocky ground, rushing unseen along the arena’s arc. Though her sole target was the currently bare-handed warrior, she was wary of relying on a straightforward attack; instead, she willed the tendril to slither toward the participant closest to her mark, the rogue in showy pink clothing. The moment Joshua showed an opening, however, was the moment Lillian would veer it back on track…

Should the tendril link with his shadow, then the first major step of her plan would be complete. The wisp of sorcerous darkness would drain him of his life-force, something Lillian had just seen the man had in excess. It was essential to enfeeble him, to sever his heels: only then could she begin the second step toward taking down a titan.

‘Sorry Josh,’ she thought to herself with an apologetic grin, ‘but it looks like you’re Giant Number One.’

Bunnied Josh's hood being knocked off with Numbers' permission.

[Godhand]

He smiled as the large metal door was pulled open before him. He pulled the gloves on his hands back, laced his boots tighter and walked through the portal, holding out his arms and basking, relishing, in the delighted roar of the crowd. He let it engulf him, consume him. Let it penetrate into his muscles, tendons, his core. The swordsman held out a hand and watched enraptured as the crowd hushed just a bit, then smirked when he slowly raised his fist and the noise the crowd made grew accordingly. Theatrics. In some ways, Godhand was a noble and virtuous man. Very few ways, granted, but some ways. But in others, he was simply a showman. A performer.

A whore.

He'd gotten a taste for it during his youth spent as a prizefighter. There was nothing like it. You could ride that thrill for days and no matter how many times you experienced it it would never ever lose its edge. You couldn't drink it, couldn't smoke it, couldn't shoot it and couldn't freebase it, but it could still make a junkie out of you faster than cocaine, heroin, nicotine and alcohol combined. The roar of the crowd. The ultimate high.

He took a look around the cell to see who'd he be up against, but to his surprise found no one he knew or heard of with the exception of 'Silence' Sei Orlouge, a man he had been acquainted with only briefly many years ago; he'd done some mercenary work for him and assisted in putting down The Yellow Lily rebellion. Or was it the Yellow Turban rebellion? He'd played commando and had a hand suppressing so many insurrections, rebellions and coups in his younger years that they all seemed to blur together now. Some crackpot territory and tin-pot dictator had sprung up at least once in every single region's history without exception. It was enough to keep a specialist very busy. But Godhand had washed his hands from that kind of work a while ago and never looked back; the travel, living conditions and nature of the work that required you to stay in the area in case there was a resurgence was simply too exhausting both mentally and physically to keep up past your twenties. He'd heard of guys that got off on that sort of thing and made that their bread and butter from being a rookie until the day they died but that wasn't him. He was a creature of habit; he liked to have a homebase. Roots. Liked to know the layout of the town and where the good places to eat where. He was simple in his pleasures.

Nevertheless, he was surprised. Sei Orlouge had disappeared from public view for a while now and Godhand supposed it made sense that he'd want to use a highly visible and notorious event like The Cell to make his triumphant return back to the public eye. But he expected to see others here, more present, famous names. Letho. Bloodrose. Possibly one or two members of the NWO, too. A Pagoda grandmaster? He couldn't rule it out. Champions, in any case. But it was just him and a whole bunch of people he didn't know. There were some in hoods, but they were likely rookies hoping to use anonymity to let the other contestants draw the worst conclusions. He'd been on both sides of that trick. He knew right away that this would play out one of two ways: either they'd stay out of his way and try not to get taken out in the crossfire, or they'd all gang up on him. Well, the second one didn't sound too fun. He decided a show of force was in order, if only to dissuade his opponents from all converging on him at once and ripping him apart like a pack of hyenas.

With that in mind, he calmly drew a Magnum, leveled it at the head of the nearest man (a fellow in a hood), and pulled the trigger.

Godhand fires a .50 bullet at Numbers Guy's head

[Amen]

There were certain habits a successful warrior fostered, both on and off the battlefield. Marcus had long ago discovered that a good performance and an easier victory came from simple visualization: imagining the fight playing out, considering every possibility with the knowledge that one couldn’t foresee everything. In short: make a plan, or the barest skeleton of one. There had been plenty of time for that before The Cell began, and the paladin had put that time to good use.

He had considered a scenario like this one - that is, the scenario where twelve combatants were shoved out into an area all at once and turned loose. He had imagined that maybe most of them would be confused by the suddenness of it, and he had been sure not to fall into such a trap himself. He had imagined other scenarios, darker ones, where the other eleven were not confused but instead all focused immediately on him with homicidal intent.

Thankfully that hadn’t happened…yet. No, instead everything was a great deal more chaotic than he could have envisioned. His plan had called for a swift but thorough survey, a glance at the competition to gauge threats and form a plan of attack. He saw now that such a complete survey would not be possible.

His breath was barely recovered before an entire door was hurdling across the arena, tossed by a cloaked figure. Marcus watched the debris fly, momentarily astounded, and then swung his gaze back to the titan from which the missile had originated. The squire was further stunned to see another man on the scene now, aiming a pistol at the titan’s head.

An honest-to-gods gun was being discharged a stone’s throw away, a weapon against which Book was perfectly helpless. There was little doubt in his mind now that he stood on death’s precipice, and it was getting windy.

Marcus was on the third breath now, his eyes sweeping the rest of the arena, and by the fourth he found what he was looking for. He did not know Talen Shadowalker, but he recognized fear when he saw it. The boy looked to be younger even than Book himself, and had not yet drawn his sword though his hands lie on hilt and scabbard. Fear and hesitation.

The paladin lifted his sword and charged the tall boy in faded black with savage purpose. It was Marcus’ hope to strike before the darkling lad could unsheathe his sword, and thus quickly remove a lesser threat before facing his promised doom – a bit of glory before the end. With that in mind, Marcus shouted, swinging his bastard sword two-handed in a high horizontal arc: a strike aimed at Talen’s neck.

[Duffy]

Duffy’s eyes widened as the newcomer took ‘making an entrance’ a little too far. With a concerted effort he buckled at the knees and leapt onto the door as it levelled mid-flight. All the years he had spent skitter leaping across the roof tops of Scara Brae paid off as he ran along it as it slipped underneath with immense speed. Before he could register what was happening he span forwards off the edge and landed with a thud, his right fist punching the ground and his left arced above his head with a slightly elegant gait. The door crashed into the adamantium wall behind him and bent in two as the dense metal brushed off the assault with a catastrophic thud. His confusion dropped from view, and suddenly he paid minute attention to every little detail. As he panted and caught his breath, he picked out the slightest blemish and speck of dust, his heart focussing his vision on how close he had just been to being shown the door.

Whilst he had not expected any leniency or the good fortune of being ignored, it was at least polite to introduce yourself in some manner before getting straight down to business. With a subtle movement he tucked his hair back under his bandana and stood upright to take stock of the damage. His muscles were tight, his cochlea was spinning with nausea and his knuckles were red, but on the whole, he was alive, and feeling a little more confident.

“You’re supposed to make use of a dramatic entrance chuck, not make use of entrance itself!” He bounced and clicked his neck, a whirligig suddenly aware that flailing his arms wildly would not cut it. He was on fire with the taint of adrenaline, buzzing and rearing to go with a well of energy boiling away in the pit of his stomach.

Speed, or so it seemed, would be all that would get him by. How long it would last or how quickly he would be outsped, they were the questions of doubt he had no breathing space to ask.

"When the curtain rises, I shall present the players, but until then!" He bellowed at his assailant with a devilish grin as the smell of sweat and fear already lingered in his nostrils. It mingled with the dampness in the air and the bridling mass of people all around them, chanting and mocking their favourite and their worst. The forcefield, whilst deft, was clearly not impenetrable.

Choosing his targets more wisely than the others he sped with a comic dash to the left; his feet padding with lightness often reserve for ballet dancers or men of a floral persuasion. As he ran, he levelled his daggers at the man, who seemed an altogether more amicable sparring partner than the one who flexed his penis a little too strongly for his liking. His religious symbols and stoic appearance foretold a similar but less disastrous pain even as he turned to fight the one Duffy knew to be Talen Shadow-walker…the flashes of their roguish endeavour against the Golden Sun brought a sense of familiarity to the thief’s mind as he picked up the pace. “Oi!” He shouted, hoping to drag Marcus around with his voice and take the focus from his friend onto his own blades, his staccato stance deployed and ready to bite.

No doubt soon enough he would have to trudge back across the mud spurred on by the dying crowd. Then he fight on to his very last and face them both off before the sun was set and the night arrived, but he would cross that bridge and allow fate to test his faith when he came to it. He would introduce himself to the one named Joshua in due course, with all his charm and guile attentive to the moment, and his wit as snappy and abrupt as the sound of gunfire.

[Hysteria]

“Oh my....” mumbled Talen.

One of the competitors ripped the massive door off its limbs and threw it at another competitor. Talen stepped backwards and bumped into the door he had just entered. The display of raw power was staggering and slowly the young warrior with his back to the wall stepped away from the monstrous Breaker.

There was however a more pressing matter for the young warrior to face. A paladin of sorts had raised his sword and was charging towards him. Talen inhaled and lifted his still sheathed sword. Vaguely he could hear shouting coming from one of the other fighters, but he didn't listen to Duffy's attempt to subvert Marcus.

* * * *

“Remember your footing Talen!” Said Mel hitting the youth's legs with his cane.

Talen grunted and changed his stance. The grizzly old warrior walked around Talen, checking his stance and making sure he was concentrating.

“You are tall, you need to make sure you limit your surface area and don't forget you have talents that other fighters won't have!” Said Mel hitting Talen's shoulder this time.

* * * *

Talents they won't have... echoed through Talen's mind. He was still afraid, nearly more scared than he had ever been, but he was going to act. He dropped to one knee and lifted his still sheathed sword above his head, angled so the hilt of the sword was pointing to the ground. The paladin's blade collided with his own with clang. The blade had cut into the sheath, but stopped against the steel blade within.

Talen opened his mouth wide and the darkness within twisted and bubbled forwards. The shadows extended out into a gaping immaterial snake and struck towards the Paladin's face. The snake was fake, merely an illusion and Talen hoped that it was enough to make the Paladin miss his next attack.

Following quickly Talen pulled the hilt of his sword, drawing it was a shing. Pushing his sheath with his left hand to try and keep the Paladin's sword busy, Talen slashed across the man's chest, hopefully slitting him open.

[Silence Sei]

Sei completed his prayer with just enough time to watch the events unfold. Directly across from him a man had ripped his door off of it's hinges as threw it towards another competitor. Just as Sei stepped forward to rescue the man from his impromptu demise did somebody familiar catch the mute's attention. Pausing just long enough for Duffy to take a handle on his door situation, Sei's eyes met with Lillian Sesthal.

The mute had expected to meet those of the Warriors Nine in this hellish arena, but not the sixteen year old Lillian. The girl was one of the first to have joined the mute's cause to save Radasanth. Sei's eyes were then diverted from the form of Lillian to that of a figure from his past. With so much going on Sei could only shiver as he had felt a presence he had not felt in a long time.

Godhand Striker...

Sei had met Godhand when he was recruiting soldiers to quell the Yellow Lily Rebellion. The Rebellion had been compromised of thousands of insurgents, and as Sei recalled, Godhand Striker was one of his most powerful generals against the overwhelming force. It seemed as though once the mute had stepped out of Althanas limelight that Godhand took center stage and grew much stronger than before. The crowd cheered for him as much as they had for their hero. This allowed Sei to form a plan.

Stepping backwards until his spine had align with the wall behind him, Sei bvegan to speak to Godhand and Lillian. "Listen to me. Godhand, Lillian, I propose a truce for now. We can knock out the rest of the compeitors with the slightest of ease if we work together. Afterwards, I will gladly give myself up to the two of you and you can have this God-forsaken battle. I just need to find what I'm looking for. Understand?"

Sei was aware that Lillian would know what Sei meant by his proposal. The mute hated to engage in violence, but this was the only way to find the warriors he required. Looking directly towards Lillian, Sei spoke once more. "Lillian, I am going to be a transmitter for Anita to you. She is in the audience looking in from above at the fight." Sei's eyes motioned into the crowd to show Lillian Anita's location.

"Anita will be a second pair of eyes for the both of us. She's opened her mind to let us know if there are any sneak attacks. Godhand is not getting such a luxury, as I am not sure if he is the man I once knew. Be careful Lillian, and don't be afraid to call for help if you need it."

With his communication quickly ended with Lillian, Sei looked to his right to see the squabble going on with Talen and his foes. Strategically, eliminating the weakest was a good idea. This was just too much, however, and Sei decided to go for the instigator of this whole ordeal. Watching as Godhand fired his weapon towards the hooded individual, Sei began to cast one of his spells. He had the advantage of not being a prime target. Who would attack 'The Hero of Radasanth' unprovoked, after all?

[Breaker]

Cronen pivoted off the throw and came to stand with the stillness of a coiled spring. Calm, calculating eyes swept the arena from beneath the skewed hood.

Chaos reigned in his mind, and all around. Breaker clawed at the walls of his prison. Joshua heard scampering feet, shouts of battle and the slide of a holster. A young woman whispered his name.

"I remember that voice," Breaker growled. Joshua silenced him before he could say what he wanted to do to Lillian, using a technique his late mentor taught him. Medsan had been an Ai'Bron monk whose wisdom helped Cronen control his shattered psyche. Some of Medsan's last words had counselled Cronen to participate in the cell.

He turned his head inside the hood and faced the Gunman.

Breaker cackled as he found his voice again.

A single gunshot echoed as two revolvers discharged.

The fat slug from the cougar magnum blew back Cronen's hood, taking a large chunk of his left ear with it. The Colt Anaconda, held in the hand beneath his cloak, fired a prevaldia round at Godhand's sternum.

"The girl is after us, let me take her head off at least." Breaker snarled from the confines of their shared brain.

Cronen detected Lillian's strands of shadow. He could smell her, too. He smelled everything; his flesh and cartilage spattered on the ground, the sweat and fear of the cell, but her scent reminded him of flowers. It comforted him, as did the roving strands of shadow. They seemed almost to watch his back, which made sense considering he once carried her out of a semi-collapsed inn.

A growing roar rumbled across the grandstand as more people who attended Dajas Pagoda recognized his close-cropped hair and the Y shaped scar on his cheek. Crimson flecks almost concealed that pale patch of skin. Cronen licked his lips and savoured the metallic tang.

[Alis Grave Nil]

For all the feelings in the world Alis Grave Nil was awestruck. The brutality, the raw display of power, the far too vulgar display of powers, or more so, the abuse of power from some. The vampire quickly realized it was not a place for him to be, his abilities where not equal or by any chance able to match any of those huge brutalities. But for what it was worth, he would not lie down and allow them to take his life unopposed. Sneaking himself along the wall, bending low and observing the ranger kept to his entrance partly hiding by not provoking anyone. He couldn’t help but notice the pink fellow, and wondering what kind of sick person it must be. The vampire jumped at the sound of the gun shot. He knew not what had caused it, but looking at the fellow who had caused it and the damage on wall where the shot at hit, Alis grave Nil knew already, it was not a person he wished to provoke.

This was not a fight you wanted to throw you’re self into, it was one you wanted to survive. The vampire spotted a familiar face, actually it was not the only one, he spotted another one. He saw the guy with the peculiar way of speaking and the pale guy. He knew them from an encounter earlier where they had ambushed a caravan of weapons for the gilded leafs. Perhaps he could forge an alliance with them. Just like it was meant to be, with that though the vampire saw that his pale friend was being charged and was now fighting to defend himself. The bow wielder quickly fired an arrow aimed for the back of the paladin, and loaded a new arrow to follow up and released it afterwards. This arrow was aimed for the right side of his back. Gambling that he might dodge that way due to duffy’s place on the opposite side.

[Neville Longinus]

I made this post at 11pm EST before Dirks deleted it. Some changes: It's Rayse Valentino, with some appearance changes so nobody recognizes him.

Shittiest beer he's ever had. Downright tasted like rocks. It was unusually brown that day in the tavern, well everything looked brown at least. And wavy. And even more wavy. Rayse Valentino opened his eyes.

He was on the floor. A common bed for for him when suffering from the magical sickness. Every other day was a blur to him, where he would wake up miles away from where he last remembered, sometimes in another country entirely. He believed that some sort of alter-ego took over during these periods and purposely put him into bad situations, but it was a thought a bit too paranoid for him to think about. The dream he just had was kind of weird, it was as if he just collapsed on the ground moments ago and gotten some rocks in his mouth.

As he was spitting out pebbles and stood up, he noticed he stood in front of a large closed door. Not too far away his sleepy eyes could see others in front of doors, and for a moment he thought he was still asleep. He could see a storm raging overhead, but none of it was affecting him. The cheering fans snapped him back into reality, as he remembered hearing about this sort of thing before. Wearing a black cloak with a hood over his eyes, it seemed like he was dressed so nobody would recognize him.

"The Cell... ?" he mumbled, wiping his mouth and feeling around for his things. His back had a sword strapped to it, several of his throwing knives were at his side, and his pockets were filled with mini-molotovs. "Don't tell me... Fuck!"

He fished out a small piece of paper that only said the words, You are Neville Longinus. Did his crazy alter-ego put him into some sort of death cage? What's with the alias, anyway? He turned around and reached for the doorknob, trying to turn it to leave, but it was futile. Not only that, but there was nary a crack in the door as it blended almost perfectly into the wall. He looked up and decided to scale the wall. His body turned red and semi-transparent for a moment and then he vanished, a trail of flame flying up into the air but then violently being sent backward to the ground, reforming Rayse's body in mid-air and having him slam back into the floor. Getting back up, he dusted himself off and looked around incredulously. It felt like some giant monster slapped him back into the arena.

He wasn't one to dwell on a bad situation however, as he reached for his pack of cigarettes and pulled one out, lighting it and blowing the smoke up into the force field. He saw the smoke disperse along the ceiling of the magical barrier, making it clear to him that he was trapped. He cracked his neck and knuckles.

"Fuck this Cell and everyone in it."

[Neville Longinus]

Assuming my post wasn't deleted, this would be the logical place for my second post. If this is a problem I can re-post it after someone else, otherwise tally-ho!

He was unusually irritable today. Not only was he thrust into a battle with what appeared to be... Godhand? That teenage girl that was with him? Not to mention all the other weirdos. Aside from that, he was awake... early. The medicine that he was taking to combat the illness could only be taken in bursts, with recuperation periods in-between. He generally overdosed and blacked out, but this time it seemed that he was still under their effects. He was angry and couldn't think very clearly.

As it stands, his life hadn't been very good to him lately. He pulled the hood over his eyes, ashamed of his current situation. He didn't want anyone to see him this weak, this succumbed to an illness. Until he was cured of it, he wanted to remain incognito, but that looked hard this time. The matter of his alter-ego couldn't be ignored anymore, either. It didn't want to kill him while in control, but rather when Rayse was in control. Sticking him in an arid desert, a field of slow, or a prison waiting to be executed- It wanted Rayse to suffer. That, or it was constantly toying with him. He assumed that it was merely him suffering from the copious side effects of the medicine, but he wondered about that.

A metal door slamming into the wall broke his introspection as his eyes sharply darted to its origin. Then, he heard a gunshot. Goddamn it, they let you use guns in here?! He was on edge as it was returned with another gunshot. Where the hell was he, some Aleran firing range? It was pissing him off.

He thought about it, but all of his impulses wanted him to grab someone's throat and wring it out. Not usually so vicious, he figured maybe this was his one chance to cut loose and finally let himself go. So this is what I've become; Some wild animal? Putting his hand on the adamantine wall, he looked up at the storm and the howling winds blowing his cloak around.

Deciding to let his frustrations out, his first target became clear: A man with orange hair with a gray karate-gi. Pulling out one of his alcohol-based mini-molotovs, he lit it with his thumb and forcefully tossed it at him. Unprovoked, he attacked The Hero of Radasanth.