The Treslizn Chamber

[Max Dirks]

This chamber will host the following players:

Ailnea
Arsène
Atzar Kellon
Bloodrose
Christoph
Dissinger
Esmerelda
Kade Underbough
Letho
Mutant Lorenor
Riftslayer
Ulysses

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.

Note: Chosen of the Gods and Sapphire Eyes have withdrawn from the tournament. Letho and Mutant Lorenor have replaced them.

[Max Dirks]

After four long years the gates to the Mistician Assailing Arena in Radasanth were open once more. Thousands of people, heralding from the southern tip of Fallien to the northern reaches of Berevar, had gathered at the Arena to watch their favorite warriors 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.

Above them all, sitting on top of 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)

[Dissinger]

It had been too long…

It was hard to think, that Seth had been a part of the carnage that had last called itself the Cell. When the former champion, an enigmatic fur ball calling itself hushpuppy had taken over the crowds and started a riot. Back then he had been alive, had a girlfriend who wanted him to fight, to push himself and overcome temptation. Little had he known, his little sister had signed up as well, and then promptly delivered a wonderful blow to his ego, when she distracted him long enough for the vampire assassin Witchblade to unleash a devastating attack of dark energy upon the two. It was a succinct ending to their family feud gone public, much to her satisfaction, and even more to his ire.

That had been an awkward conversation later.

Still, Seth had his reasons for returning to the largest cluster fuck he could possibly have jumped into the heart of. He didn’t enter with fanfare; there were no theatrics or desires. He was singly minded on his mission, a goal decidedly morbid in its thoughts. Having died Seth learned many things that were never told to the ghoul in life. People seemed looser lipped on rumors that surrounded Seth when they knew Seth was dead. Little did they know the monstrosity that stood on the other side of the counter was the fallen Lavinian Demon, and so the stories he wasn’t supposed to hear, made it to his ears regardless of the best intentions on protecting him from it.

One rumored of a tryst between Liliana Ambria, the sole source of happiness in his emotionally fucked up life, and Max Dirks. Now, Seth had raged, he had fumed, and in the end even destroyed a wall or two in his temper, but he was over it. He knew that rumors had a kernel of truth, and so Seth was searching for that kernel. He needed to learn the truth, and who better to get his answers from, than the de facto candidate of the rumor, the alleged other half.

If the man resisted, that was so much the better, especially if the rumor was true…

So, he had signed up for the Cell, under the alias of Dissinger. The name was one he had plucked from an old mistake made during the time he had fought in the Theater of War. Back then the group running it had apparently ran into a man named such, a flame magician from the sounds of things, and had accidentally confused this man with Seth. The result was arguments from both men, until the error was corrected, the proper fights attributed to the proper people, and a splitting of ways. Seth had never seen the pyromancer in the years to come, and had attributed it to good luck. The guy sounded like a dick personally.

The rain poured in torrents, the ghoul’s face hidden under the wide brim of his hat appropriately. The wind ripped and tore at the leather duster he had taken, long since becoming as ratty and frayed as the rest of his clothes. The shirt he wore, still bore the killing blow to his chest, right where his heart was. The skin was now flawlessly smooth, healed when the Grave keeper Edorad Graves, member of Xem’Zund’s Necrosition, had hit him with a bit of dark arts. Still he remained calm, standing in the small cage that was meant to keep him safe from the other competitors in the cell.

The force field had caught the ghoul off guard, who had been hoping to rely on the water to keep him safe. Everyone nowadays seemed to like fire, some kind of magical fad, and the ghoul hated fire to begin with. The fact that he was flammable did nothing to change his opinion on the matter. Still he remained resolute; sure that anyone who just decided to open fire would be making a target of himself either way. Part of the cell was in not attracting attention. The other part, was in making sure to attract some attention, idle people attracted attention just as surely as showoffs. He tugged idly on the gauntlets on his hands, almost feeling a beating rhythm to his heart in anticipation of the battle to come.

The thick adamantine walls made for an unforgiving battlefield, and the idea of throwing some people onto them was appealing. Further he was more than certain they could take the weight of the ghoul, who could perhaps use a trick or two to catch someone off guard. This of course relied on him fighting someone much less experienced, but a plan was a plan, and even a veteran could be caught off guard by an unforeseen tactic. He remained calm, listening for the start, when it occurred, all the doors in the cells opened immediately. He raised an eyebrow to the theatrics, or perhaps lack there of but entered the chamber slowly, looking about the area to assess threats.

Bringing a hand up to his hat, he brought it forward and low, covering his face, no need to attract too much attention. Being tall was bad enough.

Limited Bunnying of Seth is okay with me, and I grant permission to do so. Anything more involved than a few swings should be PM'ed to me ahead of time.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

A funny series of coincidences lead Lorenor to the tournament.

First, there was the vision. During one of his particularly intense meditative periods, the mutant's mind had cleared. Visions poured into his brain, as he fell the presence of N'Jal within his very soul. The dark lady spoke to him, revealing to him a truth about matters that were unfolding slowly. A prominent truth was burned into his minds. As it manifested from the dark, the image of an old nemesis blurred into being. Not like most of his enemies, this enemy was an indirect foe. Someone whose fortune and resources almost rivaled Lorenor's own.

Focusing on the man, the vision from N'Jal became a solid construct. He studied the vision and was shocked to learn a name from the vision itself, an ancient name. The name of a certain criminal. Max Dirks. Spoken to him in the tongue of the Spider Magi, th e mutant listened carefully as N'Jal instructed him.

Listen my childe. Listen very well. The one known as Max Dirks will be involved in The Cell. Do-not allow him to gain anymore influence. The man is an enemy of the Spider Magi. Thus, he is an enemy of N'Jal. He is an enemy of you. Do your best to destroy this enemy and claim his soul in my name, in my honour. Do this task for me Lorenor, and you shall be rewarded.

Thinking back to that vision, the mutant wore a small grin on his face as he walked towards The Cell. It was named after some hero of the past that he cared not for. To someone like Lorenor, the past was simply one ocean, the future however, consisted of many oceans. Fans nearest to the mutant looked at him, and there was a hush that came over the crowd. It had become quiet, deadly quiet.

Secondly, the mutant traveled to Radasanth from Raiaera. His name was stricken into the records of The Cell by pure chance. Several of the contestants that originally signed up for the boisterous tournament were nowhere to be found. All the better for me. Taking care of previous business in Corone, Lorenor started a miniature free-for-all battle of his own for practice. It had paid off. When the tournament was first announced, Lorenor went into a deep meditation. Fasting for many days on end, Lorenor prepared for the blood-bath that would ensue. It was a chance to openly sacrifice in the name of N'Jal.

As a follower of The Dark Lady, Lorenor's first duty was spreading the influence of N'Jal. The cathedral of The Dark Lady would spread its influence all over Althanas even as they were smack in the middle of the second age of darkness.

Lorenor stared at The Cell for a moment named after a man called Treslizn.

The grin on his face moved even wider and the mutant began to laugh. It was a strange sort of gesture, for only the truly insane would find humor in a bloodbath. As Lorenor laughed, his eyes spotted the man-in-white.

He was the enemy of N'Jal, and thus, an enemy of Lorenor.

"Max Dirks." Lorenor said to himself as he stared at the arrogant human. The powers of N'Jal would not be contained by trickery or forbidden arts. Having left his precious items in safe-keeping, the mutant had long since memorized the verses within The Necronomicon. He could pull upon those verses when needed. The mutant only had a few carefully chosen objects with him. Objects that were hand-picked by himself and N'Jal. Lorenor's senses detected the force field that was present in the cage, this caused the mutant to frown. Archaic powers were in play here.

Lorenor thought about the third coincidence that lead him to The Cell.

Traveling through the streets of Radasanth after several ventures into The Citadel, the mutant was contacted by one of the many Forsaken spies placed into Radasanth's economic stronghold. Seeing that the spies informed him about the tournament, the coincidence was two-fold. Firstly, the mutant knew that The Cell was somehow involved with his past. At least, one possible past, from his current point of view. It was a chance to gain information about one of his past lives. Secondly, another matter presented itself. Many legendary warriors and magi will be present within The Cell. His informant had told him. It would be a chance to test his skill against some powerful targets.

Lorenor grinned at that thought. Though it was a series of coincidences, Lorenor did not believe in such. Lorenor believed in faith. For the mutant carried his goddess within. Placing his hand upon his chest for a moment, Lorenor prayed to the dark lady for strength and guidance. Only one member of the tournament roster had entered The Cell so far. Someone who strangely enough, gave off dark-powers.

As the first droplets of rain began to pour down into The Cell, Lorenor looked up at the sky. His bane was completely covered by the dark thunder-clouds. This impressed the mutant greatly, he would be at full power. Adjusting the weight of the prevalida longsword on his back, and adjusting the dagger at his side, the mutant was prepared. Also made of prevalida, the dagger would be useful. As the crowd stared in silence at the High Priest, the mutant walked forward.

He wore flowing, black robes that were masterwork in tailormanship. They were embroidered with solid gold. The robes had the markings of the Spider Magi etched upon them. It was a terrifying visage, one that would command respect from most. The mutant had a horrible aura about his person that glowed with the very manifestation of The Living Dark. Focusing on the pages of the Necronomicon, Lorenor went over the verses lurking within those pages. He had long since committed the pages to memory.

As a High Priest of N'Jal the mutant brought something horrible to The Cell.

He brought with him the war of the Thaynes. Staring at Max Dirks with a cold, angry gaze, the mutant prepared for what would be the single most defining moment of his life. "In the name of N'Jal. I hereby ordain this game." He said plainly, dangerously. He moved his eyes from Max Dirks to the person of Dissinger. Prepared for every eventuality to occur, even his own death, the mutant began to slowly walk towards Dissinger with murderous intent.

"You there." Lorenor began. "I do believe that you have volunteered to become the first sacrifice of the day." Without making any sense whatsoever, the mutant prepared himself to attack the stranger.

Drawing his Prevalida Dagger with his left hand, the mutant began to run the rest of the distance between himself and Dissinger. Expertly, he slashed in the general direction of Dissinger. Not really aiming for any any specific body part, the High Priest slashed for the general area of the man's upper body. It was a fluid motion that maneuvered in an downward-upward strike.

With that basic but elegant attack, The Cell began.

[Letho]

People needed heroes.

In truth, for most folk Althanas was a bleak place to live, a gray world filled with violence and uncertainty and untimely demise. It was a world in which every other man seemed to have a weapon and just enough bad temper to use it. And it was a world where diseases swept thought the population like the wind, taking lives of the just and the corrupt alike. It was a world out of balance, where karma seemed to have taken a long hiatus, where gods seemed to have turned a blind eye to the plights of a common man, where good things didn’t happen to those who waited and where the evil prospered. It was a world where hope was a commodity few could keep alive, a world where people silently cried out for salvation, and in lieu of that, distraction. They needed someone, a symbol of a better life. A hero.

It didn’t matter to them that there was usually more that met the eye, that not even these shiny bastions of hope they so easily deified weren’t as perfect as they believed. It didn’t matter to them that most – Letho Ravenheart most definitely included – couldn’t live up to the stories and rumors even if they lived a thousand years. It didn’t even matter to them that most would live out their lives without as much as laying their eyes on those they looked up to. Because if they didn’t have something to look up to, they were doomed to look down on the reality of life and that was a road that undeniably led to desperation for most. But knowing (or just believing) that there is someone out there fighting the good fights, righting the wrongs, standing up for the oppressed, it made them feel like they were in the fight themselves. And that they were winning for a change.

Letho Ravenheart knew this well enough, understood the concept and the effect it had on the masses, had to after being proclaimed a hero so many times. He also knew that there was as much truth in the myths as there was horse dung. Every man he slew on the battlefield was at least doubly counted by the common man, every monster that fell to his blade was twice as large and thrice as fierce, and every step he made shook the earth beneath his feet. According to some, at least. In reality, Letho never really felt like a hero. There were as many wrong decisions in his life as there were right ones, he made his share of missteps just like any other man and put his pants on one leg a time like the rest. But a plain old Letho Ravenheart couldn't suffice.

People needed heroes.

That was what Major Leeahn Festian of the newly reestablished Corone Armed Forces had told Letho when he recruited him for the Cell. With Corone still recovering from the Civil War, the government coffers empty, the streets were packed with beggars and cripples, and the morale was so low it dragged through the gutter alongside with all the rest, the high brass needed a likable face to represent them in the tournament taking place at the very heart of their great nation. Someone to take the folks’ mind away from their empty bellies and crumbling homes, someone who fought for justice and peace and all that is good in the world. And who better than the famous Red Marshal, who according to the official story led the rebellion against the Empire and destroyed the tyrants and brought peace and all that baloney that historians liked to lie about.

Letho had refused to participate at first. He always found these tournaments pointless, mere reenactments of actual battles that allowed the cowardly to get a taste of the real thing without serious repercussions. Sure, there were still some dangers in it. The physical wounds would be healed at the end of the whole trial, but the mental ones tended to stick around, especially for the inexperienced. Getting cleaved in half or having your head crushed against the wall or getting your guts blown out through your spine was something that a person could seldom forget, and for some that was a scar that never really healed right. But hey, the people found it entertaining and “nobody was getting hurt,” as Leeahn explained to him. It was not Leeahn’s words that had ultimately changed his mind, however, but rather Lorelei’s. His daughter seemed to have her mother’s power of persuasion.

So there he was, caged like an animal with all the rest, about to slice and dice and crush and maim with the best of them for the entertainment of the masses. And even though he had been positive he would hate every moment of this meaningless competition, there was a grin on his bearded face. Maybe it was the smell of the inevitable battle that drew it out, that tingly anticipation that built up in his gut and pressed against his heart until it raised its pace to a more appropriate level. Or maybe it was the crowd that cheered and shouted and cursed, their energy descending from the stands and pouring over the competitors like an unseen wave. Or maybe it was simply the fact that, when one got to the bare bone of the matter, Letho Ravenheart was a man that belonged in combat.

Someone up above (probably that Max Dirks fellow that Leeahn named as the main organizer and Letho named the main culprit for this entire mess) welcomed them to the jungle, but it didn’t look much like one to Letho. Aside from the monsoon rain that hissed and turned to vapor as it touched the shimmering roof above, the arena looked like a rather unremarkable piece of rocky dirt. The fence that surrounded it on all sides looked sturdy enough to take quite a beating (Letho gave it a perfunctory tug as he waited for the doors to open just to confirm his suspicions), and the translucent dome that covered it looked vibrant enough to dissuade anyone from going skywards.

He stepped forward willingly enough, and even as he did the roar of the crowd amplified, rose to a new peak and spilled across the battlefield, overruling every other sound. There was no mistaking Letho for any other combatant, that much was clear. In his full body armor made of blood-red Cillu glass, he was every bit the Red Marshal that the folk imagined. In his right was a prevalida-tipped spear, his left cradling the spiky helmet in the crook of his arm, but what most folk wanted to see was strapped diagonally across his back. The gargantuan “Lawmaker” gunblade rested for now, but everybody knew (expected? hoped?) that it was only a matter of time before Letho would unleash his legendary weapon.

Grin evolving into a full grown smirk, Letho Ravenheart raised his helmet to the stands and the stands responded with ovation. It was time to give them what they came here for, to be what they needed him to be.

And people needed heroes.

[Kade Underbough]

“You’re gonna be of some use to me one way or the other, Dog.” Lionel’s words echoed in the young conscript's head, causing a slight shudder at his captain’s implication. The unlikely soldier was learning how to survive Corone’s civil war, but at what could only be considered a snail’s pace. According to Lionel, snails didn’t make good soldiers.

Kade felt a slight nudge at his back and realized he had zoned out of his current predicament. Letting his right hand rest nervously on the hilt of his steely dagger, rough around the edges from some recent use, the fearful combatant opened the oak double doors and was consumed with the cheers and jeers of the crowd. A sold out stadium of every conceivable variety of Althanas’ population almost shattered his unsuspecting eardrums and he felt a slightly more aggravated prod from his attending guide. Perhaps slave-driver would have been a more appropriate title. Or simply Guard. Known for his lack of zeal for all things violent, Lionel had practically pinned the guide to Kade’s hip to prevent him from cooking up any bright ideas.

The crowd’s passionate urge for blood reverberated through every fiber of the stadium, every fiber of the young combatant’s lean frame. Escape wasn’t plausible. Death was inevitable. Lionel would be granted his wish once more. Forcing Kade into the Citadel hadn’t satiated the captain’s desire to give his conscript the experience he needed to become a worthwhile ally. A full blown battle was deemed the next step and news of the free for all tournament called the Cell had been too obvious for Corone’s veteran to ignore. The strings had been pulled and those in charge of the sport had allowed the bandit kid’s name to be put on the list of combatants. The crowd wanted their quick deaths too.

“So, uh… ya got any tips on how ta live in there?” Kade pointed toward his ever nearing cage, hoping his guard could shell out any scrap of information. He new death in that cage wouldn't be permanent, but pain was still pain.

“Sorry lad. You’re just shit out of luck if you gotta ask that.” A toothy grin came with the rest of his response. “Those aren’t just gonna be grown men you’re fightin’. You'll be fightin' a couple o' demi-gods of sorts I'm sure.” A shiver ran down the kid’s spine. “Yer one of the lucky ones, I’d say. You’ll be seein’ them healin’ monks real quick.”

“Thanks fer the help,” the kid mumbled, finally reaching his assigned door to the cage. He noticed a few of the closer combatants matched the guide's words. Demi-gods, creatures of the dark, and quite simply overpowering foes left him, in his own humble opinion, with no logical chance.

“It could be worse though,” sneered the grizzled guard.

“Oh? How’s that?” The slightest bit of hope started to creep into the young man.

“I could be the one goin’ in there! Ha Ha ha!” the man gave his assignment a quick shove through the door, laughing himself silly as he dashed away.

Kade just tasted bile.

[Ulysses]

This Cell was his church of choice. In this grand cathedral he would worship, and pray, and even die in the name of heroic virtue, and in the name of his goddess, Cydonia. The supplicants had gathered around for miles, and they screamed their hosannas for blood. The shouting and chanting was intense, and there was a disturbing almost bestial edge to it beyond the normal excitement around such an event. Ulysses wondered what had happened to make the people of Radasanth so. Civil war, economic uncertainty and the feared Xem’zund had together forged the once noble people here into some ugly creature filled with rage and bloodlust. Hardship could change men into beasts. Even the booming thunder seemed half-hearted next to their cries.

Ulysses felt nothing. In the hours and days before the Cell, he’d been jittery and nervous, even fearful, but now, standing outside the adamantium door to the arena itself, he was filled only with a deep cold. There was no turning back now. This was it. He wondered if people committing suicide felt a similar emotion as they plummeted towards the ground.

Don’t expect any special treatment from me, The voice of the spirit Cydonia boomed within its head. The goddess Cydonia had granted him the skills and abilities of heroes of old, although at the cost of his identity and freedom. It was the goddess who had forced him to come here, and it was through her divine intervention that he had been included on the list of competitors among some of the greatest champions of all Althanas. The goddess of heroic virtue had been unable to resist the possibility of enrolling her chosen champion in an event of such magnitude and glory.

That’s comforting, Ulysses thought sardonically. The goddess missed the sarcasm entirely. Gods are not generally known for their intelligence or sense of humor.

Those you will be battling are without exception great heroes, both light and dark, and whether they know it or not, all in their day have made glorious tributes to me. You may be my chosen champion, but I smile upon all who participate in this event today, Cydonia proclaimed. I wish you luck, however, Ulysses. Remember that the spirits of old will be by your side.

How am I supposed to match up against such champions, against heroes from every continent and race? Ulysses thought.

If you want, you’ll find a way, Cydonia said, and her presence vanished from his head. He frowned.

The rain plastered his short brown hair to his head and soaked his clothes, making him shiver. The emotional cold he felt inside was deep, but it was equally matched by the physical wet and cold discomfort. It seemed he’d been waiting an eternity for the door in front of him to open. The man running the tournament, some famous champion named Dirks—Ulysses had never heard of him—was taking his sweet time. No doubt he wanted to get the crowd’s emotions to a fever frenzy before allowing the match to begin.

For some reason, Ulysses thought of home rather than the event ahead. Scara Brae, with its forests and hills and fields of wheat, called to him from continents and oceans away. The calm sea and bay in which he’d once piloted a small fishing boat was vivid in his mind’s eye. The wife he’d been forced to abandon when Cydonia had appeared to him was even more vivid. Cydonia and made him pick up the sword rather than the fishing rod and begin a life as an adventurer. Oh, what he would give to have that life again! Adventure was the most overrated commodity in the universe. Perhaps he simply resented the fact that he had no control over his destiny anymore; he did what the goddess wanted, or terrible things happened to him and to those he loved. And what Cydonia wanted today was for him to participate in this godforsaken tournament which would probably bring his death. He spat on the ground in disgust.

He unsheathed his longsword and grasped its comforting length in one hand, and clutched his buckler in the other. Fine. If that was how it would be, then so be it, he could accept that fate. He’d battled monsters of the dark and champions of the light before, how different could this be? He would fight as long and as hard as could and with as much strength as he could muster, and perhaps win some small freedom for himself.

The spirits within him stirred and awoke at the thought of heroic enterprise. The Knight, who guided his sword and shield; the Ronin, who provided him with his code of honor; the Gunslinger, who lent him his keen eyes—all were ready to use their skills to their fullest extent.

Without warning, the rain ceased its downpour. Ulysses looked up and was filled with wonder. A great invisible shield had appeared in the sky, and the rain dissolved the moment it touched it, turning to vapor. They were like insects trapped in a child’s glass cage, he realized. He wondered what would happen if the air under the dome began to run out, but guessed that probably wouldn’t be a problem. The tournament couldn’t go on that long, right?

He’d expected some sort of pomp or dramatic opening, but there was none. The door in front of him simply swung open without ceremony. He walked through the door and into the Cell, and it slammed behind him with all the finality of a funeral.

A number of warriors entered the Cell at the same time, and Ulysses surveyed them each with vague misgivings. One, the mutant Lorenor, he had battled in the depths of the Citadel, and that visage sent shivers down his spine. Lorenor began the match with an attack on the figure across from him, but he ignored that conflict for now.

Others were unfamiliar to him—all but one. From the door directly to his right emerged a man in crimson armor, and instantly his heart sang out in recognition. This was Letho Ravenheart, the fabled Red Marshal. Something about him was more familiar to his famous face; there was some deeper recognition there that Ulysses couldn’t quite name. Something in the way he moved, the way the crowd cheered when he rose his helmet, perhaps a golden glint in his eyes…yes, this was a man who had been touched by the same goddess of heroes that watched over Ulysses, whether he knew it or not.

Ulysses felt a pang of sadness and kinship towards this man. Another soul doomed to walk the earth as a puppet, touted about by society and the gods for their amusement and private purposes. Compared to the Red Marshal, Ulysses was but a pawn in the great game—but even a pawn could, in the right position, topple the fates of kings.

The combatants stared at eachother uneasily for a long moment, weighing their chances and trying to determine their opponent’s weakness. He would later remember this moment of silence—after the pain and bloodshed, after the mental scars that lasted far longer had all but faded—as the last moment of clarity and peace for a long time. Ulysses readied his blade and prepared to fend off any comers. His face was grim, his heart cold.

Overhead, an enormous rainbow grew from the droplets of vaporized water in the thin air and coated the light with its prismatic incandescence. The rainbow was indifferent to the men below, dark paladins and valiant heroes alike, and it smiled upon them all equally, and proving that nature will bring beauty to even the darkest and most violent sewer of human history.

[Dissinger]

All bunnying between me and Lorenor has been gone over via AIM and approved! Like a profile!

So much for not making a target of myself…

The words bitterly crossed the Hex Ghoul’s mind before in a succinct action both arms were brought forward. Instead of moving to intercept the ghoul’s arms, he merely crossed them, and with a flick of his wrist the sleeves on the duster choked up about his elbows, revealing the Ghoul’s first trick. His arms were coated in a few yards of chain, and the dagger slammed harmlessly into the links of cold hard star metal. Even Seth wasn’t sure what the chains were made of, but he knew nothing had destroyed them yet, and so used them as a weapon, and his defenses.

A dark grin lit up the Lavinian’s face before he spoke, “You should be careful with those things, someone could get hurt…” He slowly raised his head till he was looking the fool who had attacked him in the eyes, a predatory light gleaming within the dead irises of the ghoul. Flexing his muscles he decided to try and see if the man could take a solid hit, and exerted some of his strength at the poor sap. The wave of pressure brushed against the ghoul’s frame, enough to perhaps knock the man off his feet, or perhaps cause him to connect with the far wall if not prepared. Seth shoved the would-be assailant back with all the force of a charging bull.

He had to hold back, at least for now, showing off his full strength could get him killed, when everyone decided to gang up on the poor innocent thief turned ghoul. He almost laughed at that last thought, viewing the image of his attack sliding through the mud. He was rather pleased at his ability to hold back, had that been full strength, the poor bastard would have been a smear on the side of the Aluminum wall. Now, it just showed that Seth had some strength.

He opened his mouth about to say something sarcastic, before he noticed something off. The man who was sent flying had a hand trailing in the muddy ground, creating a furrow in the ground. This seemed to act as a braking mechanism, before with a well practiced shove, he had righted himself to his feet and came to a sliding halt only perhaps twenty feet away. An eyebrow rose at the feat of agility, before his erstwhile opponent was off again, and leapt into the air, a feral cry upon his lips. Seth could only instinctively react, covering his vital areas, the neck and head before he felt the full force of his attacker slam into him.

In the mud it wasn’t even a contest to guess what would happen next.

Now on the ground, his hat had fluttered off his head, and he was struggling to get the beast off him. No longer would he make the mistake of calling that…thing a man. Fists pounded into him, claws raking at his flesh, seeking any way possible to cause damage. It was all Seth could do to keep up before he growled out, “Alright you son of a bitch, back off!” Using one arm to bat a hand away, he brought the other up in a fist meant to go right for the wild man’s face. A haymaker for sure, it wasn’t exactly easy to do much other than dirty himself more and more in the light mud that caked the ground.

I'm playing the ground as muddy because of Ulysses' post. I would suggest others do the same, if only for continuity at this point.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Yup bunnying approved.

On his feet, Lorenor had an impressive burst of speed on the ground. Moving with improved reaction time, and overall speed, the mutant did not have to hold back against the Hex Magi. If he held back, it was his ass. In a few moments, the mutant and the Hex Magi had begun the first real battle of The Cell. No questions were asked, no flowery words exchanged. It was simply the intent and purposes of the tournament at hand.

Vaguely, Lorenor recalled envisioning the man-in-white in the back of his head. Without truly understanding why, Lorenor hated this man. Max Dirks was a dangerous individual toying with all of their lives. I will have none of this shit. Lorenor thought to himself as he reacted against everything, presumably, that the Hex Magi could throw at him. The mutant gathered himself and prepared an aerial leap at the other ghoul. He grinned as he leaped, howling with all the fury of a demon. Knowing somehow that Seth was a powerful individual, the mutant had to keep the fellow of his feet if he was to survive.

Moving back to his fighting stance, the mutant took full advantage of the animalistic quality of his unique fighting style. Of course, Lorenor hoped that his attack would connect. If it did, it could by him some time to survive just a little bit longer. Then, Seth threw a punch at the mutant's face.

Thinking quickly on his toes, Lorenor landed on the ground. Just as the fist was coming to his face, Lorenor could feel his jaw-muscles extend and tearing at the seams. The maxilla portion of his jaw (The lower jaw) extended downward and mutated. Opening up to reveal several rows of sharp teeth, the mutant moved to intercept his opponent's fist. Not bothering to try to dodge, or evade, the mutant figured it was better to take the hit face-on. Lorenor meant to keep his chosen enemy off guard.

As Lorenor moved his powerful neck, he attempted to intercept the man's hand with his teeth. With ultra-sharp teeth, the mutant hoped to be the first to draw blood...

***

Lorenor sat in the middle of his room in Radasanth proper. Thinking to the moment at hand, he sat there in deep meditation. It had been several hours, nay, several days since Lorenor had begun this meditative process. He had fasted for The Cell once he found out he was going to be in it. Not only that, he had shut himself in with only his most trusted advisers. The mutant could concentrate on listening to the word of N'Jal. This was his time to reflect, his time to think about the mechanizations of the world at large. Positioned around him were several members of the Forsaken race.

Acknowledging his comrades in arms, the mutant whispered in the native Spider-Magi tongue. This language was a fell language indeed. Three books were positioned in a certain fashion in front of the mutant as he meditated before his followers. Lorenor whispered the tongue of the Spider Magi to them, conscripts carefully wrote the words down on parchment. With the self induced trance, the mutant would utter the words of their lady.

N'Jal.

When the words were spoken, a scribe wrote the words. As a High Priest, it fell upon Lorenor's burden to recite the words spoken by the living embodiment of N'Jal. Lorenor listened to the words of the dark lady as she whispered them to him. Lorenor knew, the dark lady was always with him. I carry my goddess with me. Lorenor oft said to his followers who were loyal to him. The mutant continued to recite until well before The Cell would actually begin...

***

Lorenor saw Seth's fist coming at him quickly. Impossibly fast. The mutant had to react with all of the dark speed that he could possibly muster. He hoped he could catch the man's fist. It would hurt, but it would hurt his enemy a lot worse...

[Esmerelda]

Esmerelda stood before the cell arena unemotional as always. She had one purpose for being here. She was untested in a real battle, her file recovery had proven that much. She projected, based on available data, that she was in fact, incomplete.

The Cell, it was the perfect grounds to test herself in a real battle. Not the one on one duels usually found in the citadel, but a real multi-man melee. She was designed to be superior to organic beings, the perfect weapon of war. She managed to infiltrate sign-up perfectly, and copy the sign up lists into her data files. She recognized some of the names on the list, popular topics of myth and rumor in taverns the world over. This had its purpose, of course. Each name on the list was given its own data file, presently empty, but soon to be filled with valuable data for future, yet to be determined purposes.

Esmerelda checked her form over, it was perfect. Short, fat, and plain. No one would think twice about such a competitor, they might even ignore her, which was perfect. Her hair was plain brown, as were her eyes. Her skin was riddled with freckles, and she had her Nanites on the surface assume the form of plain leather armor.

The signal was given, and the gates were raised. Esmerelda entered the arena, and immediately backed off from the competitors, intending to watch them first and determine what they could do to form a battle strategy.