The Mazrith Chamber

[Max Dirks]

This chamber is for the following participants:

016573
Ataraxis
Atzar Kellon
Bloodrose
Godhand
Letho
Silence Sei
Ulysses

The final round will begin Friday, April 30th at 12 AM CST. Like before, I reserve the first post. All fallen characters (everyone except for Ataraxis, Bloodrose and Godhand) will be revived as described in my entry post. Gambling should be available later tonight.

[Max Dirks]

Max Dirks stood with his arms crossed, watching both chambers from the edge of his platform. Combatants were falling like dominos and in moments the tournament would be over. Soon it would be time to reveal his charade. Despite popular belief, this tournament was not about a ‘grand return’ to Althanas. It was not about showboating or getting flashy kills from an indestructible podium. It was about revenge, pure and simple. This entire tournament: the Magician, the crowd, and the combatants were all just pawns in Dirks scheme to release his vengeance on those who had sent him into dismay.

Suddenly, a loud cheer erupted from the Treslizn Chamber. Dirks uncrossed his arms and peered over the edge. At first he didn’t see anything but scattered corpses, but then, in the near the middle of the chamber he found a survivor. When Dirks saw who it was, a large smirk appeared on his face. Teric Barton, champion of the Dajas Pagoda and mercenary for the Company had been victorious. Without a word, Dirks aimed his gun at the Bloodrose’s head. “One down…” Dirks whispered, tightening his grip. He was about to pull the trigger when a loud “BOO” erupted from the Aequitas Chamber. Dirks turned his head towards the other chamber for a moment and then looked back to Teric. “Damn it!”

Dirks lowered his arm and started walking to the opposite edge of the platform. Below, Godhand Striker, Lillian Sesthal, and Marcus Book stood idly. Apparently after sharing a long kiss, Godhand and Lillian had refused to continue fighting and had granted Marcus amnesty. This sent the crowd into a furor. Even Dirks was angry, as it left one additional combatant to deal with. Dirks reacted without thinking. With a grunt, Dirks quickly brought his ‘twin’ Beretta to bear and fired it intentionally at Marcus Book’s sternum. This time the bullet did not err. Combined with the kick of the gun and the strange angle that it was shot, the bullet travelled directly into Book’s forehead and killed him instantly.

“DIRKS, DIRKS, DIRKS” the crowd cheered, but the criminal did not hear them. It was finally time for him to kill those who had wronged him. But then something strange happened. Someone in the crowd shouted “We want more!” and it turned into a massive battle cry from the stands. “NO!” Dirks shouted in response. It was met with by “BOO” that quickly transcended the entire city of Radasanth. The low volume and immense power rattled the very foundations of the platform Dirks stood upon. Soon, the “boo” was replaced with an ever vigilant “WE WANT MORE.” Dirks turned to Phagan.

Dirks turned to Phagan. “Killing them now will certainly complete your revenge, but in doing so you won’t be let out of Radasanth without being branded a coward.” The magician smiled.

Dirks cussed and turned to the crowd. “THEN WHO DO YOU WANT TO SEE.” The crowd erupted into a flurry of names. After a moment, it became clear who the favorites were: Joshua Cronen, Atzar Kellon, Letho Ravenheart, Sei Orlouge, Ulysses, and of course, Godhand Striker, Lillian Sesthal and Teric Barton. “Revive them,” Dirks hissed at Phagan.

“I can’t heal people,” Phagan replied. “I’m a necromancer.”

“Then control them!” Dirks yelled. “They’re all dead anyway. Just make it look real.”

With a wave of his hand, Phagan complied. The first to rise was Joshua Cronen from the Aequitas Chamber. Earlier in the battle he had dived into a pool of molten rock and his body was badly burned. Moments after rising, the burns around his vital areas began to heal, leaving disgusting scars. Phagan left the third degree burns on other, non important parts of his body. Cronen started to breathe. Atzar Kellon rose next from the Treslizn Chamber. His body had been gutted by Teric Bloodrose. When his feet touched the ground, a strange brown mud filled the hole in his stomach and blood was able to flow regularly. Phagan did not heal the mage’s shoulder and was content to leave him partially disabled from Esmerelda’s concussive blast. Still, he was breathing and able to fight. Next to rise from the Treslizn chamber was the marshal, Letho Ravenheart. His skin was like a sponge, torn apart by numerous sword wounds. Phagan did not fix this. Instead he filled the warrior with mud and cast a spell that would raise his adrenaline. The mud would cling to his blood cells and he would breathe a new, albeit a short life, until the effects of the adrenaline wore off and Letho’s blood thinned once more. Then Sei Orlouge rose from the Aequitas Chamber. Burned and defeated, the mystic no longer look liked an angel. He looked like the spawn of Satan. His wings had been ripped apart, and only the delicate bone structure remained. His arm was still missing, lost somewhere in Neville’s abyss. Like with Joshua Cronen, Phagan only healed the burns necessary to survive, but he was still alive. Finally, Ullyses rose from the Treslizn Chamber. The fiery rock that had impaled him was removed. It appeared to have forced his lung into his heart and when it was removed, his lung settled back into place. Phagan used the same strange mud to heal his stomach wound and new life crept into him.

“There,” Phagan said once he had finished. “I warn you though Dirks. These people’s souls have not yet had time to pass. They may very well take back control of their own bodies and seek revenge on the one that woke them.”

“Good,” replied, opening his arms. “THERE, IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?” He asked the crowd? They cheered and started chanting “DIRKS, DIRKS, DIRKS” once more. “Get rid of the inner shield,” Dirks turned and said to Phagan.

“What?” he replied, surprised at Dirks’ comment.

“Just do it.” Dirks said. Phagan nodded and suddenly the tortental rain fell to the ground. Only Dirks and Phagan, safe beneath their inner shield, remained dry. (Sorry Sei, ignoring the sunshine bit). The rain immediately cooled Neville’s molten rock, leaving what was the Aequitas Chamber a playground of jagged rocks protruding from the ground. The Treslizn side, on the other hand, quickly filled with pools of water (since the ground was already soaked, apparently).

“Warriors,” Dirks said to the revived combatants. “The crowd has decided to give you a second chance at victory. You can enact revenge on those who defeated you and rise to take the crown. I remind you, though, that there is only one winner of the Cell. Only one of you will climb this podium and claim your prize. Until there is one person left, you are at the mercy of this arena, this crowd, of me.” Dirks looked to Godhand and Lillian. “All alliances will be destroyed.” Dirks looked to Sei, temporarily forgetting he was merely a reanimation. “All attempts to rescue others will be fruitless.” Dirks looked to Ulysses. “And all attempts to run shall be punished.” The crowd roared.

“Have at it,” Dirks whispered, turning to his seat. He slumped into his throne, angry that he was forced to appease the crowd to avoid suspicion. Even so, this night would not end with the crowning of a new champion. It would end with the deaths of Godhand Striker, Lillian Sesthal and Teric Barton, three of the six living people that had destroyed his life.

(This round will last for two weeks. Take note that I’ve dropped the magic field, but on the same token I expect everyone to stay in the arena. Phagan is also tricking Dirks. All of your characters have actually been healed using dark magic and are not reanimated. So don’t worry about incorporating that stuff into your posts. I didn’t add it to this introductory post because I couldn’t fit it in anywhere without it being corny. Finally, I’m going to do a text drawing of the arena to help you guys out. Just imagine it circular instead of square. Before I made it seem like it was two arenas that were completely circular but in fact I meant it was two circular arenas in a big arena)

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[Breaker]

Weightless.

Josh spiralled upwards, lighter than air, laughing at the scarred ground below. He witnessed the shadows and rainfall beneath the clouds for a fleeting moment then passed through them.

The sun's golden rays made the tops of the stormclouds look like blue-grey stone. Suddenly the image of a monk shimmered into existence. His soft sandles rested atop the cover of clouds as if it were as stable as any road. Josh recalled every detail of his old mentor; the bald shaven head, wide expressive eyes, a scholar's soft hands with laquered fingernails. The monk wore a plain brown habit and a smile of joy.

"Medsan!" Cronen only realized that he too had a body as he spoke the name.

"Do you remember why you have come here?" The monk asked directly. Those wide eyes seemed suddenly hard, the soft hands locked together.

Images flickered through Joshua's mind. Recent memories. A vicious battle against mages of legendary power. The taste of blood as powdered glass shredded his lungs. The oily stench of burning death seeping into his nostrils. An arena, its ground ravaged by combat but its walls unscathed. Indestructable.

"I'm ready, my old friend," Josh said, "I'm ready to ascend, to explore the very nature of existence itself. Show me the way."

"No." Medsan's monosyllabic response should have struck Cronen's balanced hapiness a fatal blow. But he did not understand; his handsome face remained in an open grin.

"Why not?" He pressed the monk who had saved his life so many times. And then, in spite of unrestricted sunlight, a shadow fell across his face. It pooled in his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks.

"You are not whole. And you will not transcend the physicial realm until that is repaired." Medsan said, but the explanation was unecessary. Josh knew. The sociopathic persona who had tormented his waking years now threatened to stop him from reaching the afterlife.

*

Breaker scuttled backwards into a fissure in the side of a basin created by the re-shaping of land in the Aequitas Chamber. Once concealed in the little cave his hands went to work with the speed of twin lightning bolts. He had managed to scour an armful of his possessions from the hardening ground and take cover with them. Sei Orlouge's glass shrapnel spell had sliced most of the clothes from his body seconds before the resulting dust filled his lungs. He sifted through the pile of clothing, weapons, and gravel, taking everything that seemed useful and leaving the rest. He did not know how his lungs worked again. He did not know why the black-and-red burns on his limbs and head had not killed him. But the pain provided him with great pleasure. A comforting pleasure to brighten the darkness of his hiding place.

On the surface he could hear combattants moving about and the crowd chanting. The heavy rainfall hitting the ground sounded like drizzle on a thatch roof. A horrible grin split a face covered in blisters and burn scars.

Breaker would remain invisible just a little while longer. Then he would emerge to stalk his prey.

[Silence Sei]

He could feel it again. The sensation of rain upon his face felt like the Gods trying to wake him from a horrible dream. He had done all he could to make things right in this tournament, and he failed. Perhaps the cool water was one of the rumored vitalization chambers he had heard Ai’Bron monks used in extreme cases. As Sei Orlouge opened his eyes, he had realized he was still in the nightmare known as The Cell.

He placed his left hand upon the ground and barely managed to push his weight up until he was standing. He looked up as Dirks ranted about something new. Since when did The Cell have a second round? Sei looked at the crowd cheering for more bloodshed and found his answer. Leave it to Max Dirks to cater to the whims of the crowd. Sei probably would have done the same thing. Focusing his gaze back to eye level, Sei began to realize something was amiss. He could only see out of his left eye.

His face had been planted on steaming hot soil for so long, the mute’s entire right face was charred. Slivers of pale white skin barely hung onto the mute, and the corner of his cheek showed hints of bone. The blackness that had become his face was blocking his left eye from seeing anything, provided it had not popped due to extreme heat and was now a gelatinous liquid buried in the dirt. The cold rain was accompanied by a cool burst of wind, both which served in the excruciating stinging pain upon the mute’s destroyed face.

His wings had sprung out after death and were burned to the bone by the sheer fiery air Rayse had created. The reaction did not surprise Sei, who began to retract the boney wings back into his spine. His wings were not unlike a normal person releasing their bowels after they had left this world. Reflecting upon this, Sei was grateful that he had not soiled his name by soiling himself.

His right arm was in sheer agony, what he could feel of it at least. It was much too obvious to the mute that his arm from the shoulder down was completely gone. Aside from the pain, Sei had no qualms with this. The mystic spent three years fighting with only one arm when he had first welcomed Anita into his home, and into his heart. It might take some getting used to, but the disarming was no big deal for Sei Orlouge

His spine had felt like an acupuncture session gone horribly wrong. While most of the glass had been shaken off during his various confrontations in the cell, the pieces that remained had melted into his back. While this served to seal some of the bigger holes in the mystic’s back, it was merely a temporary fix.

He could feel two of his ribs on his left side were bruised, if not completely broken. Sei had fallen from atop the arena in the last round thanks to Max Dirks. The telepath held winced as he took a step forward, sending the crowd into an absolute uproar. Sei kneeled to the ground and felt around for a moment, picking up his small s-shaped Gemini Blade. The mute stood back up and shifted his good eye to the rest of the ‘zombies’ Phagan had revived.

Lillian Sesthal and Godhand Striker both seemed to be doing okay. That was good, as Sei had not wanted his friends to die. Looking across from them however, Sei saw the stilled body of Marcus Book on the ground. Sei sighed in resignation as he looked at the pool of blood under Marcus mixing with the rain. Sei had spent so long trying to save the youth, only to fail by dying himself.

Sei’s eye moved around to find several others’s recently resurrected. There was a youth who had a hole of mud where his stomach was normally placed. There was another youth who had suffered from some damage as well, and seemed to have the same makeshift repair as the other young man. Sei could tell just by assessing these two that the other chamber also had very few survivors.

Then Sei’s eye fell upon two titans. Teric Bloodrose, the Pagoda Master. Sei had heard tales about this man’s capabilities with a sword. He was a dangerous foe to be fighting, and he seemed to be about in the same condition as Lillian and Godhand.. He would probably be the most difficult to take down, provided Sei would be able to take anybody down at all. Perhaps if Sei and Teric were fully healthy, the mute might challenge the veteran to a one on one battle. No deaths, just a friendly competition to see who the better warrior was. Something about the man stirred the warrior’s spirit in Sei.

The second titan Sei saw was Letho Ravenheart. The famous general of the Corone Armed forces stood before Sei in the flesh. The mute himself had been the chief strategist of Alerar’s Armed forces for a time, so the telepath had heard all of the stories of the Crimson General’s ferocity and bravery on the field of battle. Looking at what was left of the outstanding soldier, however, Sei could not bring himself to fight the man. While Teric Bloodrose got Sei’s fighter blood boiling, Letho brought out Sei’s soldier side.

The mute approached Letho carefully, trying to show the general that there was no animosity. “General Ravenheart, I presume? Do not be worried by the voice in your head. My name is Sei Orlouge, formerly chief strategist for the Army of Alerar. I have heard so much about you. It is an honor, sir. I ask that while I am standing you let me aid you in this battle, for what good I’ll be able to provide. Also, I sincerely apologize for being so underdressed for the situation.” Sei smiled at the joke regarding his appearance. He then shifted his eye upwards to Max Dirks, the smile still around his face.

“Odds against me, magic depleted, using one arm against opponents who should for all intents and purposes be my better….just like old times, eh pal?” Sei decided that if he was going to die anyways, it would be on his terms. He would go down making this fight as lighthearted and fun as possible for all involved. If he had to drop a few bodies along the way….

…Well that was what the monks were for, right?

[Bloodrose]

Teric was sitting on his bench beneath the arena, carefully excising the arrow from his leg when something cold and wet hit him in the face. It wasn't a splash, like someone had thrown a drink in his face, but it was there; a single droplet of water on his cheek. 'Strange' was the only thought the mercenary could muster, ready to discount the droplet, but then another hit him. Annoyed, the man stopped what he was doing and looked around for the source of the water, searching fruitlessly for some leak in the ceiling above him that could explain why more and more water was falling on him...

The veteran opened his eyes, and as he did so, Teric did not find himself sitting warm and dry beneath the arena in some white-walled room. Instead, the veteran was on his stomach in the mud, his limbs splayed oddly about him as the rain poured down. It took him a moment to realize that the cold rain only drizzled on the left side of his face, and that this was because the other side was pressed firmly into Treslizn's soft, damp floor. His brow felt feverish, and even though he couldn't decide if the fever was real or just the tingly, burning sensation of his heat-flashed skin, the mercenary was glad for the coolness of the mud and the rain on his face.

Not real? A delusion then? Teric pondered, gathering his limbs and pushing his body up on hands and knees. He'd lost his sword somewhere in the blast that had sent him tumbling to where he rested now, but the veteran couldn't remember where; he could only remember that there had been an explosion. He remembered Letho Ravenheart and the pyromancer, Elijah Belov, grinding away at each other somewhere off to his right. He remembered the young swordsman, Ulysses, dying in Letho's place before fire rained from the sky. The battle that ended just moments ago came back to the mercenary in pieces, his mind still foggy after being thrown bodily across the battlefield.

The eklan buckler, a longtime staple of the mercenary's armory, slipped uselessly from Teric's arm as he lifted himself upright into a kneeling position, his body slumping to rest heavily on its haunches. The whole arena swayed unsteadily around him, and that was of far more concern than the broken straps and shattered face of the shield on the ground next to him.

If I'm delusional, that means I've lost... am losing, too much blood.

Like the version of himself in his delusion, Teric knew enough about battlefield triage - based on personal experience alone - to diagnose his own situation. There was a throbbing ache in his leg, a stiff reminder that he carried a razor-sharp souvenir from the battle in his thigh. He'd broken the shaft off the projectile during the fight, but Teric knew if the arrowhead didn't come out he would continue to lose blood at an alarming rate. Like the version of himself in his delusion, Teric pulled the knife from his boot and made an incision in the skin over the puncture site. The cut itself didn't hurt; surprising, given the sloppy, hasty manner in which Teric delivered it. It was what came after - fishing around inside the wound with stiff, numb fingers - that made the mercenary grit his teeth and tremble in pain. That brutal second of agony was rewarded, however, as the warrior pulled the arrowhead from his muscle and cast it unceremoniously into the muck.

Silently, the mercenary unbuckled and yanked off his belt, looping the accessory around his thigh and pulling it tight like a tourniquet. That done, Teric slowly rose to his feet, and once upright, he eased his weight onto his wounded leg to measure just what it could handle. The result was a less than favorable wobble in his hip and knee - like his joints were made of noodle - but it would have to do.

What now?

Movement caught the veteran's eye as he kept easing his weight to and from his aching thigh. Prone figures nearby - the corpses of men who lay dead just a moment before - began to stir, and even to rise. Amongst the bodies shuddering back to life, Teric counted Ulysses, the hero Letho, and the black-haired man whose magic had delivered the fireball used to fling Teric like a rag-doll. All had been dead, Teric knew, and yet life seemed to creep back into them.

"Magic." Teric spat, casting a disapproving glance towards the crowd above the arena, and more importantly the solitary podium lording over them. "Always trust magic to interfere with a good fight."

Almost absently, the Pagoda Grandmaster noted that somewhere in the dark period between the fight and his reawakening, the battlefield had gotten bigger somehow. It was much more open than it had been previously, and the familiar muddy terrain of Treslizn now bled into an equally sizable area of charred, jagged earth that had once been Aequitas. Figures - most unrecognizable, but one Teric knew - occupied this space. From a teenage girl to a pale man with orange hair and a burned face, Teric sized up those bodies that still seemed alive before finally resting his gaze on the face he did recognize.

Godhand Striker. Teric allowed himself a sly, half-smile. He'd be lying if he said he was surprised to see the legendary brawler amongst the survivors of the other arena.

I guess a warrior's work in never done. The veteran resolved, taking his first hesitant stride back towards the impact crater from which he'd been thrown. But first, I need to find my sword...

[Letho]

It was the first time that Letho Ravenheart died.

In all the years of his reckless life the legendary swordsman had walked the edge of the proverbial blade, dancing with death at arms length, never too far from its cold grasp, but never close enough to be caught by its finalizing grip. He had fought enough battles to lose count, picked up ample scar tissue along the way, warred in the trenches when the trenches were filled with blood and guts. He had crossed his blade with men, crossed them with elves, crossed them with just about anything that had the audacity to stand in his path. And he had fought in the Citadel as well, where monks did their magic hoodoo, and death was banned and pain was as real as you allowed it to be. And through all these belligerent encounters Letho Ravenheart emerged victorious. Often bruised, sometimes bleeding, but never giving in. Until today.

And the most ridiculous fact about that was, as he felt his consciousness depart and tear away from his corporeal body, his last thoughts weren't one of regret or nostalgia or even pain. Instead, it was shame that overcame him, shame of not being up to the challenge, shame of being brought down by paltry mages and weaklings. Quite a few of them, true, but still. Wasn't he supposed to be the hero? And as such, wasn't he supposed to be the only one left standing?

As if some celestial power heard his final thoughts somehow, he felt his conscious mind being shoved back into his body. It was far from a smooth and easy process, returning to life. No, reanimating something that was by all accounts supposed to be dead was a violent, vile procedure that defied the laws that defined the very foundations of the world. His senses returned all at once, a blast of sensations that overwhelmed him; pain and fatigue in his limbs, the burning of his skin wherever it was broken by some weapon or other, the clamor of the crowd that hammered in his eardrums, the sound of his heart thumping again, thumping like there was no tomorrow, thumping...

And just like that, Letho was alive again.

His eyes opened to the sight of rain bearing down upon the battlefield again, filling every hole in the muddy earth with murky liquid, each drop rippling the surface for a fraction of a second before the next one disrupted it again. It felt good, this rain. It was cold and soaked him right though, but it was good to feel it. Right. It meant he was either alive or he wound up in just about the dampest version of heaven, and after seeing a number of others rising from their wounds as well, he was rather certain it was the former. The fingers of his left hand squeezed, squashed a fistful of mud; his right squeezed and it made him smile. His gauntlet was still coiled around the hilt of his bastard sword. Lothirgan would've been proud. If there was one thing that the ancient master-at-arms taught Letho well, it was how to hold on to his weapons.

Getting up was a testament in pain; his joints were creaky, his muscles reluctant, but his will was up to the task, dragging the rest behind. He stabbed the adamantine blade into the mush, then pushed against it until his knees popped and his spine straightened. He expected to feel woozy, expected maybe to keel over like a drunk after one too many, but he actually felt surprisingly good. Pretty great, actually, for someone who was supposed to be dead. He took his sword out of the sheath of mud, gave it a lazy twirl just to test his grip, and then the applause washed over anew. Maybe they were cheering for him. Then again, maybe they were cheering for the one-armed man that was walking towards him. Letho brought his blade up in a defensive guard.

The man's voice didn't come to him over the pattering of the rain and the clapping and cheering of the stands. It materialized somewhere in his frontal lobe, forcing words into his mind. It was a disquieting sensation, but not one that was unfamiliar to a seasoned adventurer such as Letho. He waited for the shirtless man to finish his telepathic disposition, and once he did, the Marshal was glad he hadn't swung his blade at him.

“So, this is the Dark Knight of Radasanth fame?” he responded, his sword still a safeguard between the two. He had heard of Sei Orlouge and his endeavors in the Corone capitol. Letho's official standpoint was that people such as Sei were reckless vigilantes that felt they were above the law, spreading their own kind of justice. Off the record, though, Letho respected the man; he had been doing nothing that the legendary swordsman hadn't done once or twice in his life. Some wrongs couldn't be righted by law alone.

“I am not certain whether to arrest you or salute you,” the bearded swordsman said, his stern eyes affixed on those of the crippled Hero of Radasanth. But then the severe look on his face was cracked by another one of his grizzly grins and he dropped the blade at his side. Backing away a couple of steps to retrieve the massive Lawmaker gunblade soaking in the slop, Letho offered his response. “But given the situation, I reckon an alliance would be wise, regardless of what that scoundrel up there is bleating. We heroes ought to stick together, right?”

He holstered his bastard sword in the leather scabbards strapped to his back, rolled out the cylinder of his gunblade, found it half empty, snapped it back in its place and sheathed the monster weapon as well. His eyes scanned and analyzed the battlefield next, the way they did when he initially entered the cage, only this time around there were none to put in the low priority file. Well, maybe the tiny black haired teen that stood next to... Godhand? Godhand gods-be-damned Striker. Letho wasn't certain whether to scowl or smile. The two of them were always somewhere between cautious friendship and outright animosity. Given the setting, Letho was rather certain that it would boil down to the latter. And that bastard packed quite a lot of heat and could punch out god. The spry old geezer from before was around too, limping around probably in search of his armaments (Letho remembered owing the man a duel, and hopefully a good beating as well). The lesser of the two mages was up and running as well, but without his superior counterpart. That horrible pain in the neck at least didn't make the transition.

When he finally located Ulysses, the aged swordsman did smile. The kid got through as well, the courageous rookie that took a magma spike to the abdomen instead of him. “Mister Orlouge,” Letho said, drawing his blade with one hand and beckoning the boy towards them with the other. “it seems we will have another swordarm joining our plight.”

[Breaker]

Joshua Cronen sucked in a lungful of damp soil and collapsed against the wall of the cave, coughing to the memory of razor sharp dust in his windpipe. Kneeling, he assessed the situation Breaker had left him in.

A tunnel. Dirt under the fingernails, grime all over, Breaker had been tunneling with his bare hands. The battle in the Aequitas chamber had tormented the clay and stone in the ground. The musty smell made it feel like a tomb. Then he felt a zephyr and realized the exit stood just in front of him, blocked by a large rock. He placed hands wrapped in dark fabric on the rock and pushed.

"There!"

He had almost stepped on an innoccent trio of rounded stones the size of the ball of his thumbs. He could tell what Breaker had done to them. "They may as well be impact grenades." Even seared through the skin and wrapped in a shredded cloak, his hands moved with speed and precision. He placed the three little stones in a pouch fashioned from shards of the same cloak.

It seemed Breaker had responded to the necromantic situation the same way he would. By surviving to assess and destroy all threats.

Josh smiled as he searched through the assortment of burned and torn clothing he wore until he found the patch which Breaker could not have missed gathering. He placed it over one eye and instantly could see the Mazrith chamber in its entirety, from the perspective of a bird. He could not help smiling as he remembered Medsan's words, the ones which had spurred him back into his body.

Breaker has shamed your name and your humanity. Is this how you would have the world remember you? Go back and give the people a true martyr, and then you may reach enlightenment.

The other combatants didn't know it, but the cell was about to become a mine field.

[Ataraxis]

“Son of a- what did I ever do to you?” Godhand was bellyaching again, the whole of his rain-slicked face crimped in pain. He was looking down at the girl tending to the obscene gash in his abdomen, doing his best impression of a scorned devil as he stared her down with blood-red eyes. This was the gaze that could make hardened warriors buckle their knees in terror and wet their frocks, the same hell-born gaze that sent the meek scuttling away like cockroaches at the first sign of light… but much to his dismay, the stern scarlet of his eyes had become, in his current state, no more intimidating than those of an albino rabbit.

“Nothing comes to mind?” Lillian asked as she completed her suture with a final yank. The raven-haired teenager grinned, finding a measure of delight in the brusque ‘oomph’ the mercenary had held back with puffed cheeks. For a moment, he watched the strange black threads meld into his skin: they staunched the hemorrhage at once, and were now fusing his raw flesh back together as if the bleeding folds were nothing but putty. It would still be a while before it scarred and stopped hurting like all the circles of hell, but even then it was miles better than before. Lillian had also done the same to his wounded arm and his burnt toes, enough for him to hold his sword and walk without screaming murder. With that done, the girl drew to her feet and dusted the muck from her knees, all the while out-staring him with the glacial eyes of an incensed harpy.

“Look, you're angry. I get that. I'm angry too, you know? Angry at myself.” He faked an attempt to appease her, then went on to argue that it was ‘how everyone showed respect back home’, familial ties and all – like a light smack from uncle to niece. Of course, Lillian wouldn’t buy any of it; instead, she busied herself on mending her own cuts and scrapes. Godhand grinned, dropping the act. "You loved it."

Lillian snorted, and left it at that. Bits and pieces of glass still poked out of her skin like the quills of a hedgehog, mementoes of Sei Orlouge’s somewhat loose understanding of truces. Painful regions had begun peeling, scorched and scalded by the hissing steam and deathly heat that had almost turned this chamber into the heart of a volcano. The worst of her injuries, however, was the messy gunshot wound under her right clavicle, courtesy of Joshua Cronen. While the cocoon of webs she’d weaved under her skin had stopped the bullet, the impact had blown off a coin-sized patch of flesh, and the ribs underneath had become a network of hairline fractures. Those would take the longest to heal.

Only then did she bother looking to the side, at the corpse of paladin they had spared. Specifically, at the black hole in his forehead. Lazily, she looked up to his murderer, the smirking, gun-toting man who stood by a lavish throne. Godhand and Joshua Cronen had used their firearms sparingly, but the organizer of this tournament had clearly been trigger-happy all throughout the first round; she wondered if he might have been overcompensating for something. Then again, perhaps he was only a man-child, enjoying his toys while forcing everyone to watch.

Lillian shrugged. Whichever it was, who was she to judge?

The man muttered something to his subordinate, and the ethereal barrier fell away immediately. Lillian had been welcomed with a torrential rain, and her lackadaisical mood had been uplifted at once. She raised her arms, smiling from ear to ear as the fresh drops ran along her figure, washing away the glass and blood from her punctured skin, her frazzled hair and the summer dress she had worn to shreds. The damp breath that came with the storm, the pitter-patter upon mud and cooling magma, the great rush of water from the other chamber: everything was a rejuvenating balm to her worn mind and battered body. Whoever the gunslinger was, and regardless of his kooky antics, she at least had to thank him for this.

That had been her last coherent thought, before the dead came rising. Lillian spat an oath as deceased men pushed themselves from the sodden ground of the Treslizn chamber. The most imposing of them was a beast of a man, wearing the shattered remnants of what had been a full-bodied armor of red Cillu, one of the strongest forms of glass that hailed from her homeland. Thankfully, what little was left would not impede her task of collecting blood samples; after all, what could be easier than taking the blood of a man who spouted the vile stuff like a fountain? ‘Even better, he’s all eyes for mister Godhand… I’m just a blur to him.’

There was an older warrior not too far, grizzled and beaten up as well, but still about as hale and hearty as Godhand or herself. Obviously, he was not one of the waking dead, but she knew he would prove excessively problematic: any surviving man on this battlefield who was even greyer than her mercenary friend would have to be worth his salt and blood. Behind the veteran codger was a youth, rising next to a charred corpse that was stewing in a water-filled crater, and she could guess very little from his appearance outside of likely weapons of predilection – sharp sticks. Even so, she would not make the mistake of underestimating those who looked the meekest.

That was everyone else’s job, not hers.

From their own chamber, Sei had been the only one to rise, and that had left her with a mixed-bag of feelings. He was suffering, forced to fight again; she would have much rather seen him resurrected after the end of this sordid affair, but there was no helping that now. The girl looked every which way, hoping to find a familiar face rise from the dust. Alas, she could see Joshua nowhere, and her heart sank at the confirmation of his death. It seemed that the Pagoda Warrior had taken the precautions to ensure the permanence of his passing, and even the nefarious arts of a necromancer could do nothing to remedy that.

The announcer spoke to the participants in turn, his stentorian voice reaching over the storm in an unnatural boom. He even addressed her directly, spouting some cautionary words about broken alliances with all the melodrama of a thespian threat. With that done, the organizer muttered under his breath: in the most unassuming way, he’d given the signal announcing the beginning of the end.

Lillian picked the crystal blade she had embedded into the soaked earth, twirling it to cut a ringing swathe through the falling ropes. Walking a few feet forward, she picked up a discarded sheath with her free hand, admiring the masterpiece of Prevalida and Liviol before throwing it back to Godhand: it was his magic-neutralizing sheath, after all. Once he caught it, the scabbard would completely halt the work of her healing webs, but she deemed that the mercenary had already been treated more than adequately.

‘Here we go again,’ Lillian thought half-heartedly, lips curled in a corner smile. With a sidelong glance, she gave Godhand a playful wink. “Shall we?”

[Atzar]

The smell of earth and blood intruded on his peace. Atzar was alive.

In his ringing ears, the thundering crowd clashed with the thundering skies. Rain pelted the mud to complete the Cell’s cacophonic symphony.

His eyes snapped open as consciousness crashed into him. The angry storm churned above, dousing him with its ire.

Death. That thought triggered more memories. The blonde girl's explosion. The old war dog's sudden appearance. The steely crunch of sword on bone. He recalled drawing the last of Chef-mage’s fire to him like iron to a magnet, trying to take the veteran with him. Weakly his arm rose from the ground to feel his chest, to explore the hole that surely exposed his entrails to the elements. But instead of blood and gore, he felt a strange, mushy substance.

The pain. A million red-hot needles stabbed into his blistered flesh, filling mind and body alike with unbearable agony. His breath came in ragged gasps. A crackling cry escaped his burnt lips, and he curled into a pathetic ball of charred flesh. What was this? He’d expected to be healed. Atzar had thought he would leave the Cell no worse for the wear, with nothing but stories to indicate the melee had ever taken place at all. But this! He’d been brought to life only to hover on the brink of death. Revival was no blessing, but instead a sick, twisted curse. In turn he cursed those responsible for his suffering.

Between wretched, wracking whimpers he heard voices. Fuck them. Fuck them, fuck the blood-glutted audience, fuck Max Dirks – whoever he is – for hosting the battle, and fuck whatever divine powers allow this monstrosity to take place. He didn’t want to fight anymore. All he wanted was the cold, dark mercy of death.

Another choked sob ripped from his throat. Silently he yearned for somebody to take away his pain. There was no difference between a kind hand and a swift end – Atzar would gladly accept either one.

[Godhand]

Godhand winced as a splash of blood hit him in the face after the tournament organizer shot their new friend in the head. He thought to himself how lucky he'd been not to have any brain-matter splatter on him, then instantly hated himself for being desensitized enough that he could ignore blood since it wasn't something WORSE. And, of course, it was unfortunate the knight had been killed, but he hardly knew the man and even if he did, what could he do? He wasn't a mage and as far as he knew Lillian couldn't raise the dead either, so he was out of luck.

Shortly afterwards he'd set aside his sheath after being directed to do so by Lillian. He was extremely nervous about leaving his most valuable and powerful piece of equipment out of arm's reach, but the seamstress insisted something had to be done about his wounds and the magic-vacuum would have instantly negated anything she could have done with her magical threads. Personally, he didn't feel he was doing so bad. He was bleeding in a lot of key areas and his foot hurt like Hell, but he deemed he had a good ten to fifteen minutes before passing out from bloodloss and he was fairly certain the healers could get to him in time.

But, of course, dumb fucking luck the tournament wasn't over. And not just for the reasons he'd expected, either. Instead of forcing him and Lillian to fight, which, really, was about as likely as a man shitting a live chicken, he'd instead opened up an adjacent battlefield and resurrected those who had fallen there. Godhand had had no idea there was even another arena, and the fact that Dirks had revived the fallen combatants instead of leaving it at Bloodrose meant that the gunman was going RIGHT on the mercenary's fucking list.

But, Lillian had had enough time to work her magic. Already he could feel his flesh healing itself, the hideous gashes mending and the blood ceasing to pour out of his arm, stomach and chest. She'd even managed to fix his foot, and for that he was most grateful. The other wounds might have been more life-threatening but they didn't pack quite the painful punch dipping your toe in molten lava did. As soon as he felt his body regenerate to where he felt he was in relatively good fighting shape, he turned to find his sheath only to see it sailing through the air towards him. He caught it breezily and turned away, but not before giving Lillian thanks and a quick wink.

And so he gazed upon his competition. There were a couple of no names mixed in with the revived heroes. Sei, too. He wasn't in any shape to do anything though and even if he was, their truce was likely still in effect. He was much too honorable to turn on his allies mid-battle. Teric Bloodrose; Jesus, there was a fucking problem. He'd gotten the best of Godhand once before and even though he liked to believe that was because he'd been cocky, the truth was he could likely do it again wounds or no fucking wounds.

And, of course, Letho Ravenheart. Was there ever any question? Whatever the mercenary did, the general was RIGHT THERE to shout him down for it. The yin to his yang. The light to his dark. The pompous self-righteous blowhard to his paranoid-psychotic incidental vigilante. Well, now the folks at the stands would really see a show. It was the fight they paid to see!

'Good' versus 'evil'.

He turned to Lillian and held out a hand.

"Hey, up here!"

The little librarian knew right away what he was looking for and timidly slapped his hand with her own. Godhand smirked and nodded a couple of times, hands tightening on his sword and sheath.

"Let's do this."