The Mazrith Chamber

[Godhand]

007 can't actually boost his reflexes to even match Godhand's if his last profile is anything to go by, but whatever, let's roll with it.

Godhand had brought all of his legendary speed, strength and skill with a blade to bear against the snake, but he'd still managed to slither his way out of a killing blow. He was quick, he'd give him that, but he still hadn't managed to evade the mercenary completely. The first blow missed, sure, and the second was barely a scrape, but he'd nearly taken his leg clean off with that last one. His titanium muscles and prevalida bones still couldn't quite stand against the preternaturally sharp adamantine katana Godhand had had to kill a fallen emperor to obtain.

He saw the fist coming, and right away his mind devised a million different ways it could stop it from making contact, but rather than sever his appendage at the forearm or chopping his head off or running him through, Godhand let it come. The man had truly earned his ire, and while normally he'd be content to kill someone quick and clean, this time he wanted to embarrass the little weasel. He wanted to prove that even at his specialty and peak, the mercenary still outclassed him by several orders of magnitude. Petty? Yes. Vindictive? Certainly. But throwing even ONE grenade at him was enough to put someone on Godhand's shit-list for life, never mind two and a couple of armor piercing rounds for good measure.

With that in mind, he prepared to shatter the man's elbow as soon as his arm was completely extended. But the opportunity never came; just as Godhand breezily dodged the fist and waited it to reach it's kinetic peak before going for the elbow, the appendage detonated. He was in the zone by then, so it was a horrible experience as he watched the sphere of fire and destruction slowly expand in his direction. He brought his arms up to his face in a cross and leapt back as quickly as he could, but he couldn't outrun the fire and the blast sent him clean across the arena once again.

The pain was indescribable, but he still managed to get to his feet. The thick corded tendons in his arms were exposed, the outer layer of flesh being blown away even by the mitigated impact. And it was as he heard the surprised gasps and dead silence of the crowd that he noticed it. His face was burning. It was burning bad, and he couldn't see out of his left eye. He looked at a nearby puddle only to see that half his face had been blasted off. It was a clean grenade, no shrapnel, otherwise he'd be dead, but it'd still managed to pulverize the skin and burn the tissue on one side of his face. He sported half a rictus grin as the part of his cheek that hadn't fused to his teeth had been blown off, to the point where the lower half of the left side of his face was nothing but a bloody skull.

His world was agony, but the rage kept him sane. Barely. He shifted his knuckles around the handle of the blade which he now held with a deathgrip, ignoring the sickening feeling of blood being pumped out of his heart only to pour out of his arms. He approached the grounded commando and prepared for the deathblow.

But there was no need. He must have nicked an artery because blood was pouring out of his leg at an alarming rate, not to mention squirting out of his decimated arm with sickening consistency. With wounds like that he'd be stone dead in ten seconds.

Godhand turned away and thought about it but nope, that was still too long. He tried to give a lopsided smirk, but found that the flesh on that side of his head wouldn't move. Then he realized his face had been permanently frozen into a SORT of smirk. He chuckled even through the agony, drawing a revolver and shooting his gun through his coat at the commando's midsection.

[Atzar]

The ice cut at the orange-haired man’s face, his hands, his sides. They did everything except kill him. Atzar grew more panicked by the second as the slippery man ran toward him. With a painful lurch, the frigid bolts stopped appearing; the mage could cast no more. He wanted desperately to turn, to get away, but the blade’s malignant resolve kept his feet planted in the sodden soil.

The mute’s voice sounded in Kellon’s mind, and his eyes widened in bafflement. The man encouraged him to strike the killing blow? Was he insane? Atzar himself had wished for the end not long before, but only because he had existed in a state even worse than death. Despite the many telltale signs of struggle that they all bore at that point, Sei didn’t appear to be faring too poorly.

No more time to think. The fighter was within twenty feet now, and closing fast. Atzar set his feet, lifting the edge of the weapon to point at Sei’s chest. His hands trembled. He didn’t like this. He was a mage. He fought with magic. Impaling another man just felt barbaric.

You’re weak! Kill him!

The sneer returned to the wizard’s lips as he once again lost control of his own mind. Another scream ripped from his lungs as the spirit took matters into its own hands. Atzar leapt forward to meet the upcoming warrior, to pierce his chest with the foul blade.

Then it happened. The mage could feel the steely slither run up his soaked arms, could feel as the mute’s ribs cracked and broke. They collided like jousting knights, and the impact knocked the wizard from his feet. The blade, lodged in the dying man’s body, tore itself from Atzar’s grasp.

It felt like the sun coming up. The evil presence left his mind, left the mage gasping for air as if he had forgotten how to breathe. He lifted his violently trembling hands to look at them, reassuring himself that he controlled them once more. His entire body shuddered. The spirit had taken everything he had, and then it had taken some more. His hands fell limply back to his sides, splashing into the mud.

So much had happened. He had entered the Cell as a personal challenge, of sorts; just to prove that he could. But he didn’t expect what came next. It turned into a monstrosity, less a battlefield than a torture chamber. He had wanted to take revenge on Max Dirks for hosting the thing. Then… the sword. Even now, it made his blood run cold. It had turned him into a monster…

…but it was over now. Atzar would fight no more. Drained and battered, the mage nonetheless took solace in one fact: this time, he had survived. With that thought in his mind, he smiled wearily and closed his eyes.

Concluding post.

[Silence Sei]

Sei could feel the metal from the blade go through his chest. He smiled at the sword creating an exit wound in his back. The mute had gotten the child to do what he had asked. Now Sei could leave the Cell, and Max Dirks, in peace. Even better, Atzar just so happened to let go of the sword. This caused Sei to stumble back a bit with the large weapon impaled upon him.

He began to cough profusely, and the coughing became vomiting. He stained the blade with his azure blood. sluggishly shifting his eyes to Max Dirks, Sei brought his hand to the sword, squeezing the blade. Blood began to drip down his fingers and into the soil below. The mute smiled a bit as he felt the newfound power slightly restore his magical capabilities. He had enough ability to now cast one more spell, and it was going to be a doozy.

Dirks had just finished talking to Anita, the girl turning her back to the fight. Thankfully, she never saw her father suffer the grim fate that lied before him. As Dirks turned around, Sei lifted his hand from the sword and pointed at the gunslinger. He gave his friend a wink as he stumbled backwards. This would be enough of a gesture for Dirks to know what had been done. Max Dirks had been given a Mystic's Protection in more ways than one.

The mute fell backwards, the sword shooting out of his form as it made contact with the ground. He had heard some voice scolding him for not attempting a Would? spell that could possibly eliminate the other players. The sword fell upon Sei's body as his eyes began to glaze over. Max Dirks and Anita would be the last things he saw in this tournament, and he was truly grateful for that.

Sei felt his heart slowing down. The blood in his gaping hole began to lose its haste. His breaths started becoming less frequent. The pain all of her body was immense, even without the new preforation. For all of Sei Orlouges strategical might, he could not survive either round of The Cell. So was the ways of the bloodbath sport.

People needed heroes. Corone needed warriors. Spectators needed idols to worship. Sei realized as he drew his last gasp of air that none of that was true. At least, none of that was true today. Today, there were only monsters and criminals. It didn't matter what the alignment of the fighters were, as long as they were in combat. No, all that had little meaning from the second one's name was put on that registration paper. There were no heroes, no warriors, no idols.

Not now, and not ever, not in the Cell.

Concluding post.

[Letho]

Bunnying of Lilian and Teric discussed and approved

Letho Ravenheart had been in a theater only once in his life, a while back when his Myrhianna was still alive and the world was a damn fine place to live in. The tiny redhead's incessant nagging ultimately wore him out and the pair found themselves in one of those oddly quiet auditoriums, their behinds parked in what was probably the comfiest chairs they would ever have the privilege to sit on. There were oil lamps lined up against the wall of that theater, their lazy flame tongues almost static in their sconces, and next to each one was a theater usher. And once the show was about the start, these oddly neat men in black-and-white suits moved simultaneously, turning a small dial at the side of the lamp, and as they did the flames diminished gradually with each second until they were gutted down and darkness descended upon the room like a blanket. That slow death of illumination that brought the encroaching night in tow was what Letho was experiencing right now.

His (well, their) game plan hadn't panned out the way it was supposed to. Instead of tearing the pair to ribbons, the Beast had fell victim to its deadly instincts, turning it's head reflexively towards the blinding flare despite Letho's cautionary bawl. And as if that hadn't been enough, the old man proceeded to chop their hand clean off, magical gauntlet and all. It had been all the invitation that the tiny teen mage needed to go on an offensive and literary dig into their back. And from razor sharp edge of the blade she had lodged hilt deep into his flesh, something horrible was spreading. And it started to douse the lights.

The Beast was flailing and trashing, jerking its immense torso around as if it was possessed, bloody saliva spraying from its clenched teeth with each growl. But every movement of its massive limbs, every breath took, every single heartbeat only sent the poison surging faster through its system. It robbed the werewolf of its strength, and proportionally to that loss the Beast felt control slipping away from it. By the time the girl finally lost her grip on the blade and fell into the mud, it was too late. The venom was too potent for even the accelerated regeneration to handle.

Letho realized this better than even the monster in the driving seat. In that tiny cell inside his own mind, the Marshal could feel the walls closing in around him as the light was guttered out by inky blackness. His every attempt to calm the maimed Beast had failed, the thing's blinded eyes closed shut as it went about like a drunk with the world's worst hangover. Letho tried to move forward once again, but the darkness that was pushing him back was almost corporeal, a cloud made of stone that reclaimed his little world one piece at a time. Somewhere in the midst of losing his mind for the final time, the legendary swordsman saw a reddish flash tear through the darkness like some infernal lightning bolt, and then the abyss swallowed him and Letho was no more.

It was the veteran who brought that lightning. He thrust his sword in search of flesh anew, and this time got more than he bargained for. The saber pierced the flesh cleanly, slipping past the second and third mutated rib of the Beast and impaling the beating heart beyond. But while the deathblow was enough to vanquish Letho's consciousness, the werewolf refused to give in. Even with blood pouring out if it by the gallon, even with poison destroying its body from the inside, even with a goddamn blade sticking out of its heart, its will endured, defiant, eternal. There was enough of it for the Beast to raise its arm again, its clawed hand easily locating the old man's arm still attached to his sword and yanking it forwards. Bones crackled in the trapped wrist as the blade sunk deeper, and another roar echoed from the gaping maw of the lupine monster. And then, with a final push of its persistent will, it snapped its fangs at the man's throat, tearing away a bloody chunk of muscle and tendon.

As it pushed away its last victim, with the coppery taste of blood overwhelming its taste buds, the Beast unleashed a final dreadful wail at the tempestuous dome above and collapsed backwards, crushing the dark-skinned girl and joining her in death. And as the last threads of its conscious mind broke away from its massacred body, it felt satisfied. For it claimed one life already, and another one was bound to follow, and these were no ordinary warriors it defeated.

No, these two surely belonged amongst the Althanas giants.

Concluding post

[Breaker]

Josh had the fleeting feeling of an anticipated embrace. Then light consumed every atom of his body. The same glow surrounded his possessions, scattered as they were across the hellish Cell. The pain he had carried fell away as he rose above the physical realm.

A familiar voice called his name, then another.

The light faded. Joshua Cronen had become one with the water, the rocks, but also the air. The atmosphere. Lost himself in a great adventure above the world of Althanas.

concluding post.

[Bloodrose]

Most creatures, when stabbed through the heart, fell without much resistance. One sharp blow from the steely cold edge of a weapon, bisecting that most important of muscles, was always enough to take the strength from a creature's limbs, starve its mind of breath, and flood its chest cavity with its own lifeblood. Without the heart to pump fresh blood to the extremities, any creature that counted itself amongst the living was not long for this world.

For these reasons, Teric had risked placing himself inside the deadly reach of the creature's remaining limbs - his face a mask of grim determination as the white point of his sword disappeared into the lycanthrope's hairy chest. He expected the pained, indignant roar that burst from the creature’s tooth-filled snout, but what Teric didn't expect was the reprisal. The monster's good arm snatched the limb attached to the mercenary's blade and ruined it with one fell yank, and those slathering jaws took a bite out of the old man's throat as well.

Even as the beast toppled over in the midst of its death throes, Teric also fell.

A cruel joke. He found himself thinking again. To fall once and then be dragged unwillingly back into the fight, only to fall again. The Grandmaster took solace in the fact that this time, with his blood pumping out by the cupful from the gnarly wound in his neck, his odds of being revived yet again to carry on with this farce were few and far between.

It didn't take long at all for the remainder of the veteran's life to ebb from his veins, the crimson of his blood mixing and joining with the rain as it fell. The last thought that passed through the man's mind before darkness received him yet again, was that he'd like to go somewhere far, far away from the rain...

Conclusion post.

[Godhand]

The shot had got him in the gut, and that was his limit. Tough guy; probably one of the toughest fucking guys he'd ever met. Personally, he would have given up after the lava bath or the arm thing.

Pretty soon his critical, gaping wounds stopped squirting blood and that's how Godhand knew his heart had stopped. He looked around, expecting to find another warrior, some monstrous ringer to run in and finish him off, but nobody came. He surveyed the entire arena but it seemed that he was, for all intents and purposes, the last man standing.

He was, for all intents and purposes, the last man.

The pain was unspeakable. If someone put a gun to his head and forced him to expound on it, Godhand probably would have described it as being boiled alive in a bucket of gypsy shit. His arms were basically one big open wound, he had bruised ribs, a collapsed lung, suffered several mild concussions, been shot, burned and the left side of his face had been scalded nearly to the bone, but he still felt fantastic.

His left ear had been completely sealed over with burnt flesh, but he only needed one to hear the roar of the crowd. Godhand hissed as the last bit of rain poured down, trying vainly to cool his burning face as he held out his arms, shut his eyes and greeted the sun. The crowd went wild.

Your winner, and NEW heavyweight champion-...

Just then, his foot bumped into something. He looked down to find his sheath.

"What the...fuck?"

Just then, the horrible realization set in. The swordsman dove and picked up his sheath, his head whipping wildly from side to side as he tried to find his comrade in arms. His own personal Jesus Christ. He hobbled about the arena as best he could with all his wounds, but it was to no avail. She was nowhere to be found.

"Lillian! Lillian, where are you!?"

He knew it wasn't a real cool scene right now. It wasn't the coolest scene in town. Godhand was exposing the soft underbelly of his maniac tough-guy persona with a pitiful, nearly maudlin display of emotion. It was stupid, yes, she could be revived, but he still felt like he failed. All along he'd been intending to carry Lillian to victory only to lay down for her right at the end of the battle, legitimizing her as the new unstoppable force in Corone and heir princess to the NWO. And screw the crowd if they didn't like it; sometimes a jeer was just as good as a cheer.

Finally, he noticed a dainty, pale arm sticking out from the mud under Letho's hulking warform. He ran over, hurling the beast's corpse off handily even wounded, but it was no use. Her little heartbeat had ceased.

And all the king's horses and all the king's men

The crowd kept cheering.

"Shut up! Shut up, you goddamn vicious swine! Did you like it!? Was it GRAND!?"

And with no warning he drew one of his revolvers and opened fire on the stands. They quickly dispersed; it seemed they only wanted to see blood as long as it wasn't theirs. Godhand holstered his weapon and silently, gently, picked the girl up. She was light. She'd lost a lot of blood so she was...Light. And so, he walked through the entryway he'd arrived through, disappearing into the darkness with the girl who'd carried HIM all through the tournament in his arms.

...

Sometimes it was hard.

Concluding post.

[Max Dirks]

Sorry for the delay in judging this, but as promised here are the results. Overall I was pleased with the action and the pacing of the final round. Like before, full commentary is available by request.

Judgment:

016573
Story: 16/30 (Your tactic (hiding) was sound, but it didn't give you much to work with with respect to interaction and character development. Furthermore, you didn't seem to put much effort into many of your posts. Try harder next time and you shall be rewarded).
Character: 15/30
Writing Style: 16/30
Wildcard: 3/10 (Power-gaming)
Total: 50/100

Ataraxis
Story: 18/30 (Somewhat odd pacing in your conclusion post, but otherwise a solid performance sans the early violation of the rules)
Character: 18/30
Writing Style: 20/30
Wildcard: 3/10 (Missing the post time)
Total: 59/100

Atzar Kellon
Story: 18/30
Character: 19/30 (I liked the part of the battle where Christoph's sword overcame your character's will. Though it is a somewhat cliche concept, I felt that you wrote it well).
Writing Style: 18/30
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 60/100

Bloodrose
Story: 19/30 (When I saw that Lillian was going to heal Teric, I was worried that it would ruin your pacing score. However, you put my worries at ease and came up with a strong supplementary conclusion post).
Character: 18/30 (I think you took the "old man" bit too far. While it is excellent symbolism, it can be and was overused).
Writing Style: 20/30
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 62/100

Godhand
Story: 17/30 (Nothing outstanding here sans your final post. You were more reactionary than anything else).
Character: 17/30
Writing Style: 16/30 (Check your pronouns to make sure it's clear who you're referring to. This was an ongoing issue throughout several posts).
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 55/100

Letho
Story: 20/30 (Again, your interaction with everyone helped your story to excel. Nice job).
Character 17/30 (Interesting take on Letho's conscious within the werewolf, but I did not buy it. If Letho lost control to take on the war form, it seems unlikely his true conscious would be able to affect it so easily)
Writing Style: 21/30
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 63/100

Silence Sei
Story: 18/30 (More of the same from you, Sei. I feel like you tried to include too many story arcs into a single battle. I did like the "make a new legend" concept at the end, though.)
Character: 17/30
Writing Style: 18/30 (You had the most spelling errors. I chalk it up to over-excited writing. It happens to me too. I'm so excited to post I forget to do a careful final review of what I'm writing)
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 58/100

Winner: LETHO
2nd Place: BLOODROSE
3rd Place: ATZAR KELLON

Rewards: Letho receives 5300 EXP, Bloodrose receives 4170 EXP, Atzar Kellon receives 3475 EXP, Ataraxis receives 2435 EXP, Silence Sei receives 2320 EXP, Godhand receives 2220 EXP, and 016573 receives 2065 EXP. Each participant receives 2000 GP. Letho, please contact me regarding a magical item. Bloodrose and Atzar shall receive their special awards shortly.

Thanks to everyone who participated!

[Silence Sei]

EXP-GP Added to the Mazrith.

Bloodrose, Letho, and Atzar all leveled. Surprise surprise!