The Mazrith Chamber

[Silence Sei]

General Ravenheart had the exact reaction the mute expected. The man obviously held the same mutual respect for the mystic that Sei did for him. Sei nodded the suggestion of a truce between the two of them and looked to Lillian and Godhand. The two may have been Sei's friends and allies, but he could not allow either of them to touch General Letho Ravenheart. He was too important to Radasanth, and Corone as a whole.

"General Ravenheart, I'm opening up your mind to where you will have a second set of eyes on the field. My daughter Anita is in the stands and is watching us overhead. I can't do much in the shape I'm in, but I think I can take out at least two of these competitors before I go down."

"General Ravenheart. A pleasure " A new voice came into Letho's head, "My name is Anita Orlouge, and I look forward to us working together."

Sei stood beside the general when the youth with the mud-stomach had approached them. The boy was probably Letho's ally in the previous engagement leading up to this climax. The more held the two of them had, the better, Sei thought. The mute brought the back of his hand to rub his scarred face, tiny bits of black falling to the ground like pepper being seasoned on a bland meat. It was becoming increasingly obvious that the rain was starting to irritate the burns Sei had suffered from the Aequitas Chamber.

"I can only assume the one with the similar injury to the boy is -not- another ally, sir? I believe I can take on him and the older gentleman before I fall. That will leave you with Lillian Sesthal and Godhand Striker. Do you think you can take them, or do you propose we strike at one target together?" Sei would take the orders from The Crimson General and follow them to a T.

Placing his eye on his opponent, Sei began to feel a bit nostalgic. Each of the opponents here reminded him of a foe he had faced in the past. They each brought back memories of a warrior that had either disappeared from this world, or retired their weapon long ago. He began to set his eyes on Teric Bloodrose, the Pagoda Master.

An older warrior who fought with everything he had. Sei's mind began to watch Teric's sword take the form of a cane. The hair of the veteran began to form a derby, and Terics old face began to reshape himself. His size decreased and before Sei knew it, he was looking at Sir Leopold Stevens, Esquire. The mute smiled as he shifted his eye to the one the mute would later know as Atzar Kellon.

Sei could feel Atzar's magic capabilities, mostly drained due to the last round. As his focus on the youth became more concentrated he became slightly taller. His hair grew longer and a bow formed around his back. The elemental wizard slowly began to take the form of the ice elemental, Ashiakin. Sei would have to avoid the long range abilities of this foe, as well as the elemental magic he conjured up.

His eye went to Lillian who was at this point growing hooves. Her form began to lose its clothing and her beautiful raven hair changed hues to red. With a taller and older appearance, Sei Orlouge stood across from Tshael Nito of the Moontae Clan. She was a powerful wizard in her own right, using vines and the earth to lure her foes into death. Sei needed to make the battle with her up close.

Godhand had been around as long as Sei, but even he too began to shape up differently. Shirking in size, he sheath transmuted into the infamous sword used to slay so many. Thinking he heard the crowd go into a frenzy for the newly shapen figure, Sei had every idea which hero was now before him. Devon Starslayer would be a good opponent, and probably be the one most likely to slay the mute.

"This will be a good fight, General," Sei said, not realizing that his mind was starting to form a mask around Letho's face...

Sei is starting to hallucinate due to his injuries in the first round. As such he sees each warrior on the field as a legend of old. While I will refer to you each by your characters actual names for the most part, know that Bloodrose- Leopold, Ataraxis- Tshael, Godhand- Devon, and Atzar- Ashiakin. If I survive long enough, Sei will hallucinate new 'forms' to Letho and Joshua as well.

[Bloodrose]

Teric found his sword lodged in the mud approximately halfway between the crater from which he'd been thrown and the spot on the ground where he'd ended up. The razor-sharp blade stood out of the soft earth like an arrow spent in flight, the tip buried deep while the basket-hilt stood out at an angle several inches above the surface. As he passed the weapon, the veteran wrapped his hand around the familiar grip and his forward momentum pulled the sword from its earthen sheath. Teric paid no mind to the mud that tarnished the white metal; what muck clung to it was sent flying when the mercenary gave the blade an expert twirl.

Dirk wielded in a reverse grip in his off hand, sword gripped tightly in his right, Teric mounted the crest of the impact crater where his last battle had ended. He recollected the man who'd fallen here; a black-haired mage that spent most of his time playing second fiddle to Elijah Belov. Strangely, given the circumstances of his death, Teric would have assumed the man had been blown into a dozen pieces. Indeed, despite having seen a hint of movement in this direction before, Teric still fully expected to find a man blown apart as he swept his gaze over the site.

By the Goddess... The veteran swore silently. What he found was far worse than a corpse.

The mage known as Atzar Kellon, as Teric would later learn, lay curled up in a ball of scorched, almost unrecognizable flesh. A greater portion of the man's mid-section - where the fireball he'd brought down from the sky had torn him to shreds - was a spongy mess of brown, damp, pseudo-organic material. Having yet to see any of the other revived competitors up close, Teric had simply assumed they'd been risen by the same magic the Ai'Brone used, or at the very worst risen in a manner similar to those walking dead that served Xem’zund in Raiaera. Healed competition Teric could have dealt with. Zombies, even, the veteran could have dealt with. This though... this was something else; something sick...

"You poor, miserable bastard." Teric spat, trying not to cringe in disgust. The entire crater reeked of burnt flesh - an odor so powerful that even the falling rain couldn't scrub it away. The magi's pained, whimpering sobs were audible over the patter of heavy droplets in the growing puddle at the center of the arena's wound, and the Pagoda Grandmaster wasted no time in doing what needed to be done. He stepped over to what remained of a man and brought his sword to bear.

"Not even a mage deserves to suffer this." Teric offered by way of an apology. He swung, and hoped for Atzar's sake more than his own that nothing would keep his blade from ending the miserable man's lingering existence.

[Letho]

Two voices accompanying his own in the old noggin were about two too many for Letho Ravenheart, but when the young woman spoke, the swordsman didn't set his will against the intrusion. Instead his eyes went to the stands, swept over the ecstatic faces, round and round and round over the circular auditorium. Finally they came to a halt on the teen that waved her hand towards the heroic duo. Nice kid it seemed; reminded him a bit of his own daughter, Lorelei, albeit a couple of years older.

“I appreciate the help, lass,” the sentence formed in his mind. Uncertain if this connection worked both ways, he nodded and raised his hand in acknowledgment just in case. “Just try to watch our backs.”

Another batch of words from Sei were thrust into his mind and snapped his attention right back to the situation at hand. The maimed mind-reader proposed a course of action that would set him up against the old man and the young mage, leaving Letho with Godhand and a girl he called Lillian. On any other day, the Marshal would've found this acceptable, but he had a score to settle, a due he had to pay. He had promised the gray veteran a duel, and while Letho Ravenheart had been a lot of things over the course of his life, he was never one to back out on a given promise.

“I have some unfinished business with the...” But he never got to finish his sentence. From somewhere up above, an unnatural thunder cracked over the heavy downfall and several paces from Letho and Sei, Ulysses' head burst like a ripe cherry. Blood as dark as ink and rosy chunks of brain splattered over Letho's heavy boots, followed by the lithe body of the kid that crumbled into Letho's arms like a sack of dry sticks. By the time the swordsman grabbed the boy by the shoulders and tried to straighten him, there was nothing but surprised blankness staring back at him and through him. Letho's fingers went to Ulysses' eyes for the second time in minutes, closing them. His own, filled with fires of wrath under his bushy eyebrows, went up to the podium where Max Dirks and his dress-wearing friend lounged.

“You know what? I have had just about enough of that varlet up there, playing god with the rest of us.” His hand went over his shoulder, feeling for the wooden butt of the gunblade and brandishing it in fluid motion. He snapped the loading mechanism open with a flick of the wrist, then shoved it back, loading the cartridge, then reholstered the Lawmaker. “I am going to bring him down to earth. And I reckon I will need your help.”

Without waiting for a clarification, his hand went to Sei's shoulder, his fingers getting a firm grip on the flesh below. And with a mere thought, Letho's hand burst with white light which washed over the telepath, enveloping him completely. The flesh below this conjured veil started to knit together, every laceration closing, every bruise fading until there was naught but smooth skin. The missing arm didn't emerge from the scar tissue on the man's shoulder, though; there were limitations to Letho's healing, but every other wound was effectively gone. Just as suddenly as it spread over his ally, the pearly aura diminished and the meaty fingers released the shirtless man.

“There, you should be feeling better now. Now, I am going up there,” Drawing his adamantine bastard sword, he pointed up the cage wall and towards the throne beyond the shimmering sphere. “If you cannot follow, do what you can down here. It will not take long.”

And with that, Letho Ravenheart was off, darting towards the edge of the arena at full sprint, his heavy footsteps splashing in the mud, each one a miniature earthquake. When he was some ten paces away from the adamantine wall, he called upon his Righteous Might again, the sonic boom exploding around his impressive hulking form, leaving behind an aura of white flames. He didn't start scaling it, though; he leapt at it like some carnivorous animal, his expanded muscles propelling him some solid eight feet up the vertical. His fingers coiled tight on the grip of his blade, the Marshal slammed it into the solid surface with every bit of strength and momentum. Even with all that power behind it, less than a quarter of the length of the sword went through the smooth surface, but it was all that Letho had needed. Using it as leverage, the swordsman pulled himself up, balanced his feet on the flat of the blade and launched himself up the rest of the way. Once he was on the narrow walkway above, he brandished the Lawmaker and pointed it towards the due behind the veil.

“MAX DIRKS!!!” his voice silenced any other in the arena, drawing every eye to the figure at the top of the adamantine cage. “Your games are done. I am the law around here, BOY!”

And with that he threw himself at the protective globe of energy, strength of over a hundred men behind the edge of the dehlar blade. It was down to physics; either the metal would give way or the magic would. And Letho Ravenheart put his stock in cold metal any day of the week.

Max shooting Ulysses approved by Dirks, healing Sei approved as well

[Breaker]

If not for the Breaker Boots, Josh might have died alone in that tunnel. The only part of his body which seemed to fully function, the only part not bearing angry red blisters, were his feet. They propelled him forward, one baby step at a time, while the enchanted eyepatch allowed him to watch the action above. Very few things about the situation felt right, but something beyond the burns and bullet wounds gave him an overwhelming feeling of wrongness. He found it embedded in his arm.

"Lillian."

The little witch. He had thought her his only ally on the battlefield. And when she was at his mercy, when he could have torn her head from her spinal column, he had merely offered her a truce. And she responded by stabbing four prevaldia needles in his arm. They seemed to have some innate power, some magical signature, but he couldn't determine what it meant. He had to force his arm up at an unnatural angle in order to pull the needles out with his teeth. His tormented hands could not get a grip on the petite metal objects.

In the Mazrith Chamber, something stirred beneath a large pile of rocks. A dull hazel eye peered out from drab cover. Josh resembled a stone golem now more than ever before. Dried mud plastered his body, covering skin and ragged garments alike. The spear strapped to his back had soil smeared across the head to dampen any shine. His camouflage blended perfectly with the war-ravaged landscape. He was invisible. He closed his uncovered eye, opened the one beneath the patch, and he could see everything.

The stand-off reminded him of the beginning of the first round, when the ground of the Aequitas Chamber was still smooth. Everyone had stood around sizing each other up, and now the finalists perpetuated the same stereotype. "Are none of them hungry for this? Do I have to get everything started again? Wait..."

His bird's-eye vision zoomed in on the only combatant who had moved on any of the others; Teric Bloodrose. Joshua knew much of the mercenary from when they both worked in the Dajas Pagoda. Rumours had reached his ears whispering that Bloodrose was almost as indestructable as him. Back then, Josh would have loved to challenge the old mercenary to an honorable duel on the beach of his jungle arena.

But there was no room for honor in the Cell. A grime-smeared head and powerful shoulders popped up between to sharp rock fingers. To overcome seven of Althanas' finest warriors would require all of his consierable skills and cunning. A hand wrapped in fabric, daintily clutching a small stone, snapped out in a blur. "Time to test the water," he thought as raindrops slicked the slime further into his hair.

And then Cronen disapeared again, leaving the tiny meteor to bloody Teric's nose.

I changed the needles to small, ordinary stone. Won't do much even if it strikes its target. I'll have to change the rest later, I'm on my way out the door.

[Silence Sei]

The gun shot had stopped Sei's mind from completely forming Throacis' mask around Letho. Rather, it snapped Sei a bit back into the reality of things as he turned around. General Ravenheart placed one of the massive appendages he called hands upon the mystic’s shoulders, and began to concentrate. Sei could feel his injuries starting to recover. The bone structure that was his wings was slowly forming the muscles and tissue back together. His scars were quickly starting to heal up, and he even managed to open his left eye.

As his eyelid rose, the char that had been covering his eye fell harmlessly to the ground. He could now see everyone with both of his orbs, though he still wore a half-mask of ash upon his frame. The mute looked down to the body that had been Letho's ally as the general started his assault towards Max Dirks. Sei had attempted something similar in the Aequitas Chamber, only to suffer the two bruised ribs that had now been healed for his efforts. Sei knew that Letho Ravenheart was not going to get Dirks out of his ivory tower, no matter how much strength the man had.

Sei turned around to focus back on the fight. Though the physical wounds had been healed, most of the mental ones had not. The gunshot allowed Sei's psyche to determine three people in this battle were their true selves. The first was Letho, who was now about to try and attack the mute's rival. The second was the now dead body of Ulysses', who was forming his own pool of blood to match Marcus'. The third was the one who had taken the form of Ashiakin.

When Sei's eyes settled on the latter, he saw the old warrior he thought was Leopold Stevens coming towards him. The mute watched as Leopold began to raise his cane. Sei knew that there was a secret blade hidden in the everyday object, something he assumed Atzar did not. Sei wasted no time in making a mad dash towards the young mage. As he did, his eyes got the reflection of light in his eyes. Sei quickly looked down with a smile as he pointed his sword downwards.

He scooped up the half of the chakram that Godhand Striker had broken in the last round. Sei twirled his sword around as the half-ring of metal spun around the blade due to the resulting kinetic energy. Stilling his blade, the sharp ring half flew towards the knees of Teric Bloodrose. Sei was merely trying to incapacitate the man he saw as a friend from doing something he would regret.

Sei had been right behind his speedy projectile, moving too fast to hear whether or not the sharp weapon found its mark. The mute was in front of Atzar in no time, his S-shaped blade held straight into the air to block the sword. The force of the blow sent Sei's heels digging into the soft soil. Looking behind him, the mute could hear the boy’s pain as he groaned.

"Get up child! If you can manage anything, use it while you can! I'll try to talk to him!" Sei's eyes focused on those of 'Leopold Stevens' as he held his ground against the veteran. "Leopold, my friend. This is unlike you. You wouldn't attack a dying child, grab some of those bandages of yours and heal his wounds for the sake of Santh Til' Garos!" Sei would have come off as delusional to someone as experienced as Teric Bloodrose, but maybe the mute had bought just enough time for the younger mage to try his hand at something...

[Ataraxis]

Cool runnels of rain slid along her sword, playing games of light and shadow over the pale crystal with every clash of thunder and lightning. Lillian was slinking across the arena on the tip of her toes, hopping from the few uneven excrescences of volcanic rock that had not been submerged by the pooling mud and waters. Fording through would have exhausted her, and though she was far from invisible, the incessant splashing and squelching noises would have made her an especially easy mark to those with easily irritable ears. Soon, however, she ran out of stepping stones, and the girl stopped before the vastness of the Treslizn chamber, cratered counterpart of her previous battleground.

Poised upon a buckler-shaped lump of obsidian, the teenager surveyed the area with quick, scanning glances. That was when she heard an all too familiar deflagration, and she trained her eyes from the thumping corpse of a participant to the giggling gunman atop his impenetrable tower: he was posturing again inside his bubble of safety, likely fancying himself a wondrous god of death. Lillian looked away, no longer paying him any heed, and instead hopped into the frigid pools on the other side of the battlefield, resuming her sprint into enemy territory. As she ran over the spattering muck, Lillian saw that the hulk of a man clad in broken red Cillu had bounded high, to perform exactly what she'd dreamed of doing all along: a swift execution of the fool on the tower.

The grizzled veteran was the first to move, and for a moment of disbelief the girl thought he’d decided to cross swords with her. It was quickly dispelled, however, when the warrior stooped low to inspect the mass of flesh inside that had was half submerged in a rocky basin, and she realized that the wreck of charred flesh and darkening skin was not corpse. Another participant, revived at the very brink of death, and Lillian froze in a horror she had never expected to feel here, in the bloody theater of a thousand clashes and of a thousand deaths.

There was no meaning in this. This was not suspense or showmanship, not even sport. ‘This… is torture.’

The old man knew of mercy, and she thanked him silently when she saw him bring his blade to bear over the poor boy’s heart… but when Sei intervened, she had felt like crying. The broken chakram flew true, and the mute mystic dashed in time to slip over the agonizing man and stop the descending sword. He was now spouting words of survival and heroism like a deranged madman, ordering the man he had almost killed to save the boy who only wished for deliverance. Lillian did not understand him: Sei was suffering too, but his wounds paled in comparison to the boy’s. The mute had also been resurrected against his will, forced to battle on and on, yet now he was forcing this broken youth, whose only remaining sense was unspeakable agony, to stand up and fight as well?

“Damn it, Sei!” she cried out, throwing her arm in a slashing arc of desperation. Darkness trailed in the backwash, unleashing a swarm of inky webs that almost seemed to devour space itself. They wrapped around the young man’s prone body, coiling about his muscles, his skin. Sei was about to respond to her sudden assault when she stared him down, and those arctic eyes had told him that any idea of truce, of mercy would be forgotten if he dared move. The boy groaned, feeling a new pain from the constriction, and so Lillian hurried: bringing the crystal blade to her down-facing palm, she sliced clean across the skin, drawing a rush of warm blood that washed across the dark strings like liquid fire.

Empowered by the essence of her very life, the threads began to shimmer, becoming filaments of light so bright it seemed they’d caught the very stars in their tender grasp. A wave of blinding cold emanated from the star-bound boy, numbing the pain like a gentle cascade of rain that soothed the soul. He gasped, but there was relief in the sudden breath. Replacing the sedating chill was a wave of fire that did not burn, but fuelled every aching muscle, every creaking joint and surviving patch of flesh. Unseen to all, her threads worked their silent magic: the worst of his burns were being replaced by raw skin, torn muscles were sewn back together, and the greatest breaks in his bones were fusing back to structural functionality.

The light eventually died, shying away under the dark and baleful storms overhead. Lillian was catching her breath, tending to the painful gash within her palm. Then, with a worn and weary gaze, she watched the boy slowly push himself from the crater that would have been his grave. Her wan smile at his successful recovery, however, was quick to fade when she turned to face the mystic.

“Don’t tell people what to do with their lives,” Lillian spoke sadly, almost snarling through grit teeth. She held her wounded hand up, cutting the blood flow as her webs began knitting the flesh closed. All the while, she stared at Sei with glazed and swollen eyes full of pain and contempt, every one of her tears washed away by the unrelenting rain. “Unless you’re willing to do everything… everything in your power to ensure they can stand up and walk… then you let them die in peace.”

Healing done with Atzar's approval. Web Therapy from her profile has been boosted by a good amount of her own blood and infused lifeforce, as it was cast in conjunction with the boost-by-blood properties that come with Stygian Arcana.

Also, as for Numbers' attack on Bloodrose. I PMed both of them (And IMed Numbers) pretty much at once to tell them that in the Aequitas thread, Lillian recovered the four prevalida needles from his arm before he swan-dived into the lava. Thus, Joshua would not be in possession of them, and would be unable to, well, use them. Numbers never could get back to me, so I think maybe he left home before he got my messages, but at the very least Bloodrose is aware of the situation. I hope we can sort this out without trouble, since it seems to be honest misunderstanding.

[Atzar]

For the second time, Atzar saw the old man loom over him. This time there was no fear. As the veteran mercifully raised his sword to strike, the mage only felt relief. Kill me, he pleaded silently. Please… kill me. But a new figure stepped in the way and blocked the blow. The wizard moaned in longing for the slash that never came, for the freedom that his “savior’s” blade had denied him. He felt as if the man was speaking inside his mind, but the words of encouragement went unheeded.

He heard a new voice then; a female’s voice, light with youthful clarity. Even through the agony, the mage’s mind noted that oddity. What was a young girl doing here, of all places? Then the silken strands enveloped him, and the pain intensified. Another groan gurgled from his raw throat. What more could they do to him? Was he a fly, to be eaten by some monstrous spider? Was death such a great thing to ask for? In a blood-soaked battleground littered with corpses, demise only found those who wished to live; those who yearned for the end were left to suffer.

But wondrously, the pain diminished. Could it be? He lay absolutely still, not daring to breathe lest it prove only a cruel hoax. Yes! The burns faded bit by bit, and the searing agony cooled. Miraculous. His ruined flesh gave way to new, healthy skin, and the gash in his shoulder even closed. Then the webs fell away, their magic exhausted. Atzar greedily sucked in air, relieved beyond belief. The pain hadn’t completely abated, to be sure, but the remnant was certainly tolerable.

Reality crashed back in. The one apparently known as Sei still stood over him, staving off the old veteran’s lethal strike. The mage scrambled to his feet and leapt out of the crater away from the pair, noting as he did the somewhat renewed energy that flowed to his muscles. “Stop!” he cried to the man known as Bloodrose. “I’m not your enemy!” He counted on the assumption that the man’s action came from mercy rather than malice. Perhaps he bore Atzar no ill will, after all. Perhaps he had only killed him out of self-preservation – he had been spraying fire like water.

Then he saw her. Even younger than he’d imagined, she bore the same telltale signs of battle as everybody else. Her teary eyes were the most shocking, piercing blue that Atzar had ever seen. He walked to her, holding his healed hands out in front of him. “You did this?” His voice no more than a whisper, it barely carried above the distant roar of the audience. “…Thank you.” The simple words didn’t encompass the depth of his gratitude, and he knew it. Instead of more meaningless utterances, the mage placed himself at her side. She had granted him new life, and he would use it to aid her in any way possible.

[Godhand]

Godhand versus Letho. Boy, he really wanted to know how Dirks had decided to advertise that. The hero of Radasanth versus the 'hero' of Raiaera. Here were two men who little kids pretended to be, who had been the source of more than one playground fight after an argument over which was stronger got too heated. Teenage girls liked Letho. Women liked Godhand. Old men liked Letho. Young punks liked Godhand. What the mercenary ignored and what likely made the ranger so hostile to him was that he knew, unconsciously or not, that at one point they were essentially the same person. He had been a highborn prince of Savion and Godhand a worthless disposable thug, yes, but underneath it all they were very similar. They'd simply come to a fork in the road and the general had picked one path and the mobster the other. The prince had been reared to see the goodness and inherent nobility in people and the sanctity of all life, and so had chosen to be Corone's messiah. Godhand had not been reared by anybody, and he'd seen firsthand just how ugly people were if enough things went wrong. As for the sanctity of life? Well, the mercenary had written a little couplet to remind himself what was what when he did something some people might not find too agreeable.

If you really got to think,
If you really got to justify,
take a breath and look around,
lots of people deserve to die!

And that, essentially, was the handle. The crux of his world-view. It didn't matter how bad anyone had it, they had no right to complain because no matter who they were, they deserved much worse. And that's what made it easy. That's why he never gave it a second thought. Those people he was hired to kill HAD to die, didn't they, and hell, SOMEONE had to do it. It was like digging a ditch or laying bricks. It was a job. In the end, though, it boiled down to the fact that the prince fought for fame, while the mercenary fought for money. And what bothered him was how easy the roles could have been reduced. Godhand versus Letho? Nature versus nurture. Letho Ravenheart was the hero people wanted. Godhand Striker was the hero they deserved.

But, just as Godhand prepared to advance on the ranger, the hulk summoned forth what ever mystic voodoo gave him his monstrous strength and hurled himself up and at the shield. He was angry, apparently, at yet another one of Dirks' incessant attempts to put himself over with the crowd. Some young kid had gotten it this time; he might have been a little younger than the knight. The general had managed to fight his way up to the gunman's little crow's nest or throne or whatever it was he was cowering in only to periodically emerge and take potshots at wounded competitors. Godhand sincerely hoped he succeeded but he didn't want to risk joining him; he hadn't seen the commando's body float up after he'd thrown himself into the lava but he knew there was a very good chance he was still skulking around and ready to shoot him in the spine once he gave his back to him.

And so he turned to Bloodrose. Good man, he supposed. He kept up his end of the bargain, anyway, and that at least was something to be respected these days. He didn't really want to fight him; truth be told he still had a little fear of the man. He'd beaten him once and logic dictated he could do it again.

Keeping this bit unofficial since the needles might not exist:

But before he could decide whether to attack or try to make an alliance with him, the glint of prevalida caught in the corner of his eye as what looked like tiny slivers of the metal flew at the mercenary. Without even thinking about it, his old alliance mentality sprung up.

"Hey, killer! Watch out behind you!"

[Bloodrose]

Several things happened all at once, each individual event somehow managing to involve Teric, and each crowding one after another into the span of only a few seconds...

Focused on the soon-to-be dead mage beneath him, the Grandmaster didn't notice the flying piece of metal debris until it busted him in the shin. It even hit him in his bad leg, so one would have to consider it a boon that it struck where it did. Steel rang off the iron buckles on the front of the mercenary's footwear, but aside from smarting a bit, did little real damage.

In short order, another metallic clang went out over the arena - muffled by the falling rain - as the wild-eyed ginger Teric had spotted with Letho earlier interceded on Atzar's behalf. Up close the man seemed healthier than he had appeared at a distance, almost as if he'd regenerated a little bit on the trip to where he knelt now, blocking the veteran's blade. His health, however, didn't have much to do with the feverish, almost delusional look in the man's sapphire eyes.

Words rushed into Teric's mind; words not spoken and heard, but forced there. They formed a message, almost as if someone were pleading with an old friend, but none of it made any sense to the mercenary. Whoever this Leopold was - whoever this plea was meant for - Teric was not him, and with that the veteran knew his orange-haired competitor was delirious.

More words, this time shouted and in a voice he recognized, caused the veteran to jerk reactively. Even before his brain could decipher the meaning of the words from their sound, Teric had turned instinctively to locate the source of the voice, and so the two slivers of prevalida thrown from afar hit the mercenary in the shoulder instead of the neck. They clinked harmlessly off the mythril haubergeon protecting Teric was neck to waist, and in fact, their mass was so minute that the mercenary didn't even register the blows they struck.

Is everyone in this damnable arena trying to mess with me now? Teric somehow managed to think in the chaos. Am I Letho now?

The Hero, Ravenheart, had single-handedly taken on an overwhelming majority of the chaos that had raged in Treslizn Chamber. Pyromancers, a N'Jal assassin, a would-be opportunist, and even the legendary mercenary himself - Letho had taken more of a pounding and dished out more repercussions than ten men could have handled. The combatants had focused on the Hero of Corone because of his fame, and even without proof, Teric got a sinking suspicion that he might be garnering the same attention.

There was a flash of light, and a wave of cold, and Teric turned back to his original target only to find the black-haired mage scurrying away. Healed apparently, as he was infinitely more spry and vocal than he had been seconds before. The man even shouted something, but the mercenary was just so overwhelmed by the sheer volume of things going on at once, that all he could do was react.

"ARGH!" The war cry that tore itself from Teric's throat wasn't recognizable as any word. The veteran just yelled, venting his sensory overload in a single, deep-chested bellow as he lashed out at the closest competitor. Metal shrieked against metal as Teric ran the edge of his blade along the flat side of the weapon that prevented him from killing Atzar. He took a swing at the feverish ginger's head, and if that didn't work, the mercenary could easily follow up with the dirk in his off hand.

To borrow Dirk's term, I'm going to 'work through it' and acknowledge Number's actions. Despite reading through Aequitas and confirming that the needles were indeed removed, I think it'll be better for everyone if we just keep this rolling and not get bogged by this. Using items you don't have is an issue for the judge anyways.

[Max Dirks]

Max Dirks lowered his gun after killing the Ulysses puppet and continued to watch the battle unfold. Despite his command, alliances were still being made, and what’s worse is that they were being made by the undead puppets that Phagan controlled. Moments ago, undead Letho had healed himself and undead Sei Orlogue and Lillian had just healed undead Atzar Kellon. The gunman was getting impatient. He turned to Phagan, who appeared calm and in control of the situation. This made Dirks frown. The old magician was certainly putting on a show, but Dirks questioned how much of it was necessary. For now, he would have to trust the old codger’s decisions.

Soon Dirks’ attention fell on Teric Barton. Much of the recent action in the arena centered on him and Dirks wanted to make sure that no matter what happened the Grandmaster would survive. Dirks pulled his gun to bear and aimed it at undead Joshua Cronen, who seemed to be instigator. Before Dirks could fire a loud buzz rang out across the platform. Dirks spun around, aiming his gun at the source of the commotion. When he heard Letho’s war cry, he frowned.

“Is this really necessary?” Dirks asked Phagan. The undead Letho Ravenheart had climbed to Dirks’ platform and was now relentlessly slamming his sword into the shield. Dirks turned his attention back to the chamber below and readied his aim once more. However, he was unable to focus with the constant buzz sound coming from Letho’s assault on the shield. “That’s so fucking ANNOYING.” Dirks rang out. He turned his body once more and fired a single bullet towards Letho’s forehead. However, the bullet bounced harmlessly off the inner part of the shield. Seeing this, Dirks immediately came towards Phagan.

“What the hell are you doing, you stupid mage?” Dirks reamed. It was time to do what he'd set out to do. “This is my tournament, my revenge. Look, I let you put on your little charade and the crowd seems happy, but it ends now.” Dirks twirled his finger in the air. “Make all the puppets kill themselves! Do it now.” Letho kept pounding away at the shield, but Phagan did not move. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” the mage smiled.

“Do as I say, or I'll make it so that you won't have your revenge either.” Dirks lifted his gun and aimed it at Phagan’s forehead.

“Oh, you’re wrong about that.” Phagan replied. “You’ve said it yourself: Drax Piston is just a pawn. The true architect of my demise, Mr. Dirks, was you…” Dirks raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I would have forgotten? It was you who unleashed the holy magic that defeated my army at Gisela and it was you who enabled Drax Piston to shoot me down. No Dirks, I haven’t forgotten. I’ve orchestrated this whole battle from the start and it’s going to end with your bloody demise.”

Dirks grit his teeth, seething with anger. He pulled his gun back and slammed Phagan in the nose. The mage dropped back and his nose started bleeding. “Wrong answer...” Dirks replied, aiming his gun at the mage’s throat. He did not realize the buzz from Letho’s continual assault had stopped. “Say goodnight, old fool.” Dirks said, not realizing that Phagan had just unleashed the most powerful, non-undead, and angriest man on Althanas on him.

(Shield is down, have at it Letho)