The Mazrith Chamber

[Letho]

Bunnying approved by Max

It felt like trying to cut his way through stone with a piece of wood. Each slash Letho made at the protective sphere sent monstrous vibrations down the length of the gunblade, rattling him to the bone, numbing his arms up to the shoulder. The Lawmaker itself lost much of its tawny splendor during this relentless assault, the dehlar blade chipped and cracked on so many places that it looked like the world's worst saw, its teeth jagged and uneven. And yet the Marshal persisted. His blood was boiling, his head afire, his ears buzzing with clangor his attacks sent echoing across the battlefield. He could see the two men behind the shimmering veil arguing over something, two distorted outlines which no longer calmly sat on their thrones and brought death above like gods brought rain. Perhaps it was his assault that planted a seed of disagreement between them, perhaps not. Letho didn't care. Before the day was done, he would have Max's head or he perish in an attempt to acquire it.

The rain kept touching the world with its cold figertips, hissing as it struck the sphere and forming an unnatural layer of mist some twenty feet from the ground. It made the air so damp that Letho felt like he was breathing in water drops and breathing out steam, but it lessened his attack not at all. And such bullheaded approach, seemingly futile at the beginning, started to pay dividends as the Marshal kept hammering at the barrier. The energy field seemed to be losing some if its vibrancy, fading into a paler shade of its original color. And then, without any kind of announcement, without any particularly flashy fireworks, it was gone and the crumbling blade of the Lawmaker struck nothing but air and raindrops.

Finally setting his foot on the smooth stone of the plateau that kept the gunslinger and the mage above the rubble, Letho leveled the barrel of his gunblade with Dirks' face with the eerie calmness of an assassin. His eyes, oddly white and with no noticeable pupils, stared down at the meddling varlet, pulsing with righteous rage. “It is time for you to feel the taste of gunfire, scoundrel,” the ragged swordsman, awash with pearly flames, uttered in a guttural tone. “I am Marshal Letho Ravenheart, and I deal in lead!” And with that, he pulled the trigger and sent Max Dirks to the eternal hunting grounds.

Well, that was the plan at least.

The reality, however, was far less theatrical and far more treacherous. There was naught but a dry click coming from the firing mechanism of his gunblade when he pulled on the trigger, nothing but the rumble of thunder spreading across the battlefield, and nothing but disappointed Oooohhhs! from the stands. Perhaps it was mud and grime that prevented the mechanism from doing its job, perhaps it was the punishment the entire weapon took from the vibrations during his fierce assault on the podium. Either way, he had lost the initiative, and judging by the look on Max's face – which went from annoyed surprise to smarmy satisfaction in moments – the gunman knew it too.

Max Dirks brought his pistol up to eliminate the threat in what most people saw as a mere blur of flesh and cloth and dark metal, but charged up as he was, Letho was faster still. He covered the distance between the two in the same amount of time some people took to form a thought, staying true to his approach so far and charging straight at the loaded barrel of the gun. There was a faint fiery flash before him, the shot a mere firecracker compared to his own but crisp and clear, just like the pain that detonated somewhere in his gut. Didn't matter. There was far too much momentum in Letho's approach, too much anger and unhinged power to be stopped by a single bullet. He struck Max like a chariot at full speed, throwing both himself and his target over the edge with the finesse of a bowling ball striking a solitary pin.

The world didn't slow down. Life didn't flash before their eyes. Their rapid descent from up above was short, their landing in the mud below unceremonious, creating a pair of splashes a couple of feet apart.

Landing face first, Letho got a mouthful of mud as his body tried to replenish his oxygen supply. His right hand still wrapped around the smooth wood of the Lawmaker, the mud-covered Marshal rolled to his left and pushed himself back to his feet, spitting out the earthy slop. The pain in his abdomen, that pulsar of fire that seemed to emit another wave of pain with each beat his heart took, seemed to be numbed down to a tolerable level for now, countered by the adrenaline pumping through his veins. His hands went to work simultaneously with his eyes, the former trying to reload the chamber of his weapon while the latter sought out his enemy. The reloading lever refused to budge when he tugged at it lightly, then snapped clear off when he applied some pressure. He spat again, this time less to clear his mouth and more out of frustration. It seemed that he would have to end Max Dirks with cold dehlar instead of hot lead.

[Breaker]

The Mazrith Chamber became his jungle.

He moved in a prone position, one with the ground as he scuttled about, finding shelter in every outcrop and fissure. When he breathed, the earth breathed with him. The rain, fierce as it might be, would not strip the camouflage from his skin. Instead it blended it, making him shapeless in his stillness, the same color as everything around him.

What he saw through the angel eye made little sense, but it was what it was, and it demanded patience.

"How can so many of Althanas' top warriors be so reluctant to engage?"

The irony of course was that Cronen had no intention of making his location known. He had tried the "hero's way" in the first round, and been attacked by everyone in the Aequitas Chamber as a result. He had died as a result. But now he lived, and he learned, and he would bide his time, a spider in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.

[Silence Sei]

The events unfolded almost simultaneously. Lillian webbed up Atzar as if she were Spider-Elf, Dirks' wizard pal betrayed the gunman in exactly the same fashion that had happened with Sei mere minutes before the two chambers had become one, and Teric Bloodrose was shoving off the mute's block and following up with a swift counter. Sei quickly tucked his head down towards his chest as he jerked his whole body into a squat.

Sei's eyes caught the fist that would follow up the sword swipe, and quickly attempted to bring the hilt of his sword into the hand of his competitor. Sei had no experience in engaging the foe known as Teric Bloodrose, but he had plenty of knowledge on the style of Leopold Stevens. It was almost as if he were fighting the same warrior in a different age. The feverish mute had not seen the actual dirk in his hand (as he didn't recall Leopold ever wielding such a blade), and so was unaware if his secondary block had knocked the knife out of his hand.

Still kneeling, Sei launched himself upwards towards his opponent. His goal was to knock Teric off of his feet. However, the cool mud caused the mystic to lose his footing. As a result, the right shoulder Sei was attempting to slam into Teric's stomach was now aimed a little lower and at a more valuable area. Sei's body didn't feel the force of the blow due to the adrenaline rushing through his system, and thus did not realize if the accidental strike rang true.

His face splashed into the brown mud, causing droplets to cover his previously unstained face. Sei attempted to scurry back to his feet as he held his sword tight. The mud had covered the better of Sei's two eyes, so it was hard to locate the man he thought of as Leopold Stevens. All the mystic could smell was wet dirt, and the taste of Atzar's blood mixed in with rainwater and mud...it didn't sit well on the telepath's tongue to say the least.

Spitting out the horrible taste in his mouth, Sei looked around at the legends that were still engaging one another. A loud booming sound caused him to recall his epic fall from Max Dirks' protective podium just a short while ago. He turned to see the crumpled bodies of Max Dirks and Letho Ravenheart. Sei had an alliance to uphold with the General, and looking at the two warriors, he knew that Dirks was bound to come out on top. The man was more resilient than a cockroach.

But something kept pulling Sei away from his undying soldier loyalty to Letho. The mute wanted to engage these legends of old. He would handle Tshael's vines, Leopold's cane, the sword known as the Starslayer, and he would beat them all back. Sei had something to prove to the old school warriors. Or maybe he just had something to prove to himself? Was he worthy of having any title the people had bestowed upon him? Sei recalled an orange hair youth who hid his face behind a fan that would say no.

God he missed that boy.

Now was the time to be that person again. To always strive for the impossible when it seemed just out of reach. Now he had to strike down Leopold Stevens, Tshael Nito, and Devon Starslayer. If Max was still standing at the end of all this, he would try his hand at round three with the gunman. Sei would focus on the others later, but right now, he had to find Leopold, apologize to the elderly man for using such a low down tactic, and propose a duel of honorable man.

But where was the damn geriatric?

[Max Dirks]

Max Dirks similarly landed in the mud face first, but he was much slower to get up than his assailant. The falling rain was being absorbed by Dirks’ trench coat, consequently burying him deeper into the mud. To make matters worse, it felt like the criminal’s left wrist had been strained in the fall. Careful not to put any more pressure than necessary on his injury, Dirks spun onto his back and slowly climbed to his feet. As he stood, a sharp pain erupted through his chest. It felt like one or possibly more of his rips had been broken, though it was impossible to tell whether it was from the tackle or the fall.

When Dirks gathered his bearings, he observed Letho attempting to load his gun blade. This reminded him of his own gun, which had fallen to the ground next to where he landed. Dirks hastily picked it up, ignoring all pain from his chest. He passed it from his right to his left hand and found that he could still hold the Beretta and fire it with little discomfort. It was turning his wrist that was the problem. Still, it would have to suffice, given the fact that he had just been thrown to the wolves. Next, Dirks examined the condition of the gun. The barrel was relatively clean. Dirks doubted the advanced semi-automatic weapon would have the same difficulties firing as the marshal’s gun blade had just had. Satisfied, Dirks turned to Letho.

“Damn it, Ravenheart,” Dirks said, barely above a whisper. “My battle isn’t with you.” For a brief moment, Dirks forgot that the warrior was just a hollowed out puppet being used by Phagan to kill him. Dirks wiped the mud from his face and off his chest and then started sprinting. He didn't achieve his top speed, owing to the weight of the coat and his bruised ribs, but he wasn't crawling either. The criminal was no stranger to the Cell. It was ‘his’ tournament after all. Where others tried to isolate their opponents engaging almost in mini-battles, Dirks knew the trick to being successful was to always stay on the offensive. But before his true onslaught begun, he had to make a small detour straight through the mess of people surrounding Teric Barton.

As he ran, Dirks quickly recalled the number of bullets remaining in both his guns. He had four left in his 'twin' Beretta and ten in his ‘patented’ Beretta, the latter still holstered beneath his trench coat. With great difficulty, owing to the pain in his chest, Dirks managed to withdraw the ‘patented’ Beretta mid sprint. He quickly crossed his arms to keep his wrists stationary and began to fire. His shots weren’t aimed particularly well, but they were headed into the general vicinity of specific combatants. The first two shots from the ‘patented’ Beretta rang out towards Godhand, who was lazily observing the Bloodrose fray and the first two shots from the ‘twin’ Beretta headed towards Aztar Kellon. The second two shots from the ‘patented’ Beretta were pointed in Lillian’s general direction. Once those bullets were off, Dirks uncrossed his arms and aimed at Teric Barton. But before he could shoot, a sharp pain erupted from his left hand. Apparently, he turned his wrist too quickly given the strain. Cussing, Dirks pulled both the guns into his side and instead tried to focus on where he was running. At any moment he could be attacked, but he wanted to make sure he got to his destination unhindered.

(Dirks left Letho, and is running between the two groups (Godhand and Lillian in one and Teric, Sei and Atzar in the other). While running, Dirks shot two bullets at Godhand, two at Atzar, and two at Lillian. None are particularly well aimed, so I'll leave their trajectories and the like on you. In case any of you want to stop him, Dirks is running towards the remnants of Esmerelda to recover his prevalida katana).

[Godhand]

Sei was losing it, and that's if he hadn't gone over the edge already. Not only was he hallucinating old acquaintances, but he'd also managed to summon up some sort of megalo-messianic outrage at the AUDACITY of 'Leopold' to want to put some poor piecemeal man out of his misery, encouraging him instead to 'bandage him up'. To be perfectly clear, this was a man that was not only more dead than alive but also had less of his own biomass attached to his body than there was painting the walls. He was basically just a head and about half of a torso.

Teric had ignored the pebbles or needles or whatever it was that'd been thrown at him, and was now instead decided to give Orlouge a quick and justifiably brutal death. The mercenary certainly wasn't going to stop him; he hadn't actually managed to damage Godhand with his consecutive glass-blasts but it certainly wasn't for lack of trying. Sure, his sheath protected him, but the mystic didn't know that at the time.

Just as Godhand was about to check who'd hurled the ineffective projectiles at Teric, though, there was a sound like God cackling. An incessant, thunderous BOOM that made his eyes water, teeth shake and ears pop. He looked up at the source and sure enough, Letho was hacking away at the magical shield like the little dumbass that could. He doubted he'd ever get through but that was a problem considering that A) He was a stubborn imbecile and B) Godhand could actually feel his eardrums shuddering and then dying with each peal of man-made thunder. The swordsman was ready to go up there, negate the shield with his sheath and then murder Dirks just to spare himself premature deafness.

And yet, he didn't have to. He couldn't believe it, but Letho had apparently managed to break through the shield. It surprised him, to say the least; Letho was several orders of magnitude stronger than Godhand when going full tilt, but that force-field was reportedly indestructable; a coward like Dirks would accept nothing less when dead in the center of a brawl consisting of the some of the most powerful human beings on Althanas. And though he couldn't quite get the clearest of pictures from his vantage point, both the gunslinger and Letho plunging haphazardly from their tower had confirmed his suspicion that the first thing the ranger would try to do was try and gore him like a drunken rhino.

What happened next was almost instant. There was a moment of dead quiet as the crowd watched to see if the tournament organizer was dead or alive, a raucous of cheers as he pulled himself up to his feet, and then

BANG!

The son of a bitch had tried to shoot him. Personally, he hadn't ever really intended to attack Dirks during the battle. After what he did to his manor, the dew was off that rose. But then the sniveling little sniper had had the balls to take a shot at him unprovoked. Well, unprovoked THAT DAY. One of the messily placed shots missed him by a hair, while the other had managed to graze his shoulder after the mercenary dove out of the way. Even on the run after taking a twenty five foot fall, the man was still a decent shot. He'd give him that.

And then he saw him level the gun at Lillian. He could try and dive in front of her, but no way was he faster than a bullet. And so, in his desperation, he hurled his sheath at her with a good deal of oomph behind it and hoped it was heavy enough to knock her down and out of the bullets' path.

That did it. Dirks had finally given him a reason. And so, Godhand dug his heels into the muddy ground and leaped into the air, reprising the technique he'd tried to use on the commando. He hoped it would have more effect than it'd had on him even as he unholstered his revolvers and opened fire on Dirks from above.

Sorry I posted so late. Lillian needed my post to make hers so here it is.

[Atzar]

The visceral roar with which the old dog answered Atzar’s appeal meant more than any words: no deal. The veteran had gone berserk, or close to it; he’d hack at anything within reach of his sword. The mage considered himself lucky that Sei remained between that deadly edge and his own flesh.

He had to do something.

Kellon found himself torn. He wanted to protect the girl. She had healed him, had pulled him away from death’s precipice, and he owed her. But at the same time, Sei had meant well too. He’d just forgotten one tiny detail: cooked meat cared little about defending itself. Regardless, the mage moved forward, steeling himself to use magic once more. It would be like dipping water from a dry well, but he had to try.

Then something happened that settled the mage’s priorities.

A pair of wet thuds shook the ground behind him, and he turned. Ravenheart lay in the mud, joined by the killer known as Max Dirks. They both looked to their weapons. Instead of shooting the hulking man, however, Dirks hissed something inaudible to Atzar’s ears and bolted.

The wizard’s eyes went flat as the gunman approached. Here was the real enemy, the monster behind the deathtrap known as the Cell. He had to be killed. Kellon wanted to protect the young girl, to help the man who still struggled valiantly with the veteran a short distance away. And what better way to do it than to kill this assassin, who had offed more people than any other fighter?

As if he had read the mage’s mind, Dirks pointed one of the pistols in Atzar’s direction and fired. Neither of the shots found their mark; one flew wide to the right, and the other sailed over his head. He ducked in anticipation of more fire, but the gunman had already moved onto other targets. When he pointed the firearm in the girl’s direction, Atzar acted.

The wizard conjured a fist-sized ball of ice in his palm and rocketed it at the fleeing form of Max Dirks. It was easier than it should have been. Kellon had utterly drained himself prior to his death; he wouldn’t have been able to summon a snowflake. Perhaps the revival had restored some of his energy, or perhaps the girl’s magical webs had imparted him some of their power. He had yet another reason to be grateful to her, then.

No matter. Pressing his advantage, the wizard drew up another frigid missile, and then another, launching them in rapid succession at the gunman. Even with the new energy, Atzar could feel the strain that the magic put on him; each projectile drained him more than the last. Soon he would be exhausted once again, but in the meantime he’d use every bullet he had left.

[Ataraxis]

The young man had thanked her, and Lillian suddenly felt a strange surge of self-consciousness. Though her senior, the mage who’d escaped from the very brink of death was not much older than she was, and he was now standing so close to her in the torrential rains that had soaked her through and through. She drew away on instinct when he approached, bringing her arms up to subtly hide what curves were showing under the clinging cloth and looking down sheepishly to the pattering mud.

Only then did she hear the man speak his gratitude. The teenager felt a fool, and wondered why she’d been so timid when the downpour had done its bawdry work long before the barriers fell. Perhaps it was the same reason she’d not blushed when Godhand had stolen a mischievous kiss from her, the same way she never minded the wet smooches a devilish six-year-old boy had purloined from her, so long ago. Unlike this man, Lillian had never seen those by many years her juniors or her seniors in such an alien light… and she shook her head, spraying drops amidst the falling ropes as she chided herself. ‘This is not the time for you to blush and gyrate, Lily!’

Her head spun when she heard the wet splash of two titans falling. From the tower of adamantine, the gunman came crashing with the crimson warrior, but he’d picked himself up like a wet rag and scampered away to safety. It wasn’t long before he ran clear of his assailant, bringing his firearms to bear and releasing a hail of lead and smoke that exceeded that of Joshua Cronen in the previous battle. Lillian had shifted her feet across the muck, bending her knees in preparation the bound away when the deadly barrel came toward her, but a sudden impact at her side had stopped her from any further thought of safety.

The blow was powerful, almost enough to shatter her lower ribs, but the sheer force had sent her sailing instead, leaving a filigreed imprint on her stomach as she crashed into the muddy waters. The wind was knocked from her, and she had already been weakened by her efforts of saving the young mage, but at least the large and blunt projectile had cleared her from the bullets’ path. It was a moment later before she realized Godhand had pitched his sheath to save her. ‘Finesse aside… thank you, Godhand.’

Pushing herself up from the wet silt, Lillian strapped it to the weapons belt cinched around her waist – she would return it to the mercenary later. Save for the man she had healed and herself, no one else in the circular arena seemed to wield any sort of arcane magic. In her current state, however, sorcery was of no use.

‘Only strength will help me now,’ Lillian thought as sanguine rings formed around the glacial cobalt of her eyes, reminiscent of the hellish gaze of her mercenary friend. Her muscles were pulled taut, and a wave of power surged from her petite frame – much like Godhand’s strength, the power she’d long ago borrowed from him was unaffected by the neutralizing sheath at her side.

Grime flew in cakes and chunks from the arena floor as she dashed ahead, catching up with the gunslinger who’d been thrown into a cage of beasts. Producing a dagger of prevalida from her pockets that was attached to a long string of silk, and with a flick of the wrist it scythed through the air in wide circles, spinning, ever spinning. It sped up as it spun round and round, cutting through the rain like a saw until she threw out her arm and let go… and the blade made a beeline for his torso as fast as a crossbow bolt, intent on sinking its poisonous fangs into his flesh.

Lillian dart ropes Dirks using a poison dagger, with its speed and lethal damage boosted by her Gargantua's Might.

This would be the confusion referred to in the Cell discussion. I will be docked story points because of my alleged misuse of the three-hour rule.

[Breaker]

Cronen crouched in the lee of a pile which contained both rocks and human entrails. The rain couldn't cover that smell. It encouraged him to accelerate the plan, but he knew patience was his most precious weapon at the moment. And the odorous compost heap made an excellent hiding place.

Through the eyepatch, he analyzed the unfolding battle. The titans of the cell threw their energy about recklessly. Josh conserved his, refusing to allow the flow of adrenaline to numb the pain. He would feel it for now, because it belonged to a dead man. A fleeting need to fight, and the presence of Max Dirks, kept him from providing the gunmen with an open target.

In the chaos of the arena, Cronen's priorities shifted rapidly. He needed to put Dirks down, more to eliminate the possibility of another jarring revival than to neutralize his firepower. But then Godhand Striker created an opening too good to resist. Like any true fighter, he seized the opportunity by the throat.

Striker flew into the air, firing his weapons as if he were in a circus rather than a battle. Josh drew three small not-so-harmless stones from a makeshift pouch then hopped onto the compost heap for height. Flipped the eyepatch off for better depth perception as he timed the soaring shooter's landing just right. Threw an improvised impact grenade, compliments of Breaker, at the site just as the clown came in for a landing. Hoped it would kill him outright, and not just blow his legs off. Cronen had no real desire to fight the second fastest person he'd ever seen face to face.

And then he ceased all movement. Well camouflaged and crouched on the unpleasant pile, he looked like a part of it. Unless one of the other warriors had spotted the blur of his hand through sheets of rain, his concealment remained uncompromised. Like a gargoyle he gazed across the field of combat, hands behind his back, still waiting.

[Bloodrose]

Bunnying, although very minor, approved by Sei.

The orange-haired meddler proved to be both nimble and adept, ducking one blow and deftly countering the other with an effective (if unorthodox) maneuver. The man essentially smashed the hilt of his own weapon into the fist wrapped tightly around Teric's dirk, and if not for the fact that his bones were accustomed to such a pounding, the veteran very well could have lost the use of that hand.

"Oomph!" Teric grunted as his delirious and truly unconventional foe tried to ram him with a body tackle. The ginger's willingness to press the issue was commendable, and his employ of tactics most wouldn't risk in close range with Teric was a refreshing change of pace. Had he not been focused on pushing downwards on the man's back with an elbow, turning the slipping combatant's momentum away for his... jewels, Teric might have tried to learn his foe's name.

It's obvious he doesn't realize who I am. The mercenary concluded. But I don't know who he is either...

A loud crack - louder than the thunder occasionally rolling overhead - commanded the attention of the entire arena, and both Teric and his opponent found their gazes drawn towards the podium. The tournament organizer, who had before stood safely above them all, picking off competitors left and right with his firearms, had been brought down to earth by the Marshal, Letho Ravenheart. How the titan had broken through the protective shield that safeguarded the dais all this time was a mystery, but the fact that he had brought about a swift and sudden change on the battlefield.

If Teric had been worried about being the center of attention, he needn't worry any longer.

Everyone still drawing breath inside the cell had seen the mystery man on the podium dispatch at least one competitor, and while he couldn't speak for everyone, Teric knew that he resented the interference. So now, given the opportunity to return the favor, most of the combatants fell on the man like wild animals. 'You reap what you sow', the old idiom went, and with Letho, Godhand, the girl, and the newly revitalized mage on his case, the gunman was likely to be reaping real soon.

With the attention of his competitors shifted to a new target, at least temporarily, Teric made to finish the orange-haired stranger that had robbed him of his mercy killing. As quickly as he could muster with his wounded leg, the Grandmaster slipped to his foe's side as the man turned his attention back to their scuffle, and the veteran was rewarded. Despite his delirium, the ginger quickly registered that his opponent was gone, and darted his head around wildly to find him.

Gotcha! Teric thought, raising his sword high. He brought the weapon down like an executioner's axe, hoping to catch the man in the neck and put an end to him quickly. Who knew how long the others would be dealing with the gunman, so there was little time for games.

[Silence Sei]

Sei bit his lower lip as he thought of where the wounded old man could have gone to. Leopold had always used that cane for walking, but he seemed to be carrying a rather nasty limp along with his regular walk. The mute shifted his head back and forth to try and see where the older warrior had vanished. Looking down at the blade of his sword, Sei caught the vague image of a figure raising a sword behind him. Sei allowed the man to keep up his thoughts of victory over the telepath by not making any indication that he was aware of Teric's presence.

As the sword came down, Sei's was thrown upwards. His sword once again intercepted his foes. This time, the blade forced itself down further than when Sei had made his frontal block. He could feel his arm slightly twisting as his own blade glazed over the hairs on his neck. His foe was using both hands to wield his weapon, and if Sei had been handicapped to his right arm, his head would have splashed onto the mud below.

Sei tucked his head under his arm as if he were being spun by his partner in a dance. "Very underhanded, Leopold." Sei spoke as his feet began to give way in the slush below them. "You should know such an attack would not take Sei Orlouge off guard!" As Sei focused on his opponent, he began to notice that he was crossing blades with just that. A sword, not a sword-cane. It seemed as though the more he was focusing on his foe, the less effective his minds trickery was becoming.

Sei noted the whiter skin, the streaks of silver peeking out of Leopold's derby, even the change in eye color. The majority of the form still belonged to Leopold Stevens, but Teri Bloodrose was starting to break out of the self-induced image. Sei was unsure who he was actually fighting at this point, but he noted that the swings of the weapons were still like those of the mute's friend. Sei's legs found themselves springing the mute back to get some distance between him and this new warrior.

His eyes shifted back to Dirks to find that the entire arena was going after the gunman, save for Sei and his opponent. For a moment, the telepath thought that the man he was fighting was a true illusion, but retracted the thought when he recalled the force of his sword meeting with the mystics. No illusion could make the mute stumble like that. This was a real fight. And Sei was enjoying it.

Twirling his sword around in a circular fashion, Sei dashed towards his opponent once more. As he ran, the mystic plated his right foot into the ground. This caused Sei to form into a slide towards Teric Bloodrose. The mud on the mute's heels caused the warrior to move a bit faster than he normally would have. Splashing speckles of brown in his wake, Sei pulled his sword to his side. As he closed in on his Foe, Sei attempted another upward strike, this time seeking to strike the forearm of his enemy's preferred hand. Sei had hoped that the blow would cause the older man to drop his weapon. Sei didn't like the idea of this fight costing him and his opponent an arm and a leg. Two arms and a leg, however...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Anita Orlouge sat in horror as she watched the events unfold. Her father had gone crazy, her friend was chastising the hero, and a man her father respected took out the only non Orlouge she loved with all of her heart. The fight was starting to become too much for the girl. As she had watched Max Dirks' epic fall, she began to weep for the gunman. Her father barely survived the drop, what chance did Max Dirks have? Anita closed her eyes as she awaited the rising Letho Ravenheart to finish Dirks off.

The crowd's uproar caused Anita to open her eyes. A smile crept across her frame as she was watching Max Dirks run from his foe. It was a good choice, but it caused her Godfather to jump out of the frying pan and into the fire. Godhand Striker was raining bullets as if he were a Salvar Rifle Association President, Lillian was trying to sink the tooth of her blade into the gunman, and some nobody...was he really throwing what seemed like snowballs? Anita's hand slapped her forehead as she darted between Sei and Max.

Her father was busy with that Pagoda guy. Anita never paid much attention to what went on in Scara Brae, but she was sure if he was important she would have heard of him. Furthermore, Sei only had one opponent he was handling his own against (Anita didn't question how her almost dead father got better). Dirks on the other hand had the rest of the fight squared solely on him, and he was bringing a knife to a death camp shower.

Anita decided that, at the very least, she would help her Godfather out. There wasn't much she could do physically, but she could cause severe mental damage to at least three of the competitors. Closing her eyes, Anita prayed that her father's lines were still open to the three combatants in question. Perhaps an apt distraction would be all Dirks needed to gain his bearings and slaughter everyone.

"Lillian, don’t! The wizard is casting something in your direction! You hit Dirks and his pal kills you!"

"Mister Striker! Behind you! The ice mage is trying to kill the both of you with that ice attack!"

"General Ravenheart, stop! Those... things that are on the ground. They're armed with some sort of enchantment, I can sense it. You go after Dirks and there’s a chance the resulting magical backlash will kill everyone in the area!"

Anita opened her eyes once more. She had hopefully sewn seeds of distrust. Hopefully her father would forgive her for being so deceitful. Though what she had to be truly forgiven for, she didn't know. Wasn't it okay to be the death of someone if you were saving those you love?

Sei goes after Teric with a sword thrusting towards his forearm while sliding in the mud. Anita tries to contact the three 'allies' of Sei in an attempt to make them stop their attacks on Max.