The Final Cage

[Ther]

(Roster: Molotov, Christina Bredith, Arsenic Ruin, Izvilvin, Rheawien, Witchblade, Walter, Dissinger, Abenaki, Komosatuo, hushpuppy, Storm Veritas, INDK, Ter-Thok)

No long introductory post this time. Just a FYI with the final cell: it is 30 feet wide, 70 feet long, and 30 feet high, and it rests on a dirt floor.

Also, do NOT post in this thread until 12 A.M. E.S.T. All posts from before that time will not be considered in the final score.

[Dissinger]

“Seth, you awake?” Liliana asked softly.

Seth groaned as he sat up on the cot. Bloodied towels were conspicuously placed about the room and seemed to match the hole that was on his chest. As he groaned she fingered the flesh and the edge of the hole, where the steel shards had punctured flesh. He sighed as he said softly, “Like a slate of cheese. Put on a stick and eat…”

“At least you still have a sense of humor,” Liliana said as she kissed him.

“There are some that might question that actually,” Seth said dryly as he kissed her back hugging her.

She sighed as she said, “They put you in the final cage. Guess your show really attracted people. I’m just worried that you’ll be hurt again.”

“Pain is temporary-“

“That doesn’t mean you have to seek it in some twisted sense of penance Seth,” Liliana cut him off. She looked him in the eyes as she sighed and cupped his cheek, “I know this is who you are, a man who tries to hide that he isn’t human. I know a little about it now, Darith shed some light, your father was one too wasn’t he?”

“I don’t know, Darith didn’t like to talk about my father,” Seth replied as he lay back, “And he certainly didn’t like talking about his past, neither did my mother come to think about it. Both of them seemed more keen on living today rather than reflecting on yesterday-“

“Which seems to run in the family,” Liliana said as she pressed a finger against his lips. He seemed ready to say something and she knew the argument before she whispered, “For now just rest, they’re brining in the contestants in a couple of hours and I don’t want you fatigued from dying the last time.”

Seth sighed and closed his eyes as he grumbled, “Then don’t disrupt my sleep.”

~*~

Now his fingers looped through the links as he gave them a hard tug to test their might. He knew that it would be soon that the contestants would fight, it seemed the last few were entering, and he saw the crowd gathered, ready for blood. Sighing as he closed his eyes he whispered softly, “Gods help me if I see that damn elephant one more time.”

[Witchblade]

So she’d made it to the next round.

Even though she’d died, she’d impressed enough people to make it to the end. Oh, wasn’t she just ecstatic knowing the humans had enjoyed her fight and her death. Didn’t it just bring joy into her heart knowing they’d like watching her struggle and eventual defeat. Yes, she was in complete bliss and paradise right now, floating on a f*cking burning cloud that was going to smash into a stadium full of people! Yes, f*cking paradise. If only she could hear the real screams of all those humans fleeing in terror and being burnt alive, then she’d be in paradise.

A choir of singing monks praising the Thayne and love to all the world would just complete her life right now, until of course she slowly killed each and every one of them.

She was in a mood for carnage, she wasn’t pissed at the last round and her defeat therein, she’d lasted long enough. Witch just wanted blood, plain and simple. She wanted it in rivers, she wanted it on her weapons, she wanted it on her skin and she wanted it soaked into her very clothes. She just wanted to watch people bleed and enjoy it like every human piling into the stadium was going to enjoy it.

Taking in a deep breath, Witch looked around at the cage meant to house fourteen warriors, fighters, gladiators or people who just liked punishment. Really she didn’t know what to call the people who participated in this maddened event, including herself. Downright crazy, psychopathic killers, yeah, that sounded pretty good to her.

This cage was slightly bigger than the rest, of course there were more people in it and if she’d thought the last one had been hectic she knew she was in over her head in this one. Of course, having the advantage of more people around her gave her the use of human shields and speaking of that, the human she’d used as one in the previous cell had advanced too. So had the elf-bitch who’d killed her and Izvilvin. The human who’d poisoned her hadn’t, which she was slightly disappointed over. She’d wanted to settle things with him.

Leaning against the cool mesh of the steel cage, Witch watched the people in the stands. No fighting had begun so the humans were milling about and talking to one another, still they sounded like a constant buzz in her ears. If this was the last time she’d ever been in ‘civilization’ this was a last time too many. She wanted away from the crowds and she wanted out of this damn cell already. She hated feeling like an animal in a cage.

All the fighters were in the cage and the door was locked behind them, the turning of the key in the tumbler a resounding sound in her ears. Nothing that couldn’t be broken through, steel was weak; she could probably tear through it with blind strength alone or use her magic like she had last time. She was just not into being locked up this round.

“Friends, I bid you welcome once again!”

Witch sighed as she heard the familiar voice of Mendan Kinnity booming over the buzzing crowd, who quickly silenced themselves. His last speech had been never ending and Witch was not in a mood to listen to that babble anymore.

“As those of you returning to the final round of The Cell know, my name is Mendan Kinnity and I am the director of the Swift Hart Theatre! Unlike my previous speech this will not be as long or as poetic, I am here to thank you for coming and to thank those who participated and lost in the previous round of The Cell. Each warrior died bravely…”

Witch tuned him out right there, “Each warrior died bravely, my ass.” She didn’t know what matches he’d been watching but quite a few of the people in her cell had been backstabbed, literally and she hadn’t exactly died very ‘bravely’ either. She’d been poisoned and then stabbed through the heart by a crazed elf that was jealous over the fact that she knew Izvilvin. Clearly they had marital problems she did not want to get into the middle of.

“…And with that let the final round of The Cell begin!”

Ohhh, the lambs to the slaughter were off! Only she wasn’t stupid enough to step into the middle of the cage and say to every person in here ‘hit me!’ Instead, she was going to calmly keep her ass planted against the mesh on this side of things and wait for the right time, or until someone was stupid enough to attack her first. Either way, she was going to get her blood bath and as long as she wasn’t the one bleeding she was fine with it.

[Lavinian Pride]

They say revenge is a dish best served cold.

All it took was a bit of flesh, a tantalizing scent, and a couple of hurried kisses. It was amazing how quickly guards liked to forget that they had a job to do, especially when they wanted to get something else. The target had been a boy barely past his mid teens, and the prospect of the Lavinian showing him a good time had gotten him to give her easy access. As soon as they were alone in the room the thorn was pulled and before the boy even knew what hit him, had neatly slit his throat. Idly she wiped it on the boy’s shirt as she said softly, “It’s a pity, you probably were my type…”

Moving quickly she closed the door and began to change clothing. She slid easily into the meager chain mail shirt the helmet being carefully placed atop her head. The pants were a bit too loose on her, which didn’t bother her in the least. Using her hair to fill in the gaps in the helmet it held in place precariously. Using a bit of rope she tied the pants tightly, and cinched the rope. However, she needed one last thing, her dagger belt.

Carefully slinging it over her hips she sighed as she looked at herself in the mirror. Grimacing she said softly, “Definitely not going to work.” She then looked at the boy and saw a belt of many pouches. Nodding she carefully took the belt before she carefully slid the daggers inside the pouches, trying to keep her thorns accessible. As she completed her set task she moved through the arena her gate even and steady as she carried the fallen guard’s spear.

Finally reaching the arena, she moved swiftly taking the position amongst the guards patrolling the area surrounding the cage. She could see him, the bastard was just standing there, testing the cage, and it would be so easy. A thrust of the spear right to the chest, which she could see exposed through the hole from its last penetration, and the job would be done, over with, nothing more. However, she knew she had to wait.

Following the guard patterns she watched carefully, she wanted Seth to be broken down, to be fatigued, to be on the ropes before she would take him out of the tournament. It was unfair that she be forgotten over the spectacular Dahlios death. She had been robbed by pain, pain that wasn’t even hers to begin with. She had also been robbed of three hundred gold, something she did not take kindly to. Seth had cost her pride and money.

Revenge is a dish best served cold, and she was about to dish it out to the Demon.

[Ter-Thok]

There are some things the ears of man are not meant to process. There are sounds that can bring about a screaming madness with just a moment's exposure. And then, there are those sounds whose true relevance does not become apparent until much, much later in the viewer's life; sounds that seem to mean nothing at face value. But many years later, the viewer will be sitting in a rocking chair, perhaps surrounded by loving grandchildren, and feel a chill run down their spine as they remember.

It was such a series of sounds that was emanating from the tunnels far beneath the seats of the arena, in a little room where urgent business with one's downstairs partners was attended to. A series of hollow, porcelain bangs echoed slightly through the door, ignored by the throng outside, followed by a rather high-pitched voice. It said, "Stop-" bang, "Twitching-" bang, "You-" bang, "Son of-" bang, "A-" bang, "Prostitute!"

Something dropped to the tiled floor behind the wooden door, into which was carved the crude likeness of a male human. It was followed by a scraping, as skin on stone. "Oh, for crying out loud..." the voice said again, followed by a wrenching, metallic sound. The unmistakable clicking of hooves followed for a few moments, then several dull thunks. "Geez, finally," the voice breathed, with a sense of finality.

The men's washroom door swung open, and the demon Ter-Thok, standing less than three feet high, stepped out triumphantly, holding a brass sink faucet covered in blood. He tossed the stained metal cylinder backwards, hearing a slight groan as it bounced off the head of the poor man who had been fool enough to drop his guard (and trousers) while the demon was around. The man was now relieved of his coin purse, several important documents he had, oddly, kept in his pants, and most importantly, his monocle. Ter-Thok clenched the disc of glass proudly in his left eye, and decided to take advantage of his newly acquired funds to make a quick run to the concession stand before the fight started.

Unlike most of the other combatants, Ter-Thok had managed to squeeze out of the last round unscathed. Quite the opposite; he had even made a profit on those collectible trading cards. However, it had been somewhat unfulfilling. The demon hadn't gotten to stab anyone, or electrocute anyone, or anything. His attacks had been limited to failed swipes, falling bars, and running away when the amphitheater caught fire. This was part of his motivation for cornering a rich man in a bathroom and mugging him; the other part was an acute desire for food purchased with someone else's money.

With a massive turkey drumstick clenched in one hand, Ter-Thok made his way out to the arena, occasionally removing a massive chunk with his razor-sharp teeth. Eventually, the crowd thinned, and the click of hooves on stone became the crunch of hooves on dirt. The demon grinned, excavated a piece of meat from his teeth with his tongue, and stepped through the doors of the cage. Looking around, one eye's view distorted by the one-size-too-large monocle, Ter-Thok extricated his ElectroProd from behind his back, flipping around the settings.

He strolled towards the center of the rectangular dirt floor, and spun around, involuntarily scowling as one eye held the monocle in place. He floated up into the air, telekinetically tugging a thin platform of dirt up with him. "Well?" he inquired, somewhat condescendingly, "What are you rejects waiting for? Let's start the murdering...thing."

[Abenaki]

I should be dead... Jada was thinking, the fingers on his left hand picking absently at the swathe of bandages wrapped around his abdomen. He was only partially aware of the cage and the assembled combatants around him, his mind struggling to unravel his mysterious second...no, third chance at life. In the back of his mind he was replaying the end of his battle with Xanith, the first man he had ever truly fought. Xanith had killed himself in the Citadel, but when the arena had dissolved around them Xanith had been unhurt...

Yet, this arena is no illusion, the warrior was thinking, and my wounds are real. So how is it that I still live?

"The Great Spirit smiles upon you." Confidence replied silently. Of all the voices and emotions roiling around in Jada's head, Confidence had temporarily taken command. "You have proven yourself a great warrior! Confidence continued, swelling Jada's chest with pride. "You have proven yourself worthy to fight amongst this gathering of the World's greatest champions!"

The voice named Doubt, who often sat in the back of Jada's thoughts, would have normally rebutted the claims of his self-assured twin at this point. Doubt might have noted the ease with which Jada had been dispatched in the last round, and pondered the competence of whatever judge had decided to send the under-armed, under-armored, and under-experienced warrior on to the finals. Doubt would have normally pleaded the case of self-preservation, and would have fought tooth and nail to sway Jada way from his current course of action...

Yet, Doubt remained silent. Locked away with Jada's questions behind the wall Confidence had built, Doubt sat with his chin in his hands, waiting for victory or another death, whichever came first...

"The Great Spirit smiles upon me." Jada whispered under his breath, repeating Confidence's words as his better-equipped opponents began to stir around him. The door was locked, the introductions made, and the storm that was his foes was brewing all around him. Jada gripped his only weapon tightly in his right hand and backed close to the wall as he waited for the first crack of lightning to break the strange calm that had fallen over the arena…

[Molotov]

Molotov wasn’t sure what to make of this new cage. Unlike many of the others who had made it this far, the mutant didn’t have all that much of a recovery to make. Save for the slight cut on his face, the mutant’s arrogance had hardly been tested in Cage number one. He had bested all his opponents quite easily, and to see that two of the cage’s lesser fighters had advanced with him struck him as particularly jarring. Zieg dil’Tulfried and Dan Wilmhearst had both failed to advance, while a blonde dilettante and foolhardy hero had taken their place. Most importantly for the mutant, there had been no room in this final cage for his ally Damion Shargath.

“How could these sods be so bloody blind,” the mutant thought irritably. “They pick a ponce who can barely fight without pissing his pants and a little bird who likes to scream at her sword. Bloody makes me wonder if there is something wrong with me.”

Veiled in this irritability was a fear for Molotov. The two people who had advanced along with him had both been his enemies. They had allied against him earlier in the cage, and now Molotov was going to be stuck fighting them alone if he wasn’t careful. Without Damion Shargath, Molotov knew he was going to need to find someone else in the cage to befriend. And now that he looked around, he didn’t find all that much that really attracted his attention.

“Lot of pretty birds in here…” Molotov thought. He hated that. While eye candy was certainly appealing to the spectators, it limited the mutant’s options. Molotov had realized in the earlier cage one of the quickest ways to attract someone else’s ire was to step in and attack a girl. There were too many would be heroes in the cell that were looking for a quick lay just as much as they were looking for the crowd’s approval. Somebody would invariably come to a woman’s rescue.

“Better to side with a bird then,” Molotov muttered cynically. He tossed his cigarette from his mouth to the ground and then spit on the ground. “If I can’t bloody beat them, then I’ll join them.” The mutant also wondered if an alliance with a woman wouldn’t help him keep the young knight away. A kid looking to sow wild oats wouldn’t want to annoy his little blonde.

Eventually, Molotov would kill them both. But for now, he needed to make sure that he engaged them on even terms. He hung back at the walls of the cage strategically, surveying the people around him. A rough man testing the strength of the cage had particularly caught the mutant’s attention.

“So someone has a bloody elephant…” he mused. “Maybe this really will be interesting.”

[Izvilvin]

Death was unlike anything Izvilvin had ever experienced, and yet it was not. It was simplistic and complicated at once, truly difficult to describe in words.

In a sense, it was simple blackness and a lack of awareness. When he had fallen by Rheawien's blade in the cell, Izvilvin's thoughts had ended and the dark took him. He was only dead for an hour before revival, but in that brief time he had found that is was possible to think, reflect, and remember. After that, being dead was not very different from being in the mines of Kachuk, where he had spent a hundred years hidden away from the drow of Alerar.

Experienced or not, Izvilvin did not want to face death again, regardless of whether or not he'd be revived by some strange magic. It was something that frightened him.

Through some means, he had found himself once again within one of these large metal cages. It seemed that some of the tournament higher-ups had decided his little feud with Rheawien was something the crowd really enjoyed, and sticking him in the final would appease the people. Izvilvin wasn't sure how he felt about it. The first cell was interesting and challenging in its own right, but at the same time it was traumatic and painful. If he'd had time to think about it, the Drow might not have wanted to enter again.

This cell was larger, and there were six more combatants than there were in the previous melee. The prospect should have made Izvilvin more tentative than before, but the first cell had been a learning experience for him. His eyes were a little less anxious, his hands a little more relaxed and his posture a little more composed. He had grown, and not in some insignificant way.

Rheawien, he had noticed a moment before, was once again stuck in this horrible mesh cage with him. But unlike earlier, his eyes did not dwell on her for more than a fleeting moment. Izvilvin would still not fight her, but he would never again run to her side to aid her. She had severed something that had been strong, and it was all in the interest of this idiotic game they were playing. She was a fool, and yet Izvilvin could not find it in himself to hate her.

A pair of sai were then in his hands, plucked fluidly from his belt with some simple movements. The weapons were restored just as he'd been, so there were thankfully no more bent prongs from the impact against the skeleton Krugor's skull. Izvilvin couldn't possibly pick a single target yet, but he'd decided Witchblade just might be his only ally here. Needless to say, keeping her alive was in his best interests.

The crowd erupted in a roar. The Cell's final was beginning, and it promised to be the bloodbath the audience was craving. More fighters meant more blood, more death, and more screams of rage. It was to be a great day for the city, and for those who wagered their money upon Izvilvin Di'Lolth.

[Komosatuo]

I shouldn't be here.

He was out of place. A fly trying to mingle with killer bees. He felt alone, a target, cannon fodder for the greater guns of the cage. Dirt where there should be water.

He shivered and closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts and calming himself. He couldn't, for the life of him, remember what had happened in the first cage. He recalled entering the cold mesh of death but that was as far as he got. He supposed that perhaps it was for the best for he could have died in there. Remembering your death was perhaps the worst punishment a man could experience and he felt a little special that his own had been forgotten.

He shook visibly and inhaled sharply as he tried to gain a hold of his frayed nerves. It was a futile effort, his body continued to shake and his breath began to flow shakily in and out of his lungs. He could feel his lips quivering as the air moved across their pink surface and he hastily clamped his mouth shut. As if the shaking was bad enough, here he was getting quiver lipped over a cage fight.

You have to get a hold of yourself Komosatuo. This is not the place or the time to turn into a quivering ball of flesh.

He inhaled sharply through his nose, the stinging air racing through his nostrils painful bliss as he centered his thoughts, discarded his fears and focused on his task. If he had died in the last cell then he must strive to survive in this one and if not, then perhaps remember. For in order to learn in life, you must learn from your mistakes but in order to learn from your mistakes, you had to remember them. Perhaps, in remembering his death this time he could learn how not to die and thus correct a mistake.

His eyes opened and the interior of the cage filled his vision. Thirteen individual warriors occupied the cage; none of them he recognized. A memory tickled the back of his mind when his eyes came to rest on a young man but he pushed the thought away. He couldn't be distracted by distant memories here, he needed his mind clear. He needed it to be calm.

His fingers twitched as he swept his gaze around the cage. He thought it looked bigger than the last, must have been because there were fourteen people all told inside. Then again, he couldn't remember specific details of the last cage so he couldn't say. They both could have been the same size, or one could have been smaller, he didn't know.

He didn't know. . .

Someone was talking, yelling really to get over the constant hum of the crowd, and from what little Komosatuo heard it was to say that the second and final cell fight was about to begin. This was it then. The time had come.

He took another deep breath, flexed his hands and closed his eyes for a moment. Calm came over him like water overflowing a pond, washing over all that was around it, cleansing the taint of life and earth and in its place leaving, nothing. Calm grew from this nothing and enveloped him, restoring his frayed nerves, stilling his quivering lips, stopping his twitching fingers.

He opened his eyes and sighed deeply. He shifted his weight and let his back rest against the mesh of the steel cage. A smile grew on his lips and he crossed his arms.

He had decided, the ultimately, sit this one out for a while.

[hushpuppy]

The dozen combatants, flecks of black like seeds splayed from a burst fruit, were inconsequential from this high above. Looking down from the sky, everything melded together, lines blurring and colors shading into each other until the entire world and its selfish societies were nothing but spots on a tabletop. Time was meaningless from such height, and a man's journey from birth to death stretched out to a breath's length of eternity that mocked human pretention. This was not from a lack of perspective, but rather a final grasp of totality. If a pair of eyes looking down from the clouds felt this way, imagine how God's view must translate.

A single seagull floated in the sky above, quivering in the wind, silent but for the whistling of feathers in the wind, wings straining against the world tearing at it in every direction. With beady black marbles for eyes, it looked down at the tiny spots below, hovering and waiting. An ampitheatre surrounded the cage below. How crowded, and yet how alone the combatants in the Cell must have felt down there, standing in the dirt, eyes at their backs and fronts, daggers at each other's throats. Lazily flapping twice, the gull rose slightly and began circling, streams of air tossing it slightly, pushing it up even as the ground below beckoned with its own grasping energy. It wheeled wide and slow, gaining momentum as it let the earth pull it down, moving in tightly, wings tugged violently by the force of its descent.

As the bird came closer to the cage, it spread its wings, flapping violently, if spasmodically, and slowed to a stop. The wing was slowed to a breathy whisper here, and the gull could barely keep its body hanging in place. Dropping heavily, it grasped at the cage below, and barely managed to hang onto the metal bars, nearly slipping down and falling to the unforgiving ground below. Unsteadily, it clutched the steel mesh and righted its body, feathers knocked asunder, breathing heavily, but perched fixedly.

One could barely notice the furry lump astride its back, burrowed in the feathers between its wings.