The Final Cage

[Molotov]

Molotov was certainly surprised by the way that so many people in the cage seemed so nervous to jump onto the offensive. “To think of all the half cocked ponces who run this planet searching for adventure, and none of them could bloody be here…” the mutant thought sarcastically. He tried not to let it bother him. The fact was, Molotov was afraid of seeming like the Cage’s biggest threat by going out on the offensive earlier. Casually, the mutant turned back towards the rugged man who had mentioned something about elephants earlier, and noticed that this man seemed considerably more interested in talking with one of the spectators than actually getting involved in the fight.

“Seems like a clever enough person,” Molotov thought. Of course, first impressions weren’t always the best, but from what he’d seen, the mutant got the impression that this stranger was particularly hard for a number of reasons. Not only was the man particularly rugged, but also considerably older than most of Althanas’ adventuring generation. This meant a great deal to the mutant, because age was a luxury very few fighters could afford.

This was a problem for Molotov. The mutant knew that they had both managed to attract each other’s attention. That meant one of two things. They would either ally or destroy each other. Molotov knew that he couldn’t afford to take on this man as an ally. Even among fifteen plus fighters it would be unlikely that an alliance would go unnoticed. Molotov had learned that lesson in the last round.

He thought back to the mention of the elephant. So far, there was no sign of an elephant anywhere in the cage. A quick scan of the stands revealed no sign of a large pachyderm either. Molotov grinned. He could suddenly envision an effective but hollow promise. With that, the mutant took out his packet of cigarettes and offered it towards the older man.

“Sorry to interrupt you talking with your bird…” Molotov said. “But I wanted to offer my services. I’ve got no real enemies here, and don’t want to make some… I heard you talking about an elephant earlier. If he comes, I’ll take him out, just for a bit of security… how’s that sound?”

(Talking to Dissinger)

[Abenaki]

It seemed like everyone started moving at once, a dozen or more bodies lurching into motion with weapons bared and blood in mind. Jada licked his lips nervously as his eyes darted around the arena, trying to follow every hint of movement in a cage that had very suddenly fallen into chaos. His mouth had gone dry, his heart was racing, and his breathing was quick. The blade of his weapon quivered by his side as his anxious grip turned his knuckles white around the hilt. Trying to keep track of his opponents in the last round had been challenge enough for the young warrior, and now he found himself attempting to monitor the intentions of more dangerous fighters in greater numbers...

However, it became apparent rather quickly that none of his opponents had Jada on their minds in the opening seconds of the battle royal. Most of the movement flowed away from the warrior and his side of the cage, a majority of the commotion all gathering in the same general area where four or five warriors were on a collision course with one another. Jada found himself relatively alone, safe for the moment. He could have, ideally, stood there and waited for most of the tumult to pass before diving into the fray...

...But, he didn't...

Waiting for an attack that hadn't come sent the adrenaline coursing through the young warrior, pushing his heartbeat to the limit and tensing every muscle in his body like an enormous spring. That energy had to be released somehow, and Jada unleashed it in the form of a frenzied battle cry as he charged across the arena in the direction of another man seemingly left out of the greater battle. A man with the oddest hair color Jada had ever seen…

Kicking a cloud of dirt towards the man’s face, Jada swung his sword in a vicious arc from right to left at chest level…

(Attacking Arsenic Ruin)

[Walter]

Jon had become too focused. When he started running across the dirt, his peripheral vision practically vanished and he only saw what was directly ahead of him. Through that tiny window of perspective, Jon only saw Izvilvin throwing his sai and reaching his opponent. The black elf had been within spitting distance, Jon's legs pushed for the last bit of distance when something rammed into his side. Hard. Completely unprepared, the vagrant kept moving as his trek was sharply diverted into the side of the cage, which he rammed into with a loud jangling crash.

With a surprised squawk, Jon bounced off of the mesh, throwing his arms behind him and wobbling as he tried to maintain his footing on the dirt. His arms had red criss-cross lines, as he'd thrown them up in the last moment of realization, trying to protect his face. The man was unhurt, but definitely jarred - his eyes lost focus as he spun around, staring at the blurry blob that had run into him. It took him a second to recognize who it was as his vision cleared; the broad with the stitch-lips.

Jon groaned as he stepped away from the cage wall, ignoring the fight between Storm and Izvilvin right next to him. That bitch had been the greatest pain in the ass during the first cage; stabbing him in the back and then using him as a shield against a goddamn flurry of ice needles. Running into the cage wall had knocked some sense into Jon all right; he didn't immediately rush to take a piece out of her. Jon realized he couldn't fight Witchblade in a fair duel and hope to win. He needed something completely unexpected.

Check this, bitch! Jon spun around, yanking at his muddy, travel-worn trousers until his ass was in plain view. The flesh was almost white as pearl, but there was a deep brown keyhole-shaped birthmark on his left flank. Jon held the flash just long enough for her to get a good look. Then he pulled his pants up, whirled around and leapt toward Witchblade with his knife in hand, aiming to stab right through her breast.

(Flashing and then stabbing Witchblade)

[Arsenic Ruin]

You lost me at ALALALALALALALALA!

I was lost in thought, well not really just sizing up the competition; I saw Molotov and made a mental note to pay him a visit later. The heat was picking up due to the rustling of all those bodies. Mixed with the sun beating down on them, and the sand would be more than enough to create that oven affect. But then my calm reverie was ruined by the atrocious bellowing of an oncoming combatant. My hand dropped to my sword as I looked towards him grinning. Eyes scanning his body, making note of his rate of approach along with his outcry was more than enough to make me laugh slightly.

*“Sila ol."

I muttered under my breath shaking my head. Soon though dropping my weight off to the right I side-stepped the warrior, his foot kicked up dust which I quickly shifted left again I squint my eyes just in case. My sword swinging around to situate against the small of my back hanging at an angle, watching the side rise I instinctively grasped the hilt with my right gloved hand. Pulling the weapon upward to block the coming sword, the weapons clashed making an X, but with the stopping force of my weapon I had a chance to change the momentum. Pressing subtly forward to distract my opponent from my leg which I slipped behind his own, and with a feign back to draw the fool in I applied pressure.

The timing of which was likely to go through, so in a secondary precaution I grasped the hilt of my weapon with my left hand. My hands drawing the sword up the length of my opponent’s sword, nestling the blade against the opposing weapons hand guard and blade. Twisting it down like a cork hoping to flip the bottom half of my opponent’s weapon outward, and make a slash of my own to the hasty warrior’s right shoulder.

Now I knew what I looked like approaching Molotov with such a fool hardy attack, maybe this insight has come from experience in the previous round. More over maybe I was growing stronger. Lips curled as I powered my way inside with the slash; if it connected it would open more than a flesh would the weapon aimed for a slit in the armor which exposed the shoulder. Confidence flowed through out my every move, my sword dare not waver for it had no reason to.

*“Satiir l' tril d' ussta killian.”

I spoke matter of factly it seemed, my lips evening out to a frown as I realized I had slipped into speaking Drowish instead of common. Dah would be proud to hear me speaking that language, I assume he fells like he failed to teach it to me.

-------------------
Translations:
*Bring it.

*Taste the bite of my blade

[Storm Veritas]

((OK, Izzy attacked me, Walter attacked Izzy, and Witchblade attacked Walter. I will have Izzy miss, and have asked his permission to bunny him dodging Walter’s attack. Best I can do to avoid powergaming here. Don’t like it, too fuggin’ bad. :P))

It all started quite quickly, the chain of events spiraling wildly upon each other as the battle began and grew so rapidly. He saw the first one coming, a slight young newcomer with dual weapons. They looked like overzealous forks to Storm, who had never seen such impractical looking things in his life. Steadying his feet, he was more than ready for the assault.

Apparently this motherf*cker doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. Bring it, bitch!

The attack came with a straightforward nature, fast enough and not necessarily daring. A fork was thrown at him, one of the moves he used to employ back when he was green and foolish. He smirked at it, the dagger in his left hand effortlessly flicking the projectile steel to the sand beside him. The boy was dead in the water now.

No, son. Hell no! NEVER throw the blade, never! Who taught you that shit!?

The boy lunged forward, an overzealous slash assault if ever Storm had seen one. Rookies always went for the kill. The boy was light, nearly 40 pounds his lesser, and odds were that Veritas would stop him, stuff the attack, and chew through him with a barrage of feather light slashes. The daggers were freshly sharpened and ready to eat; this was their opportunity to dine in flesh.

Of course, logic and probability were foreign to Althanas, and the importance of the Cell to Veritas’ illustrious but relatively fledgling career and what should have happened leant no guidance to destiny. He stepped back to absorb the shot when his foot caught on a hard pack of sand. Of course it caught; luck could defecate on him in no other fashion. He was shooting backward with the boy over him, one hand on the wrist of the youth whose fiery eyes belied whatever fear he may have gathered. Perhaps it was the taste of success that inspired him, but the wiry mage sensed no fear of the Serenti champion upon the face of the youth. Besides, Storm was falling back, and things looked dire.

In a flash of his periphery, another assailant. This time, an unnamed man, some peasant looking thug came hurtling from the corner of his eye, a man in tatters soaring past the boy. Storm fell back in the midst of the struggle, a quick fleeting thought through his head as he considered what could have been salvation.

Well, shit.

The boy fell to the ground on top of him, but the lack of balance gave Veritas a small window. A twist of the hip, and the two were thrown on the ground. The boy was tossed aside only slightly, Storm falling to the ground, rolling hard away from the lad. Perhaps the man in rags would help, perhaps not. Another flash, and there was a woman on the so-called helper, and yet Storm had no time to repay what he assumed was a favor.

He was scratched up and scraped in the brief tussle, but escaped relatively quickly. He looked quick for the boy’s other weapon, not able to locate it around the sand floor. Shit. Advantage may have been gone, but he was Storm Veritas. The lack of respect from the youth would do little to tarnish such slow-tempered arrogance.

’Cuz I’m the whole f*cking show, baby!

The daggers were in his hands, his wrists spinning them independently of his brain as his steely gray eyes bored a hole in the boy. There was nothing elegant about his counter. Driving hard off his left foot, he leapt simply, his left hand extended straight forward in a simple stab. Behind it, his hip was already turning, the second blade in the strong hand ready to whip overhead and close the deal. When the second dagger hit, he thought, it would be time to repay that favor, and move on to eliminating some of the more well-traveled enemies.

((Slight bunnies here and counterattack to Izvivlin. Again, apologies for some liberties that I had to take to respond. Feel free to bunny my character as needed, non-fatally of course. If there’s a big problem, PM me and I’ll see what I can do.))

[Witchblade]

It was insulting, disgusting and downright rude all at the same time. Never in all her years of battling against any sort of creature had one of them the audacity to…to moon her! The Half-ling couldn’t believe her eyes, not only was the human not taking this battle as serious as he should be but he was mooning her. Had he lost his mind, did he think it was funny, was this somehow going to distract her from wanting to kill him? Hell no, it just made her want to kill him slower, it made her want to strip the flesh from his body piece by piece then wrap her fingers around his throat and choke the life out of him, all the while watching the light fade from his eyes.

Disgusting, filthy human creature.

No wonder she could barely stand the species.

At least she had thwarted his attack on Izvilvin, who was now in a mess on the ground with the other human, one who seemed much stronger than the one she was engaged with. How she wished she could be attacking him instead, he would at least put up a good fight, this one had proved in the last round that he couldn’t hold his own very well. Still, the half-ling had to be careful not to underestimate, anything could happen in a battle, especially when one suddenly got cocky about their position and thought themselves better than the others.

Growling, Witch was about to grab one of her throwing knives and aim it directly for the exposed flesh of the human when he pulled his trousers up and wheeled on her, his dagger flashing in the light of the sun. Reacting on instinct rather than thought, Witch brought up her arm and the blade of the dagger jarred against the Titanium plating of her armguards. Metal clashed, muscles tensed and the human’s blade stopped sliding as it lodged against one of the spikes embedded in the Titanium.

Smirking, the half-ling wrapped her arm around the human’s. A quick thought, a gathering of energy and the charged energy around her hands burst into flame then quickly ran up her arms. A dancing, blue fire encircling her arms and creating a nice heat against her flesh and armguards though she knew it would do much more to the human. Then using her strength the half-ling attempted to pop his elbow out in one direction it was not meant to go. And with the human’s body wide open, Witch took the opportunity to thrust the blade of her dagger into his gut.

Oh, yes, she was going to kill him but she was not going to give him the quick and merciful death he would probably be begging for by the time she was done.

[Izvilvin]

((Bunnying approved by Storm))

Izvilvin tumbled forward, falling headlong over the black-haired human. The nuisance of a man from the first Cell, who had stabbed Izvilvin in the back and foot, had made his presence known. The warrior wasn't sure if he was happy for the opportunity to fight him again, or furious that he had been chosen as the target. Was there some magnetic pull to the Drow, pulling all ill-intentioned fighters to him?

The flexible elf hit the sand hard, but he did not remain there for long, using his momentum to roll along the ground and pull himself up nimbly. In fact, he was up just in time to catch the eyes of the human as he broke forward to continue the battle. The Drow had picked an able opponent, it seemed.

Storm came at him with an unimpressive stab, deftly handled by his right sai. Izvilvin caught a flash in the man's eye as his second dagger came from above. Moving quickly, the dark elf swung under the striking arm to get to Storm's side, though he was in no position to bring his own arm around to strike with a weapon. The able warrior he now fought would be quick enough to spin and face him by the time his sai came in.

So he pressed his feet hard into the floor and drove into the man with his shoulder, pushing Storm back a few feet to make room between them. But Izvilvin didn't move in and form an attack. No, the appearance of Jon had brought out some anger in him, some desire for revenge -- the only desire for it he'd had for anyone who was not General Vordutin. If it hadn't been for that stubborn human, he probably wouldn't have been killed in the first Cell.

Pivoting on his toes, Izvilvin turned from the human, who'd become an afterthought in the face of his hatred for Jon. A blue fire erupted between Jon and Witchblade, but Izvilvin couldn't see who it was coming from because of Jon's obscuring form. His approach did not slow even in the face of this magic.

The Drow approached a moment after Witchblade's attack had finished, and he sent his leading hand forward to stab his sai into Jon's shoulderblade. It was the same place the human had attacked stabbed him in the first Cell, and Izvilvin could not think of a more suitable way to harm him.

[Walter]

It had been a crazy-ass plan, mooning Witchblade, and Jon knew it. But there was a tiny devil in him, sure enough, and it was laughing its ass off even while the stitch-lip girly was fending off Jon's knife strike like he should've figured would happen. Even when his knife got caught against Witchblade's arm protector and all Jon could do was grit his teeth and swear, the mischievious ass inside of him wanted to provoke Witchblade a little more. At least it did until their arms were linked, and Jon could see that something else was coming next by the gleam in the bitch's eyes. Shit.

Fire burns. Ye gods does it burn. And when fire appears out of nowhere, on your fucking arm of all places, it takes you by surprise. Jon wasn't expecting fire to suddenly coat his arm like a gauntlet, and the pain and searing heat that fumed from it was tremendous. First the bitch had gotten him hit with ice, and now she was tormenting him with fire.

"Holy shitARGH!" Jon swore in surprise and pain. He was quickly getting sick of fighting the stitch-lipped freak.

STAB

The shoulder attached to the flaming arm had just been pierced. A constant stream of pain flowed, radiated from the shoulder wound, up his neck and down his injured arm. The spilt blood evaporated instantly in the heat of the fire. Jon could see pain as it bubbled behind his eyes, and his vision was becoming cloudy around the edges, focusing solely on Bitchblade. The pain and ichor was welling up in his throat. Hissing like an angry cat, Jon hocked up a loogie full of mucous and boiling black hatred and spat it in the broad's face. Right as she was set to break his arm.

Pain was already welling up in seething waves when it happened. He barely felt it through the burning and the stabbing when a sickening crack announced his arm to be useless, bending completely backwards. Jon didn't feel the pain but could see it just fine, his eyes wide with shock. His only response was a desperate "Screw this!"

Throughout the struggle, Witchblade hadn't gained control of Jon's left arm, it had just been left hanging there. And Jon had more than one knife, tucked away in one of the hems of his dirty trousers. He ripped his wood carving knife out of the hem, adrenaline lending speed to his actions as he brought the weapon to his throat and slit himself from ear to ear, no resistance whatsoever. Blood sprayed and bubbled from his throat as he grinned sickly at Witchblade, his smile faltering and twitching when her titanium dagger plunged into his gut. Jon slowly sank to the ground, lifeless.

He hoped the bitch had gotten a good look. He wished the black bastard had, too. He'd be back for them.

[Komosatuo]

Hmmm, he thought to himself as he casually watched everyone erupt into full contact combat. Could get bloody here soon.

Indeed, it certainly was becoming quite the blood bath out there. One thing still tickled his mind however, and that was why he didn't remember a damn thing from the first cage. Was it because he had died and his body simply didn't wish to remember the deed, or was it because something had happened to him while in the cage, that had caused him to loose short term memory? It was mind boggling really, caught between two possible answers such as those, each right in its own way but at the same time, either or both wrong. He just didn't know, and it was starting to get on his nerves. Almost to the point where he wanted to attack something. . .Almost.

He sighed and dropped his hands down from where they were resting against his shoulders and looked around. Almost everyone was engaged in some sort of fight or another, either in a play of words or by the use of a blade. Quite fun to watch really, and he wouldn't have half minded being on the outside o the cage, rather than in. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case, as much as he wished it to be, it just wasn't.

Although, there is the slight possibility that I could get out. He looked around again, his hand coming up to caress his chin lightly with his two first fingers and thumb. He carefully examined all four corners of the cage, the farthest two couldn't be seen very easily so he didn't focus on those for long, but the two nearest ones looked almost as impervious as the rest of the cage itself. There would be no escape via the corners, or the seams it seemed. He shrugged and let his hand fall back beside his waist, content that perhaps it best he not try and escape, as it might draw some much unwanted attention to him, and his position.

Although, he thought as he looked at the mass melee around him, I could use something to do to pass the time. Question being, what exactly was there to do? Well, he could toss a few daggers around, cause further mayhem amongst the chaos. Or he could simply just attack someone. No, still too much attention, although it would be fun. Then of course, there was his flute.

He frowned, a small 'Hmmmm,' emerging from his closed lips and he reached up to caress his chin again. He could do that. In fact, he knew just the melody for this kind of fight, and if it was the right one, than perhaps no one would notice the sudden beat to their individual battles. Thus never really noticing him. It was a tantalizing option. He thought for a few moments, then decided.

Folding neatly into a sitting position on the ground, Komosatuo drew forth his flute and clutched it delicately between his left hands finger tips. He drew apart the sash covering his face just enough to reveal his mouth, the ghastly pale skin beneath cracked and dried. He pushed his bright pink tongue out from his mouth and slowly wet his lips, then brought the flutes whistle like section up to them, resting them on the lower lip. His right hand then moved to hold the remaining section of the flute still not operational. He took a few seconds rest before slowly closing his eyes and inhaling slowly. Then he exhaled and began to move his fingers and hands over the flutes body.

The resulting sound filled the air around him, slowly leaking its way through the rest of the cage until even those at the farthest end could hear it, if only just barely. The sound, the music, was slow. Like the steady inhaling and exhaling of a sleeping child. It was equally soft, as it was loud. It rose in pitch, held for a moment, then dropped slowly, reaching a low point in the tune for a moment, then settled out at mid-range one more.

The music had an unearthly sound to it; a peaceful sound. Something you wouldn't really expect to hear in a pitched battle such as this, but this was exactly how Komosatuo wanted it to start. It represented the calm before the storm, the slow inhale before the big exhale. He smiled as he blew and changed the key, and the speed.

It began to move faster, keeping pace with the fights around it, dancing between the moving feet of the thirteen other combatants of the cage. It shrilled sharply when a sword rose high into the air, descended slowly as the sword fell in a deadly arch, and crashed in a low note when the sword made contact. Komosatuo smiled again, then changed key.

The sound of the music filled the cage and he began to bob slowly side to side as he blew into his flute. He hoped to remain conspicuous during this fight and as he steadily blew into the flute, continuing to produce the fast paced melody befitting this fight, he began to wonder if playing his flute at a time like this, wasn't such a good idea after all.

No sense in stopping now.

He inhaled between notes and continued to blow into his flute, the music pouring steadily forth as he played the flute that would probably end his life, either for the second time, or the first.

[Abenaki]

Jada's skill with a blade was meager at best, his offensive and defensive prowess little more than "hack and slash" and "get out of the way" respectively. Therefore it came as little surprise to the young warrior when his taller, heftier opponent sidestepped easily out of the way and blocked his attack. Over the last couple of battles Jada had become accustomed to the fact that his foes were more than likely to evade or parry his opening swings. The same scenario had revealed itself in his battle with Xanith, the cat in the first round, and now this new opponent. What Jada hadn't expected, however, was for this new opponent to counter his attack at the same time that he blocked it...

That was something that differed from the scenario in the warrior's head...

The blue-haired man's blade ran down the length of Jada's own blade with a metallic squeal, stopping only when it hit the plain, unadorned hand-guard. Jada instinctively moved to the left and tried to back up to avoid the blade as it lowered towards his shoulder and his opponent pressed the counterattack, but something tripped him up. It was his opponent's leg; Jada realized as he lost his balance and tumbled backwards into the dirt of the arena floor.

This man knows what he is doing. Jada thought with a frown as he quickly went to kick his opponent's knee from the ground. The thought filled the warrior with a sudden sense of dread as he tried to picture himself going toe-to-toe and blade-to-blade with an experienced dueler. Being on the ground wasn't helping his chances, but kicking for his opponent's leg was all he could really do to keep the man from pouncing on him with his blade...