Finals: League of Nightmares vs. Chivalry and Savagery

[Dissinger]

This fight begins on Friday the 14th at 12am PST. Best of Luck to the Combatants.

[Dissinger]

Apologies for the late opening. You guys will have until midnight 6/29/2013 as compensation.

[Glories of Myrmidion]

Five minutes previously, the marble columns and thickly carpeted floors had gleamed with the hauteur found only in the most debonair of diplomatic domains. Arrogant power-blinded men and women had clustered together to insult one another beneath smiling facades of polite civility, their only purpose on life to overawe their counterparts from other countries by dressing up in their best and finest, competing to see who could slip the sweetest verbal dagger into the softest of vital organs. In turn, the mismatched pair of knight and orc who had fought the breadth of Lornius to arrive at the Hall of the Grand Council in the Floating City, found their presence there mercilessly targeted by the scathing wit and mocking miens of those who deemed themselves their betters. Still they had persevered, in the name of the peoples they represented, the nations they stood for, and the benefits that negotiating a trade agreement would bring to the far north.

And then all had gone to hell... or, rather, hell had come to Lornius.

Dark flame found hungry purchase upon the shattered marble columns, the thin air of the city in the sky tarnished by the smog of charred flesh. Soft piles deadened the fall of eviscerated corpses to the blood-drenched rugs. Sightless eyes stared in unfocused wonder from disembodied heads. Fingers and limbs, contorted in brief seconds of muscular agony, lay where they had fallen so far from their parent torsos. Rich fabric fluttered in tattered shreds, torn remnants of the finery that had garlanded the preening plenipotentiaries.

The abattoir danced to the wailing dirge of the mourning shadows, the heat and the stench and the blood and the horror pressing in upon those fortunate - or unfortunate - enough to still be alive. Like lambs to the slaughter they huddled in the darkness, praying fruitlessly that death would pass them by.

And Jehan and Throm stood back to back in the midst of it all, blades drawn and eyes shielded against the raking fires. Ashen remains swirled about their armoured forms, sooty snowflakes of ill omen.

"Sweet Mother of mercy," the knight murmured beneath his breath, mainly to reassure himself that he still could draw breath at all. "Almost as bad as when we met. Remember that?"

"That... thing...? That abomination?" Throm rasped back, throat dry as he wrapped his tongue around the human term. His words still contained just the right amount of leashed disdain, but Jehan had grown to know the orc well enough in their travels - three weeks across the Sundering Seas, then another four days fighting their way through Lornius proper - to recognise the signs of a berzerk temper just about under control. Throm hawked to clear his mouth, then spat a thick gobbet of phlegm into the inferno. "If this is still part of that dratted tournament..."

"... then at least we have a fight on our hands. At last," Jehan finished for him. Beady orc eyes glimmered in the flickering halflight: challenge, anger, and what might have even been approval.

The knight grinned back encouragingly over his shoulder, but inside his emotions remained as cold as an Olbinan winter. Reassured by the weight of his longsword held in two meaty gauntleted hands, sea green eyes scanned the firestorm. For his foes. For aid. For an escape. For anything...

There.

Shadows amidst shadows, something lurking in the flames. The flashing glint of steel as it bathed in fresh blood. Something evil... something wrong.

Throm scented something untoward in the air and growled. Jehan's fingers drew taut on the hilt of his blade. He drew breath, cast-iron stomach braced against the subconscious need to retch.

"I am Jehan Leitdorf. I am First Knight of the Order of the Golden Eagle. I am of Olbina, fairest of the Five Dukedoms." Clarion and triumphant, his roar rolled refreshingly clear over the mindless debauchery. But then it turned ugly, and the orc at his side bared tusks in shared defiance. "Show yourself, knave. You will not find us such easy prey."

[Abomination]

"What is this...?"

Zack's lifeless form lay before him, blood pooling around it like a broken barrel of ale. A strong gust of wind hit the sails of the ship, and with no one on the wheel, it started spinning wildly and caused the ship to tilt on its side. The blood started to flow across the deck, spilling into the bay. Draug was motionless even as his balance was tested, his eyes unfocused and staring into his own nothingness.

Up until this point, he was pretty sure of his purpose. He was Cassandra's champion, the executor of her will and the living advertisement for the Cult. He thought he would keep growing in power and see the day she would ascend to her proper place among the gods, but now there was a different path for him. There was a limit to his strength, and at that moment he would cease to exist. He walked over Zack's body and put his hands on the wheel, turning it back around and putting the ship back into an upright position.

The corners of his mouth started to twist, and looking up he exhaled the closest he had ever come to uproarious laughter, which was merely a soft, "Haaaaaa..." There was a snapping in his mind, like something had broken out, and a full smile covered his lips. What exhilaration! What beauty! For him to serve his master in the most ultimate way, not merely as a tool but a key to her success. He overflowed with happiness, but behind it there was something else.

There was another thought hidden in the back of his mind.

- - -

Draug stepped out from between the flames, red embers and ash floating in the air between him and his opponents. While he had a longsword in his right hand, his opponents likely had his attention at what was in his left. Gripping a patch of hair, under it was a dismembered, fat, and pale human head. The eyes were rolled back into its skull, the tongue was hanging out, and dark red splotches of blood dripped out of the stump in clumps.

"He asked for help," said Draug, lifting the severed head up and grinning. "I obliged." He tossed the head over to his opponents, watching it roll along the ground and coming to a stop before their feet.

He was already aware of who his opponents were, although he did not expect to see them here, given who they were up against last round. One of his orders was to assimilate the leader of the Ixian Knights, Silence Sei, and given this environment he had a high likelihood of accomplishing that mission. However, an unknown factor occurred, namely in the presence of this knight and orc. He also had not seen his partner Ciato in a while either, but knowing the Mystic who expected to come face to face with his brethren, perhaps the man had left the tournament to pursue Sei. It mattered not, however. Just like before, Draug eliminated any factors that could get in the way of his hunger. It was almost too convenient this time, as he found the exits easy to bar and the flammable materials simple to ignite. Maybe the upper echelons of Lornius were using him to eliminate political opponents. His purpose was analogous to a weapon, so such a an act did not bother him if it was true.

Tapestries that hung on the walls either burned or hung in tatters, glasses of spilled wine, overturned tables, and food littered the carpets. The smell of burning flesh hung in the air. Draug spit on the ground, gnashing his teeth before setting his sights on the orc in particular. This was the second time he encountered one of their kind, and this one was clearly no poet. There was something about that brute strength and predisposition to battle that made them similar, but just like Draug was no human, he was no orc either. He started walking towards his opponents, not because he was taking his time nor savoring the moment, but because he took them seriously. They dealt with Sei somehow, and unfortunately he knew not the details of such a victory. Usually his hid his strength in his lanky form, his muscles condensed and making him look malnourished. This time his muscles grew, pumping up his form, fattening his neck, thickening his arms and legs, expanding his chest. His walk was careful and calculated, his grip on his sword on his right hand strong and ready to strike at any moment.

He lifted his left hand, palm facing his opponents, "I know who you are." Something bubbled inside his palm, pressing against the skin. "And I don't expect this to be easy, but..." The skin started to tear in his palm, the fluids inside his hand swirling violently and making the hand shake. "It's good that you understand your position, prey." Suddenly, a bloody knife shot out from his hand toward his opponents. Then, he kicked the ground and charged them, swinging the sword with his muscle-bound right arm, aiming to cleave through one of their necks.

[Tusk]

Throm’s grey-green hide glimmered under a thick sheen of sweat, and he squinted against the flames with no small amount of frustration. Orcs run hot, goes the saying, so heat is no friend to them. Once, a great Salvic general set fire to the very fields he was defending to slow and exhaust a legion of orcish invaders, and won himself the day. Throm knew that story well – a heartening tale for skraelings, a boogeyman for green-skins.

And here he was, cooking in his armor.

A moment ago he had been wishing to see these little men dead, but now that they were kindling he felt sorry for them. Nobody deserved to die by fire, or any other element. It was an ignoble death, faceless and stupid, and no sagas come of it. For his mother there would be a saga that would take an entire night to tell, but for Throm? “He was a good son to her,” they would say. “He died in a fire, far away.”

He screwed up his face indignantly, and then smelled something beneath the smoke, something wrong. Instinctively he tensed, and a defiant chill went up his spine, and before his thinking-mind could make sense of it he found himself growling a warning to his pink-skinned brother.

The wrong-smell intensified as the creature emerged. It looked something like the other skraelings, but he knew it wasn’t. It was unnatural like red rain and sky-fire, unnerving like an infant found alone in a graveyard. It was a paragon of that word Jehan had taught him: abomination. Throm raised his sword and braced his shield, and snuffed sweat out of his nostrils.

When the abomination threw its grisly trophy, the orc did not flinch and he was pleased that Jehan showed no more concern than he. A dead man is just meat, and any good warrior knows he’s just meat walking – what good is it remind him of what he already knows?

The monster changed, its physique warping from the proportions of a starving skraeling to that of something almost orc-like, and Throm tried not to let his surprise show. It traded words with Jehan, and he did not bother to listen closely enough to translate. Instead he watched the abomination move, watched it saunter and tense. It was a still mantis, a taut spider.

Throm exhaled slowly, yellow eyes glinting in the firelight, and when the monster’s left palm came up he tensed his shield-arm and braced. Jehan was always declaring things, shouting, proclaiming, announcing. He had never known orcs to do that – boasting was for the halls, deeds claimed after they’d been performed, but now? Now Throm thought he saw it the right way, and he understood.

When the knife pierced the smoke and lodged itself into the leather of his shield with enough force to make him wince, Throm launched himself forward with a roar, and there were words in it, words he had to be careful to choose. Jehan would proclaim his deeds for Olbina, and Throm had a hard time figuring if that was a place or the skraeling’s mother. For his part, Throm didn’t give a damn about where he lived, so the choice was easy.

“FOR SKOGUL,” he yelled, voice booming louder than the cracking beams and the roaring fires, and he defied death.

The abomination’s right arm brought his sword up to a killing stroke, and Throm shoved all of his weight against it while angling his shield so the blade would slide over the leather, forced wide overhead. If he were lucky the sword would meet the dagger lodged there, and if he were very lucky the knife would stop the sword without getting knocked free. In any case, Throm swung his own sword low with the intent to open up the abomination’s belly or, more likely, to force him right into Jehan’s own attack off-balance.

[Abomination]

Draug snarled as he charged, eyeing the orc's actions intently. He stomped through the bodies and the debris, crushing tender fruit underneath. Throm attempted to deflect the attack, raising his shield to intercept the blade. A loud clanking sound was heard as the sword impacted the shield, and Draug let go of the blade to not be swept up in its momentum. The blade flew into the air and landed on one of the carpets nearby, the flames reflected in its steel. Throm's own blade sought to meet Draug's chest, and the Homunculus had no problem with that. His recoil ability would force Throm to suffer half the damage he would inflict on The Dark Mother's champion. Almost with arms open and willing, he grinned and stepped into the orcish sword, letting it cleave through his abdomen and lodge itself in his gut. Due to his unique design, blood splattered everywhere like a squashed tomato, making the wound seem much more egregious than it actually was.

That was the problem with fighting a creature such as Draug; The standard rules of battle did not apply to him. He gladly took damage if it meant an opportunity to hurt his opponent.

While Throm was disemboweling him, Draug reached with his left hand in an attempt to grab Throm's sword-arm. The skin on his back started to bubble, and two arms emerged, so far hidden from the orc's view. Draug opened his maw wide to an inhuman degree and let loose another bloody dagger from his throat, hoping that he would grab the orc and lock him into place, making the attack unavoidable. If that failed, the arms on his back would stretch and attempt to wrap themselves around the orc's body, binding him so that the numerous weapons in Draug's body could pop out and skewer the green-skinned fighter.

[Glories of Myrmidion]

So many of the legends told in the Hall of Swords ended like this. A valiant knight and his unorthodox companion. An epic quest across land and sea. A gallant last stand amidst horror and flame. The ashes of the heroes brought home to rest, scattered on the wind like so many hallowed words such they might give seed to a thousand more worthy of their blood.

If this was to be his end, oh what an end he would make it be. Maidens fair would swoon at his name. Generations of young neophytes would learn of Jehan the Bold, the First Knight who quested the southern seas. Death held no fear for him. The cornered stag still had its prongs; woe betide the wolf that underestimated their keen edge.

"For Skogul!"

The orc roared again as battle was joined, a declaration of allegiance every bit as powerful as Jehan's own. In that brief clarity before two forces of nature tore the moment asunder, Jehan saw his determination reflected in the defiant set of the greenskin's jaw.

They had been allies by circumstance and companions on the road ever since that fateful day in the tundra west of Turicum, but only now did the knight realise just how he'd always unwittingly thought of himself as better than his comrade. In a sense, Jehan couldn't help it. In all his life as a Templar of the Golden Eagle, he'd known of - not thought of, known of - orcs as uncivilised warlike brutes whose sole redeeming feature was their singular prowess in combat. He'd never questioned how they lived outwith the world of conflict that separated them so.

But Throm's two words... those two simple words... brought home the realisation that they were not so different at all. That they both believed in, and fought for, something greater and more important than their selves. That they were not just united by common cause, but equals in every sense of the word. That much of what he revered and respected in the Grandmasters of his homeland, he could see in the orc that stood alongside him today. That the greenskin, too, was beginning to break past his prejudices in understanding the clunking skraeling.

In that moment he knew without the need for speech what Throm intended. He knew that he trusted the orc to take the foe's charge and deflect its attention just so. He knew that the orc trusted him to take the initiative in that instant of opening. And he knew what Throm knew: that even orcish endurance and battlelust could not last forever in the face of such unnatural rage, and that Jehan had one chance - one vital, precious chance - to make his friend's courage count.

Those who live and die by the blade know that their destinies often hang in the balance of a single split second. A moment's hesitation can easily prove fatal, a moment too long spent in thought the difference between the spilt blood belonging to the foe or to oneself.

So Jehan didn't hesitate, and he didn't think. He sidestepped into position with the intuitive precision of a thousand deadly duels, heedless of the treacherous footing slick with pooled blood. And he struck that single blow with all his might. Trusting the orc's cunning. Trusting his own skill.

Complexion flushed from heat and lustrous with sweat, armour searing his skin as it took on the radiance of the inferno all about him, powerful muscles flexed as he plunged his mighty longsword downwards through the base of the new abomination's neck. Would vertebrae splinter beneath his strength, spine shattered by the steel wedge powering through flesh and sinew? Or, like that daemon that had brought Throm and Jehan together in the north, would it knit and bubble and roil like some nauseous concoction, defying their every attempt to banish it back to whatever abyss it had spawned from? They had fought such unnatural monstrosities before, and had triumphed... could they do so again?

Not that it mattered either way. He would strike true in glorious victory, or he would strike true in equally glorious failure. The knight didn't hold back, not a single ounce of energy spared, as fate split at the crossroads before him. Along one path lay survival and a mirage-like future of further honour. Along the other lay death, equally famous. In either case, the Hall of Swords awaited... and the maidens and the neophytes and the legends they told.

So as Jehan struck, blade shimmering in a nimbus of reflected flame, he too lifted his voice in magnificent full-throated cry.

"For Olbina! For the NORTH!"

[Tusk]

Throm wheezed and felt a surge of panic. As any disciplined fighter did, the orc hadn’t taken his eyes away from what he deemed dangerous: the abomination’s limbs, his mouth, his swollen body. This monster moved in unorthodox ways, fought with selfless abandon, but it was built in proper fashion – arms, legs, head, trunk – with all the normal rules of bones and muscle, or so it seemed. So when Throm felt a blow strike long across his gut, knowing full well that the abomination had delivered no attack, it was difficult not to put fear to the unknown.

He was in over his head.

It would only be much later that he would apply logic to those events and realize that he’d felt the impact on his own body exactly where he’d delivered violence upon the monster-skraeling. For the moment there was only the obvious. This thing did not fear the bite of a blade, it could hurt him without striking him, it bled like a swollen head-wound, and it wanted in close.

Then it clamped onto his arm, and he added one last piece to the puzzle: it was strong, stronger even than mighty Throm when he wasn’t being cooked inside an oven of arctic leather and chainmail. He was reminded of a time when he fought an adolescent bear in the mist-blanketed wilds of his homeland-isle, and how the beast had bitten down on his gauntlet and pulled, and how powerless he had been against such overwhelming strength. If not for the aid of friends, he would have died that day.

If not for the aid of friends.

Throm braced himself and used his legs to pull away from his foe’s iron grip and down toward the floor, knowing full well the futility of it but demanding every ounce of strength from a body of thickened thews. He growled, furious and defiant, and then he abruptly surrendered to the abomination’s pull and let himself be yanked forward from low. At the same moment he pulled his shield in, brought it down on the abomination’s forearm, and then shoved it upward toward its face.

He could only pray that he could strike the fiend hard enough to force its head up and straight and thus distract him – not from bringing an undoubtedly ghoulish wrath down on the orc, who had largely given up all thoughts of personal safety, but from the death looming behind it.

No worthy orc would shy away from death or injury if it meant ensuring victory for his brothers-in-arms. If death had its eyes on him, Throm was eager to be measured.

[Abomination]

As Draug grabbed Throm's arm accompanied with the feeling of digging into cracked glass below him, his allowed the orc's essence to seep into his body, to pervade his thoughts, memories, and change him. He learned orcish again, his muscles felt denser and more defined, and for a moment the color spectrum in his vision diminished before his body determined that to be a liability. All the advantages of being an orc, and none of the downsides, was the purpose of this assimilation.

He didn't have time to enjoy it however, as from behind the knight likely sought to decapitate him. While the Homunculus was more than willing to hurt himself in order to hurt his opponents more, there wasn't much strategic value in getting his head chopped off. The dagger was still in his throat, at this point the tip of it was slightly sticking out of his closed mouth, his teeth pressing down on the metal. Draug's head slightly turned as the arms which grew from his back which intended to wrap themselves around Throm instead wrapped around each other like a braid, forming a shield of flesh to absorb the blow of the sword. At the same time, he felt a sharp pain in his forearm as the orc's shield came down upon it, and before Draug could turn back, the shield slammed into his chin and send his head backwards.

The attack had more of an effect than Throm likely realized. Draug's head was now arched all the way back, upside-down from the knight's perspective. As Jehan's blade cut through Draug's back arms, spraying poisonous blood as they sliced, Draug released the dagger from his throat toward its new target: The knight's face. Knowing that he was likely still in a disadvantageous position, the Homunculus let his spare limbs fall off from their source in his back and rolled to the side, relinquishing his grip on the orc. The arms, now in pieces from the knight's attack, fell to the ground unceremoniously and started to melt and rapidly evaporate. Draug tumbled a few feet before crashing into a table that managed to weather the slaughter, snapping it in half and putting his back to the floor. Fancy cheeses, bread stuffed with jam and meat, and a bowl of grapes covered his form, and as he got back up the food slid off of him and joined the rest of the refuse on the ground. An unfortunate noble was near him as well, his head buried in the carpet, staining it red.

While Draug was sure of his strength, he lacked finesse and most importantly, teamwork. Although, he couldn't think of a single moment when his partner was useful to him other than the times he distracted one of the opponents long enough for Draug to kill the other. What's more, there was a sharp pain in his head where Thrommesh's memories were flooding in. The orc was the greatest of his mother's children, who commanded a tribe, and there was a foretelling of her glorious future. Throm's yellow eyes contained great pride for his tribe and himself. There were parallels, but Draug did not consider himself to be an individual, only a mere extension of The Dark Mother. So, then why was he in pain? Why couldn't he focus?

He felt the presence of another, the world around him replaced with darkness. The heat was gone, the blood and carnage disintegrated, and replaced with coldness and pain. The thought that most crossed his mind: Did he do something wrong? He never considered to have failed his mother, and yet there was an instance when he looked back... he may have made a mistake. Back when he had to flee the prison and leave his first round fight unfinished, in the following match he was given a chance to pursue the Ranger of Corone, Letho. Such experience was invaluable, but he did not realize it at the time. Cassandra had given him a choice, but he couldn't realize it. Instead of chasing after one of the most skilled warriors in the land, he chose to fight the orcs, or rather, he didn't choose anything and just continued on the path he was on.

Why did this bother him so much? Reality snapped back into focus, mere moments passing from what he got back up, and his opponents were before him. Was he doing it again? He knew the value of obtaining information from the leader of the Ixians, Sei, who was still likely in Lornius. Yet here he was, fighting another orc. He couldn't deny his desire to stay, to finish this fight. These two had hurt him, they had challenged him and the Cult itself. It was too late to pursue Sei now, anyway.

He held his gut as blood streamed down his leg, the wound squishing under his grip. A large bruise was on his left forearm. His intestines were cut open, although skin grew over the cut and sealed it. The organs inside his body smothered the dying intestines, squeezing them and merging to replace their function. While the knight to him represented the kind of disgusting do-gooder tendencies that Draug had grown to despise, the orc seemed to delight in combat and death. Did he have a potential future in the Cult?

"You are weak, orc," Draug spat. "Born with natural power, you squander it. I could show you strength, if that is your desire. If you survive this fight, you may join us." He grinned, exposing his sharp teeth and letting a stream of blood run down his lips.

He stepped back, placing himself directly behind the table half that was left after his fall. He discarded his coat and ripped off his shirt, which was already tattered from the orc's attack. Below his neck, his body seemed to take on many skin colors as each stitched up piece of his torso differed from the rest. Two more arms grew out of his shoulder blades, and two more from under his armpits, for a total of six. Each of them came with a steel sword. A simple shield would not be able to block all of them. If the orc decides to stand his ground again, he would be impaled, and in a contest of strength, the Homunculus knew he would prevail. He lifted his right foot and kicked the table as hard as he could, sending pieces of it flying at his opponents. His original arms pulled two more swords from his throat coated in his poisonous blood, and after the table he ran at his opponents, especially Thrommesh, although if the knight got in the way then he would be the prey. Draug was interested in the orc seeing his power, in the orc crumbling and knowing his limits. The extra arms grew in length and stretched, being slightly bent at the elbows. If Throm tried to block with his shield, Draug planned for his spare arms to around it and skewer the young orc.

If the orc died here now, then he wasn't worth the Cult's time.

[Glories of Myrmidion]

Blood dribbled over his lips from the morass of sharp pain where his now-broken nose had once proudly jutted. The nasal guard of his barbute helm had served its purpose well, deflecting the blade if not the impact of the dagger his foe had somehow managed to spit at him. A fledgling headache cast waves of searing heat into his mind, but he drew on years of experience to make them focus rather than distract it.

The opportunity had passed. He had not struck tellingly enough. But he would not apologise, for he had put all of his skill and strength behind that stroke, and if it had not been sufficient…

The bear had fought well, holding its ground against all odds. The eagle had struck as planned, but its talons hadn’t dug deep enough. Measured and found wanting… but too stubborn to retreat. Nor would he ask the orc to fall back, no matter how Throm bled. Jehan knew better than that.

The abomination seemed unhealthily obsessed with Throm. Its single-minded devotion had already cost it dearly, yet it seemed determined not to learn its lesson. Even now it utterly ignored Jehan, focusing every last ounce of killing intent – and invitation – on the badly wounded greenskin.

Jehan took two steps forward and imposed his steel-clad form between his friend and their opponent. Throm had given nearly everything in distracting the abomination the first time round. Now it was the knight templar’s turn.

Legs braced like oak trunks in upturned refuse and offal. The stench of death, the threefold plagues of blood and excrement and burning flesh, lingered low and loathsome in his lungs.

Longsword rose to his fore in the stance of the Lion, daring the foe to advance into its reach. Steel armour glowed red hot to the touch, shedding slivers of splintered wood as the abomination obliged.

Molten flesh bubbled and seethed. The abomination’s form shimmered and mutated, all distended arms and gleaming steel swords. Its eyes flared, dark coals spitting angry embers at the two who defied it so… or rather, the one who intrigued it so.

The First Knight met its charge, teeth bared in a vicious grin. The point of his blade rose like a spear towards the abomination’s centre of mass, using its momentum to impale it on the flanges like a gutted fish.

He had no doubt he wouldn’t be able to hold it there for long; it was too strong and too determined for that. Jehan knew he had to be prepared to wrench his sword free of its foe, or even to abandon it entirely and resort to gauntleted fists around the monstrosity’s neck. But unlike Throm he wore full plate crafted from the finest Olbinan steel, and the added protection it provided made it well worth the sweltering heat crawling up and down his limbs. If the abomination thought mere swords could pierce it, then it would have something new to learn very soon… and that would be precious moments bought for the orc to counterattack.

For sometimes eagles wore steel and stood their ground, and bears grew wings to unleash their claws.

And if it was lust for carnage that the situation warranted, the First Knight would not be found wanting. Battle called, glorious joyous battle, and Jehan exulted in its bloody refrain.