Triple Threat For Grand Master Position!

[Zack Blaze]

The winner of this bout between BlackAndBlueEyes, Warpath, and Aurelianus Drak'shal will receive the position of Grand Master! The defeated will carry the title of Master!

Good Luck guys!

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Zack Blaze's appearance approved by Cal.

"This is bullshit!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, my voice echoing across the vast expanse of frozen lake I stood on.

The wiry, effeminate figure next to me pulled in his thick, padded coat with the bushy fur collar tight around him as he smiled, thin trails of frozen breath streaming out of his nostrils. "It's all a part of the game, Maddy dear."

I took two steps closer to him, my vine-braided fists clenched tightly as a different, purple-tinted puff of air leaked out from behind my crooked snarl. "All part of the--who the fuck do you think you are to orchestrate this little charade, Zack Blaze? We both know that I'm the most qualified in your circle of nose-pickers and paste-eaters that you call an organization to be the Grand Master of the new Dajas Pagoda!"

Throwing up a fist in the brawler's face, I started listing off my accomplishments. "I defeated Joshua Cronen!" (On a technicality.) "Elijah Belov!" (Not in a proper Pagoda match, but whatever.) "Teric motherfucking Bloodrose Barton!" (Who was absolutely plastered and going through some rough times.) "Jensen Ambrose!" (This one's debatable. I have trouble recalling the details of this one.) "Erikar with the last name I cannot pronounce!" (This one wholly true, and with nothing in my favor.)

Zack feigned indifference as I continued my list of grand accomplishments, opting to instead play with his blond bangs that dangled lazily in front of his face. "Listen, Maddy, that's nice and all, and I think it's absolutely fantastic that you were an esteemed Warrior of the previous incarnation of the Pagoda, buuuuut..." His eyes flickered with a sort of greedy malevolence for the briefest of moments, and he matched my gaze. "That doesn't exactly mean that you would be the best Grand Master for the means of Misery Business."

My blood began to boil. If I had proper knuckles, they would've been whiter than the freshly-fallen snow that was on my every side. I found myself grinding my clenched teeth. I was this fucking close to ripping Zack's balls and eyes out, and putting his eyes where his balls were and his balls in his eye sockets. Oooooooh boy, I wanted to utterly end this scrawny fuck and hide his soggy, melted remains underneath all the ice we were standing on.

Another puff of plague-riddled smoke escaped from the corners of my mouth, wisps of the purple haze catching on my bangs. I lowered my voice, each word saturated with venom. "I am the best choice you have for Grand Master, asshole. I know this, you know this. Nobody else you could throw at me can come even close."

The porcelain-skinned man simply smiled. "That remains to be seen."

Quietly seething in my limitless anger, I slowly turned on my heels and went out a few steps further on the ice that covered the lake. Roughly one- to two-thousand feet or so on every side of me was the shoreline of the lake, which was lined in every direction by the snow-covered tops of a thick pine forest. Further past that to the north I could see some mountain range, its multitude snow-covered peaks reaching up into the cloudless, sunny sky. I took an inch of solace in knowing that its warm rays would make me more powerful during the upcoming battles. It did little to calm me, though. Zack broke the silence that had grown between us. "You'll be happy to know that you won't be facing me today, at the very least."

I turned around, shooting him a raised eyebrow. "Oh? Not that I'm afraid of little old you, of course."

He playfully shook his head and tossed up his arms in an oh well gesture. "Nah, I've decided that it would be in my best interests to just stay behind the scenes and make money off of the blood, sweat, and tears of you brave little fighters out there."

I shook my head. Of course. "Just as long as we get a cut for our troubles," I muttered.

"I will see to it that you do." Zack Blaze took stepped towards me, leaning in uncomfortably close and smiling that bastard's smile of his behind the puffy fur of his jacket collar. "You'll do fine, I imagine. I just need to do this so it doesn't look like I'm putting my bestest friends in positions that others in the organization might not think they deserve. Just do what you do best, and you'll be our new Grand Master, okay?"

"Fuck you," I spat.

His smile widened. "Perfect! The other two will be here shortly. Don't scrub out, now!" The brawler whipped out a small pendant and flicked it a couple times, then suddenly looked up at me. "Oh--and before I forget--be careful out here! The ice is pretty thin this time of year, so watch your step and try not to fall too hard!" And then, he was gone with a flash of bright green light and a slight woosh.

"Curse my bastard's luck," I muttered into the empty winter afternoon.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

The squirrel scampered up the trunk of the tree, tiny claws skittering against the snow-dusted bark. It scurried around, climbing higher and higher. Winter was closing in fast, and the little creature had been busy stockpiling nuts to get through the bitter cold months. Its sleek grey coat was barely visible as it moved, whipping into the boughs of the tree.

Something shifted on a higher branch, sending a few errant pine needles cascading down. The squirrel froze instantly, every muscle coiled, beady eyes scanning for danger. One tiny ear flicked back and forth, followed a moment later by a flutter of its bushy tail. It squeaked out an inquisitive chirp.

There was a sudden burst of movement and the rodent was gone from the tree trunk, leaving only a scrap of fur and a streak of blood. It was followed a heartbeat later by a puff of powdery white from the ground a few feet away.

Aurelianus Drak'shal, standing a little distance away from the unfolding scene, chuckled softly under his breath. He leaned casually against another pine, his bladed armour tearing gouges in the wood with every movement and gesture, a cigarette hanging from his pale lips.

"'attaboy, Junior."

He smirked, before a coughing fit wracked his frame. The cigarette dropped to his feet with a hiss, and the tiefling covered his mouth, waiting for it to subside. It took a few moments, and Aurelianus was dismayed to see the palm of his glove was bloody when he took it away. The coughing fits had been growing worse since Shrikehold. The power coursing through his veins was consuming him, and it was none too bloody gentle about it either. He thought better of lighting another cigarette.

His familiar looked up from the now gore-stained snow, albino features invisible against the backdrop. At least, they would have been if not for the blood splashed up and down the animated abomination. A sharp, screeching hiss showed its concern for its master, before Junior tucked back in to its meal. Black wings shrouded its feasting from Aurelius, and he turned his attention back to his own prey, spitting to clear his mouth.

He could see both of them now, only fifty or so feet ahead.

Madison Freebird, and Zack Blaze.

Down, next to the edge of the frozen lake, the pair conversed in puffs of condensed breath - even Aurelianus' preternatural hearing couldn't make out what they were saying over the pervasive whine of the wind. But he could guess. They were most likely discussing the very same subject that had stirred the tiefling from his House of Sin, from his fleshcrafting obsession and brought him all the way out to the arsehole middle of nowhere. The tiefling made no secret of the fact he hated the cold, but here he was, no coat, no hat; just his razor-adorned armour, a haze of cigarette smoke to combat the fresh air, and a palpable aura of excitement. A shiver ran up Aurelius' spine that had little to do with the cold.

Yet again, a request had landed in his lap, inviting him to pop on down to some remote location and butcher a handful of his so-called allies. The tiefling's inhumanly sharp teeth glinted viciously in his mouth. If the sods wanted 'urt, they could at least 'ave the courtesy to come see me at me kip, 'stead of draggin' me arse out into this frozen shit-'ole. As if to mock his protest, a biting wind whipped through the forest, caressing his alabaster skin like a cloak of knives. The pine needles unleashed a susurrating hiss.

A gloved hand rose languidly, serpents of Hellfire writhing around the warlock's wrists and snarling at the far off figures before he banished the invocation. Both were, as close as any other sod could be called, friends of his. But the third scheduled guest for the day's festivities was the real reason Aurelius could not contain his excitement.

Flint pikin' Skovik, he thought, spitting again to clear his mouth of blood. It streaked the snow, stark contrast of black on white.

Drak'shal's gaze lingered on the vitae for a minute. It was still unsettling to him. When he had ingested the Swaysong, when he had broken Shrikehold.. the raw power he had channeled defied description. This, then, was the cost. It was killing him. Of the countless stupid things he had done, of the limitless times he'd skirted the pages of the dead-book, it was a single swig of liquid that was going to do him in. A contemptuous spit in the face of the so-called laws and lawmakers. 'cept the baldy little wanker swallowed more of the stuff than me, and 'e's still pikin' breathin'!

It was true, the Andvallan had pulled the same stupid gambit as Aurelianus. And chant had it he had come out the other side like a Power-made-flesh.

The sheer hilarity of the hand dealt had almost driven Aurelius insane. He had more willpower than most other bodies wandering the 'verse. He could rip the very soul from a body; he could turn steel to butter with Hellfire; he could shatter bones with a gesture; the plane-touched could now even shape flesh and bone on a whim! And he still couldn't control the thing eating him alive. And yet, the barely-taller-than-a-dwarf Skovik had pulled it off without seeming to break a sweat. Flint hadn't even chosen to do it for the power, that was the kicker. The story went he'd been forced to. Aurelius had thought Skovik weak. A coward. To have that sort of potential and not use it? It was a bloody sin. The warlock had thought he could handle it. That he could do the same, but do it better. Drak'shal ground his fangs, steam rising from his exposed skin and crimson quills skrching against each other. Well, whatever else happened today, the horned horror was going to know how the human had done it. How he'd survived the transmutation.

Then get your arse movin, old son. Not got all pikin' day to waste

Shaking himself from his reverie and heaving his buckle-laden boots out of the drifts rising around his ankles, Aurelianus Drak'shal stalked through the trees. Stumbling on a hidden tree root, he managed to right himself just in time to see the cocky young brawler vanish in a flash of light, and the charred-air scent of ozone.

That just left the Briarheart, standing with her back to the half-breed, sleeves writhing like they were filled with serpents. Which, Aurelius mused, wasn't too far from the truth.

There were few people who had a proper inkling of the sort of power Madison could bring to bear. Drak'shal was definitely one of those few. And yet, he stomped his way over the crackling carpet, whistling over his shoulder to call Junior. The foetus took to the air, still proudly bearing the tail of its victim and screeching happily - it sounded like it was trying to gargle something that was still alive.

Finally, temper flaring as he was forced to suppress another cough in front of one of his opponents for the day, Aurelius dipped his horned brow.

"Nice day for it, luv," he greeted his companion, scratching the tattoos on his scalp. A few errant trails of coiling, black Hellfire slithered across his wolf-lean frame, trying to ward off the frigid air before they simply winked out.

"Now where's the bald prick?"

[Warpath]

Salvar. Home. Its stark landscape stretched on for miles upon miles, the horizon shielded from sight by only mountains and antediluvian forests, themselves shrouded by mists and the haziness of incredible distance. Its cruel ecology battered the body for want of heat and food, its unfeeling majesty battered the soul for want of nurturing and a sense of self-importance, and its stark whiteness battered the eye for want of contrast.

It was punishingly cold, but Flint did not wear sleeves, hat or hood. Salvar loathed defiance, but only respected strength. It pressed down on everyone and everything in a search for the strong, crushing and killing the soft so that only the worthy were left standing. This sense of his home was the closest thing to spirituality Flint had, so the winter silence did not seem to stem from death. Not for him. For him, the silence was holy: the chill wilds were a sacred place. The howl of the wind over the rocks was his pipe organ, the stinging bite on his cheeks like the kiss of incense. Starvation and hypothermia were his entheogens.

He was Salvar's priest, come to lead mass. He had sacrifices to make, blood to spill and to drink. Bones were his bread to break, and the ice was his altar, goose pimples and snow his vestments. The icy crucible was the only salvation Salvar understood.

Flint ascended a stout, snowy hill, pounding his boots through the cold, unbroken white blanket and the dormant foliage beneath it. From the top of the hill he could see two figures some distance away, and he did not hesitate. On the descent he recognized Aurelianus first, and he flexed his fingers. There was pain in store for him now, he knew.

Flint knew, logically, that he was getting bigger - taller, broader, heavier and denser. All the logic in the world didn't help his perspective, though. For all he could tell, everyone else was just getting smaller, more frail. But was it just perspective, this time? Flint narrowed his eyes as he approached, wondering. Something seemed off about his old rival, in a disquietingly familiar way.

A deep, low crack echoed over the white expanse from somewhere underneath Flint's feet, and he smirked within his beard. Beneath him was ice, thick but young beneath a thin sheet of fresh powder - he was walking across a frozen lake. Cleverly chosen, this place. It would be difficult and risky for him to build momentum here.

Between the tiefling and the ice, Flint's consideration of the third threat was a little more limited. It took him until he was within speaking distance to place her face, and he muttered to himself as he finally stopped walking. He looked at Aurelianus, blinked slow, and then looked at Madison.

"You," he said in a baritone rumble, accent as thick as molasses. "You are different. Both of you. Good. Perhaps you will not be as easy to break as I feared."

[Tobias Stalt]

They spoke of broken things.

The first sound Tobias heard was a promise of renewal for all the atrocities he had ever known. Should I have anticipated any less? The invitation had been extended by Zack Blaze, a reckless and violent savant of all things destructive. On a whim, the man had cast his lot with Lye's Order of the Crimson Hand and put Eiskalt to the flame. No, he reflected, I suppose that I never learn.

Stowed in a cross pattern on his lower back, twin long knives clattered with each step he took deeper into the drifts of snow. It had been a bitter walk through harsh terrain, and the map that had come with the invitation did him no favors. Steam like smoke from a dragon's nostrils roiled from Tobias as he stepped out onto the slippery ice. Winter had seized this land long ago, and it's rage had only worsened with age. Trees black as coal littered his every horizon when he tried to take it all in, and a foreboding sense of finality crept into the back of his mind.

Black robes that clung tight to his person were loosened by a howling scream from the heavens. Tobias folded his arms as he chambered across a thin sheet of solid ground that separated each man from a watery grave. Head still bowed, albeit mostly for warmth, Tobias cherished the moment of silence just before it broke.

'Crack.'

Althanas was a world in constant turmoil. Strife defined the hardest of its denizens, and those who rose to the highest accolades were brutality by circumstance countless times before they ever found gratification. Some of those heroes never stopped suffering. The world itself was a fickle, cruel thing, depraved in its notions of challenging men to strive for excellence. When cracks began to splinter the ice like spider webs, Tobias frowned.

Slow steps- anything quicker would have stolen his balance and sent him face first to the drink. Despite the frost that gripped his flesh, sweat poured down Stalt's back as urgency took him to the opposite edge of the lake. When at last he found stable footing, the youth sighed his relief. Gray white skies cheered him with frigid, echoing screams of the season. Snow buffeted his usually grim expression and twisted it into one of annoyance.

How fitting that broken men stood standing in a sanctuary of broken things. Tobias reached up slowly with both hands, prying his petrified hood off his head. Instantly he felt his ears start to numb and his eyes water. Blurred though they were, Tobias made out the figures of those who came before him, and he skulked toward them.

One was not a man at all, rather, he appeared as some sort of daemon kin. Tobias fought the urge to wrinkle his nose at the revelation- their lot was a foul one, bred with fell magics and dark hearts. They preyed upon any and all they could sink their clutches into, and once a vein was tapped, they drank deep. His frosty fingers twitched at the urge to draw his weapon immediately, but he refrained. Know your enemy, a familiar voice echoed through his memories, chiding him.

Tobias knew he had been seen by the time he made it to the group, standing in a circle. Two sets of eyes moved over him, assessed him, then discarded him. The putrid odor of a cigarette assailed his senses- any proper smoker knew the purity of pipe tobacco from the tainted garbage that currently invaded Tobias' lungs. "Smoke?" came the bemused offer from Aurelianus.

"After," Tobias spoke with a half raised hand. "I've got a long cut from Gisela in my pouch just now, waiting for me to kick your arses." Tobias' accent was gruff, with a smattering of this and that, but never anything definitive enough to place his heritage or origins. It was clear he had ironed out any traces of a past life and left them in his memories.

Laughter broke out on all sides, and Tobias grinned. They couldn't say that he hadn't tried to lighten the mood. The larger man had a grave look to him, a veritable giant when compared to Tobi. He was decidedly Salvic, and this battlefield was the closest thing to home he would ever find. Tobias offered a soft sigh.

"Well," he stated, "at least we'll all die cold."

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

He was here. Flint Skovik was finally here.

Aurelius' lips peeled back in a vicious grin, serpentine eyes taking in the Salvaran's now-huge frame; when they had first met, back in Ettermire what seemed like lifetimes ago, the half-demon had been able to look down on the human, literally as well as metaphorically. But now he stood here like Grim Winter, a colossus of rippling muscle and raw physical power.

The tiefling sneered.

"We're different? Pot callin' the kettle black there, basher," he said, eyes narrowing as his hatred closed an icy claw around his heart.

So the rumours were true - Flint Skovik had drank Swaysong, and the smarmy bastard had walked out the other side without so much as a damned scar. Stifling another blood-flecked cough, the horned hellspawn hid his vitriol, his screaming fury. If I 'ave to turn 'im inside pikin' out with my bare 'ands, that bastard'll tell me how. Junior, sensing its masters temper, screeched at Skovik, tiny needle fangs scraping together in its malformed gash of a mouth. Aurelianus forced himself to take a few deep breaths. The frigid air burned his nose on the way in but it let him divert his focus from the horroshow playing out behind his eyes; rage was all well and good, but he would need to keep a canny head on his shoulders if he was going to make it out of this alive. There were few people he had come across that were as dangerous as the pair of sods next to him. A quick glance around told him nothing new about his surroundings; ice, just thick enough to stand on, masking a deep, numbing death; bare, dead trees like the gnarled claws of titans; and the frozen winds scouring the hills ringing this hidden valley.

The warlock shifted his weight from foot to foot, absent-mindedly testing out the strength of the ice under his hob-nailed boots. It wasn't an issue for him, with his lean frame, but looking at the size of the balding bear standing before him... well, it was an advantage Aurelianus could use. And from the looks of 'im, one you'll bloody need to, he thought with a soft smirk. Turning his concentration inwards, Drak'shal started to gather up the power of his invocations, shaping Shahab's Lash. He could feel the raw energy gathering, spreading warmth throughout his body... one decent swathe of Hellfire and the brute and the Briarheart would be going for a swim.

And then something caught his attention out across the lake.

In a heartbeat, the half-breed let his power trickle away. He nodded at the approaching figure and chuckled to his playmates, "'ead's up, cutters. Looks like we're not the only ones invited to this shindig after all."

The other two turned, warily - they knew better than anyone not to trust Aurelius - to regard the newcomer.

He wasn't familiar to the warlock, but the man couldn't hide the look of disgust on his face when he marked Aurelius' obviously inhuman heritage. Another sharp-edged grin slid across the ashen-skinned half-breed's features, steam rising from the corners of his mouth. This one didn't have the 'I could fold plate-mail with one hand' threat of Flint, nor the 'come see what fresh new horror I've stuck in myself this month' power of the Briarheart, but if Blaze had thrown the poor bastard in here, then he obviously thought the bloke stood a chance of surviving.. or at least of providing entertainment for the other three before his grisly demise. He turned down the cigarette Aurelius offered, which really was too bad - the tiefling was a firm believer in giving a body a final smoke before their execution.

The poor bugger didn't know what he had walked into the middle of, but Aurelius couldn't help but chuckle at the addle-cove's bravado. Give the cutter 'is due, 'e 'as balls. Let's see if we can change that for 'im.

Shrugging bladed shoulders, the tiefling started to limber up for the fight, stretching out his neck and circling his wrists. Four of them now. Three opponents. Aye, because Bright Eyes and the bald wanker weren't bad enough, he mused with an internal sneer.

"No worries on that count, cutter," he winked to the younger sod's complaints about the cold. "I've got just the thing to 'eat you right up."

Madison allowed herself a small grin - she knew all too well how warm Hellfire would make a body. Skovik did too, but Aurelius was sure if he tried to crack a smile, it would shatter his stony mug.

Slowly, so as not to startle anyone into hasty action, Aurelius took a few steps back from the group, easing his Baatorian knives out of their sheathes at the small of his back. He was careful not to lose his footing, the fresh layer of powdery snow offering little purchase. The weapons dangled loosely in his hands, arcane glyphs etched along the blade pulsing in time with his heartbeat; slow and steady. Calm. Whispering in the tongue of the Nine Hells, Aurelianus sent Junior off. Taking flight, the winged foetus made for the withered, dead trees. No doubt to find more to eat. Aurelius didn't care where his familiar went, so long as he was out of harm's way when the battle began.

Speakin' of which...

With no warning, no tell-tale smirk or wise-crack, the tiefling dropped into a crouch and slashed both of his viciously serrated blades across the tendons at the back of his ankles, to bewildered looks from his opponents. The green-steel knives passed through leather and flesh as if they weren't there, and in a way they weren't. There was not a mark on the warlock when his blades slid free. Instead, the nasty wounds would manifest on two of his opponents.

Flint Skovik and Tobias would each find one of their hamstrings severed without the tiefling ever laying a finger on them. The Pain Mirror was easily one of the warlock's most ingenious invocations, not to mention the most delightfully sadistic.

It was time for the fun to well and truly begin.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Well, looks like the gang's all here, I mused inwardly as my two opponents for the afternoon and a surprise fourth entrant assembled on the thin, snow-covered sheet of ice. My vine-woven fingers twitched slightly, itching to go for The Last Resort and wrap things up before they even started.

On one hand, you had Aurelianus Drak'shal. One of the most magnificent bastards I have ever met, with heavy emphasis on the bastard part. The tiefling and I had formed an odd sort of mutual respect after our first meeting on the field of battle inside the Citadel. It was a dirty, hard-fought battle within my old Pagoda stomping grounds; the haunted, monochromatic carnival. The two of us cheated our way towards the climax, wherein I grabbed a rifle from one of the shooting ranges only to have it jam seconds before the pale demon melted my face off with that nasty hellfire of his. After that day, the two of us joined forces in Lorinus to destroy some other combatants in another little tournament. From there, it was onto the Order of the Crimson Hand, where the two of us would work miracles together. Aurelianus was decked out in his regular spiky leather duds and vicious sneer, his collection of knives hanging haphazardly across his waist, just crying out to be bloodied. That little flying monstrosity he lovingly calls Junior was fluttering at his side, bits of fur, flesh, and blood littering its needle-like teeth. I prayed that I would not draw the attention of either today. Friends though we are in our own twisted way, there's no doubt that the tiefling has already considered lighting my briar-knit arms up with hellfire.

And then you had a man by the name of Flint Skovik. I have flickering memories of him from the Adventurer's Crown, but nothing substantial. He was a pretty big guy back then, but he seemed... bigger now. Several inches taller, if not nearly a foot. Wider. Thicker. More muscular. If my memory was correct, back then he looked like he could bend you in all sorts of awkward, painful ways. Now, it appeared as if he could utterly break your entire body with just a half-assed slap across the chest or something. I would have to make sure to keep out of grabbing range of that mountain of a man. Luckily, I had the acids and plague to do just that.

Lastly, the latecomer to this little party, was Tobias Stalt. The shaggy-haired, golden-eyed boy and I recently had a little meeting regarding his position within the Order of the Crimson Hand, which he gave up during the Eiskalt War after a change of heart. He informed me during a chance meeting that he was going to throw his lot in with that insignificant pest Icebreaker, hoping to dissuade her from pursuing her vendetta against the Order for their actions in Eiskalt. I wondered briefly if the former Hand had his little meeting with the girl yet. Perhaps I could give him a taste of things to come should he decide to support her actions today...

Four fully-capable warriors, four cold-blooded killers. This wasn't going to be a battle; this was going to be an outright bloodbath. I could see that prissy platinum blond fuck marketing it now to attract fighters to his little club. "Come test your might and magic against the survivors of The Slaughter in the Snow," he would boast.

My eyes darted between the tiefling, the bald thug, and the wanderer. It appeared that for a flickering moment, we were at a standstill. Nobody wanted to make the first move, but everyone wanted to tear into each other for the brass ring that Zack Blaze had dangled between us all.

A chance to be king of the bloody mountain. A mountain that I've already climbed, thank you very much.

The vine-knit fingers of my right hand flinched again, eager to rip the flintlock pistol out of its holster and start lighting people up. Six quick pulls of the trigger, and I would emerge victorious. Aurelianus first, because he's the most dangerous. Tobias second, because that fucker was quick with his blades. Flint third, getting four bullets to the chest--because I don't think the first three could stop him.

I started to make my move when Aurelianus slid two daggers out and knelt down. In a smooth, swift motion, he drew the blades against the back of his ankles, where tendon and bone where exposed. I was perfectly aware of the half-demon's abilities, and knew that he wouldn't hamstring himself without a perfectly good reason.

In that moment, I muttered a quick curse, hoping that he wouldn't direct the Pain Mirror at me.

I abandoned my plan to use the gun already. Instead, the palms of my hands quickly filled with thick pools of acid, which quickly crystalized as they mixed with the cold, crisp Salvic air. The pools sharpened into jagged amber shards that could tear flesh and cloth and leave behind nasty lacerations that would burn and itch and bleed for hours on end. I threw my hands forth and aimed at the legs of Flint and Stalt. If my guesses as to what Aurelianus was doing were correct, then the shrapnel blasts from my hands would do some severe damage to our opponents as they writhed in pain on the ice-covered lake.

[Warpath]

The tension in the air was a thing, a real thing, weighty and taut and uncomfortable to bear. It was familiar to Flint: like a scratchy blanket from childhood, comforting one with memories even while the wool irritated the skin. He'd lived a rough life for the last decade, and he'd been a veteran gladiator before that. He'd seen these feelings of distrust and the fear of coming pain ill-hidden behind hollow shows of bravado. For him, they were more common than smiles.

Though, perhaps the bravado was not so hollow here.

The brute didn't know the dry-humored boy, but he had a limited recollection of the woman. The faces of most men came and went with a shrug, but Flint never forgot a dangerous woman, and this one was dangerous. He could remember a host of hidden knives, and the way she'd walked so casually into the deadly jungle, alone. And now she was something...else.

Something closer to Aurelianus.

There was something wrong with the hell-spawn, something Flint knew but couldn't place, something the nightmare was keeping concealed just so. It didn't matter, ultimately. The tiefling could stand and talk and move, and that meant he was immeasurably menacing. The thought came unbidden that Flint would be dead if not for Aurelianus, and that was the most disquieting thing of all.

The brute did not outwardly engage in the pre-fight preening and posturing - he didn't have to. His shape spoke for him. When Aurelianus moved, though, Flint moved too, cautiously stepping backward. His eyes seemed locked on the half-demon, but his peripherals were trained on Madison and the boy, ready for the slightest hint of movement.

No telling what the unknown could do with those knives, but Aurelianus and Madison were giving one another knowing looks, and that said enough about her. Flint had seen what his old foe could do in The Cell and that had been some time ago - time enough that no doubt he knew even more tricks. Tricks Madison knew and feared but that Flint could only guess at, never to touch the truth of except in his worst nightmares.

Flint didn't have any of that. He couldn't spit fire or plagues or call down curses or trade in souls. Magic abhorred him, just as he generally sneered at it. The only power he had was in his own two hands - there were no higher powers looking out for him, no fearsome symbiont within, no great patron...

Well.

Aurelianus drew his knives and dropped, and it was as if his blades sliced the tension in the air. Madison was moving too, but Flint didn't look at her, not yet. This was the opening salvo, wherein every one of them would bring to bear their worst in an effort to end the fight before the others knew it had begun. Could he weather their worst, or would the fiend call in his debt, or would the girl prove just how memorable she should have been, or would the wild card prove too wild...?

But maybe they didn't realize where they were. Maybe they'd forgotten that Flint wasn't alone, that in fact he was priest to a patron, a god that stretched bigger than any other known land.

Salvar was his ally.

So when Aurelianus dropped, Flint proved himself disturbingly fast for his size. He leapt straight up, high, and raised both knees to his chest...and then he dropped, too. The tiefling's blades were passing through his flesh by the time the brute's boots met the white, but Flint's damage was done first. A deep, deafening crack rattled every bone for miles, and then with a splash the brute was just...gone.

The aftershocks of Flint's impact trembled outward, bladed cracks that popped into existence and spread, every expansion coming with an ear-splitting snap. Islands were forming where once there'd been a solid plain. The islets closest to where Flint had been were tipping downward toward a wide, watery maw, all full of icy black-blue death. For those closest to where Flint had been, gravity and water-slicked ice conspired to feed them to the lake below. For those farther, the same fate was merely promised - only one heavy misstep was needed, now.

[Tobias Stalt]

Discussed with Aure, the following resolution to Aurelianus' pain mirror is approved.

The blink of an eye cannot be counted in seconds, nor heartbeats. It happens so quickly that the mind barely registers it, then it is gone. Such was the pace of three titanic presences in the winter waste; Tobias was caught in the turbulence of a storm far more unruly than any he had previously faced. He even lacked the necessary time to panic.

Death rained from above on Tobias as Madison's evil creation splintered and ate at the scarce foothold he had. The ground and his skin alike hissed with pain as he burst into motion. Too many things were already in motion. His face twisted in a mask of agony , but his resolve burned hotter than acid. He had to get out alive.

Beneath his feet, the ice splintered and shook. The Salvic monstrosity propelled himself into the air, and a shockwave ripped the ice from under the under prepared Stalt. With all the haste he could muster and none of the grace, Tobias tore toward the shoreline on shards of icy ruin.

Slips and slides wracked his movements with excruciating difficulty, and when the Salvic brute broke the watery surface, the inevitable aftershock tossed him airborne. "Gods!" he hissed loudly. His arms flailed and fumbled for his weapons. The mercenary hit dirt with a loud 'crunch,' and he spat out a mouthful of snowy dirt in his labor to stand.

"Right," he muttered. Holes in his pants from the Briarheart's sinister serum evinced his pain just as much as the scorched skin beneath. Shakily, the mortal among gods clenched his singular blade tightly and slid it free. "Not... good." The Dehlar blade hung heavy in his hand as he ran a hand idly across his thigh. It peeled away bloody.

"What...?" his half gasped query shivered in the wind. In his desperation, Tobias completely missed the dark magics inflicted on him by the daemon. Instead of wounding himself, the Tiefling had conjured a means of sharing his experience with his foe. And it bled just the same.

"...fuck this." Tobias managed, his thoughts drowned by the sobering realization that he was entirely outmatched.