Cracked Earth: In the Lair of the Beast

[Slayer of the Rot]

The smoke twisted just briefly about his head, sliding through the hazy halo that already cloaked most of his upper body like a formless gray snake. Then, it found the chilly draft coming from the dark above, and rose into it, vanishing into the shadows that hid away the tall ceiling - if there was one. Sighing, the Saraelian reclined further into the leather cushions of his seat, long hair falling over its arm.

It hadn't even been a week since he'd spilled Jame Whitizard's blood in this very Pagoda before he'd received word in Raiaera that he had been inducted into the Hierarchy. The word had been bright, and noisy, sent through a leyline and had caused a ridiculous uproar amongst the ranks of Xem'Zund's lesser soldiers that he'd had to kill a few dozen of them to keep quiet. At the moment, a crude stone replica was resting in his quarters, and he wondered if the Necromancer knew or not. He smirked when he realized the ridiculousness of the thought. Of course he knew, he just didn't seem to care about the Saraelian's extracurricular activities, so long as he was present when the real killing needed to be done.

He wasn't even sure if he cared about Xem'Zund's thoughts about his work here in the Pagoda. His idle condition was beginning to grate at him more and more each day. Details of his daughter was beginning to fade in his mind, and still he seemed to be nothing but a figurehead amongst the necromancer's forces. Undeniably, a figurehead of exceptional power, but a figurehead none the less. The dead swallowed more and more of Raiaera each day, and his aggravation increased at the rate. He'd taken the position as Hierarch for little other reason than to perhaps work that frustration out on someone who was worth it. Bringing a slender wooden pipe to his lips, Dan drew deep from it. He let his head fall back, the cold of the chamber beginning to nip at what flesh was bared under the voluminous folds of the white fur coat most of his body was lost in.

All around him came the steady clunk, clunk, clunk of gears doing their work, whatever that may be. One would think the monotonous noise would grate on his nerves, but it only served to focus him. The smell of warm metal and hot oil comforted him in only a way one connected to the stones and ore could be. Rings of smoke rose from his parted lips and he let the hand holding his pipe fall again to his side. His knuckles brushed the cool metal of the dais his throne sat upon. Just beneath the patches of metal that carpeted the floor of the chamber, stone and dirt waited for the Saraelian to draw upon it. Crude, black, wrought iron torches cast a fiery orange glow around the floor.

The throne that he sat upon himself was one of the only things in the room constructed of materials that did not scream Industrialism in their design. Its back was formed of an old tower shield and two enormous war spears wielded to the side of it. The arms of the throne were crafted from two enormous tusks of some unfortunate lumbering animal, and the hide that upholstered the throne most certainly came from the same beast. A thin red carpet stretched from the foot of the throne, down the dais, across the metal plated floor - and to two dark oak and bronze doors. Beyond them lay a drafty cave with dripping stalactites and the occasional bat. That was where any challenger with such bad luck to choose the newest Hierarch would come, through its pitted walls, and up to the curious doors. One of them was cracked open, so a sliver of amber light would wait as something of an invitation.

Dan Lagh'ratham sighed and smoked. The gears turned, working some unknown machine, up into the dark of the unseen ceiling.

[Christoph]

The salty ocean breeze carried a chorus of gulls across the gray granite rocks that lined the coast like a set of jagged teeth. Christopher inhaled deeply, breathing in the pure and natural energy surrounding him. The shimmering water rippled with a soft, slow tempo as it ebbed and flowed, kissing his toes as he sat cross-legged on the sand. He straightened his back, savoring the first wave of tingling energy coursing through his body like vital blood. The chef exhaled, expelling his aura’s impurities and all the stress and pain he’d experienced during the past months.

The gentle afternoon sun struck his tattered white chef coat, enveloping him like a warm embrace. Inhale. Chris focused on a single toe at first. The second toe from the left on his left foot. He didn’t know why and it didn’t matter. Exhale. He felt a trickle of energy flow into that toe, no more substantial than morning dew shaken from a single blade of grass.

His awareness expanded, enveloping all of the toes on his left foot, and quickly the foot itself. Inhale. He breathed deeply the clean, salty air. He let it fill his lungs and held in his breath just long enough for its purity to slowly course through his body. Exhale. With an effort of will, the chef gently forced the stench of undeath that had been his frequent companion during his stay in Corone from his mind and soul.

The scope of his focus grew further until it took in his entire leg. The insubstantial trickle of energy grew into a gentle stream, flowing into his leg and through the rest of his body. Soon, his concentration encircled both legs. Inhale. He breathed in confidence, strength, and courage – distantly familiar pleasures from an all but forgotten life. Exhale. He expelled fear, doubt, and pain – disturbingly familiar sensations that had become his constant companions for the past several months.

His stream of consciousness grew rapidly then, connecting every part of his body. It quickly expanded to his surroundings. Inhale. The energy washed over him like a vigorous tide of warm water. He opened his eyes, but the world he perceived was not as any normal man would see it. Veins of energy pulsed and tangled in the air around him. Vibrant reds, blues like the sea, yellows like the sun, and the rest of the spectrum all swirled together in an awe-inspiring dance of light. Exhale. He trembled as he expelled the last of his negative energy. It oozed from his mouth like black fire from a dragon’s jaws. It spouted from his pours like thousands of tiny geysers.

Inhale. He sucked in air until it filled his lungs to their fullest capacity, and then forced more. He sucked in the rainbow of energy that swirled around him, filling the void left by the expulsion of negative energy, and then absorbed even more until his entire body glowed in a bright white light. More! He snatched more power, bringing it into his body, mind, and soul until he feared that he would burst. He felt elated, as though he were soaring through the skies. The weight of the negative energy had been lifted. He shivered, feeling lighter than air.

It was time; he was finished; he was ready.

Exhale.

His first words came from parched lips of lead. “P-perfect…”

* * * * *

Amusingly, “perfect” had been about the last word to cross his mind upon arriving in Scara Brae for the second time since leaving his home in Salvar. His reaction had been more akin to climbing atop the ship’s cabin and screaming “NOOOO!” at the top of his lungs upon finding out that their rudder had been damaged beyond repair. In fact, that’s exactly what his reaction was – and it continued until the vessel’s merchant-captain shoved him face-first off the cabin roof and told him to “shut his sodding mouth!” and that the rudder would be replaced in three weeks time.

Such outbursts were not normal for Chris, but in the months since he’d left home on what was supposed to be a business trip, he’d come to learn that unplanned events tended to happen for a reason. Said reason was usually bad. He was no fool when it came to the laws of time; a great deal of bad things can happen to a man in three weeks. It wasn’t until he calmed down and took a look at the city’s bulletin board that he realized the real reason that he was destined to return. After a morning of preparation, he was standing before the gates of that reason: the Dajas Pagoda.

Being highly literate for a chef, Chris had naturally read of the legendary place more than once. The fact that he was about to casually enter such a hallowed place exhilarated him. As he entered, he found the establishment to function similarly to Corone’s Citadel. He refused to let the shiver of bad memories gain any headway, though. He’d expelled them for a reason and damn it, he wasn’t going to let them weigh him down for such an important fight. It was the chance of a lifetime; he had no idea if he would ever return. He was going to make the most of it.

To his irritation, the monk assigned to guide him, a stout bald man with a wrinkled face and crooked nose, left him to find his way through what appeared to be a particularly moist natural cave. The walls seemed to buzz with a faint mechanical murmur. It wasn’t unlike the distant locomotives that he’d heard chugging through the mountain passes of Salvar during the summer.

The curious noise grew louder as Chris delved deeper into the cave, but did not give him pause. When he reached the imposing doors of wood and bronze, was ready and unafraid for the first time in almost a year. His sword and knives were sharp, his face was shaved, and his chef coat was clean. His body, mind, and spirit were charged with pure, natural energy. But the instant he confidently threw open the doors, he was bombarded with the opposite.

The entire room had a negative, unnatural charge to it. He set foot on the red carpet and found himself surrounded by gears and machines, working tirelessly to ends that the chef couldn’t begin to fathom. Dark light washed over him like a bloody mist. What a forbidding place, he thought to himself, steeling for the clash to come.

Inhale. Chris allowed the polluted air to enter his lungs without fear. Nodding with a grin, he leveled his eyes at the dark figure opposite the room from him and continued his silent march across the red carpet.

[Slayer of the Rot]

Dan's frown intensified as the doors to the chamber were rudely thrown open. He was considerate enough to leave them cracked just so, to let a challenger know they were welcome to their demise, but this entrant knew nothing about manners. From across the room, the torch light was too dim to make out features, but he could discern a flicker of white as the challenger strode further in, and Dan sighed as he sat up, pipe rising to his lips. The Saraelian sneered as a masculine form drew close - then his face went slack, and he fell back over the throne, legs and head dangling over the tusks of its arms.

"Oh. The catering's gotten rather curt around here. Better watch yourself, though. The last of the chefs around here got mouthy with me, I tossed him into the gearwork." It was a blur, but in the orange glow that shown copper against the cogs, one could see that a few in the far south east of the section was a little too red.

If tension had drawn taut his form in preparation for battle, the appearance of the young man standing away from the dais had drawn it out in a casual sigh. The ember in the pipe's mouth glowed bright red in strange contrast to the Saraelian's face. His expression was one of settled comfort. He didn't look like he was ready to move anytime soon, much less for the young man with the brazen, confident stance.

"You'd have better brought something decent today. Yesterday's creamed chicken was horrific. Something like...steak. Hromagh, yes. Cooked rare so the blood just runs and runs. Sends shivers down my spine." He chuckled as he raised the pipe again - and paused. The grin that had come over his face as he described his carnal meal faded as he felt something in the air. It was a strong, sure presence that carried with it the sensation of fresh country air and cool ocean spray. For some odd reason, it unsettled him. It felt like something of a counterbalance to his self, and whatever dark humor had settled in him evaporated. A spiteful, arrogant smile spread across his lips.

The boy seemed positively charged with the presence that had invaded his chamber; the Saraelian could see it in his eyes. Looking at him closer, he could tell he was no caterer - at least, not at the moment. Though dressed in the traditional vestments of a chef, there was something about his posture and features that suggested he knew what he was doing with a blade. The assumption was further cemented by sharp knives at the ready and the heavy, stylized sword he possessed. The man had a look of highborn nobility to his posture as well.

"Feh. You're not the Pagoda staff. And not much to look at, either." Dan sunk farther into the throne's seat, so that now only a curtain of his long, dark hair hung from the throne's arm, gently swaying in the cool draft. Folding his hanging arm over his stomach, Dan tapped his pipe out against the side of the steel and bone throne.

"Go on, get," he snarled through his smirk, making shooing motions with the thin pipe clenched between two fingers. "You couldn't even give me a reason to get up."

[Christoph]

Christopher paused at first, tilting his head as the enthroned man rambled on about food. The Pagoda warrior’s cold baritone voice gave the chef pause for but an instant; in truth, the sinister tone fit the ambiance of their so-called arena very well. His unease dispersed before it truly took hold and the next reaction for the challenger was that of laughter. It was a soft laugh, just above a chuckle and filled with an offbeat humor. It was, of course, the laugh he gave when his mind when straight into the gutters.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” he replied to the shadowy man on the throne. “But I’m not about to let you eat my meat. I hardly know you, and you’re not exactly my type.” He grinned, twirling his blade idly in his hand.

“Furthermore, I’ve been told by countless barmaids that my creamed chicken is quite nice.” The literal meaning of that statement was true, as Chris was regarded as a great cook in his Inn back home. The suggestive connotations, however, were blatantly false. He hadn’t had the chance to get quite so popular with them. “Now, your boy chef fetish aside, I do recall coming here for a reason.” The Pagoda Warrior didn’t budge. Chris tapped his fingers and hidden gears continued to crank.

Long moments passed as the challenger stared up at the warrior, his brow quirked with sardonic scrutiny. This hadn’t been what Chris had expected when entering the Pagoda, to find an opponent completely uninterested in his duties. At first, he thought that it might be some sort of test put forth by the arena’s master to see how he would react. This was quickly dismissed, of course, on account of being too painfully cliché to be true.

I’ll give you a reason to get up, you cocky bastard, he thought. The chef’s smirk widened as he tossed his trusty blade from his right hand to his left. His next action was as swift as it was potent. It was probably the most poorly mannered thing that he had ever done. His gall made him smile inside.

With a forceful thrust of his right hand, Chris released a portion of his surplus energy to fling a swirling blue fireball several times larger than his head toward the other end of the room. The supernatural flame not only clashed with the rest of the environment in light and color, but also in the purity of its energy, which was completely different from the polluted aura that surrounded it. Its target was not the enthroned Warrior, despite the attack’s trajectory. The real target was throne itself.

The challenger smiled. His foe would get up one way or another.

[Slayer of the Rot]

"Didn't I tell you to leave?"

The words came snarled through clenched teeth and he cursed the man and his persistence. If he'd just left like he'd been told, he could have kept his life and the Saraelian could have comfortably drifted off into a nap. But the presence that was flowing from him had forced his guard, though it was not visibly apparent. Inside, it felt like he had a tight knot of wires snagged in his stomach, pulling taut his muscles in anticipation of some action. And as expected, the retaliation came mere moments after he'd finished packing his pipe.

Azure light and crackling heat had Dan off his throne and crouching before it in mere seconds, a show of his inhuman reflexes. When the roiling blue ball had sailed overhead, he was in the air too, seeming to glide over Christopher, the trailing tails of his coat, hanging lazily off his bare shoulders, fluttering with the sound of leathery wings. By the time Dan had landed heavily on the ground only a dozen or so feet behind the chef, absorbing the impact by crouching as he met the patched metal floor, the fireball had met the throne. It's tall back was lost in cobalt fire for a moment before the spell detonated in a billowing cloud of black and blue, throwing hot shards of metal across the chamber. Still in a crouch, Dan summoned the Shield of Vanguard, it's gruesome, huge toothed grin towards Christopher, and did not dismiss it until he stopped hearing the shrapnel ring off it's black lipless face.

The anger expressed on Dan's face alone was nothing to be particularly moved by. The light in his eyes had gone hard, and his lips were pressed together so hard they had nearly vanished. However, the torch light playing across the hollows of his face added a strange quality to it. The light was perhaps the only soft, comforting thing in the entire chamber, but now that the predator stood, his temper building to an epic explosion, it had taken on a menacing quality.

His throne was essentially demolished. The ragged ends of what was left of the tower shield and the war spears were smoking, glowing white hot. Little blue tongues flickered on the seat, eating through the plush cushion. The white of the tusks were marred with smears of soot, and the smell of smoldering metal was thick in the air.

"You know, I'd had you pegged as a man who knew a hard days work. Salt of the earth. Someone," he spat, the volume of his voice spiking with the word as he stepped forward, "who could respect the sanctity of a man's sanctuary and the value of his possessions." He glanced down at the pipe, with the fresh pack of tobacco in it, and sighed as he tossed it away.

"But you're just another mannerless little twat. Make peace with your various gods or what have you. I'm sending you off to the Antifirmanent..."

Curling his hands into large fists, the Saraelian drew in a deep breath, and shut his eyes, feeling the flat hum of the stone and dirt beneath the metal under his feet. With a slow exhale, Dan brought his fist together slowly before his chest, touching the thick knuckles together. If Christoph attacked now, he'd knock him away and repeat as many times as needed. Another breath; he could smell the thick tang of hot ozone as the metal of his throne continued to melt, the sharpness of worn copper wires, the flat heavy taste of warm brass in the back of his mouth. He'd been lounging about for three days, and hadn't bothered to exercise his bond with the stones. In a moment, that low drone he felt in the core of his bones rose to an electrical thrumming, spreading into his muscles. It was a quick process, but out of practice or not, the bond was still innate. Eyes still closed, the Saraelian extended his right hand out to the side, stretching his fingers. The motion meant more than what could be perceived human eyes. Dan reached out through the unknown and into his own little pocket dimension - and found instantly what he was looking for.

The object struck the ground with greater noise than Dan's bulk could have managed. Closing his hand around a haft nearly as thick as his own powerful forearm, the Saraelian opened his eyes, the enormous spearhead of his summoned weapon casting his face in shadow; it did not detract from the unsettling effect the torch light had cast on him. Hefting the enormous spear into the air, Dan began to spin it in wide, slow arcs at first as he began to walk towards Christopher.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, anyway? Why do you think you're even worth bloodying up my weapons? Did you wander in here at random, are are you just stupid? Do you even know who I am?" The turns of the gigantic drill spear had picked up speed to the point that the smoke wafting off the cooling shrapnel was pushed away. If Christopher were to try and jump in to draw blood, he'd surely be smashed in the process. Well within striking distance, Dan stomped a foot forward, arms bulging, and brought the spear down in a monstrous blow.

"I'm Dan Lagh'ratham, bitch."

[Christoph]

Chris instinctively crouched as two hazardous things happened in rapid succession. The Pagoda warrior lunged from his throne with speed and agility that shocked even the challenger. In an instant that seemed to drag on for several moments, his foe flew overhead like an angel of death, landing with feline grace behind him. The pyromancer was quick as well, however, and spun around to face him – only to be reminded of just how much power his fireballs had as a blast of metal and bone shrapnel peppered his back and cut a shallow gash across his cheek. He only had himself to blame for that, but at least he’d gotten the fight started.

“Oh, stop your whining,” Chris replied, rolling his eyes at his foe’s oddly amusing rant. The challenger stood up with a certain spring and life to him. He swept his sword across the carpet as he straightened his posture, slicing through the red fabric with a subtle motion. As the mysterious machines surrounding them churned and cranked, the gears in his mind quickly began to turn as well. “I can understand a hard day’s work. I was just seeing to it that you actually had a real one for once... as opposed to one that you hallucinated while sitting in a cloud of smoke.”

The chef grinned smugly even as he kept his guard up. He could sense the movement of magic as distinctly as he could see the red glow that surrounded them. To what ends the magical energy was called, he wasn’t able to ascertain until a rather large spear appeared in mid-air and fell to the floor with a startling metallic clang. Even more shocking was when the Warrior hefted the weapon, which must have been inconceivably heavy, with a single arm.

He wasn’t about to lose his calm just yet, though. Even as his superhuman foe began his advance, spinning the monstrous pole-arm around like a bamboo rod, Chris refused to give in to the urge to soil himself and run away screaming like a small child. He’d just need to be clever. Fortunately, ingenuity was easy once panic was overcome and the only other option was having one’s skull splattered like a rotten apple.

Focusing intently on his timing, Chris didn’t move more than a twitch until he was certain that his opponent was done putting on his show and was actually committing to an attack. With impressive agility, he crouched and grabbed the gashed carpet in his left fist. In the same fluid motion, he made a lightning step to the right and shoved the carpet into the point of the oncoming spear, letting the weapon pierce it instead of his flesh. He followed up instantly, looping the loose end of the wounded carpet around the spear like a mummy wrapping.

The Pagoda challenger didn’t even waste time on a smug grin before pivoting like a fencer and spinning off the taut and tattered carpet, thrusting his dueling sword at the Warrior’s chest as the spear impaled the crimson carpet. The challenger expended breath enough to utter but two words.

“Dan who?”

[Slayer of the Rot]

The anger he'd felt at the chef's impudence was slowly bleeding it's color out of his face to be replaced with gray, slack boredom. Muscles bunching, Dan pulled up on the spear, stopping it before it crashed into the floor and would be forced to blame himself for busting up more of his chamber. The Saraelian wasn't so jaded that he couldn't give the man credit for not breaking down at the sight of the monstrous spear. Most soldier's would have simply frozen up at such an unbelievable sight. At first, he'd thought that perhaps that sudden flash of will in the man's eyes would mean he'd make for interesting bloodsport, but the actions that immediately followed quickly soured his gruesome optimism.

The challenger's movements were quick, precise, and ingenious. The spiral blade of the spear tore into the mutilated carpet, passing through until the hole the weapon had made was under the blade, making a cumbersome collar. More of the fabric was wrapped quickly around it, bind it and making the entire thing more trouble than it was worth. Sighing, Dan let it go and the bunching of carpet thumped to the ground, the spear dismissed.

The Hierarch's torso recoiled just slightly as Christopher's sword pierced his chest, it's edges grinding first against his ribs and then cracking them as the sword traveled further in, widening the wound. Thick, red streams of blood traveled down the steel, gathered at the crossguards, and began to drip to the floor, making a small bright puddle on the metal patchwork floor. Dan's head had turned down to it when he first felt the pressure, and now he looked up at Christopher.

His lips weren't twisted in the grimace that any wounded man would have been showing. In fact, he barely looked like he felt it.

"Figures some little backwash redneck chef wouldn't know shit," he said with only a hint of malice in his tone. He seemed to be angrier that Christopher didn't recognize his name than the sword embedded in his chest. Scowling at the damage he was about to cause, something he had been hoping to avoid, the Saraelian lifted his foot his foot up to stomach-level and brought it down with incredible force. The floor of the chamber shook, and then broke around Dan and the challenger. The thin metal plates snapped off their rivets and went sailing through the air as the stone beneath cracked and shuddered.

Stepping into the sword, the blade drove farther into the wound it had initially created. A tiny spray of blood erupted around the intruding weapon, and Dan took two swift steps forward, propelled by the powerful muscles in his legs, and launched his forearm at Christoph's throat. Grinding his feet against the cracked, uneven stone, the Saraelian pulled the weapon out of his chest and tossed it to the challenger. The cracked ribs were starting to throb, and was drawing more of his attention than the bleeding or the wound itself. Pressing his fingers against his chest, he felt the broken bones shift, and hoped he'd set them back in their normal position.

"You'll learn."

[Christoph]

Chris wanted to shake his head. Predictable.

He allowed panic to enter his mind for but an instant as his foe shrugged off a wound that would have slain a normal man. There had been a slight glimmer of hope when he’d heard the satisfying sound of ribs snapping and blood spurting. That hope and the brief fear that followed it were merely reflexes, merely illusions to be cleared away like fog dispersed by strong winds. It was this clarity of mind that allowed him to jump backwards at the last minute, drastically lessening the effect of the Warrior’s blow and saving his windpipe from being crushed like a hollow reed.

The impact of Dan’s forearm was still excruciating – a testament to his amazing strength. Chris stumbled backwards several feet before landing hard on his spine, uneven stone and metal rivets bruising his back through his chef coat. Coughing and gasping for air, he climbed slowly and purposefully to his feet. Slowly, he began to laugh.

“Delusions of grandeur… are not becoming of you,” said the chef, grinning, steadying his breath and brushing himself off. He plucked his sword from the floor. “Figures some self-absorbed, drug-addicted nobody would have ego problems.” Ironically, Chris knew exactly who his opponent was. Given how much he’d traveled and read, of course he’d heard the name. He wasn’t about to give the Warrior the satisfaction, though. The arrogant drug-addict wasn’t half as famous as he seemed to think he was. The chef was, however, perfectly aware that his foe’s might was greater than his own. He would need to be smart to win. If part of that meant controlling the battle by playing on the Hierarch’s ego and anger, then so be it.

The challenger’s first instinct was to bombard his foe with fire, taking advantage of the distance between them. It was only the sudden detection of a magical item, a flicker of warning in his mage-senses, that stopped him from unleashing the full might of his fiery wrath. His fickle arcane perceptions came and went seemingly at random, but he’d learned to trust them not to kick in unless it was important. This time, they were drawing his attention to a strange, bone-colored ring on the Warrior’s finger.

To the naked eye, it was nothing extraordinary. To his mage-senses, however, it was a blazing ring, coiling around Dan’s finger like a burning serpent. From what he remembered of his research, Chris could deduce that the unusual ring affected fire-based magic in some way, either as an augmentation to its power or as a ward against it. He had a suspicion, given the fact that his foe had yet to use any kind of elemental magic; he would simply need to make sure..

“You know, I think that I’ll fancy myself a celebrity as well,” mused Chris aloud, twirling his sword while the longhaired creature tended to the wound in his chest. “And for my first act, I’ll need a volunteer.” The chef flicked his wrist, forming a fist size sphere of bright blue fire in his palm. “Now keep your eyes on the glowing ball.” In the instant that followed, the pyromancer tossed the glowing fireball into the air and batted it with his sword as it descended, sending it streaking toward the Warrior. It was time to test his theory.

[Slayer of the Rot]

Slowly but surely, new features of anger had began to play at his frown, his brow, the light in his eyes. It wasn't the sort of rage that filled him when he descended into a blood frenzy, but more the sort of irritation of being inconvenienced that every man experienced. Tendrils of smoke from the debris of his ruined throne were flickering into his eyes, stinging at them. The Saraelian growled deep in his throat, swatting at the gray coils; the chef was bruised and battered, but still quite operational, as evidenced by the way he ran his mouth. Dan's boots scraped at the exposed stone floor, jutting disjointed and cracked through the strained metal plates like broken bones as he shifted his weight, removing his coat. He tossed it aside carelessly and rolled his eyes at Christopher's words, barely even taking notice of the blue fireball he created. As the flames streaked towards him, Dan Lagh'ratham came across a decision.

The challenger had lived long enough.

"You talk so god damn much," Dan growled as he flung an arm out to meet the spell. The Tooth of Ifrit around his thumb glowed red just ever so slightly the moment the back of his hand struck the fireball. The flames made an audible sizzling sound as it burst in a flickering azure spread across his skin, but produced little more than soot and a long streak of raw, pink flesh from his knuckles to a few inches of his elbow. The Hierarch didn't even react to the injury. Instead, he pulled on the surrounding magnetic fields and pushed against them with his terramancy, rising a few feet off of the ruined floor of his chamber.

"If this was a real battle, you would have had a sword run down your throat while you were busy running your mouth." The change in the Heirarch’s mannerisms was slight, but evident to anyone having witnessed the battle; his trash talking had vanished. With a grimace that bared his teeth, Dan lifted both arms up above his head, and hundreds of rivets popped loose, darting through the air. The metal plates that had matted his chamber's floor sprang up and scattered under him as the stone shook. The earth rose up in three man sized towers with three loud cracks, scattering debris. Lifting his legs, Dan slammed his feet into the tops of them, scattering dozens of fist sized rocks around the chamber. One of them struck a torch with a resounding crash, bending it slightly and scattering coal and ashes across the floor.

The Saraelian shot through the air, streaking towards one of the gear strewn walls of the chamber. Landing vertically in a gap between the turning toothed disks, Dan thrust his fingers under the cog and lifted with all of his strength. With a groan and a shriek of tearing metal, he ripped it free from the wall and its labor of the unknown machine. The huge brass gear was several times bigger than his own self, and it was almost absurd to see him beneath its bulk, holding it aloft. Grunting, the Heirarch drew back, cocking the cog behind his head, and launched it the arena.

Such an onslaught could only mean the endgame was here. If any aces were left, the challenger was going to find it in his best interest to play them...

[Christoph]

At last, the real battle had begun. The entire interior of the industrial chamber exploded in a maelstrom of metal. The arena had come alive and it was out for Chris’s blood. Flying metal sheets and bolts swirled around the challenger, battering him from all sides. The hailstorm of iron pelted his head, torso, and legs. His breath went ragged as he sprinted toward the Warrior, blood trickling from his mouth and his vision spinning after a few blows to the skull and jaw. With the fight escalating, the last thing the chef could afford was a battle of attrition.

Miraculously, he mustered enough concentration to cast the only charm in his repertoire that would be of any use in such a situation. When, after a three word mumbled incantation, the chaos in the arena seemed to slow for a moment, he knew that he’d gotten it right. When he sprung forward with superhuman swiftness, narrowly evading a giant metal cog flying through the air, he knew that he’d done it just in time.

In the midst of the vicious offensive, the Warrior had finally made his first real mistake. In an effort to display his superhuman strength, the Hierarch and willingly cornered himself and cut off his line of retread, reducing his room to maneuver by half. The psychological effect of the demonstration was meaningless; how was one supposed to intimidate a foe that knew that he could not truly die there?

With his heightened swiftness, he lunged right into a flip, springing from his closed fists and scraping most of the skin off of his knuckles onto the unforgiving stone floor in the process. By the time the massive metal gear struck the ravaged chamber floor, Chris was within striking range of Dan. Steel flashed like lightning and the chef lashed out with his dueling sword, still mid-step. The blade angled first toward the Warrior’s stomach, but with a dazzlingly swift flick of his wrist, the chef redirected the cutting edge to its real target.

He was certain now that the bone ring protected its wearer from flame. Since the challenger’s most devastating attacks relied on such fiery wrath, his only hope for victory was to take the ring out of the picture. Thus, as his weapon arced, it went straight for the Warrior’s ring finger with an expert level of skill and precision that could have only come from years of practice combined with magical enhancement.

Already realizing that an instantaneous follow up was crucial, Chris didn’t even take the time to gauge the effectiveness of his first attack. Without a breath of hesitation, the bruised and battered pyromancer sprung backwards with acrobatic grace. His irises flared with the fire of wrathful god and his lips formed a thin, malicious smile to match. Then the storm came.

The challenger dropped his sword and unleashed his pent-up magical might in the form of a swirling stream of blue fire upon the Warrior. The blinding, blistering bombardment illuminated the chamber with a purifying blue light, driving back the dim, polluted red glow. Christopher’s assault was like nothing he’d ever accomplished before. He felt his reserves of power pour from him like a raging river. The heat, the power, the exhilaration… it was amazing. It filled him with euphoria to think that such power was at his fingertips. It only lasted for a few seconds, though, before he fell back down to ground level again.

Gasping for breath in the wake of his onslaught, the challenger peered through the steam, dust, and smoke to gaze upon his handiwork.

[Slayer of the Rot]

Through the shattered stone and spinning brass, he came, beaten and bloody. Dan simply grinned at the chef, waiting for him. The challenger's lips moved quickly, and then he was a rapid blur before the cast cog, dodging it deftly before sprinting straight for the Heirarch. The ground shook as the gear bounced across the room, lost momentum, and ground to a stop, slamming to its side. "Come and bleed, you fucking idiot!" He yelled over the chaos of the room, over the hum and rattle of gearwork, the clatter of broken rock. Clutched in the hand partially hidden by his thigh, he gripped the glossy black blade of a combat knife.

'Think you've got me cornered. Keep thinking it, you piece of garbage. I'll gut you like a fucking pig. Just like that jungle bunny the first time I came to this Pagoda.' The challenger was there at his feet the moment the thought flashed through his head, and he reacted like a flash of light off a blade. Dan lunged, the knife hissing in the air as it slashed out, but Christopher's neck wasn't there the next second. Instead, he saw a glint of silver and then two of his fingers were sailing through the air with a spray of blood.

The Saraelian looked at the bloody hand, sans pinky and ring, with an expression of contempt and disgust. "You fucking twat, that was my choking hand!" Growling in anger, less that he had been wounded, and more so that an insect had managed to wound him as such, Dan lunged forward again, intent on making the chef pay. His bleeding hand reached out and the knife came in low to cut into stomach flesh, but again, he was gone - leaving a roaring stream of azure fire. Bellowing with anger now, the fire swirled around him. Summoning the strange tower shield, the Saraelian leapt into the fire, tucking his body in behind the metal. Blue tongues of flame licked around the shield, taking the brunt of it, but he wasn't fast enough to avoid it all. The whirling fire came from the sides and grabbed onto his right side. He could feel it blackening the flesh, searing away muscle, sizzling fat...his roar of anger was deafening as he hit the ground and rolled, burning blue, the shield vanishing. Dan beat against the flames furiously and finally pulled a blanket of dirt over himself to smother the fire.

It was quiet for a few moments, save for the crackle of a few remaining cerulean cinders.

Then, gasping for air, Dan burst up from the mound of smoking dirt. Soil and stone crumbled off his sooty body, and he hunched over, breathing hard. "Fuuuuuuucccck," he hissed through a raw, throbbing throat, and batted away the smoke as best he could.

The skin on his right side was blackened, blistered, and had burned away in some places to reveal, raw, sticky red meat. His arm hung listlessly at his side, the fingers twitching sporadically. Charred bone was nearly all that remained of the appendage, though some shriveled pieces of muscle still clung. He drew another shuddering breath in, exhaled, and the horror continued as smoke fluttered away.

The flesh and hair had been melted away from the right side of his face. Gingerly, he raised a hand to his bare, black skull, and hissed as he touched the bone. The left side of his mouth was curled into a furious scowl, the right, an apocalyptic jester. The eye had burst under the intense heat, and milky, viscous fluid wept down the angles of his bony cheek. The fingers of his destroyed right arm twitched uselessly.

Grimacing, Dan tore it away at the shoulder.

He held it before his one remaining eye for a moment, panting and staring at it incredulously. The sticky black bones made dismal clicking noises against each other as he turned it over, and finally, he dropped it, turning his furious one eyed gaze to Christopher. "I am going to kill the fuck out of you," he hissed through scabrous lips. A black gunblade appeared in his hand, and he sprinted across the short gap towards the challenger. The sword arched out in a slash that would cut open the chef's stomach; a fake. Two thin spikes of stone burst from the ground, aimed for the back of the chef's legs, intent on crippling him. Debris scattered at his feet as he rapidly assumed a stance, and brought the gunblade over head. The gunblade sliced down in a quick, final arc, and Dan pulled the trigger twice, firing two rounds just to be sure.

If all went well, Christopher would be pierced, bisected, and shot to death. The thought of it sent a dark chill down his spine.

[Christoph]

Son of a bitch… that’s just not fair.

For an instant, Chris had allowed himself to hope. For a fleeting moment it looked as though his coveted victory was within his grasp. Everything had gone as he’d planned from the moment he set foot inside the arena all the way until he bathed his monstrous foe in a pillar of fiery wrath. He’d outthought a man who clearly outclassed him in power. It had appeared that not only had the chef beaten the odds, he’d scammed the odds out of their all of money and ran off with their women.

Then, however, the odds did the equivalent of forming a lynch mob and hunting him down with torches and pitchforks. Instead of the charred corpse of his opponent sizzling in the dirt, the clearing smoke revealed Dan still standing, his mangled form largely concealed behind a huge shield. The Warrior had barely enough flesh left to even pass as a corpse, but he was still alive. Chris blanched as the Hierarch ripped his own destroyed arm off.

“No fucking way,” he uttered, suddenly forgetting that his mortality didn’t apply in the Pagoda. Fear welled up within him like boiling water pushing against the lid of a cooking pot. Clouded by these emotions, the challenge was barely able to react when Dan Kross darted toward him like a healthy man, an unusual blade suddenly appearing in his hand out of thin air.

Cursing again, Christopher sprung backwards. His magically heightened agility gave him the grace he needed to evade the first slash. The blade whizzed by just in front of him, cutting a gash in his chef coat. It was only after he dodged the first attack that he realized he had inadvertently evaded a second – mostly evaded, anyway. Two stone barbs shot was the ravaged ground like spears, gouging flesh from the sides of his calves.

Blood dripped down to his ankles as the pyromancer snarled with pain. He stumbled for balance, gaining his bearings just in time to see Dan pointing his black weapon at him like a pistol. The sword was a gun! Yet, even in the face of certain demise, a grin formed on Chris’s lips.

“Oh, you cheap little bastard… overcompensating for something?” There was no reply.

The chef recoiled as he heard the gun cock, his panic instantly returning. He called up the last reserves of his mental energies to form a magical barrier between him and the Warrior’s gun-blade. The glittering translucent disk appeared instantly, covering his thighs to his head. The shot rang out. Echoing in the enclosed chamber and amplified by Christopher’s pain, the cracks of the gun seemed more akin to a mighty explosions of thunder or the blasts of a massive artillery cannon.

Time slowed. The two bullets whizzed through the polluted air. Chris knew that his shield wouldn’t be enough, but he struggled for conjure it anyway. His desperate efforts saved his life. The flying metal rounds impacted the barrier; it rippled like still water struck by a stone, and then shattered. The bullets continued through, flying through the challenger’s outstretched hand in a shower of red and striking him squarely in the chest. The air fled his lungs and he flew backwards, landing motionless on his back.

[Slayer of the Rot]

As though they could sense the impending climax of the match, the gears on the walls had picked up their speed. The stink of hot metal was thick in the air; the cogs were turning so fast their teeth were nearly a blur. If Dan noticed the strange phenomenon, he gave no note. The gunshot was still echoing through the industrial chamber. Bleeding profusely, the chef lay quiet on his back.

But the red pool was still growing on the mangled floor. His heart was still beating.

The hierarch scowled. Black sooty flakes broke off from the charred, sticky border between the remnants of his face and the blackened skull. The gunblade flickered in his hand, and became a knife of the same composition. The wear, the nicks, and the scratches of the blade could tell an experienced eye a bloody history. And that vulgar history was about to gain another chapter, because Christopher wasn't going to die of a simple gunshot. The second any man or woman picked up a sword, their death was marked. There would be no peaceful end, no gray hair, loving spouse and children to see them off.

The swordsman's demise was horrible painful, brutal.

Dan said nothing as he approached. He simply made each footstep as heavy as possible so the challenger could hear them. Crouching beside the chef's head, he slapped the flat of his knife against his palm, expressionless.

"I must get a dozen of you kids a month. All balls, all mouth, all swagger. The other hierarchs get you too, but they don't see you as much of a pain in the ass as I do. Got a new sword, maybe a pair of daggers, sometimes a gun, and wants to make a name for himself. Do you know how much pleasure I get from crushing those dreams?"

Dan sighed, and immediately began to smile. "Sometimes I screw up, let my name slip like I did earlier. If I hadn't registered under an alias, I'd get all sorts of assholes wanting my head. It's kind of a shame your blood is going on the hands of some prick named Demirci..." With a grunt, the Saraelian shifted himself into position, raised the knife - and didn't see the chef's hand rise up. The man's palm slammed into his face, grinding dirt and stones into his wounds and remaining eye.

Dan bellowed angrily, dropping his knife as he leapt to his feet. In his distress and fury, the weapon flickered through a number of appearances before becoming the gunblade from before, thumping to the mutilated chamber floor. The hierarch sent his foot crashing to the ground, hoping to crush Christopher's ribcage, but the chef had moved. The Saraelian stumbled backwards, slapping at his face, until he'd backed up against the western part of the arena. Metal shrieked as he tore one of the torches out of the ground with his flailing hand. Rationality struggled to return, and finally, he used his terramancy to pull the invading dirt away.

He blinked a few times. A spray of embers and soot had scattered far enough to reach his carpet, which was smoking. Fury returned; many of his possessions had been destroyed. His property. Dan whipped to the left, spit frothing in the corner of his unmarred lip, searching for the challenger.

Something rammed into his back, and he felt something else clamp down around his waist. Warm, sweaty steel drove itself deep into his throat. Dan violently shook his body, throwing Christopher to the ground, and grabbed at the hilt of the knife, tearing it free. An obscene amount of blood came gushing out of the ragged wound. It spattered on the ground and splashed over his chest, making him look even more gruesome than before. The Saraelian gnashed its teeth, gurgling in its throat, eye unfocused and bloodshot.

The gears gained momentum, the ground shook, and the dying beast struggled to release its fury unadulterated through its torn throat.

[Christoph]

Exhale. Christopher staggered toward his opponent, his pulse a pounding bass in his skull. Blood oozed steadily from the shallow wound in his chest and the arena spun awkwardly in his swimming vision. It was by strength of will alone that the challenger remained standing.

Inhale. His ragged breath came in gurgling gasps of blood and pain as his feet scuffed clumsily over the violated earth and metal floor. It was the endgame – the hidden machines in the arena knew this, accelerating even more rapidly in response. By a combination of brutal cunning, tenacity, and just plain luck, the chef had one more piece to play on the bloodied chessboard.

The torturous agony that racked his body served as a grim reminder of the fragility his advantage. Chris’s life steadily drained from his body. He lacked the strength to muster a killing blow with his sword or knife and his magical energy was fully spent. Doing nothing, however, would only seal his defeat; Dan Kross would certainly outlast the chef, even in his injured state.

Through the haze of pain and fatigue, a solution presented itself. The challenger’s foot brushed against Dan’s damned thrice-damned gunblade, the weapon responsible for the agonizing wounds in the chef’s chest. His lips formed a bestial grin as he leaned down and scooped the firearm from the arena floor. Inhale.

“I would lecture you about how you shouldn’t underestimate your opponents,” said Chris between pained coughs. “But hell, a famous prick like you should know better. Especially against me.” He raised the gun. “After all, don’t you know who I am?” He laughed, the tone of it unhealthy. “I’m Christopher Knighton, bitch!”

He pulled the trigger and fell back in the wake of the explosive crack, his last reserves of vitality exhausted. A veil of blackness clouded his vision. The pounding between his ears slowed and then ceased completely. Exhale. There would be no inhale.

[Slayer of the Rot]

It was like waking from a pleasant dream...there had been the short second of pressure on the back of his skull, then darkness. But not the sort of nothingness associated with death. It was the quiet, restful sort one would compare to sleep. Dan Lagh'ratham was rising out of it now, as the dull, featureless red glow on his eyes began to brighten to amber. Closely, he heard the shuffle of feet as his mouth stretched open into a wide yawn.

He opened his eyes and instantly narrowed them to a squint, throwing his arms over his head to stretch the lax muscles. That bright golden glow had been brilliant sunlight cast on walls painted pure white. Pushing himself up into a sitting position, he glanced at the two monks beside his bed and produced a cigarette despite their silent, admonishing frowns. With each breath he was slowly waking back up in on of the Pagoda's medical rooms.

"You're taking this awfully well, mister Uta." The Saraelian nodded slowly. His neck felt stiff, and a little cold, but the life was returning to it. From the brightness of the light he guessed it around noon. The room was of course one of the private Hierarch recovery chambers. The window in the eastern most wall was thrown open wide, the curtains pulled back. The furnishings were sparse; there was a bed, upon which he sat and smoked upon now, a dresser, and a small table. Everything was white - a bright, stark white that assaulted his eyes. The only break in the color was the brown of the monk's robes, and the bloodstain on the left side of the mattress.

"Or is it perhaps because you will have the last laugh, mister Lagh'ratham?" An easy grin spread Dan's lips and he nodded, jabbing a finger at the monk. The one that had been doping all the speaking was tall, with a hawkish nose, shrewd dark eyes, and a receding black hairline. The other beside him was taller still, broad in the shoulders, and a little dull in the eyes. He was holding a sheaf of papers and scribbling furiously, dipping his pen into an ink bottle cradled dangerously in the crook of his left arm.

"Exsh....exact-taly." His voice rasped and snagged in his dry throat, but returned quickly. "I rather figured you were listening in on the fight."

"We were always rather suspicious of you, Mister Lagh'ratham," the hawkish monk responded. "And you're not the mindless beast you are always portrayed as. You prepared for a situation like this. You understood our regulations. Therefore, mister Knighton's victory will have to be marked under Demirci Osma Uta. A man who never truly existed."

"Who's Knighton? I never fought anyone by that name," Dan mocked, his grin nearly ear to ear by now. "He sounds like small fry. A weak little insect that fought a lazy, unmotivated man." The large, burly monk fumbled about in the pockets of his robe and produced a stamp. He smacked it against the paper three times and exhaled loudly, wiping sweat off his forehead - spilling the little ink bottle across his wide chest and stomach in the process. He moaned grievously as the stain spread rapidly down the garment.

Black spots dribbled onto the white floor of the recovery room as the hawkish man extended a hand that Dan took immediately. "Welcome to the Dajas Pagoda, Mister Lagh'ratham. We've made arrangements to register you as a Master. My peers call you a troublesome monster and a beast. A blight on our honor. But I happen to recognize power when I see it."

Dan Lagh'ratham crushed his stub of a cigarette between his fingers. Dark shadows joined the brilliant white light across his face as his shark like smile split apart. "Oh, I'm going to have such fun."

[Christoph]

“Excuse me?” asked an incredulous chef, his head still spinning slightly in the wake of his body’s restoration. He cracked his back, sitting on the edge of a small bed. “Who the hell is Demirci?”

“He was your opponent, sir, don’t you remember?” replied a stout, young Monk with blonde hair and tan skin. He was a lackey, a lowly orderly working for a more important Pagoda Monk.

“My memory is just fine, you fool,” Chris growled back, uncharacteristically angry. He rubbed his throbbing forehead with the heel of his hand. “I know who I fought. How could I forget the name of Dan Lagh’ratham?”

“I’m afraid you must be mistaken,” the short Monk replied, holding out a stamped parchment for Chris to see. “Our records don’t say anything about a Dan Lagh’ratham. They all clearly state that your challenge was accepted by Demirci Osma Uta.” Something about the messenger’s overly formal voice and the way he held his nose in the air infuriated Christopher even more.

“Listen, you pompous lackey,” snarled the chef, sliding off the small cot he’d been lying on and grabbing the Monk’s brown robes. “I know what I heard! He called himself Dan Lagh’ratham.”

“You must have misheard,” said the Monk, taking a step back and giving Chris a leveled look.

“Fine.” He clenched his fists for a moment before taking a deep breath and sliding his newly cleaned chef coat back on. “If that’s the story you’re going to give me, fine. Why don’t you let me talk to Demirci, then? I’m sure that the two of us could”

The Monk blanched slightly. “I… he’s…”

“He’s not available at the moment,” said a cold voice with a slimy diplomatic tone. “For obvious reasons.” A slim Monk with an angular face and pointed, hook-shaped nose had come up behind him.

“Bull shit,” the challenger scoffed. “If I’m standing, he’s going to be at least awake.”

“I’m afraid not,” replied the newcomer with a smile that sent chills down the chef’s spine. “However, I would like to extent congratulations for your victory over Demirci.”

“You mean against Dan.”

“I am afraid that you are mistaken, sir.”

“Yes, yes, so your lackey said,” Chris shot back as he started heading for the door. “I’m leaving.”

“So I assume you do not wish to claim the coveted Warrior rank?”

Christopher laughed on his way out. “Not a chance; not if I’d have to pretend to be someone else, as seems to be the customs in this mad house.”

“Well, the position will be waiting for when you return.”

“I appreciate the gesture,” replied the chef sardonically. “But I won’t be coming back.” It was the thin monk’s turn to laugh at that point.

“Oh yes you will, Christopher Knighton.”

“I am afraid that you are mistaken, sir.” The chef scowled back at the pair of robed men before storming out. Ripples of heat radiated from his body. He left the ancient temple even angrier than before because that damn hawk-faced bastard was right. He would be back.

[Raelyse]

Slayer of the Rot

Story

Continuity – 6 – I really liked how you tied the story up at the end by having Dan properly join the Pagoda, which really made this thread feel like it was an important part of his story, instead of just a battle that served as an interlude. This only came about at the end though, which was very disappointing and I would have liked to know more about Dan at the start. You gave me a bit, but I didn't feel as if it was enough.

Setting – 7 – It was your arena, so obviously you had the advantage but I found that you really made the area come alive with great metaphors. I also liked how Dan valued his arena like a home. However, I didn't get as clear a picture of the arena as I wanted, which is why you didn't score higher.

Pacing – 6 – You did well here because Dan is a great character and each post transitions well into the next one. You are no doubt helped by your lengthy list of abilities and weapons. It's almost as if Dan is a magician and I can't wait to see what trick he pulls out next. However, I didn't really like your first few posts which weren't as well written, so this dragged your score down.

Character

Dialogue – 8 – This is strong, because it fits so well with the Dan's personality. Your dialogue is never boring and didn't lose any of the pace or charm when Dan started to rev up. I didn't give you higher because I thought a few lines were slightly corny, like the the “I'm Dan, Bitch” thing, but it was good for the most part.

Action – 7 – Dan's lazy at first, but once he's angered, he really starts to go all out. Despite this transition, I never thought that it was awkward or forced. It fit very well with hi character. However I did feel that Dan was dragging his feet slightly when he was trying his hardest to kill Christoph and I would have thought that he would use some of his more powerful abilities to kill him quicker.

Persona – 6 – A character so driven by emotion can be hard to write at times and I felt that you did an adequate job here. You have a good feel for him and you know what makes him tick so it comes naturally for you. However, nothing wowed me and it all seemed kind of average.

Writing Style

Technique – 6 – All your literary devices slide seamlessly in, but I didn't feel as if your descriptions were up to the standard that you set for yourself now. Your descriptions of things throughout the entire battle as a whole weren't fantastic.

Mechanics – 6 – A few spelling errors and sentence construction problems here.

Clarity – 6 - In the beginning, your sentences didn't flow into each other very clearly because I felt that you were a bit too wordy. It was never so bad that I never had a clue what was happening, but there were definitely parts that required a second or third read. You did however improve as the thread went on.

Wild Card – 5 – Overall, a distinctly average performance from you. I didn't sense that you put in very much effort and this is reflected in this score. You can do a lot better and it was frustrating that you didn't.

Total Score - 63

Christoph

Story

Continuity – 5 – The first thing that I read was a strange beginning. I was hoping all the while that you would explain why Christoph needed to de-stress, but it never came in much detail. What had been caused him to get so stressed? The inhale-exhale thing was carried through the thread, but I still don't think it justified such a lengthy part at the beginning, especially since it had little to do with the rest of the thread.

Setting – 6 – You didn't do much to wow me here. I understand that it's Dan's arena and you can't really use it to your advantage. Besides the carpet thing, I don't think you really acknowledged it very much besides the occasional talk of the gears.

Pacing – 6 – It certainly didn't help that Christoph was overpowered by Dan. He was tenacious, but I felt that you used the fire ability too much that it got stale. You don't have as big an arsenal as Dan does, but you can certainly do things to grab my attention.

Character

Dialogue – 5 – I found Christoph's words to be very corny and cliché, especially the bit about the cream chicken at the beginning of the thread. Some lines were direct derivations of Dan's and they did not come off as witty as I assume you intended. Still, your dialogue was at least consistent with Christoph's character.

Action – 7 – Christoph's fighting style and general resolve in battle represent his character well. I liked the desperate way that he fought for victory but I was disappointed at the end that he would throw away all his efforts. I didn't feel as if you pulled that last bit off particularly well.

Persona – 6 - I find it slightly unrealistic that Christoph never really showed significant loss of morale as his attacks continued to prove ineffective against Dan. You mentioned it, but it never really translated into his emotions. In general, I didn't feel as if this was as great a representation of Christoph's character as you could give. You didn't bring his emotions to life enough to warrant a higher score.

Writing Style

Technique – 4 – Your literary devices sometimes stick out like a sore thumb, which doesn't bode well because it really stops any momentum your sentences are building. I didn't really like the way your whimsical style of writing came out in this thread, because you didn't keep it constant through the thread. You would write normally, then suddenly break off on a less serious tangent about him soiling his pants, which totally ruined the mood for me. This prevented any form of rhythm to be built and made it hard to read.

Mechanics – 5 – Grammar, spelling and sentence construction problems here.

Clarity – 4 – I felt you did poorly here. The beginning was especially confusing and there was never really a single post that I could read through without pausing to re-read certain parts. I felt the part where Christoph moves to chop off Dan's fingers was especially hard to understand. I don't think I can give you a higher score than this. Your diction wasn't hard to understand, it was just that I felt that you rushed certain parts and dragged others.

Wild Card – 4 – I felt that you didn't really put that much effort into this thread, particularly towards the end. As a result, I didn't want to give you anything higher. You can do much better than this and it confuses me why you didn't.

Total Score – 52

Slayer of the Rot wins 63 to 52

Slayer of the Rot gains 2750 EXP and 1100 GP
Christoph gains 500 EXP and 275 GP

[Cyrus the virus]

EXP addorz.