NWO Vs. Imperial: Group One

[Christoph]

((Lasair has rights to first post until 36 hours goes by. At that point, a member of NWO may post first if they wish. Also, in the title box for each post, I'd like it if all participants identified which faction they are fighting for (NWO or Imperial) to help prevent confusion. Good luck to all participants, and have fun!

For anyone who doesn't know what group they are in: refer here. (http://www.althanas.com/world/showpost.php?p=107317&postcount=6)))

[Lasair Anubail]

She was pacing.

The hard soles on the bottom of her little black boots were beating against the cool, wooden floor of her room as she walked from one side of it to the other. Her small hands clenched and released reflexively as her golden eyes stared off at nothing before her and ye took in everything about her room. The small space was barely decorated with small things that the Fae had found and collected around the manor, things she was sure that the man named Dirks would hardly even notice missing, including a number of books and trinkets placed on the small table. There was a stone fireplace against the north wall that had no flame within it now. Her small but comfortable bed was opposite the fireplace and there was a small writing desk and chair for her. It was friendly and comfortable, but it wasn’t home. It was just another place for her to stay while she travelled the world of Althanas, but right now it was becoming a haven.

When Ter-Ter had asked her to help with this battle, this weird clan war, Lasair had declined. She didn’t know how to fight and she certainly didn’t think her skills would be of much use at all for the clan. She’d more likely get in the way than help. She didn’t know any magic other than her synthesizing and that was certainly not going to help her in this kind of situation. But eventually, their leader had persuaded the small Fae to help and even given her a commanding position. She couldn’t believe it. Part of her just wanted to shake the woman a few times and try to knock some sense into her, the other part of her was so elated she felt like dancing right here in her room. It was quite confusing and also nerve wracking. Especially the waiting part, for Imperial could do nothing right as they waited for the approaching forces of New World Order and Gol’bron to make an appearance.

Oh, what if they’re giant, monster men that eat little Fae for breakfast? Oh, what’ll I do then?

She shook her head, clearing it of such thoughts. No race ate Fae that was just nonsense.

Knowing that staying in her room wasn’t going to get anything done, Lasair grabbed her leather Never-Ending rucksack off the edge of her bed. She’d made sure to pack everything that she thought would be useful, including some of the only items she had that could be considered weapons. That also meant she packed Tristram, Avery and Godhand too since they were her protectors after all. If anything happened to her in this war, she knew they would save her, no matter what.

Slinging the traps over her shoulders, Lasair took a deep breath and then swung open the door to her room, head held high and ready to take on the armies of Haidia. She was going to give them a beating they’d never forget! Somehow...

She didn’t make it very far down the hallway before a sudden and green light encased her entire person. Confused and slightly worried, the Fae tried to out run the light, letting out a light squeak as she felt her entire body shift and move, but not move. A tingling sensation ran rampant across her skin and the strong magic nearly gave her a pounding headache. The Fae knew a teleportation spell when she practically stepped in one and was whisked away to some crazed person’s imagined playground.

Sensation came back to her suddenly and left her feeling cold.

Her feet were back on solid ground but before she could even think to move or react she felt them slip and give out beneath her. Her legs went up and for a brief moment she found herself suspended in the air before she went crashing down to the cold, wet and slippery ground. Her butt, back—cushioned by her rucksack—and head slammed into the hard ice, dazing the small woman for a moment as she looked up at the bright expanse of blue sky above her.

“Ohhh... owwie, owwie, owwie!”

Whimpering, she slowly stood up, rubbing the back of her skull and her bottom, which felt rather tender and sore at the moment. Her hands ran across her simple curves, smoothing down her rumpled and dark blue dress as she straightened herself and regained her composure. Taking a proper look around her, Lasair realized she was currently standing within the middle of a large, frozen lack surrounded on all sides by tall, beautiful mountains that reached towards the expanse of blue sky, trying to pierce it with their sharp peeks. Snow covered their grey and black rocks and the high sun created deep shadows and crevices that looked like painful scars. That wasn’t all though, not only were they now standing on a frozen body of water but they were surrounded by some kind of building!

It was massive and made from deep, grey stones that at one point in time could have been beautifully decorated and carved, only time and weather seemed to have taken its toll on the building, leaving it to crumble. It did, parts of the circular monstrosity had fallen away, and leaving gaping holes and dangerous footholds in areas that otherwise looked safe and easy to climb upon.

This must be our battlefield.

Yep and just like that, Lasair finally noticed the multitude of people here beside her. There were a few faces that she recognized from Imperial, they were all standing around in the same area she was, but no Ter-Ter. Across the way, some safe twenty feet or so from her was what she guessed to be the New World Order and The Company forces. They appeared to be getting their bearings upon their battleground just as much as she was.

Remembering that Ter-Ter had wanted Lasair to give their attackers one last chance to surrender, the small Fae took a couple of steps forward. The ice wasn’t impossible to walk upon, but it was difficult. Dheathain saw ice sometimes in the winter, but not very often and so this was going to make things a little difficult to her.

She cleared her throat. “Members of New World Order and The Company!” Her voice rang out throughout the large building and the silence of their battlefield, louder than her small frame should be allowed to shout. “Imperial gives you one last chance to surrender and end this war!”

She nodded her head as the last word left her lips, knowing that such a speech would have made Ter-Ter proud of her. Quickly recognizing two silver haired and red eyed men in the ground, Lasair raised her arm and waved at them excitedly, practically squealing.

“Ohhh! Hi, Godhand! Hi, Jame!”

Maybe if she was lucky, they’d feel like getting something to eat together after this was all over.

[Sighter Tnailog]

Findelfin didn't know any of these people.

He had followed Rayse's instructions. "Meet the group where the road to Gisela enters the forest. You will be advancing on the manor directly; we need you in the brunt of the assault both as a cool head and a strong sword. The others will be approaching through the woods to the north of the estate, and will show up shortly after the first skirmish to surprise and bewilder the enemy. Good luck."

Short, succinct. What Findelfin had seen of the man on the train to Ettermire and during their peril in the city's great library suggested that Rayse Valentino was a man of few words.

They had gathered in silence, and so far none had spoken save one who called himself Godhand and said that he was commanding the assault. Findelfin had been expecting to see Rayse among this group. Or maybe Ashiakin. But he did not expect to see five people he knew vaguely or not at all.

He kept telling himself he was in this for Raiaera. His discussions with Rayse indicated that The Company could assist tremendously in shipping weapons and other goods to the elven resisters. So he was here for one reason: to cement The Company's reputation and thus increase the flow of goods to Raiaera. And he'd also heard of shadowy forces behind Imperial's organization; forces he was not inclined to trust.

But even as the one who called himself Godhand gestured to them to move out, Findelfin was feeling a tinge of regret. He had learned not a few mornings before that Letho Ravenheart would be fighting for Imperial. His whisperers in Daer Taurë said that Captain Raelyse, who he had worked with once in the Red Forest, had vanished after the fall of Anebrilith and had signed up to protect Imperial. A Coronian hero and a Raiaeran warrior made Imperial's side somewhat more...noble. And here he was, fighting alongside a smattering of folks who appeared no better than criminals.

But there was no time to think it through. The manor wall had been getting closer for some time, and at last they reached it. The structure was low-slung, an ivy-crawled stone fortification only five feet high. Findelfin could have lifted himself over the edge, but there was no need: the gate was hanging open.

They know we're coming; why leave the gate open? It was suspicious, so he entered slowly. He nocked an arrow to his bowstring and held it loosely in one hand, pushing one open. Taking a look inside, he turned back to the rest of the group. So far, none of them had spoken.

And none of them would. A green light flashed, and Findelfin blinked.

* * * * *

It was only an instant before his eyes opened, but before they did he could feel the cold.

It was penetrating, holistic; its tendrils seemed to stretch through the leather and scale of his brigandine, through his undershirt, through his pores, seeping into him. It put down its roots in his body, roots that ran deep and began slowly sucking his life out of him. Not since he had almost died in Salvar had he felt a chill like this.

But for now he had to ignore it. There were more important things to worry about, such as where he was. Standing across from his ragtag group of fighters was another group. He recognized Letho Ravenheart and the proud sigils of the Bladesingers on the cloak of Raelyse. His face scanned the others, and with a shuddering thud his heart skipped a beat. No!

Skie dan Sabriel stood with Imperial, her hand on the hilt of a sword that had always been drawn side-by-side with his own. He wanted to sink to his knees and let the cold claim him. He heard the words of the small one echoing far beyond her size, but he understood none of them. He was fighting against Skie dan Sabriel. As that fact sank in, he came to a thought that had never occurred to him.

I have no idea who I am.

[Woshington]

Woshington knew only one of these people.

Navigating tangibility was not a distressing experience for a young man who had been born and died across the dimensional expanses of the omniverse. In fact, he was starting to enjoy it. It reminded Woshington of a soothing childhood memory; it was like every time he’d felt the tropical sun warm his shoulders without burning his dark skin. Woshington was every inch an equatorial creature. So, more than your typical Althanian, Woshington felt this abrupt coldness. A stiff pain flushed through his lungs as he took a deep breath for the first time, but he wouldn’t concede in his stance that he was suffering. Yet, in his mind, Woshington begrudgingly accepted that he would not last long in this environment. These enemies had to be swiftly put down.

Woshington’s overall form was lean and toned, intermediately tall; Woshington was clad in topical big city wares. This was a harsh divergence of man and environment. The bare black flesh of his chest was engorged with his deep breath while the rest of his torso was draped in nothing more than an open and loose-fitting shirt, extravagant in its colours and design. An image of a saintly female glowing with divine light was airbrushed onto a base of yellow with blue and green trim—she was white like snow, while Woshington was so dark that his skin carried an almost blue shimmer. His baggy shorts were equally ill-suited to the current climate. Weapons-wise, Woshington felt the weight of his lighter in the breast pocket of his shirt, his compliment of spray paint cans, which were solvent-based, sat in slots at his narrow waist in a belt designed purposely for graffiti artists, while his rudimentary crossbow was clipped onto the belt at his right hip.

Back home he’d commanded skirmishes on the city streets, and even now he felt confident enough to step towards the front of the New World Order mob. Other than this initial show of bravado, Woshington was giving little else away to his mysterious allies. He weighed them up in the same way he had his foes. The only man he was familiar with was Teric Bloodrose, whose reserved confidence he had experienced previously. Woshington was thankful for Teric’s steadying influence.

Woshington ran his right hand over the fuzzy periphery of his short and bouncy ‘fro, widening his eyes to take in his surroundings. The expansive ice sheet under his feet felt uneasy, he’d never seen ice before, let alone stood on it, and while standing still was easy enough, moving on it was a concern. Raising his head back he saw his refuge, the fundamentally classical style of a coliseum was exactly what he needed for the role he’d confirmed earlier with Bloodrose. Woshington stepped deliberately on the ice, turning a full circle while examining for corridors and pillars in the grand enclosure. The methodical portion of his personality came to dominate his audacious tendencies, the kind of troublesome tendencies innate to a trumped up street thug with intermittent leadership skills.

A disparaging grimace formed on his gaunt face as the little Fae female began to speak. An emaciated hand beat exactly nine times against an opportune drum: his bare chest swollen with its own hot air. In spite of the bony digits the broad flattened palm produced a deep thud that reverberated in the excellent acoustics of the open arena. Woshington roared, “The Company, little sista, here representing the New World Order.” his alien accent leered out of his fleshy lips and cut into the crisp air. Woshington was attempting to speak over Lasair Anubail’s final plea for mercy. His lithe body lurched forward threateningly as he preached, his typically bright eyes restricted to an accusing glare as he evaluated Anubail and friends.

Woshington sneered, “ya heard of us? Ya heard of us? Get ready for a fucking holocaust.”

With no roots, no history, no real enemies, and still to establish solid comrades in the Company, Woshington was left with one sentiment only: he was relishing the fight. Decidedly unlike his pensive elf comrade. Woshington was reckless and shallow, or he was ruthless and efficient. But still shallow. He was driven only by greed, egotism and vanity. And. And, an exaggerated tendency towards violence. To begin with, that was the depth of Woshington’s role in this epic, but as time drew out he would no doubt become a more important player.

[grim137]

Another calm before the storm...

Another period of nervous rest and uneasy quietness...

...It all came before yet another war and another chance for Xanbata Grim to not only indiscriminately kill those around him and but also to be hailed as a hero for it. Unlike so many others that he would be fighting along side, and against for that matter, this was not his first war.

Xanbata was clad in cotton pants, a silk cloak, and a cotton undershirt (in addition to his usual weapons and armor of course), all of which contained the colors of the imperial and had the imperial emblem printed on them somewhere. Being a mercenary that was relatively unknown to most of his fellow soldiers, and fighting along side guys who'd likely never served in an actual war, the psychotic yet clever vampire figured it was in his best interest if his temporary allies could tell he was on there side fairly easily.

“The fuck's this thing going to start?”

Xanbata's leather boots crunched on the hard ground outside the walls of Imperial's manor, as he paced around the court yard smoking a Salvarian cigar. The sinister swordsman was not nervous, just impatient. The vampire's dark master, Do'negh, had gone into seclusion, wrapped up in whatever studies or experiments his twisted mind had decided to focus on, it left his men, even his generals such as Xanbata with little to do. While the most of Do'negh's other minions had decided to appreciate the peace, the livelike vampire had grown restless and thus decided to pick up mercenary work once again. Given his current location, it obviously hadn't taken him long to find work.

“I swear to god, these people should be glad I don't charge by the hour,” growled the impatient blood sucker under his breath as as finished off his cigar and flicked the the remains off into the ground.

Then it happened. A flash of green, and a slightly uneasy feeling with in Xanbata's stomach, and the right before the vampire's relatively new eyes, the scenery changed. Despite numerous visits to the citadel and numerous experiences with teleportaion, the formally blind vampire had never experienced such a thing since his revival, and therefore the toll it took on his visual sense, even if his other senses recovered rather quickly, was rather unexpected.

When his vision finally did recover the sight the greeted the sadistic vampire couldn't help but make him smile. Why? Because it was just like home. Unlike so many others the monster that was Xanbata Grim had grown accustomed to, hell he actually liked, the frigid cold. For one who lived, who trained, who hunted in the arctic mountains of Salvar, fighting on the ice and in the cold were nothing new.

“Eeny, meany, minny, moe...” muttered the arrogant vampire in his head as he surveyed the opposition. He was making an important decision, which one of them should he focus on first.

That is he was until one of them spoke, and declaring that the battle would be a holocaust. For some reason this comment struck something deep with in the predator. It reminded him that he'd survived a genocide long ago, before ever dreaming that a place like Althanas could even exist. This was back when he was still Tarry Whealer and still human.

“I call dibs on the loud mouthed nigger,” said Xanbata coldly to no one in particular.

He had made his decision.

[Bloodrose]

It wasn't so much the cold of their new battleground that bothered Teric the most in those first few moments. No, from battling Northmen along the southern edges of Berevar, to lurking for days in a shallow trench under the Black Desert sun, the veteran campaigner had fought in worse conditions than this. Adapt or die. Teric remembered an old comrade saying once, and thirty-plus years in his profession had given the warrior plenty enough practice at adapting...

No, what bothered Teric the most was that Imperial seemed to know the New World Order and its allies were coming, and had prepared in fine fashion for their arrival...

...six, seven, eight. The veteran counted the defenders of Imperial standing opposite them on the frozen lake, taking careful note of distinguishing features for each. They're certainly not without enough allies. Teric thought, toying purposefully with the hilt of his new weapon. He remembered his opening discussions with the leaders of NWO, the one in which they had assured him Imperial was undermanned, and that The Company was being hired more to keep Imperial from contacting the mercenary organization than it was to assure a victory in the fight.

Given these new developments, Teric lamented silently, my job just got a little more involved.

Still, being outnumbered wasn't as terrible a situation as it could have been. The five comrades assembled at Teric's side were the heavy-hitters. They were the Stoßtruppen, Berevean slang for "shock troops", originally intended to engage Imperial and its allies in battle while the NWO and Company reserves took the flank. The numbers may have been five on eight, but with names like Godhand Striker, Dan Lagh'ratham, Jame Whitizard of Kaosi fame, and even the legendary Findelfin ap Fingolfin on his side, Teric had to wonder just in whose favor the battle was stacked.

Even Woshington, with his brash confidence and undeniable swagger, could prove to be a valuable asset in the fight ahead.

Who knows, Teric thought off-handedly, perhaps Imperial's treasury is still within reach.

Readying himself for the coming brawl, the old warrior quit thinking about the how and why of his involvement. Another thing he'd learned a long time ago: "Mercenaries aren't paid to think about whether or not a battle is winnable. Mercenaries are paid to win battles."

It was too bad for Imperial that The Company's monetary interest in the battle was contingent on a victory, because that only gave the veteran more incentive to fight...

[Raelyse]

He was no soldier. He was no shock trooper. Maybe if you stretched the meaning of the word, he could be a warrior. Whatever he was, by the end of the skirmish, by the time the last sword had been sheathed, there was only one winner. He had won because he was crafty, conniving and because simply, he was no soldier. He had won because he was Raelyse.

------

The power group Imperial had enlisted help from far and wide, desperately searching for any who would lend blades to their cause against the New World Order. Maybe they should have been more stringent with their recruiting policy because among those that would fight with them was a Myrusian, skilled with the sword but better with his brain. He cared not for his allies, nor for his enemies. His brain never worked for any other faction other than himself. He did not know about Imperial or New World Order. He did not know what they fought for or why they fought.

He only knew that the best warriors from all over were gathering, representing the two sides. Stories would be told and songs would be sung in taverns and homes all over Althanas of the battle that was waged. It was just the opportunity that he needed. It would be the moment that Althanas forgot about the rest and began what would be its long love affair with Raelyse.

As Raelyse rested in his quarters, he could not help but eye his two enchanted swords with excitement. They were metal and unthinking but somehow he could sense that they too were impatient for it to begin. He extended his open palm and used his telekinesis to summon Ilrathion, the long sword, to him. Unsheathing the blade, he glanced upon the finely crafted weapon, perfect in every way. It was eager to taste blood, he knew, but like its wielder, it would have to wait. Raelyse would not charge into battle like some sort of barbarian.

It would take all sorts of cunning to survive this war, especially since he was at a distinct disadvantage. He had no idea who his allies and who his enemies were. In the black and white sense, he was fighting with Imperial against the New World Order. Once color was infused however, it became much more complicated. His mind didn't dwell on that for very long because a green light flashed before him and in a moment, it was time.

The first thing to hit him was the cold. Then, it was the power. This area was rich with it. Alongside him stood seven others, each vibrating with their own magical energies. Each unique, but some of much more interest. Powerful individuals did not usually hide their power and Raelyse's magical talents were able to pick them up and tell him just how powerful they really were. He didn't think on that for very long however, because the faction opposite him radiated energy too. Five different sources, five different means to widen his smile and send shivers down his spine.

Raelyse knew a few individuals on both sides, knew them as former enemies or present allies but he cared not. His mind was going insane from all this power around him.

Every moment he was here was another moment that would be translated to legend and song.

[Letho]

“Amateurs. I’m dealing with goddamn amateurs.”

Perhaps it was a bit of a harsh conclusion, a prejudice born out of mere minutes spent alongside his temporary allies, but the thought was there, it seemed justified and it vexed the Corone Ranger. What else was he to make of this hodgepodge congregation that stood around him when the supposed leader of the group he was a part of stepped forward and greeted her opponents with a smile? And who in their right mind would appoint a tiny, chirpy redhead as the leader in the first place? It was ludicrous. Imperial obviously didn’t like its treasury a whole lot if this was how they decided to square off against their adversaries.

Standing in the back of this group of eight warriors – and his mind certainly used that classification lightly in this particular instance – Letho Ravenheart tapped the butt end of his spear against the ground, testing the integrity of the surface below. He liked the previous setting a whole lot more. A manor was no castle that could be held with ease against a stronger opponent, but it offered a lot more tactical options than a slab of ice and decrepit ruins of a coliseum. Its walls provided cover, stories elevated ground and every room could be turned into a miniature battlefield. Instead of that, they now had an all-out fight at their hands, turning the two groups into little less then rams charging headlong at each other. And on top of that, soil beneath their feet was exchanged by treacherous ice, making every step a lottery. On such a surface, luck was just as important as skill.

When the man with black skin and a queer hairdo called out towards them, Letho took a deep breath and let it out in an irritated sigh, feeling the chill pour into his lungs. Showmanship. It was usually proof of weakness and little else. That was why the legendary swordsman disregarded the foul-mouthed black man and turned his eyes to the rest of his comrades. There were more familiar faces on the other side of the battlefield then they were around him. In fact, out of six juxtaposed combatants, only two were unknown to the Ranger. With others he was quite well acquainted one way or the other, and they were all bad news. Godhand Striker and Dan Lagh’ratham pretty much fit the same profile; they were killers with little consideration for anything save their own personal agendas, vanquishers and destroyers. That was perhaps why it was so odd to see Findelfin ap Fingolfin, somewhat of a complete contrast, standing next to them. The elf had honor and wisdom and integrity; he shouldn’t have joined sides with such common brigands. But he had his reasons, just as Letho had his.

Seeing as the only tactic that their current leader had in mind was to sweet-talk the band on the other side and possibly destroy them with politeness, the bearded swordsman took a couple of calculated steps forward until he stood in the rough center of the group. Somebody had to take responsibility for organizing the defense. If this turned into a hectic strife, the Imperial would lose to the sheer might of the invaders. They needed to play it smart, subtle.

“Try to stay as close as possible to each other,” he began in a rough, commanding voice, his eyes constantly observing the New World Order members and their possible advance. “They’re stronger than us in a single combat, so if we disperse, they will pick us out one by one. If we fight as a unit, we might have a chance. We should try to form a sort of a triangle. I’ll take point. Whoever has skill with a sword should form up behind me. Hopefully, we’ll draw Godhand’s and Dan’s attention.”

He gestured to Logan next. Letho met the man only moments before the battle was to take place, exchanged no more than several sentences back in the manor, but that was enough time to acknowledge his telepathic abilities and their usefulness in a combat. “Logan here will convey further instructions. He’s...what you call it? A mind-reader?”

This wouldn’t hold, Letho knew. They were no platoon of soldiers that knew how to obey orders in the heat of the battle, they had no shields to fend off an advance, but it was the best chance they had. Maybe even the only chance they had. With his instructions done, the Marshal joined the spirited redhead at the front. His Cillu glass armor made a strange gritting sound as he moved and the scarlet cape with an emblazoned phoenix fluttered lightly behind him. On his back, three additional weapons rested: the Vorpal Blade, the adamantine bastard sword and the monstrous Lawmaker. His piercing eyes looked down at the lass beneath a stringent frown. “You should move to the back, miss. It would be no good if we lost our leader in the first charge.”

[Godhand]

God he hated the rich.

Godhand walked across the forest that surrounded the Dirks' estate, followed by a an impressive collection of sickos, psychos and suckers. Around him were some of the biggest names on Althanas. You had the big mean ones like Dan and Dahlios, the wiry nervous ones like Bloodrose and Lillian, the proud famous ones like Ashiakin and Findelfin, and everybody in the middle. Jay was his right hand man so obviously he rode up front with him. He kept the kid close at hand, too; the librarian. She was just the most adorable thing and he didn't want to risk her getting hurt. The swordsman didn't expect to face much resistance from these guys but it never hurt to be prepared. Everybody else paired up more or less like you'd expect; you got the mercenaries with the mercenaries and the NWO with the NWO.

The New World Order wasn't like a lot of powergroups. I mean whenever there was a clan that wanted to take over the world they usually had a core group of about five members that knew what was really going on, and then a public propaganda machine that put a nice face on that. Those didn't get very far; internal struggles usually killed them off. No honor among thieves. The NWO was different due to the fact that instead of hiding their megalomaniacal aspirations, they actually laid it all out for everyone to see. They weren't two-faced like most and this was so refreshing that most people actually started rooting for them, even though technically they were "the bad guys".

Furthermore, they'd made it very clear who their first target was. For a couple of slum guys like Godhand and Dan, and a second-generation hero like James Whitizard, their biggest adversaries were the Rich and Famous. While everbody else was getting murdered out in the real world for pennies on the dollar, these guys were sipping fine cognac and fucking fourteen year old virgins next to a fireplace. And that, I think, was the handle. The reason Radasanth hadn't turned the troops on the New World Order was because, to the public anyway, they were right. The ruffians were doing what every regular person yearned to do but didn't have the power to. They were robbing the rich and giving to themselves.

Just a cursory glance at the Dirks' Estate made it clear why they were first up against the wall. The lawn was immaculately tended and several miles long; every couple of yards there was an ornate fountain on either side. Fat little angels held cloths to their privates while water poured out of their mouths. Seeing that kind of bullshit made Godhand want to club a baby seal but for now he had to keep focus on the task at hand. No guards were blocking the way, which was weird, but the swordsman knew that even if they'd gotten a battalion of Corone Rangers to protect the manor, it wouldn't have been enough. Not with guys like Dan and Seth on punch duty. He was no slouch himself, either.

Just as he was about to tell the group to split up, however, he was suddenly blinded by a bright green flash and then came that awful here-we-go feeling where everything in your stomach jumps to your throat and you have to reach out to find something to hold you up. Lucky for him James was still around so he didn't vomit upon the beautiful lawn of what's this?

The scenery had changed. It probably had something to do with that green flash and he couldn't really be sure but it looked like they'd been transported to Salvar. It was a frozen lake with some sort of...Structure off to one side. He couldn't say what it was with the white mist darkening anything in the distance. What he could make out, however, were his enemies. That was some trap. They'd managed to whisk him and half of his boys away to a battleground they'd no doubt decided upon earlier while the rest of them ambushed the bewildered remains of their forces. Not only that but they'd managed to hornswoggle a couple of names over to their side, too. He spotted Letho right away, Skie a bit later. Godhand wasn't going to waste any time; he stepped forward but immediately withdrew his boot with a hiss when the ice cracked under his sole.

They'd really stacked that deck.

[Arsène]

It was a bottle of rye whiskey as brown as syrup and just as easy to shoot. Its repulsive flavor caused every muscle in Arsène to contract as it slid down into his stomach. He had taken it from an unlocked draw deep within the winding halls of Imperial's manor as an unexpected additional "payment" for his mercenary services. And much like the gold that had deepened his pockets and purchased him a sword, liquor was a necessity for the upcoming battle in Imperial's name. Even a man with nothing left to live for held on to some shred of self-preservation; it was the tiny pair of hands that reached out at him and kept him from ending his own life. With alcohol, he hoped to dull those hands so they would not be so quick to save him.

He sighed and put the bottle in his coat pocket, if only to keep his vision from blurring. He stood just outside the manor door on the steps, right near his wizened horse. Everything he owned was on his beast; his violin, his spare clothing, even his new sword were attached to whatever spare storage he could find. It was a quiet night, but the man knew it would not last. Within the hour, Imperial had reported to its soldiers and mercenaries that its enemies would strike from the shadows in the full force they mustered, a host of big names and famous killers who thirsted for blood and wealth. It was a bitter irony that Arsène and the other mercenaries fought for the same reasons as their enemies; greed. It was the driving force in all men whose souls had long forgotten the warmth of a woman's touch.

The noble stared at his horse and the gray shimmers of moonlight that flickered in its mane. A once proud beast was wrinkled with age as if in cruel jest by time herself. He could hear the horse panting beneath the weight of his gear, he could see the strain in the beast's black eyes. "You will not survive this battle," he whispered softly to the animal in monotone. "And with any luck, neither will I."

The strange bewitchment happened too quickly. Arsène did not notice the members of New World Order's army slip into the yard, nor did he notice the green light.

He had closed his eyes for only a moment to think of better days, when the sun fell upon his brow and a smile had always graced his lips. The smell of her hair trumped any buzz liquor promised, the touch of her soft hands drew him in deeper into the fantasy. There were flowers everywhere, carpeting the ground in a sea of red and yellow. Her lively tanned form lay on them, as if nature was her bed and she its nymph.

Arsène was so immersed in this world that he did not even notice the frigid climate, until his eyes slowly parted and dashed his dreams on the jagged frozen mountaintops that surrounded him.

The man was not surprised. This was Imperial's idea; to divide and conquer the enemy by splitting their superior numbers into two groups, transporting one to the citadel, and keeping one at the manor. It was a simple and seductive trap that probably took a good many of the enemy off guard. Arsène himself believed that a full frontal charge while their opponents were still dazed was the best course of action. However, it soon seemed apparent his allies were just as dazed and confused as the enemy.

Pleasantries and insults were thrown back and forth with the biting wit of a toothless old coot; Arsène felt sickened to his core. Perhaps the whiskey just wasn't agreeing with him, but the idea of such childishness during battle seemed inexcusable. From a young age, he was given a noble's education in war and art, and while he excelled in the latter, he always remembered key lessons from the former.

A thundering and commanding voice shook the ice, and at once the noble knew who it belonged to. Letho Ravenheart - the man who, only days before, punched him straight in the jaw for suggesting they kill the elf lord that stood in the ranks of their enemy. Arsène was resentful to say the least, and jumped on the opportunity to berate the man.

"Your plan would work," he began with a snide, jeering laugh, "if we all weighed but a feather. You forget we stand not on solid earth, but ice. I'm not willing to go down in the annals of history as a laughingstock for plunging to my death before the battle even begins!" Despite the belligerent tone, there was still an empty, emotionless quality to his voice.

He cleared his throat and gestured for Softstep to follow behind him as he moved a bit further from the group.

"Instead, it would be smarter to trick our enemies, and have them follow a decoy to an area we weaken." He nearly mumbled the last part, keeping it under his breath as best he could so the enemy could not overhear. In truth, he really didn't care if they did or not, but appearances were everything when one held the attention of a small platoon.

[Sighter Tnailog]

Existential crises were a luxury he could ill afford, so he quickly suppressed the question. He had committed to this course and would follow it. Looking up again at the crowd assembled opposite him, his eyes fell on Skie's. He spoke to her so only she could hear.

"I have reasons for this, reasons that cannot be explained. I am sorry."

Imperial was already gathering, clearly trying to decide how to proceed. Findelfin found this insulting; it was clear that they had somehow corrupted the Monks of the Citadel to do Imperial's bidding under the guise of "saving lives." But apparently the price they'd paid to whichever Seneschal was on Imperial's payroll wasn't enough to get them advance knowledge of the battlefield. Findelfin had no intention of letting them plan their assault. He drew his bow, nocked an arrow to the string, and took his sights.

They were in a rough huddle on the other side of the ice. He was a good shot, but probably not good enough to take out the small one who seemed the leader. Letho made a tempting target, but Findelfin had no desire to introduce bad blood between him and the Marshal; this war would do enough of that without adding to it. He eyed the one across the way that Letho had called "the mind-reader," and was about to take the shot when the movement of the huddle took the target out of a clear line of sight. The others were sitting ducks, but he hesitated; they were all too close to Skie. He was a fair shot with his bow, but not fair enough to risk the life of Skie dan Sabriel.

Silently cursing his luck, pitted against friends in a battle that seemed increasingly unnecessary, he shifted his weight to one foot. There was the faintest of cracking sounds, and Findelfin quickly gyrated from the weak point in the frozen lake. But then an idea broke into his mind like sunrise across a darkling plain. He saw a spot, not ten handspans away from the feet of Imperial's forces, a spot that might serve his purposes. And he knew a song that would do just the trick.

He called across the ice to Letho Ravenheart. "Aurient take your strategy, Marshal."

And with that he grabbed another arrow, adding it to the first, to produce two arrows he now aimed at two separate spots in the ice. Beginning to sing, he took a few steps backwards, making sure that he was constantly moving away should the Marshal charge. The notes of the Fire Ring Requiem were designed to create flames around the body of the caster, but now he altered the song and the focal point of his concentration. Within seconds, the mythril bodkins at his arrowtips began to glow and a thin tendril of smoke rose up from the fire-harded wood into which the metal heads were set.

Before the wood could catch fire and ruin the spell, he released the bowstring. Both arrows flew with lightning speed directly to their targets, embedding deep into them with a shuddering sound.

But it was not the sickening sound of flesh rent asunder, nor even the dull thud of arrows stuck in an opponent's leather cuirass. The sound was a shattering clap that hung in the cold air and announced that the battle was met. Findelfin's aim had been true; the arrows had plunged deep into the ground just before the ground where Imperial's forces stood. Quickly nocking another arrow to string, he kept singing, his focal point still on the two metal stubs now embedded under the ice.

They glowed hot under the force of the magic song. A crack was already spreading from the entry-point, steam rising from where the blazing mythril met hard ice and melted it instantly. If Imperial did not move, they would soon find their planning session turned into an icy plunge.

[Logan]

Politics.

The whole damned world of Althanas thrived on it. In fact, it was the very essence of the world. Continents seethed on it’s very aroma, while armies both large and small feasted on it’s flavor. And it was the one damn thing that the psion hated the most about this place. No matter how hard he tried, he always seemed to be screwed in the end by the political arm of some godforsaken asshole. That was how it was, and Logan had submitted himself to such. But then somehow, some way, he ran across Dirks outside the confines of battle and everything changed.

Politics.

Logan and Dirks had spent a few hours debating the finer points of the topic. The two had marked differences of opinion on the very topic, yet somehow they also had found common ground within it’s confines. Lining the entirety of the two veterans’ past, they began to relive fond memories of their wars and battles. Battles that had taken place everywhere from Salvar to Raieara, and wars that had been waged among clans and nations. They had seen it all, and lived it all. And yet, it never grew tiresome a task. For the two of them, fighting was not just a necessary evil. It was just plain necessary.

War.

In the midst of their conversation the two veterans realized they had a common goal, a common enemy. For so long Logan had fought the corruption and seediness of the Althanas governments and clans, yet now as he heard Dirks speak of it and it’s uses, he began to see a worth in it. The very thing that had kept the two enemies for the entirety of their time within the shores of the Althanas continents was now the one thing that bound them as friends. For some, the friendship spelled trouble and a very untimely demise. For those who counted the two as allies or friends, it was the second coming. For many, it was simply about damn time.

War.

Max Dirks had mentioned a rising clan who sought to remove a friend’s army from their headquarters, or at least cause a pretty damn big disturbance to it. Logan shook his head in disgust. He knew all too well of the greedy bastards who led the rival clan. Stories of their deeds and feats had not fallen upon his deaf ears. Max gave the psion a letter he’d received from Dirk Xalstad which spoke of the rival clan, it’s intentions, and the request for support and help. Turning to face Dirks, Logan reached out his hand and Dirks responded by gripping the psion’s with his own. No words more were exchanged, but that simple act was enough for the two men to know all they needed to know.

Fucking War.

It was the reason Logan found himself standing a few feet from the famed Letho Ravenheart while the leaders of Imperial explained their plans. The two had never been acquainted, but the psion had heard so many stories of Letho’s past adventures that he really felt as if he knew the man already. They exchanged only a few words before the sound of thunder erupted around them. The color of green filled the psion’s vision and then the next moment, biting cold nipped at his body. Through the powers of the monks, Logan and some others had been transported to this frigid environment.

Within a matter of moments, words had been exchanged and Letho had taken his rightful place as the Imperial army’s commander. No one else had the experience or the leadership qualities of Letho. As Logan’s name was mentioned, he nodded his approval and acceptance of his role to the man he’d met only moments before. The psion turned to look out over the area before him. A band of warriors and veterans stood a short ways away, and the only thing that stood between them and Logan’s allies was a lake frozen over with ice.

Crack. Crack. Crunch. The sound of the ice cracking and crunching under the weight of all present made the psion wary. How truly ironic it was for Logan to feel chills crawling up his spine over being just one misstep from certain death and very much fearing it. No, it wasn’t the death he feared. He knew that was but a moment in time. It was the fear of coming up short and disappointing those he had just met. He simply could not, and would not, let them down.

The psion unsheathed both swords and looked ahead at the group before him. He smiled. He had a plan, but he wouldn’t be able to hatch it until the time was right. The psion eyed Letho for a moment before communicating telepathically, ”We need to get them engaged in individual battles and distracted quickly. Confusion will be our strongest weapon. They can’t communicate like we can, and I’ll be damned if that’s not our best bet.” Quickly Logan took his position near Letho. The veteran was pretty gifted in the art of swordfighting, and there was no way in hell he wanted to be anywhere other than where the action was.

It was time. It was finally fucking time.

Crack. Logan spotted fire a short ways away. He squinted a bit and saw the one from where it originated. Another fireball hit the ice a ways away. What in the bloody hell does he think he's -- the psion stopped himself midthought. Logan closed his eyes and concentrated hard.

"God DAMNIT! Get your asses moving boys, and ladies. The mother fucker's trying to sink our positions," the psion sent the telepathic shout outwards at everyone within the vicinity, which would've been most everyone within the ranks of Imperial and even a few of the NWO bastards, too. The psion reopened his eyes and to his horror a couple more shots hit the ice around those he was with. They had to think fast.

Logan made a sprint to his right and then dove to the ice. He slammed both his swords into the ice blade first. The ice cracked beneath him, but his swords held. He pulled himself off the sinking ice and moved his way further out well outside the range, or what Logan thought was the range, of the arrows. The psion hoped the others had received his remarks in time, but due to his current concern for his own safety, he hadn't taken the time to check.

Bunny approved by Max Dirks.

[Lasair Anubail]

Lasair looked up, way up at the man who had been addressing her. He was rather handsome looking in a rather rough and gruff kind of way, the way most Draconians seemed to look. She didn’t really know him per say but she was rather certain he was the man named Letho Ravenheart, a rather well known hero in the land of Corone and one that Imperial had enlisted to help them. She was just glad that when the monk’s teleportation spell had transported them here, he had come with her instead of staying at the manor. She was going to need all the help she could get in order to win this battle, especially with Godhand and Jame on the other side of it. Oh, she really did not want to talk to fight those two, it would just be awful to see them get hurt and not be able to do anything about it. But this was a clan war and they were fighting for the other side! She had defended what she believed in, no matter what. Besides, they could always go out and get something to eat, maybe a few drinks afterwards and talk the whole thing over. She was rather certain they’d both understand. It wasn’t them she was fighting after all, but their clan...right?

Raising one of her hands, the tiny Fae saluted the tall man named Letho, making a mental note to ask him if she could make a plushie of him before this was over. “Yes, sir!” But she didn’t plan on moving into the back of the ranks just yet. After all, they needed a battle strategy and she saw some serious faults in the one that he was proposing.

Before she could open her mouth to respond to him though, another man came up to them and rather blatantly shot down Letho’s plan, which was not what she had planned. There was finesse to such a thing that the other man just clearly did not possess, or maybe he didn’t care to. Either way, he did note a few problems that Lasair too had seen and proposed his own plan. She was not certain if such a thing would work though, Godhand and Jame were not silly enough to blindly follow some kind of decoy...

“Letho, while I applaud your attempt at battle strategy, I’m afraid in this kind of setting a triangular defensive manoeuvre just isn’t going to work. The ground is too slippery for it to hold up, none of our men have shields and they’re not trained soldiers like you from Corone. If just one of them falters and falls than it would greatly weaken the triangle. Not to mention Godhand’s strength could just barrage it until it falls apart at the seams and Jame’s dragon form would rip it to pieces.”

It was time to get serious and get down to business before the other members of NWO could start formulating their own plan.

“I do agree with umm... whoever you are, Mr. Human, in that we need to use our surroundings to our advantage, perhaps even the ruins of the coliseum that we are currently standing in. Using a decoy to lure a large section of the group away is an interesting idea, but I’m not sure if Godhand and Jame would fall for something like that. I do have a few exploding items that may help weaken the integrity of the lake, but it would be extremely dangerous for whomever is using them, since they too may get pulled into the water.”

The top of her rucksack suddenly began to move a bit, before the small cloth made head of Tristram emerged from within, followed by an extremely cute and cuddly version of the man currently leading this assault; Godhand. Both of them climbed up and onto her opposite shoulders, looking at the humans around her and their surroundings and finally at the group across the way. Tristram was her best friend and a Draconian, so he had these cute little dark blue wings adorning his back and a small spear clutched in his hands. His eyes were currently summing up Letho and the weapon he held within his hands.

“You even know how to use that thing?” The little Draconian plushie said, sneering up at Letho.

“Hey! It’s that loud mouthed version of me!” Godhand said as he moved to leap from her shoulder and onto the slippery ice below.

Reacting quickly, Lasair reached out and grabbed the plushie before he even hit the ground, grasping him in her small hand as tight as she could. Which was basically like saying, he wasn’t going anywhere no matter how hard he struggled.

“C’mon! Let me go, I’ll rip him to pieces.”

She smiled, “Remember what happened last time you tried to do that?”

“Yeah, your ass sat on me!”

“Exactly, now help me come up with a battle strategy.”

He grumbled, “I heard what Letho and dark and mysterious over here said, why not just use yourself as bait? You know Godhand would come running to save you if you were in some kind of trouble.”

“Uhh...I don’t think that applies to this kind of situation, Godhand.” Lasair said to him as she shook her hand a bit, which in turn shook his head around and made him yell at her a few times to stop it.

“All right! Then just round them all up and break the ice around them, I dunno. I usually like running in head first and fucking shit up, so I’m pretty sure he’s thinking of doing the same.”

She released her tight hold on him and placed him back on her shoulder, which he seemed more than content to just sit upon. Her thoughts were quickly interrupted by the plunging of two arrows deep into the ice near to them. Confused, she looked towards the elven man who had fired them, his voice carrying across the cold wind in a lovely song that seemed to have no purpose to her. But elves were rather strange creatures. The telepathic message that went ringing through her mind quickly told her what was going on.

“Poopies!” She quickly went to move away from the now steaming ice. “I want to split our forces into two teams that will push the NWO and The Company forces back against the wall of the Coliseum. At that point in time, I will have snuck around behind the enemy and will release what few items I have on the surroundings, hopefully breaking the lake apart from underneath them. Sounds good, yes? Letho, you should lead one of the teams and pick who you want with you, and also the leader of the other team as I am not very good at gauging battle prowess.”

Once the words had left her mouth, she began moving quickly away from the scene of the cracking ice. The sound resounded throughout the mountains as it split and rent and then began to sink and shift. Her small and light form allowed her to easily travel across the expanse without very much worry, not to mention those glittering wings on her back weren’t just for show.

[Slayer of the Rot]

Dan Lagh'ratham started the war out by roaring obscenities to the sky, the mountains, the coliseum, and the defenders. It was all he could do to restrain himself from stomping around and smashing the rimy ice underfoot. They had been moments from the manor, so close to the bloodbath, to the destruction that could have been wrought by the New World Order's collective hands. Then, there had come that brilliant flash of green light, which he was still blinking out of his eyes, as well as discolored dark dots. The Saraelian sucked in a deep frigid breath, and exhaled an enormous white plume into the icy air.

He was still not the picture of tranquility. His lips were stretched down across his sharp teeth in a severe scowl, and his hands still shook, the knuckles white. Nevertheless, the fury had been fairly quenched. Breathing hard, he glanced around the place where they had been transported, much to his ire. Tall, crumbling stone walls surrounded them, like the eroded bones of a beast that curled into itself upon its death. Above, a gray sky with just a hint of blue rolled lazily along under the chilly wind, off into the jagged expanse of a mountain range he couldn't manage to recognize. Grimacing, he pressed a toe against the slick surface of the battlefield, and he felt it give way just slightly with a tiny crack. Mumbling a curse under his breath, he continued to stare at that minuscule crack as he produced a pack of cigarettes from thin air and lit one as it settled on his lips. Hot, acrid smoke poured into his lungs as he continued to ignore the squabbling of the attackers and defenders.

'It'd take nothing at all.' The thought brought a malicious smile to his lips and he plucked the cigarette from his mouth. Looking back at Imperial's forces made the smile falter though; the rage he'd first been in the thrall of threatened to return.

'Disappointing.'

"Trash!" He finally voiced his concerns and spat on the lake. "We're stuck with the fucking trash! They can't even be trusted to be there to protect that piece of shit manor. What a god damn waste of my fucking time," he finished, his shout diminished to a voice meant only for himself. Sighing, he took another drag off his cigarette and began to walk carefully forward a few feet, drawing close to the Imperials.

"You know, we'd offer you the option of surrender too but this isn't a fucking war. This is a slaughter, and looking at you faggots, I think everyone else wasted their time coming here. Shit, the strongest amongst you is Letho Ravenheart, world's greatest hero, and I've already killed him!" He grinned at the man himself, and nodded at him. "How's them ribs, marshal? Those holes in your chest? Bet the scars sting in this cold."

Grinning crookedly with the cigarette in his mouth, Dan raised both of his hands up as Findelfin's white hot glowing arrows soared overhead.

"Rain blood."

It was like watching a starved shark smelling blood for the first time in weeks. As though something had been cut free, the Saraelian tore forward in a violent burst of energy, streaking through the air without touching the untrustworthy ground of the battlefield once. He arrived at the Imperial's flank as Findelfin's second arrows came down, The Irredeemable held in hand. A dozen rapidly spinning chakram had appeared around him as well, and they launched forward into the crowd of defenders.

At the same moment, Dan aimed his mythril sword at the growing cracks the elf's arrows were making. He plunged the great sword into the breaking ice and pushed, using the weapon as a lever. It creaked, and then gave way with an incredible crack, and Dan upended the broken platform with a triumphant cry.

"Burn, freeze, drown, bleed! Just die, trash!"

[Summary:
Dan sends one dozen chakram into the Defenders ranks.
Dan accelerates Findelfin's attempt to sink the Imperials by busting the ice and flipping it over.
Note: I'll do this from now on to reduce confusion.]

[Skie and Avery]

Her eyes and mind had been on Godhand at first. How could they not have been? He'd been her mother's lover, and someone the succubus had trusted. It was hard to tell if Natamrael had ever really loved anyone but herself and her children. Findelfin. The visage of the man came creeping into Skie's thoughts at once. Her mother's last words to her had been about the elf, and as if it were a cue for the most heartrending play she could imagine, his voice invaded her thoughts. Her eyes found him after a moment of struggle. Reasons?

She felt like shit. There were times she'd wondered about Imperial's wants, and if it really was the budding flower of justice that she'd believed when she joined. They'd been taken over in Joshua Cronen's absence by a vampire. Skie'd been angry at first; why hadn't this been taken up with any of the members? As she'd been readying her things to leave and take to more lone waters, there'd come the call of war. As much as she disagreed with a blood-sucking villainess leading their ranks, she would not, could not, leave them at the brunt of the attack. When Letho Ravenheart had joined them, she'd thought her judgment sound. How could so much good stand amongst anything evil? But still...she stood against Findelfin.

Her heart was breaking when Dan made his move. Circles of steel spun around him, the light catching and flying back. She'd had to squint against the brightness of them when he'd made his move. She'd been moving fast, trying to reach the edge of the ice when Findelfin attacked, but then the metal was sent into the ranks of her people. Skie snarled, her face hardening against her grief and confusion as she pulled the longsword. She'd batted at one of the chakrum, wincing as her sword jarred and vibarated. The clash of metal on metal was frightning, even as the ring was sent flying wide. What she hadn't seen was another one flying, seeking a target as surely as a rogue hungry fiend.

It whirred past her, biting into her arm at the side, just above the elbow. With her cry, she was sent down, her knee striking against the ice. She was so near to the bank, but it didn't matter anymore. When she'd gone down, the ice had begun to creak and groan under her weight, and Dan's force just added more to it. There was only enough time for her blood to spatter the ice, sinking in red against the ghostly white. The ice turned and she was colder than she'd ever been in her life.

She kicked against the bank under her feet, not so far under that she might drown, but the current was threatening to take that little advantage away from her. She gripped her fathers sword close to her body, kicked furiously towards the edge where a plateau of earth made a stone shelf before the deeper water started. If she could pull herself onto it, she could slosh to the bank. Freezing cold, she didn't curse the monster who'd stepped up to spill her blood and send her into the river.

She cursed her mother, for having brought her so close to the elf that she was sure she must kill now.

[Raelyse]

While combatants on both sides struggled to deal with their new found surroundings, Raelyse embraced it. The slippery and fragile surface that the others found so awkward was comfortable to the Myrusian. Every step he took, he felt the ice underneath melt slightly, allowing his foot to sink in, before hardening, ensuring that there was no chance of him slipping or the ice breaking underneath him. Raelyse's steps however, weren't towards the New World Order or their allies, his feet were taking him along the ranks of Imperial's forces. As his allies spoke, amongst themselves, trying to form an impromptu strategy, he paced around, staying on the periphery and listening, but not contributing just yet.

Raelyse wasn't ready to put himself in the spotlight just yet, lest he be pinpointed as a threat by the other group. As more of his potential allies and enemies did just that, he shifted into the background, something that he wasn’t used to. He consoled himself with the fact that these would be the first to taste the ground that he trod upon.

His concentration was snapped when a Raiaearn song rang through the air, heralding the end of the oral sparring and petty insults. Of all those present, he knew only Findelfin on the opposite side capable of such magic, so he knew that he needed to be prepared for something formidable. Raelyse sang his own song, though softly so only those nearby would be able to hear, the Ode to the Hermit. Before the first of Findelfin's arrows flew towards them, a translucent barrier had formed around Raelyse, protecting him... for now. The elf's projectiles fell dreadfully short though, never coming close to striking the magical shield.

“Clever,” the Myrusian muttered when he realized the elf’s plan. There were multiple ways that Raelyse could remove Findelfin's threat, but that would mean that he would reveal his powers and lose the chance to see how his allies dealt with it.

He didn't get nearly as much thinking time as a giant from the New World Order's side leaped into the air, landing at Imperial's flank. Before they had a chance to react, projectiles flew forward, cutting into their ranks. Two of the chakram struck Raelyse's barrier, clattering harmlessly on the ground just in front of him. The Myrusian gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to strike back.

“Maybe a little one,” the prince said mischievously, that sadistic grin flashed across his handsome face. Pushing both of his hands forward, he pointed outstretched fingers at the beast of a man who was busy lifting the ice shelf. Lightning bolts shot forward from each of his fingers, each perfectly aimed at the giant frame. Without even seeing whether he had struck his target or missed, he moved off in the confusion so friend or foe would not know where the attack had come from.

As he retreated, he took care to make sure he did so with the majority of his new allies, staying with the group, using their bodies as human shields, for now. A splashing sound alerted him that the ice had finally cracked and the cold water had tasted flesh for the first time. His head turned and he spied a female figure, struggling to avoid falling completely into icy depths. Raelyse thought for a moment, then gave her body a slight telekinetic push, not enough to throw her back onto comparatively dry land, but enough to help her climb up. He had nothing to gain if one of the bodies that could potentially take an arrow instead of him fell.

His attention now turned back to the battle, the Myrusian made sure not to make any attacks, for now. He surveyed the battle, keeping in check his urges to release magic and hungry blades both into the fray.

Raelyse would not fall this day.


(OOC: I won't be able to post until about Friday, so I've withdrawn Raelyse from the direct action for now. I will deal with whatever attacks when I return.)

[Letho]

As much as Letho hated to admit it – and being a proud mad that he was, he hated admitting an error more than taking a punch in the face – Letho was wrong about his proposed tactics. He had spent too much time with his Rangers, too many hours training them to fall in formation, to cover each other, to act as an army should. In this particular situation, that was impossible. This wasn’t Corone, it wasn’t a war and they weren’t soldiers. This was a street fight taken to a peculiar location that made promises of chaos and hectic hostility. In such an environment all tactics seemed null and void. However, the redhead that he had disregarded as a mere nuisance came up with a doable plan. After consulting with a couple of her talking dolls (a lunacy in and of itself, Letho thought), she gave voice to what was brewing inside her head. And it seemed she analyzed the situation far better than the Marshal. He would’ve smiled at this unexpected outcome, maybe even compliment the assessment, but there were some people on the other side that disallowed pleasantries.

Fiindelfin was the first to act. Visibly irked – something that Letho thought elves didn’t get – he released a pair of arrows that missed their target miserably. Or so the swordsman thought. His mind was changed seconds afterwards when the seemingly solid ice beneath his feet started to grunt and crack like a beast awoken from a thousand years worth of slumber. Dan Lagh’ratham was quick to follow suit. A spray of projectiles was launched at the Imperial forces by the beastly man, allowing him to make unhindered advance towards the gradually widening crack in the ice.

Holding his spear in his left, Letho used his right hand to smack the shaft and send it into a spinning motion. This makeshift propeller easily ricocheted the three chakrams that were threatening him and the puppet master at his side. But the antics bought him little time. Everybody was on the move, scurrying this way and that in order to get away from the patch in the frozen lake that Dan was trying to overturn. Steadying his spear, he turned to those that were still within hearing distance.

“Logan, you take little lady and another down the right flank!” The surface upon which they were standing on was in motion, Dan and the inhuman strength in his muscles making it more and more slanted by the second. There were precious seconds left before they were all confined to an icy tomb. “You!” he pointed towards the suave man he decked days ago. “Take the rest down the right! I’ll try to keep them occupied in the middle!”

With that said, Letho broke off in a sprint as well, only unlike his allies he was moving straight towards the New World Order members. It was a slippery, almost clumsy run, his boots making tiny missteps here and there with every stride. By the time he reached the border of this ice pontoon, Dan already had it slanted enough for Letho’s feet to start slipping backwards as well. It forced the Marshal to improvise and use his spear as a pole, stabbing its tip into the ice and using the flexibility of the shaft to vault over the jagged edge and the monster that was lifting it up. The acrobatic move landed Letho right between Dan and the rest of his comrades, straight into the center of the storm. The faces that he had watched over a safe distance up until now were suddenly within the reach of his spear, and he swung his weapon in a wide horizontal arc to keep them at bay for a moment.

“Tyrants and usurpers!” he spat at them, spreading his legs and bending his knees ever so slightly in order to solidify himself on the spot he had landed. The lance was held coolly in his left, its tip passing over each and every face that stared back at him, almost like a pressure gauge passing over the etched numerals. “Your terror ends here!”

The fingers of Letho’s right tightened into a fist, and even as they did, a subsonic boom spread around him. It sent an invisible wave in a single concentric ripple that uplifted the frost that covered the ice, and once this harmless tsunami dissipated, it left behind a changed man. With aura made of pearly white flames fluttering around him, and with his brown eyes iced over by the same color, and with his muscles expanding beyond their normal capacity, Letho Ravenheart was a sight that sent lesser men cowering in fear. There was a bit of showmanship in his presentation, perhaps, but its solitary purpose was to attract attention, to keep those around him occupied. To make him an effective decoy.

In order to do that, however, Letho had to do more than offer some razzle-dazzle. He had to attack, keep them on their toes, keep their eyes and their focus on him. With strength enough to rival the titans and speed that made his spear move in a blur of wood and twinkle of metal, he made another sweeping, swooshing motion at head-height before he sent a thrust at the chest of the NWO leader. If he was lucky, Godhand Striker would end up on the far end of his spear.

[Logan]

The psion stood, his swords covered with the slush of ice and water, and steadied himself on the shifting ice beneath. He focused on controlling his breathing, knowing full well that there was no good in letting himself become unfocused. As he focused his eyes caught glimpse of a beast soaring through the air, preceeded by a couple of objects flying rather hastily towards him. Allowing the objects to get within a few yards of him, Logan focused and sent out a Mind Push. The strength of the push was enough that both projectiles were repelled and sent sliding onto the cold surface below. A smile permeated the lips of the psion.

At least the battle wouldn’t be overly quickly or won easily. Logan had come to despise quick, easy battles. They were nearly pointless, if not for the fact that he usually found solace in the deaths of his opponents. The psion’s smile faded quickly though as he heard the cracking of the ice beneath his allies. The beast that had sent the projectiles into the midst of the Imperial forces was trying to overturn the ice shelf beneath them. SHIT, the psion internally shouted so no one else could hear him, Why in the bloody hell do these bastards have to always be so damn gungho about these damn clan wars? Why can't they just lighten up and enjoy a good fucking drink every now and again and just let shit settle? The psion was not overly amused at the predicament his allies found themselves in. Then Logan heard Letho's command and the questions turned to focusing on obeying his orders.

He spun towards the little lady that Letho had spoken of. ”Ma’am, against everything within me, we need to get to the right of those bastards over there,” the psion telepathically communicated with her. ”And if any of you others have the balls to join me and the lady, hurry your ass up and move it! We’ve got a battle to win,” he sent the second statement out to all the forces close enough to hear the telepathic shout. Let's just hope the other half is faring far better than us, the telepath bemused to himself. He didn’t have time to wait on the others. He had to act now or God forbid what doom would befall the troops of Imperial. The psion took off towards the right of the small band of bastards that opposed them.

After a few paces of running full speed, Logan leapt into the air, his trenchcoat flapping in the wind. His right sword came arcing downward from the right to the left at one member of the opposing force who was occupying the territory on the right side of the NWO brood. The psion prepared his left sword for the counterattack that would inevitably come from the one whom he didn't recognize, nor from what he could tell did he know. He hoped the little lady had followed suit and not fallen out of rank, but he really had no time to waste worrying. The battle at hand was really the only thing he now focused on.

[Woshington]

Woshington seemed to be having a fundamentally different experience to a number of his colleagues in war. He was void of a consuming personal narrative; he didn’t have time for introverted emotion and self-analysis. Woshington’s mind was prone to grappling with his two facets: the efficiency required to fuel success and the pugnacious audacity of a graffiti artist, that charismatic vigour of a beachside gangster with narcotics to peddle. The lithe black man may well struggle for focus, but once found, it was all he needed. When on his peak, Woshington could weave his flamboyance into a determined functionality. A real attention whore. Woshington, however, was going to take the back door.

He’d taken his overview of the coliseum and imprinted it to his mind’s eye, so he was cock-sure of himself. Simply, that was because the plan he’d laid down for the Dirks establishment was even better suited for this example of decaying classical archetcture. Maybe Woshington was the only one here with a real plan and a real role, preordained in the bowls of a building with a powerful individual. An individual so powerful that such a meeting was inevitably by proxy.

Findelfin ap Fingolfin began his production, the Epic Cracking of the Ice. While the famous elf drew back on his bow a natural smile, wide and toothy, overcame Woshington’s face. Jubilant, he had discovered his opportunity to desert the centre of the battlefield and begin his very own production with an impetus. It was time to turn tail and make a run for it.

The spray paint cans (white, green, gold, red, blue and yellow) rattled audibly at Woshington’s flanks as he took to nimbly bounding across the ice. He was careful to cushion his modest weight with bent knees and the full range of his elastic feet—he had counteracted the limitations of an icy plain. Or so he thought. Traction was slipping away as his gaudy footwear gently struck with the ice. Despite being a student of the dance-like martial art, bónfim, he’d struggled to compensate with his above average agility. His lean limbs flailed without his typical grace, as a moment was required for him to adjust to the dynamics of the slippery surface. Once Woshington had re-synched he was allowing the glide of the ice to work for him, like a kid in a playground pushing the limits of how far his sneakers could carry him on a frozen puddle. His destination was the sanctuary of the surrounding coliseum.

The rim of the arena towered over a hundred feet high, thrusting into the sky. Woshington felt oppressed by its overshadowing apex as he approached. Leading up to the very summit was a variety of eerily empty seating, from those reserved for the nobles near the base level of the sub-zero lake up to the nose bleed seats which were encircled in a further elevated back wall. The space beneath the seating was utilised efficiently; a selection of holding cells were linked by a maze of hallways, each connected by once elegant archways that had fallen into disrepair.

The angle taken in flight was intended to obscure his departure from the increasingly intermingled Imperial and New World Order forces, but his rangy appearance was hardly undetectable. Woshington could only hope that his foes and allies alike would believe he his threat was minimal, or that he was fleeing the battlefield. After all, he was an unknown in a field of so-called legends. “Do not follow me, muthafuckas.” again and again, he insisted it in his mind. “Do not. Do not.”

While the ice breakers plot was being advanced by the dramatic introduction of Dan Lagh'ratham’s influence, Woshington simply continued to flee the scene. As he did, however, he gradually felt the climate drain his tropical body of its verve. He had to conquer the final five yards of ice otherwise he would have collapsed face down, embarrassingly underdressed for the occasion.

Woshington glanced back over his shoulder to observe Letho's heroics and smiled, “who is that?”

[Bloodrose]

"...trying...sink...positions..."

The fragmented bits of speech, spoken as if the voice was buried deep in his own head, snapped Teric's attention to the dissolving left flank of Imperial's forces. Telepath. His experience informed him almost immediately, drowning out the last bits of the psionic warning to leave him alone with only his own voice once more. Clever bastards. The veteran had to admit grudgingly, his feet carefully propelling him across the ice to the right side of his own forces. Seems someone on their side of the battle is going to be calling the shots out to everyone else.

While ice wasn't a foreign terrain to the soles of Teric's boots, the warrior still took his careful time moving to the right. Ice was the sort of terrain that demanded your constant respect, for the instant you ignored the placement of your feet and distribution of your weight, the ice would kick the feet out from beneath you and punish without mercy. And that was just normal, solid ice; to speak nothing of the possibility of falling through the unstable surface and perishing in the freezing waters lurking beneath...

Findelfin had proven in the opening salvo of the battle just why he was such a legendary general. Two simple arrows and some interesting song magic was all it took to place the entirety of Imperial's forces in dire jeopardy, forcing the defenders to scatter like a murder of crows as they fled the collapsing ice. And there goes the monster. Teric thought grimly, watching in admiration the sheer, terrifying power with which Dan Lagh'ratham struck the center of the opposition and heightened their risk of being trapped beneath the ice.

Yet, of course, the opening salvo couldn't just go unanswered by the relative titans on the opposing side. As Dan did to Imperial, so did the juggernaut Letho Ravenheart do to NWO and its Company allies. In a sprint and a leap the Marshall was in the brunt of the fight, wielding his spear with all the experience and finesse of a true fighter. To far removed at this point from the center of the brawl, Teric was more interested in the fact that the hefty Ravenheart didn't go crashing through the ice than he was in the showy display of strength the man was putting on...

The Marshal wasn't the only Imperial making his way into the fray, however, as Teric noticed once he turned back to the fracas Dan and the collapsing ice were creating on the other side. Those lucky enough to have escaped the cold trap were making their way forward, no longer content to let NWO and its allies assail them unrequited.

A silver haired young man in a fluttering coat came charging forward, almost recklessly, with his allies lagging in tow. Across the ice the man sprinted, showing a pronounced if not ridiculous level of agility to propel himself so expertly across the slippery surface beneath everyone's feet. This one is rash. Teric thought expectantly, readying the white virgin blade in his hand. The light played off the Mythril in a dazzle of rainbow colors, shimmering and gleaning as the old veteran whipped the wonderfully lightweight blade through the air. In his left hand the warrior gripped his Plynt dirk in a reverse grip, the blade tip just visible on the underside of the buckler strapped securely to the appendage.

Mr. Rash leapt into the air, both advantaging and disadvantaging himself at the same time. To gain the height and momentum advantage the man had robbed himself of all ability to alter his course of flight. Up came the Mythril blade in a glittering arc, and back down in came in a vicious slash.

"Waaagh!" Teric unleashed a guttural battle cry as twin, crossed blades of air rushed out from his sword to intercept the hapless Imperial lunging through the open space between them. Normally the veteran might have waited to use such a technique later on the fight, relying first on his sword skills, but this was no normal battle. This was war, and in war a man seeks to dispatch his opponents as quickly and efficiently as possible...


Unleashed a Slash attack to intercept Logan as he flies through the air.

[Lasair Anubail]

((Bunnying approved.))


Lasair heard the words of the telepath echo throughout her skull as if they spoken by the clearest voice around her. No outside sound interfered with them and no amount of ambient noise distorted what he was trying to tell her. It was as clear as crystal and she was going to listen to it, because right now it seemed like the best thing to do in this situation. After all, people were running around all over the area. Some beast of a man was currently attacking the main forces of Imperial all by himself and Letho had run off to the centre of the NWO forces to do the exact same thing to them. In fact, if her golden eyes didn’t deceive her she was rather certain he was attacking Godhand and every instinct within her body fought against her to go over there and help Godhand instead of helping her own clan!

Oh, this was bad; this was very, very bad.

Hearing more ice shift and crack and feeling the very vibrations of it run up through her black boots, the Fae turned her head around as locks of blood red hair were tussled by the freezing wind. The man named Logan was already beginning to run across the ice. His feet were sure even on the slippery substance. Knowing that her best course of action would be to follow through with her plan and attack the NWO forces from behind, Lasair drew in a deep fortifying breath and began chasing after Logan.

Her light weight did nothing to the ice. Though she could still hear the sounds of it distantly breaking and cracking under the pressure of other people, her fast steps were barely noticed upon its surface. Trying to keep up with Logan was nearly impossible and when she ran too fast, her feet tried to slip out from beneath her and her arms did a quick and crazy dance around her body to keep it upright. Luckily, the flutter of her wings, shifting and moving faster than the eye of any human could follow actually kept her bottom from making contact with the ground a second time today. The back of her dress was still wet and uncomfortable from the first time and she swore there was a lump somewhere on her head. She just didn’t feel like searching for it in order to find out.

As she watched Logan leapt into the air, Lasair saw another much older human brandish two weapons at her ally and attempt to cut him down from his vulnerable position. But she wasn’t going to let it happen, now was she? No, ma’am. She was going to go right over there and tell him exactly what she thought of his under handed tactics and maybe give him a swift kick to the shin, just to show him that she meant business.

That was what she wanted to do anyway.

Sadly, when she pushed herself faster so she could reach him before he could hurt Logan, her plan quickly died before it could even be implemented. Her first problem was the fact that the man’s attack happened while she was still feet away from him and unable to stop him, and the second was the fact that her feet slipped, her body lost its balance and she was sent skidding, right towards the man. The only warning he would quite possibly receive would be a bit of a high pitched—albeit cute—squeal right before she slammed into him. Her small, barely one-hundred pound frame collided with his and elicited a light grunt from the old human as she knocked him right off his feet, her own soon to follow. She landed on top of his chest, having felt her world spin haphazardly out of control twice in one day, three times if she were to count the teleportation.

Shaking her head, the small Fae placed her hands on the man’s chest, feeling the warm metal of his chainmail as she pushed off of him, trying to take as much of her weight as possible from his person.

“Ohh, that so did not work out how I’d wanted it to.”

Both of her plushies had been knocked from her shoulders in the collision. Tristram was currently hovering above her current position with his spear branded and ready to impale the human beneath her should he make any sudden moves. Godhand, on the other hand, was a few feet away muttering and grumbling to himself as he slowly got to his feet. Turning her head sharply, Lasair’s eyes searched the area for Logan as she tried to see if he were hurt or not.

[Slayer of the Rot]

A peal of terrible, mad laughter tore from the lips of the Saraelian as the Imperials struggled to abandon ship, and it grew in volume as one of the women toppled into the icy waters of the lake. The thick slab of ice cracked with such monstrously loud sounds that they managed to drown out his own amusement from his ears. Freezing water splashed across the breast of his suit and his face, but it failed to distract him from the carnage he was inflicting.

A flash of light and he was stumbling backwards, numb throughout his entire body.

His nerveless legs collapsed under him and he threw his hands out, forcing himself to stay up right through sheer force of will. Somewhere in the clutch of the coliseum a beast was roaring, and it wasn't for a few moments later that he realized the horrible noise was coming from his own stretched jaws as his tongue hung out over his teeth. Spittle oozed onto the ice and steamed. His back arched, and he hacked and coughed harshly, struggling to drive the cottony taste of shock out of his throat and mouth. Launching himself to his feet, he flung a concussive blast blindly off into the distance; a section of the stone wall close by shattered in a spray of broken stone and dust.

'One 'a tha fuckers...hit me with...lightning,' he struggled as coherency returned. Wildly, his twin's face flashed before his mind's eye and he whipped his head back and forth, seeking out Derium, but finally reasoned returned. The Saraelian grunted and shook his arms out at his side. The errant chunks of ice and cold water dropped off his suit with no resistance.

"Pitiful!" He roared, his arrogance returning in an instant. Launching into the air, Dan hung over the lake and reached out to the sword he had dropped. It appeared in his hand, and he turned his eyes down to the battle to assess the situation.

The Imperials had scattered; the woman he'd sent into the water was struggling to the shore. Letho was emitting iridescent white flames, and had his icy white eyes turned on the New World Order and The Company. Two unknown and unimportant people were moving behind Letho towards the Saraelian's comrades, and a well dressed silver haired man was rushing off for cover. He seemed perfectly content to watch the action unfold, and Dan scowled at him.

"Coward," he muttered, and then looked back to the thick of the action. Letho was moving with incredible, unearthly speed, power that he had not brought to bear on the ziggurat. Dan frowned as he realized he was going straight for Godhand. Out of the corner of his eye, the Saraelian saw the leader of The Company attack the other silver haired man with a glimmering mythril blade, and immediately, he began to move, cutting through the air as the space around his unoccupied right hand began to ripple with power.

"Good show!" He shouted out to the elder man, sneering as he drew closer to the powered form of the Corone marshal. With a fling of his arm, he launched a concussive blast of magnetic force at the man's feet, and the ice shattered in a huge explosion of water and frost. Continuing on, he descended beside Teric Bloodrose, grinning at the tiny red haired woman.

"Hey, mignonette, you keep this shit up, getting in everyone's way, you're gonna die out here. Don't you know that beasts walk this ice?" A revolver of black iron appeared in his hand opposite of the Irredeemable, and he raised it at the silver haired man Teric had attacked, and fired it twice.

"See? All the trash is going to be taken out."

[Summary:
Hit by Raelyse's lightning
Launched a concussive blast in Letho's path, intending on dropping him into the water
Fired two shots at Logan]

[Sighter Tnailog]

Findelfin tried his best to strafe, still keeping up his song. He wanted to encircle the defenders, and more than anything, he wanted to catch the mind-reader. For all their seeming disorganization, one could tell there was some sort of logic in their movements. They would be about to break up and flee when suddenly a few would move together, falling back to safer ground or moving forward in concerted attack. They were moving as if they had someone giving orders; and Findelfin heard nothing, so he knew that someone had the gift of speaking unseen.

Well, Findelfin did not have that gift. He'd worked for it, studying long and hard in the Schools of Magic to gain the arts of concentration and focus required for basic song magic. And with that study had come another gift. And so he concentrated once more.

"Godhand Striker, we need to locate and take out that silver-haired one. He's using some sort of telepathy to guide their motions. Do not let on that I am doing the same!"

That last bit may have been futile, he thought to himself. If the mind-reader was any good, then he would know that he was not the only one with the skill in this fight. All the more reason to take him out before he could tell his brethren.

But the concentration took something away from him, and he knew he had to stop. He had trained on how to keep his mind focused on several things at once, but he was still best when working with one thing at a time. The effort of keeping the metal under the ice hot even while talking to Striker and singing at the same time was not easy. But as Dan's theatrics on the ice began to take root, Findelfin saw no reason to continue singing. His assault had done its work.

As Letho crashed into the battlefield, sending out a small shockwave as he landed, Findelfin knew that playing nice was no longer an option. Letho was simply too strong to leave for others; the only way to take him out would be concerted and deadly firepower. Taking careful sight with his bow, he released an arrow. Almost before it had left his fingers another arrow was on his string and then gone again. One was aimed in the direction of the soft area behind the Marshal's knee that was left uncovered by his glass pauldrons, the other at the scale covering underneath his arms. The Marshal's armor looked tough, but mythril-tipped arrows might just puncture it even if they did fly slightly off course.

Even as the second arrow left the string all thought of watching to see if his attacks had found purchase on flesh left his mind. At the corner of his eye he had seen it, and all his will focused on where the lake was breaking apart.

Skie dan Sabriel was drowning. And it was his fault.

Some current in the lake had caught her and she struggled feebly at the brink of the ice, clutching at whatever she could find, her hair streaming wet behind her. Findelfin's body was cold, colder even then the air around him, and in a moment he had dropped his bow and his quiver on the ice, ignoring them as they fell. He forgot that he was fighting a war. He forgot his companions-in-arms. He even forgot that Skie dan Sabriel was, technically, his enemy.

He broke into a run, propelling himself across the cold surface with all the speed he could muster. Luckily his path took him for a second across drier spaces, where warmth and pressure had yet to begin melting the surface into a slippery trap. He was getting near to the moment.

Then he was upon it; the very area of treacherous cracks that he had himself created. The ice became slick and he went slower, choosing his steps carefully. Yet his heartbeats came no slower, and his cries frosted on the air as he shouted, "No! No!"

Suddenly, his boot slipped, and he crashed to the ice. It groaned audibly, and he got back to his feet and danced away even as it broke away from his feet. He was still quite a distance from Skie, and already he was starting to fall. He went forward more carefully, paying no attention to anything else but Skie's form struggling to survive.

Findelfin ap Fingolfin had gone insane, and anybody watching could see it.

Summary: I shot two arrows at Letho and am now trying to save Skie dan Sabriel. I am not there yet; someone is welcome to try to thwart my efforts, since you probably don't know what Findelfin is trying to do and will interpret it as an attack.

[Woshington]

Woshington’s getaway stood in stark contrast to the bombastic image portrayed from the depths of his lungs at the battle’s birth. Said commencement, to Woshington at least, seemed disconnected from the here and now. He knew that "there was always time to cash that cheque."

The relentless cold was biting into the ghetto superstar’s shallow layer of flesh and his temples were paining with the piercing chill he surged into. His pulsating cardiac muscle kept the machine burning; the heat generated by his continuous motion was a lifeline he was clinging to industriously.

His grip on life tightened as he ducked safely inside the first archway of the grand structure. With a low ceiling bearing down his six foot frame was forced to duck, and his trademark hairdo dusted down the crumbling stonework. Suddenly, Woshington was confronted with a choice of left or right, and he sprang recklessly to his favoured option. Confronted repeatedly with the choice of right or left, he never failed to sway decisively. This continued his sentiment of “Don’t fucking follow me.” He wanted to get lost. Enough binaries were executed for him to have effectively disappeared into the guts of the coliseum. With step one accomplished, his focus switched to step two: positioning.

Need to make sure I get the right muthafuckas… or at least more of them.

The coliseum was a behemoth of ageing construction and positioning himself was going to be a time consuming task. Woshington finally took a moment to pause, a daunting flight of stairs drew out before him. Sprinting up the stone steps ascending almost endlessly in front of him would, he knew, continue to repel the wintry environment. He set off, bridging two steps in each leap.

Towering erections, these boastful expressions of a sovereign, were invariably adorned with an ornate royal box. This coliseum was no different. Arriving under its ostentatious columns unscathed would complete step two.

Time was slipping away from the rapidly moving black man, and he could feel it. That desire to unleash at least one offensive drove his ascension.

[Godhand]

The snap of Findelfin's bowstring had been like a gunshot at a horse race; as soon it sounded, it set everybody into motion. Even with Godhand's hyper accelerated senses, it was difficult to keep up. Dan was ten kinds of tough guy; didn't even bother to say hello or goodbye before literally flying into the thick of their enemies. He had...Enthusiasm, I guess is the word? In any case he did say a couple of filthy fucking words as he sailed above the ice. Godhand would have to talk to him later about, you know, reigning it in in a situation like this. Nobody wanted to hear his horrible fantasies regarding what he'd do to their enemies, especially not when they were balancing on ice that might as well have been as thin as a damn eyelid. He could actually feel it buckling under his weight.

The mercenary didn't have much time to worry about it though, as soon he heard a braying and neighing that was quite familiar to him. It was that prissy noble, Letho. Godhand hated posturing more than he hated the rich, and as previously mentioned, he hated the rich. He'd had a couple of "adventures" with him. That's what the Savion prince would have called them, anyway. To Godhand it was just glorified wet work. Letho might have intimidated lesser men, but not him. They'd actually already fought once and back then he'd defeated the nobleman, so there really wasn't anything to be afraid of. On the other hand, back then they were fighting with their bare hands. Things were a bit different now, Godhand noted as he eyed the Savion's spear warily.

And then came the glow. Things had gotten real messy the last time he'd seen Letho do that. But he too boasted something new, something he didn't have during their last encounter. With but a thought he activated the Lion's Rage amulet hanging around his neck, and suddenly he felt white hot justice burning under his temples. It felt like his his brain was boiling inside his skull; sweat actually started forming on his brow despite their frigid surroundings. Godhand was strong; he was ready. He felt like strangling a tiger with his bare hands. As soon as Letho inched his way over across the unstable lake, he'd be ready for him.

But what's this!? While the mercenary was trying desperately to keep himself above the water line, carefully shifting his weight from one foot to the other when he felt the ice give just a little too much, Letho was free to move with impunity! He stomped around like a drunken mastodon! Goddamn those monks! He'd kill 'em!

No time to worry about them, though. Godhand would have to survive before even thinking about exacting revenge. He steadied himself, the frozen ground hissing and cracking as he dug his heel into it. The Savion noble was even faster than he remembered and was making his way towards Godhand at an impressive speed. Although, to tell you the truth, he didn't really expect Letho to make a serious attack. For all his posturing, the man did have a sense of honor and he definitely owed the mercenary. Hell, he'd probably just-

What the fuck!? Letho had tried to spear him like a damn fish! If Godhand hadn't been quick enough, he'd be flailing on the end of the prince's weapon like the catch of the day. But he had been quick enough; quick enough to catch the shaft of the weapon before Letho managed to drive it into his chest. The mercenary was furious, and there was a sound like a gunshot when he tightened his grip and a long crack formed across the wood. What the fuck was wrong with him!? He'd saved his wife!

"What the fuck is wrong with you!? I saved your wife!"

Just as Godhand was about to reach into his coat and stab Letho in the face with a combat knife in retaliation, however, there was something like a shout in his head. The swordsman had always been magically "dumb"; that is to say, he had absolutely no talent at wielding it and conversely was deeply desensitized to it. Therefore, Findelfin's thoughts had to force their way into Godhand's head. By the time they got through, all he could make out was "-motions. Do not let on that I am doing the same". He wanted to slap the elf for distracting him with something like that, but the message had been sent almost simultaneous to a blast from Dan. It missed Letho, who Godhand hoped was it's intended target, by a good two feet but the repercussions were still profound. It leveled a good bit of the frozen lake and cracks in the ice bolted in every direction. It was worst the closer you got the hole and you couldn't get much closer to it than where he was standing. Godhand plunged into the freezing water instantly, and he cursed his luck as he felt one of Findelfin's arrows graze his shoulder. The temperature made it feel like someone was wringing out his lungs like you would a drenched towel, but he still had the presence of mind to realize that he'd hung on to the Corone Ranger's spear.

He pulled.

[Xalstad]

Dirk Xalstad, better known by his alias, Jackal, was no stranger to war. During his lifetime he had seen more fighting than the majority of those on the lake, but unlike those famous warriors locked in battle—Letho Ravenheart, Skie dan Sabriel, and Logan McCloud—Jackal preferred to work on the sidelines. He was clever and tactical: a general, not a soldier. Without him, Imperial might have already fallen.

Fighting is only one element of war. Imperial’s informants warned Jackal of the NWO’s plans and their alliance days before the battle began, giving him ample time to apply the contingency plans he had created while the clan was in infancy. Did the NWO, the Company, and its allies really think the acts of some of the most recognizable people on Althanas would go unnoticed? Flexing their muscles would only take them so far and Jackal was determined to see them fail, not for their purposes, but for their arrogance.

To protect their treasury, Jackal, Melancor, and Tera had formulated a plot to keep the NWO and the Company away from the Dirks Estate. While NWO’s ultimate goal was uncertain, it was clear that the Company’s interest was on the vast wealth Imperial had collected. Step one of Imperial’s plan had almost worked as planned. The idea was to separate the enemy forces by “transporting” the Company members to the lake to attack their morale. When one can’t see the prize, the incentive to claim it is often lost. However, there appeared to be members of both enemy groups spread out below.

Jackal presently stood at edge of the coliseum, safely overseeing the battle. Imperial was not fairing well in its waking moments. The mercenaries, Letho Ravenheart and Logan McCloud had taken charge of the battle from Lesair Anubail, Imperial’s commander, and both were being teamed up on for their boldness. As expected, NWO came on strong, throwing their arsenal at Imperial from the onset, but even the best tire. The battle would also be very emotionally taxing. Because the battle involved ideologies, Dirks and Jackal were able to recruit acquaintances of the alliance and other notables as mercenaries. Step two involved pitting companions against one another to potentially end the battle early. Emotional tension tends to breed suspension.

In the end, Jackal preferred this type of war. Being tactical in war saved lives, though Jackal doubted that it was compassion that formed his preferences. He was driven by a desire to win, and to do so flawlessly. Imperial was getting handled, but the ploy had worked. It was time to recall his troops and allow his plan to unfold. “You’ve done well, my friends,” Jackal said, gently patting a nearby monk on the back, “but I’m afraid I must go and lead my troops."

Without waiting for a response, Jackal stepped forward. “Imperial!” he yelled, “Retreat to the Coliseum. Ravenheart! Give them cover.”

[Logan]

Logan's sure-footing had ensured he'd get the most out of his leap towards the stranger he'd attacked. His eyes caught a glimpse of a flash of light from the one he was attacking, but as quickly as it came it was gone. Then, almost as fast as it was gone, it was back and visible once more. The light grew brighter and the duration was vastly extended.

The rainbow of colors blinded Logan for a split second, the direct result of the blade acting as a prism for the sunlight from above. He knew it was a coming attack and was pretty sure it was a blade being swung in his direction though it was hard to tell by the light. Perhaps it was the sudden rush of cold, biting wind that caused Logan to alter the arc of his blade, swinging it back upwards to meet the other blade directly in front of him.

The two prevalida blades met with the ear-piercing sound of grinding metal. The blades of air from his opponent sliced into them fiercly, but were easily dispatched away. And that's exactly why I use only Prevalida, the psion thought to himself amusedly. Prevalida had become widely known for its innate ability to withstand magic and be virtually immune to it. His blades were not only his best weapon, but they were also his best defense at times. As the air blades were dismissed without much concern, but Logan suddenly had a much greater problem.

His sheer angle and velocity had not been accounted for in regards to the unsteady surface at which he was now hurling towards with a severe lack of control. Thinking quickly and decisively, the psion rolled to his right to try and allow his side to take the brunt of the impact that seemed to doom him. He hadn't noticed the sudden appearance of the beast that had broken apart massive quantities of the ice shelf Imperial stood upon, but the sound of shots was enough to catch his attention.

His roll to his side had allowed him to avoid the first shot, if not by the grace of God. The second shot, however, ripped through his jacket, and due to his roll, sliced along his left leg in a horizontal line. ”FFFFUUUUUU--," the psion sent out the shout telepathically without even realizing it. It was more reaction at that point, as he turned just slightly from the velocity of the bullet and the sheer pain.

Crack…Crack…SPLASH… The sounds of Logan plunging through the ice into the watery depths below was sickening. Those who were in battle upon its thin and unsure surface were sure to feel shivers as he sank to the depths below. Logan had nearly doomed himself from the start, and that would come as no surprise to most who knew him.

If there was one thing the veteran was known far and wide for doing, it was being brash and reckless. He rarely attacked with much thought into the outcome. Usually, the psion allowed his emotions to take control, and thus, he found himself in such precarious positions as the one he had suddenly been thrust headlong into. The sheer pain from the wound the bullet inflicted was only enhanced by the sharp pains his right side endured while crashing through the ice and into the water. It caused him to take a small, quick breath in. Unfortunately for Logan trying to breathe underwater usually yielded unsatisfactory results.

The seering loss of airspace in his lungs to the invading water made him realize the situation was dire and desperate. Logan swallowed the water he’d sucked in and allowed his nostrils to breathe out just slightly. He was going to run out of breath rather quickly if he didn’t do something fast. Closing his eyes, the veteran focused his thoughts and himself on one thing – survival.

He hadn’t heard the words Dirk had shouted. He was too focused, and the sound was muted by the water and ice above. Opening his eyes to figure out where he was he realized he’d sunk down a few more feet than he’d thought. He could barely make out the figures above him standing on the unsteady ice. They were slowly fading into darkness.

Logan had to concentrate. He had to.

[Letho]

Cold?

Cold didn’t even begin to describe it.

The water around him wasn’t water at all. It was alive. It stabbed at the Marshal with shards of jagged ice that tore through nerves and flesh and bone. Letho felt like he was trapped in one of those torturing coffins which perforated him with spikes once it was closed, only somebody kept closing and opening the door. It never stopped. It struck against his chest again and again like a boxer on a punching spree, trying to beat that little portion of life that he still had. It was a peculiar type of pain as well. It didn’t irritate him, didn’t make him wrathful. It was trying to make him surrender, give up, let go to the cold touch. It promised him that if he did that, the agony would be over. Nothing pained you once you were a stiff.

Perhaps the sinking Marshal would’ve even considered tossing in the towel if it wasn’t for the wrath that kept burning within him. Godhand Striker was the reason for it. No surprise there. The unscrupulous mercenary always had a way of irritating Letho and this time he had done it by pulling his foe under with him just like he had probably pulled so many under in his life. Only this time his victim was sinking faster than him. With all the equipment weighing him down, Letho was falling through the water like a boulder, still holding on onto his spear. Godhand was probably somewhere above him, trying to swim in this sea of frozen snakes that kept biting, but the plunging swordsman couldn’t see him. Couldn’t see a damn thing. Every time he tried to open his eyes, it felt like someone is trying to gouge them out with a rusty, cold spoon.

Letho put his muscles in motion despite their insistence not to do so, but trying to swim in icy waters was like trying to swim in quicksand; every stroke just got you deeper. Luckily for the Corone Ranger, his feet struck the muddy bottom after mere seconds of this futile struggle. There was hope to found in that mud. The lake was obviously shallow here, meaning some kind of dry land was close. Letho’s mind tried to ascertain where that land stood compared to his current position, but the icy pain was piercing his forehead like nails, preventing clear thinking. The fact that the air from his lungs craved to get out only added to the chaos in his head.

Luckily, his feet kept their wits. They tested the soft soil below, feeling the angle of the slope before they started climbing it. The water around him was like a gale, trying to push him back, impeding him movement, but the sheer might of his muscles prevailed. It brought Letho underneath the slab of ice that separated the frozen coffin and airy freedom. He shouldered upwards against the thick plate, once, twice, thrice without making as much as a crack. It was only then that he realized that the whole icy experience quenched his Righteous Might. He called it up again, enlightening the lake from below with his aura before he launched himself through the ice with an almost bestial growl.

His feet landed on solid ground, but immediately the swordsman was on his knees, breathing out puffs of air as white as if he had a cigar in his mouth. His limbs were cramped, his gauntleted fists balled into fists so tightly that they probably bled beneath the metal. He lost his spear somewhere between being on the bottom of the lake and bulleting through its surface, but he didn’t care. His body was still being tormented by the icy pitchforks – albeit not as viciously as down below – but he didn’t care. He was out and that was all that mattered.

But apparently, he wasn’t the only one. Godhand Striker resurfaced as well, all pale and twice as ugly as normal. The pair wound up on a small stone platform that might’ve been a part of the coliseum’s auditorium once judging by the stone steps that kept rising upwards before they were abruptly bitten off by the tooth of time. They stood at what was probably one a loge used for those with deeper pockets, but all the marvel was gone from the edifice. There was only frost and cracks and treacherous gray stone that threatened to crumble if enough force was applied.

That didn’t stop the combatants, though. Their breaths weren’t normalized, their muscles still half-dead like their brains, but once eye-contact was established between the flaming browns and the cool crimsons, they went at it again. They were both sluggish and cold, their clothes and their armor clutching them in a frosty grasp, but they went at it again like deer locking antlers over a doe. Letho brought down a powerful pile driver from above with his right, aiming to beat Godhand to the ground with it, but the mercenary was too deft, still too fast. He not only evaded the strike, but trapped Letho’s wrist and pulled him down on his fist that thundered against the torso of the Marshal. If it weren’t for the armor and the taut muscle, it would’ve been a strike that forced the contents of the stomach out. As it was, however, it failed to seriously shake Letho who countered with a headbutt that connected with Godhand’s forehead and sent them both reeling backwards a couple of steps. The temporary pause finally allowed the Marshal to respond to the words spoken earlier.

“My wife has nothing to do with this plundering run of yours, Godhand. One good deed doesn’t excuse ten vile ones. I have to put a stop to it.”

[Raelyse]

Now, it was really starting to get messy. And Raelyse could not be more excited. Cries of battle, shrieks of pain, the sound of ice breaking underfoot, the splashing of icy water... it was all music to his ears. Everyone was fighting tooth and nail and he could hold it in no longer. The sides were relatively evenly matched, at least for now. It was time for his grand entrance, it was about time for the arrival of the one who would turn the tides. He had helped here and there, thrown his bolts of lightning, but he had not really made himself prominent. With the type of tricks at his disposal, that would not stay a problem for very long.

Raelyse had scurried away like a timid mouse as soon as his allies had charged forward, consoling himself by comparing himself more to a fox, a cunning creature that would strike when the time was right. Now that weapons were drawn and the conflict really begun, he prematurely decided that the time had come. He could not resist, to be honest. Never one to fall victim to bloodlust, he nevertheless could not help but feel tempted to join. One look at his sword cane, resting gently in his right hand, firmly pressed onto the icy surface was all he could stand. The fine blade had been confined within its sheath for too long and it hungered to be unleashed, just as Raelyse hungered for prominence.

Telepathic thoughts had been bouncing in his head for the past few minutes but he paid them no heed. He marched to the beat of only one drum: the one of his heart. And it was high time that the rest heard and followed it as well.

“Behold!” Raelyse bellowed, his voice loud and clear. He threw back his coat revealing the striking clothing he wore beneath it, despite the occasion. Also noticeable was the magnificent blade Lhustaril, sheathed and secured to his belt. All those factors were nothing, compared to what he was about to show them.

His left hand came across, grabbing onto the handle of Ilrathion, his sword cane, and in one swift motion, pulling the enchanted sword free of its scabbard, bathing it in the air that it craved so badly. Instantly, its enchantment presented itself to the two warring factions. Raelyse turned the blade horizontally and thrust it above his head, to present the effect more dramatically. His sword shone as bright as a twin sun, instantly catching the attention of any who spied it, even out of the corner of their eye. That was not all the however, for he tilted his blade slightly at various angles, allowing the light from his shining weapons to reflect at random angles, throwing blinding rays of light into eyes scattered all over the battle field.

Being immune to Ilrathion’s effects, Raelyse constantly moved around so that as many people as possible would be exposed to the blinding light but also to ensure that random projectiles would not hit him.

The Myrusian tried to turn his movements towards the coliseum, knowing that was where his forces were headed.

[Summary: Raelyse unleashes Ilrathion, bathing the whole battlefield in light, temporarily blinding random people.]

[Arsène]

The battle had quickly devolved into sheer madness as both sides began to throw their chaotic attacks haphazardly across the field of ice and into whatever flesh and armor happened to be nearby. Arsène himself had made a mad dash for his horse in the ensuing chaos, as strange throwing weapons whipped by his head and kicked up his hair. He was far enough to the right to not be in direct danger of the ice, and it was all the reason he needed to leap blindly on his steeds back and command the animal away from combat.

It all seemed like a blur since taunts were first thrown and plans were first laid. In an instant monstrous men had leapt forth in the wake of stinging arrows glamored by white hot sorceries. As steed and rider alike felt the sting of cold breath penetrate their lungs, they could only look back in sheer bewilderment at the battle that had become nothing more than anarchy. Screams of telepathic messages surged through the noble's head, causing him to stare wildly around to find the source of such witchery; all the while he kicked at his steeds side to go further and further towards the coliseum. He didn't need Imperial's tactician to explain when to fall back. Any first year officer could tell the battle was going poorly. Had Arsène not eyed Findelfin racing towards the gaping would he himself had gashed in the lake, the man might have continued his retreat.

But the elf and he had unfinished business. It was the elf's presence at the meeting days ago that caused Arsène to rush over and demand his head. And it was that comment that cause Letho's fist to go slamming into Arsène's head.

The noble took his beast by its mane and whispered firmly into it's ear, "head to the center." With aged and unsure footing, it began a slow trot doubling back to the center where Findelfin dashed to fallen form of one of Imperial's soldiers who bobbed and gasped in the frigid waters. Arsène kept his head and body low to avoid the chance of projectile attack. The man was no skilled rider and only managed to stay on by sheer trust of his steed. If anything happened to upset the animal further, he doubted he'd be able to stabilize the beast's wailing cries or flailing motions.

As unnatural light seemed to appear from the very air itself, Arsène neared the icy hole that was Imperial's center flank, just in time to see Findelfin arrive at the opposite side of the gaping maw. He stopped and steadied his beast, cautioning it on the danger of their situation with a few rushed words and rubs on its neck.

Arsène doubles back to the center, stopping just outside the breaking ice, opposite of Findelfin and Skie, and a pretty easy target considering he's on a horse.

[Bloodrose]

Bunny approved by Lasair

Had he not been so focused on the man leaping through the air at him, Teric might have noticed the red-headed blur that came zipping in directly under the flying Imperial. Having just attacked the aerial target, though, the veteran's gaze didn't venture down far enough in time to identify the oddly child-like squeal that barreled into his mid-section and knocked him clean off his feet...

Shit! The thought streaked across Teric's mind like a bolt of lightning on a warm summer's eve, jerking the warrior into action even before the base of his skull bounced painfully off the cold ice. The cold soaking into his backside and the warmth sitting atop him were lost in a deluge of adrenaline as the mercenary, justifiably fearing for his life, brought his arms close to his chest in preparation to attack...

A melodic, feminine, and undeniably innocent voice started complaining about something not working out, and it was her words that cut through Teric adrenaline-fueled haze and still the warrior's hands.

Pausing long enough to look up and identify his attacker, Teric found himself almost face to face with the cutest little fae he'd ever laid eyes upon. Shaking her head in disappointment had sent her red and golden locks bouncing around her child-like face, and golden puppy eyes only exasperated the worry displayed on pouty ruby lips. It was the look of someone genuinely apologetic; the look you give someone after accidentally knocking them over in the street, rather than tackling them in battle...

What in the name of the Goddess is she doing on a battlefield? Teric found himself thinking, suddenly forgetful of the fact that an Imperial soldier might still be flying towards him. This is no place for a fae to playing war...

The arrival of Dan Lagh'ratham on the scene snapped Teric's momentary reverie, the thunderous crack of the monster's gunpowder weapon reminding the warrior inside the old man that a battle was ongoing. Almost reactively the veteran released his sword, balling up his fist and extending his arm as far back as the ice below him would allow. You're a cold bastard. The mercenary thought regretfully, knowingly committing himself to that special circle of the Great Nether reserved for the users of bad puns. Deep down the old man might not have wanted to do what he did next, but the gruff mercenary exterior was reminded darkly of an old comrade's fitting words...

"In war, you don't spare someone because they are weak. If they step willingly onto the battlefield, you take care of them so that they don't take care of you..."

The pitiful noise the fae made when Teric's fist connected with her jaw stung, the regretful pang in his heart more physical a pain than the literal sting of a tiny spear striking his face. As the child-like red-head slumped semi-conscious to the ice, a small draconian plushie had seen fit to come diving at Teric's face, scoring a bright red line from forehead to mid-cheek; missing the warrior's eye by less than an inch.

"Son of a bitch!" Teric hissed as his shield came up and swatted the enraged construct away. Sticky red blood ran a warm line down the veteran's chilled skin as he jumped to his feet, bending only long enough to retrieve his weapon. There was a rumbling in his gut that made the old man want to stop and apologize, perhaps even help the fae, but one thought prevented Teric from doing so...

She had to know what she was getting into...

A cursory glance around the frozen pond told Teric everything he needed to know about the state of the battle. Holes had opened up in the ice all over the place, including one nearby that could only have been where the flying Imperial attacker had fallen through into the cold water below. Letho, Godhand, and Woshington were missing as well, and the scattered Imperial forces all seemed to be milling about undecidedly...

"Just how many commanders does Imperial bring to one battle?" Teric said off-handedly to the smiling beast standing next to him, listening intently to the voice shouting Imperial orders from the ruined coliseum. While they had never met before today, the veteran was only all too aware of Dan Lagh'ratham's dangerous reputation. Monks at the Dajas Pagoda whispered dark things of him, and the world at large whispered things only darker. "We can't let Imperial consolidate their forces." The mercenary added, a calculating glint in his eye. "We need to keep them on the ice and away from the safety all that stone and solid footing over there."

The subtle emphasis Teric purposefully put on the word "stone" would have been lost on most people. Those who had heard rumors of Dan Lagh'ratham's potent Terramancy skills, however, would have understood the sympathetic shiver running down the warrior's spine...

[Lasair Anubail]

Pain.

It exploded across her jaw and her cheek and then travelled throughout the rest of her head. A small squeak escaped her lips as it ravaged her skull and her body fell back to the cold ice. Water soaked through her clothing, chilling her tanned skin and making her arms break out in gooseflesh and uncontrollable shivers. Her eyes were clenched tightly, keeping the scenes that were unfolding around her at bay and unnoticed. She shouldn’t be here. This was not a place that a Fae should be. She should be hiding within the Dirks manor, safe and sound and without hulking men with huge guns shooting at people and mean old humans that decided it was a good idea to punch her across the face. She could already feel the skin around her jaw begin to swell. Oh, why had Ter-Ter asked her to get involved in this? She was not a fighter, she was just a Synthesizer and that wasn’t even helping Imperial very much at a moment.

Instinctively, Lasair curled up into a little ball as she heard words nearby, possibly from the man who had punched her. She could feel his footsteps crunch down on the ice as he moved about, but she didn’t want to look at him. He might think it was a good idea to hurt her again and she didn’t like the pain.

Oh, why am I here?

The tiny Fae was just about to give up the whole affair and curl into an even tighter ball, hoping no one paid any more attention to her and this whole thing would just end very soon. But then something soft brushed up against the side of her face and made her wince as the throbbing pain escaladed enough more.

“What the Hell are you doing on the ground!?”

They were the growled words of Godhand, her newest guardian and plushie.

“But it hurts...” She said rather pathetically.

Her words seemed to still his anger slightly, “I know it does, sweetheart, but you can’t just lie here like this. You’re an open target and this is a war, either get out of the way or help.”

Help.

Could she really help Imperial? Her original plan was quickly failing and she needed a new one to back it up. But she also needed to get rid of people like that old human and the mean looking man with the gun that had decided to shoot Logan. Oh, no, Logan!

She shot up into a sitting position, a sudden dizzy feeling overcoming her and nearly cutting off her vision through colourful little spots that obscured almost everything. Once she shook her head to clear the spots from it, she looked around for the silver haired man—geez, why does every man she meets have silver hair—but she couldn’t seem to see him. There were people all over the place though and she couldn’t seem to find him in the crowd. There was a hole in the ice close by, perhaps he had fallen underneath. If that was so, then there was nothing she could do to help him. But she could help other members of Imperial by taking out the old man and the guy with the gun.

Slipping her rucksack from her shoulders, Lasair quickly began rummaging around inside. After a few seconds, she produced a large, clear crystal. She had wanted to save these for her plan, but since it no longer seemed plausible, she was just going to have to use it here. Quickly standing on slightly shaky legs, the tiny Fae turned to the two men no more than a few feet from her, men that had forgotten she even existed apparently. Which was perfect for her.

Reeling her hand back behind her head, she threw the crystal forward towards the two of them. In the air, it exploded in a ray of light and released five large icicles that quickly sped towards them. At their widest they were four inches and their length spanned roughly a foot and a half. If they missed their targets, they would dig into the ice at their feet and send them plummeting into the icy waters below.

[Slayer of the Rot]

"They're trash," Dan replied matter-of-factly, crossing his arms over his chest. The smoking revolver hung limply from one finger, and he continued.

"Like rats in a sinking ship full of blood thirsty monsters. They're terrified of the things we'll do to them...they know this day is already lost. Anything that comes after this moment now is their swan song." The Saraelian's lips stretched farther across his face, and the cold light glinted off his saw-like teeth.

"I didn't come here for the money or the glory, you know. Like you mercenary folk. I came here to see blood and smell blood and taste blood. So let's spill some more, huh?" Dan laughed loudly as beneath him, the silver haired telepath struggled under the icy water, and the Fae laid on the ground before the aging mercenary and his feet. An amused gray glare settled on Xalstad, who struggled to rally the troops. In that gray, a taste for madness danced.

As he began to take his first few steps across the breaking lake towards the man, the Fae sprang up and pulled something from her rucksack. The Saraelian's eyes slid down to her, and he moved instantly. As she reeled back her hand and launched the ice bomb, the Shield of Vangaurd appeared on his forearm. It gnashed it's teeth as the sphere burst in a flash of light. Dan swept his arm out and the ice shards shattered across the strange metal surface. The mouth of the shield released a piercing sound like an axe grinding on a spinning whetstone, and it vanished as bits of frost settled on the shoulders and arms of his suit.

"What did I tell, you, mignonette? How perfectly pitiful. Go drown." Sneering down at the fae, he barely even took note of the girl as he passed. She was nothing but an insect in his eyes, after all. Raising a few inches off the ice, he launched himself across the lake, arms trailing in the wind. They rose in a quick snapping motion as he drew closer to Xalstad.

"Feh! If you think of yourself as some general, I think of you as nothing but trash!" His fingers closed on something that no other could manage to see, and gave a great heave. As though loosing phantom chains, a section of the stone coliseum wall behind the man gave way with a thunderous crack, and came toppling down upon Xalstad. They crashed into the lake with a titanic splash of frigid water and jagged shards of ice. The shrapnel tore at his suit and flesh, and thick dark rivulets of blood dribbled down his cheeks. If he noticed the pain, he didn't seem to show it. And if he noticed if Xalstad had dived away from the rockfall, he he showed that neither.

Instead, he raised a hand back to the settling debris and closed his hand quickly into a fist. Unseen forces pulverized the boulders into gravel. He repeated the process, flipped both hands up palm first, and lifted. The stones rose up off the ground and gathered in the air in a mass of no shape. Dan pulled his hands back to his chest and began to roar again with laughter as the gravel came rushing towards him, and formed an ugly misshapen ring around his floating body.

Despite the invading cold, beads of sweat stood out upon his face, diluting the blood that dripped from the wounds on his cheeks. That mad, gray glare shot across the arena, seeking out the next source of blood to spill, and he saw it; a man on a horse. Both were well groomed, but looking barely battle worn. His arm whipped out, and the stones slashed out in a stream towards the man with bone crushing force.

"The worst kind of trash is the sort that thinks he's too good for war!"

[Summary:
Blocked Lasair's Ice Bomb with the Shield of Vanguard.
Used Terramancy to pull a section of wall down on Dirk Xalstad in an attempt to crush him.
Broke up rubble with Terramancy into gravel.
Sent the stream of gravel at Arsene in an attempt to smash him.]

[Bloodrose]

Oddly enough, Teric found himself in that moment very, very glad that Imperial outnumbered the forces of the NWO. With that predator's smile plastered across his mug, and with his devil's sentiments, it occurred to the older warrior that Dan's allegiances to the NWO might just be tenuous at best. Monster's the likes of this one were not made to be put on a leash, and Teric did a little more than wonder about just how long Dan Lagh'ratham would hesitate before betraying his comrades...should he run out of things to kill...

If there are two kinds of evil in the world, then I suppose both of them are standing right here. The veteran mused as Dan moved around him to hunt down more Imperials. While he didn't necessarily consider himself a bad person, Teric was acutely aware of the fact that many people found those in his profession to be bad people. After all, a man whose allegiances shifted with the amount of coin in his purse couldn't exactly be, by nature of his profession, a trustworthy individual. And yet, compared to the likes of him, even the most unscrupulous mercenary is a saint...

Teric turned to follow after the monster just as the Fae's ice spell was smashed against the shield Dan seemed to sprout on his arm. There was a terrible noise grinding on the air, and for a brief moment Teric was afraid that Lagh'ratham would snap the little elfling in half like a twig. Luckily for her though, the beast striding by seemed no more phased by her assault than he would have been by a flea's bite.

The man-demon took off towards Imperial's read like a cannonball across the ice, hovering just inches above the surface as he cackled and taunted his enemies all the way. Restricted to walking across the ice, Teric followed a little more slowly, prepared to trail the beast into the thick of battle and finish off any Imperials Dan might leave behind as his fickle assaults carried him to new foes. Because his tentative ally was so far ahead though, Teric felt it safe to pause slightly as he strode confidently passed the cute little Fae.

"I apologize if I hurt you." He said gruffly, trying to convey the fact that he was being sincere without admitting that he was wrong for punching her. The welt already forming under her chin was a solitary blemish on her fine features, and under different circumstances, were he a different man, Teric might have struck himself for tarnishing a beauty like her's. "But battle is no place for one of your kind. You should get out of here before someone worse than the likes of me decides to take an interest in you."

His piece said, Teric broke out into a gentle, if not clumsy jog across the ice. Water from the many holes broken in the surface had begun to seep across the surface, like the whole lake top was sinking beneath the weight of the combatants, making the slick ice even more slippery. Rather than follow Dan directly, preferring not to wind up as collateral damage, Teric aimed himself in the direction of Findelfin, who upon a glance seemed strangely disconnected from the battle. The elf was missing his bow, and something about the way he was carrying himself felt out of place - like he didn't know where he was...

What is that damn elf doing? Teric pondered as he clenched his weapons tighter. Focusing on the few Imperials still hanging around the center of the ice where the legendary General was headed, Teric committed himself to dealing with the first foe that crossed his path...


Headed to the center, where Findelfin, Arsene, and I'm assuming Skie and Grim are likely hanging out. Any takers?

[Sighter Tnailog]

People were moving towards him from all sides, and Ainalindil was in his hands in a flash. He continued running forward, concentrating for scarcely a moment to fire a blast of white light at the Imperial galloping towards him on a horse. A horse! On ice! Aurient take me if I ever mistreat Pelektar in that fashion!

He ignored Arsene, continuing to pick his way carefully across the ice, and then he was at Skie. She was still struggling to get back on the bank, fear and terror in her eyes, and he was not willing to let that fear last. Thrusting Ainalindil into the ice nearby, he began to chant. It was bold and vibrant, fast-paced, and he concentrated all its energy on the area around where Ainalindil had entered the smooth, glassy surface of the ice. The Requiem of the North sealed the cracks and strengthened his footing, and he grasped firmly to Ainalindil's hilt as he reached out with his other hand to grasp Skie's arm.

With a mighty heave, he lifted her up, in one motion pulling her dripping form from the water to the ice floe on which he stood. With another wrenching motion he pulled her back from the edge and pushed her for nearly a yard, away from the treacherous point where his blade had entered the ice. Ripping Ainalindil free, he stopped his chanting. Too soon!

Too late he felt the frosty lake shift beneath him. Too late he heard the vicious crack as the wound he'd caused in the ice shifted and broke. At once he tried to leap, to reach where Skie stood in safety from the shattering under his feet. But like everything else, he was too late.

The water rose up to meet him, and he sank into the lake. Mythril was remarkably light for a metal, but that did not mean it could float. He kicked hard for the light he saw above him, but no matter how he struggled the light was receding, slipping from view. As he sank the water got colder, the light dimmer.

Memories came roaring back to him, of a sea wracked by storm, of lightning in the sky and fire on the deck. He remembered flying overboard, nearly drowning; awaking in a village somewhere in Concordia. The night he arrived in Corone for the first time had been the greatest nightmare of his life, and for one crippling moment he nearly relived it. But then, on a sudden, the light above him seemed to grow and shimmer, and he remembered that there was a place above him of warmth and light and breath. With a great wrench he tore off his helm and his coif, and with another jerk he had whipped off his brigandine and his bracers, keeping only his sword clutched firmly in one hand. He kicked again. The balance of weight shifted and he began to move upwards up, the light grew and swelled, and he followed it.

Right as he was about to hit the surface, he hit the surface. His upward ascent was stopped by a thick sheet of ice, that refracted the sun and cast its wan beams in a thousand directions. He could see formless shapes above him, people fighting and bleeding onto the surface, red blood darkening the radiance from above. He hewed at the surface desperately, trying to break through, but nothing happened. He could feel the life ebbing even as he struck again to no avail, his body burning, his arms weakening, the fire of his spirit slowly dying in water and cold. Ainalindil slipped from his fingers, and its light was quenched as it rapidly fell into the netherworlds of that deep lake.

Underneath the ice, where no songs are sung and no breath of music stirs, his burning lungs rebelled against reason, and Findelfin ap Fingolfin tried to breathe again. And when he did, he drowned.

Summary: Saved Skie. Now drowned...but not dead. Tune in next week, same bat time, same bat place, to see how Findelfin ap Fingolfin gets out of this one!

[Godhand]

Godhand had once heard that some people liked to jump into frozen lakes to ring in the new year. As it stood now though, he couldn't imagine anyone choosing to do this. It was so fucking cold. His eardrums in particular felt like they'd hardened into two little pebbles once he sank below seven feet. That was the worst part, but the constricted feeling in his lungs came in at a close second. Like getting wrung out, I tell you. The mercenary cupped his face with his hands and dug his nails into his forehead, drawing a bit of blood. He was grinding his teeth, trying to will himself not to pass out. He had one up on Letho, though; he wasn't wearing any armor. He'd have an easier time getting out of there than the Ranger. The swordsman kicked his legs blindly, he definitely wasn't taking his hands off his face, and hoped he would reach some sort of way out of the ice. The luck of the devil himself, Letho might say; he reached some sort of stone platform and with one last mighty kick, flopped out.

The mercenary clutched at his chest, drawing in long and ragged breaths. Just an awful feeling. Have you ever woken up after a long sleep and opened your eyes only to have them scratched by that crap that builds up? Sleep dust? Imagine if it was made out of frost. Godhand was rubbing his palms into his eyes, trying to get it together. Just when he had more or less gotten his bearings back, Letho ran forth and tried to get him with a right. Rotten son of a bitch didn't even bother trying to hide his contempt for the mercenary. But Godhand was quick and vicious; he caught the right and responded by giving Letho a good one across the ribs. He may not been a celebrated hero but he could still go toe-to-toe with most anybody you can name. The Ranger had gotten better since the last time they'd met, though; picked up a couple of new tricks. He gave Godhand a headbutt which sent them both stumbling in opposite directions. He didn't have the energy to follow up, though. Neither of them did. Too damn cold.

"Ingrate! You owe me!"

It was true. It had been a couple of years ago. Akashima? Shanleh? The mercenary couldn't recall. They'd both gotten hired to protect some kid making a power play. What was his name? It didn't really matter, he supposed. Godhand had killed him that same day. But what did matter was that Letho's wife Myrhia was about one second away from getting gored at one point during their journey, and if it hadn't been for Godhand's interference, an interference which resulted in serious injury for him I might add, she would most definitely not have survived. The mercenary had been raised in a world where, if you didn't repay a favor someone had done for you, you were scum. The fact that Letho had not only disregarded their history and joined his enemies but tried to spear him as well was unforgivable to him.

Just as Godhand was about to lunge for the Ranger, however, they were both blinded by a flash. Both brought up their hands to shield their eyes as a nearby Imperial summoned forth some sort of magic. Their battle momentarily interrupted, the mercenary waited until the light had subsided before drawing his gun and firing upon what had seemed to him the source of the flash. He was still disoriented by the dark purple splotches he was seeing, but he felt he more or less had a bead on the Imperial. One, two, three, four, five and just as he was drawing a second pistol, Letho lunged forward and punched Godhand on the side of the head.

The mercenary groaned and spun away, reholstering his weapon. But just as he felt the Ranger advancing upon him, he quickly turned and delivered a beautiful high kick to the Savion Prince. Godhand felt the toe of his boot nail Letho right in the temple. It was more than enough to put your ordinary Corone Ranger down, but Letho was no ordinary Ranger. He leaped forth and tried to tackle Godhand, but he'd seen that move before. The mercenary steadied himself and caught Letho by the waist with both arms as he was leaping forward, using his own momentum to raise the noble up unto his shoulders before hurling him unto his back with enough force to cause the pebbles dotting the platform to jump. Godhand was about to push his advantage but just as he was leaning down to grab Letho, he felt the effects of the freezing ice once more and fell to one knee. He was exhausted; white smoke poured out of his mouth and he still had a pounding headache from their earlier splash.

"You owe me..."

[Arsène]

The ice sheet's great lesion claimed another victim as it swallowed Findelfin whole. The elf, who had struggled to save the drowning maiden, was swept beneath the surface into the frigid, calm waters. Within seconds, the lake gave no hint or glimmer of life, only the splashing of satisfaction at yet another kill. Arsène sat on horse with a mixture of shock and bewilderment, though his face still had as much emotion as a classically sculpted statue. A hero? A fool? The man could not decide from the elf's actions alone. The only thing that seemed certain was the arena's zealous hatred of life; a zeal that stretched its tendrils outward and grabbed at soldiers in all directions.

A few air bubbles began to surface during the peace Raelyse's blinding light had brought; a precious few seconds of thought. Whether the air came from Findelfin's lungs and bloated corpse, Arsène could only think one thing, "Lucky yo-."

The reprieve had ended as quickly as it had begun, and with the same silent acknowledgment. And with the end of shimmering light came a whole new feeling, pain.

It ripped through the noble's body just as the shards of gravel did, tearing at his insides and exposing his bloodied flesh to the chill arena air. There was another brief and peaceful moment as he lot his ability to hear anything by a monotonous ring. Even the cries of his dying horse fell on deaf ears.

Got hit by rocks.

[Lasair Anubail]

Her hands clenched into tight fists as she watched the human walk away from her. For one of the first times in her life, she wanted to grab something heavy and blunt and smack him over the head with it repeatedly until he stopped trying to tell her what to do. She was here to defend something that she had joined, that she believed in and she was going to continue doing that as long as she was capable. Even if mean old men punched her across the face and nearly made her cry. Even if some odd looking guy who kept calling her a funny name blocked her ice attacks. She was going to continue to fight in this war as best she could, even if it meant that she was going to get hurt. If Godhand and Jame and Letho could withstand it, then why couldn’t she? Why couldn’t she fight just as well as them?

The big problem was she didn’t know what she should be doing now. Most people were ignoring her very presence and others were too locked into combat. She could always go over the man with the really sharp teeth again, but her ice bomb had been so easily deflected that she doubted anything in her arsenal could do any kind of damage to him. He also seemed rather reluctant to fight her, unlike the old man that though her face was a punching bag. The big meanie. And since she had no desire to be punched again, she didn’t even think about following after him. Someone else could take care of him. Which brought her back to her original problem of not knowing what she should be doing right now.

Wrapping her arms around her body, Lasair began heading towards Letho and Godhand. Her small feet cracked down on the ice, which seemed to even barely notice her miniscule weight, though it did provide a slippery surface for her to almost fall on. Letho seemed to be in some kind of trouble and she should probably see if she could help him, in whatever small way she may be capable of.

[Raelyse]

Any sense of gung ho courage melted in Raelyse's body along with the ice as soon as he saw the sheer power to which the man beast dispatched his allies. The coliseum, a giant monument, was torn down like a house of cards and its monstrous rubble thrown like pebbles to down his horseman ally with ease. Raelyse had shuffled his body slowly towards the coliseum, twirling Ilrathion like some sort of performance baton in an effort to gain attention. Now, he realized that there was no time for such games, he had to get serious or he would fall, or worse still be told as some sort of eccentric side show cheerleader in this war. He sheathed his sword cane, removing the bright light from the battlefield. Just as he did that, his head instinctively turned his head to the side, his eyes watching as bullets whizzed by, less than a foot away from him. Raelyse was relieved that none were on target, thanks to his moving around and Ilrathion’s bright light but that was more than enough to convince him to leave. With one last look at the falling coliseum, where the bullets were now headed, he moved back to the center of the war zone.

Escaping the wrath of the man mountain was not the only reason the Myrusian had left the steadier ground for the melting ice. Truthfully, if he put his mind to it, he would probably be able to go toe-to-toe with the beast. But that was not how he wanted to fight... yet. Expending all his strength would leave him vulnerable and weak, in a position he never wanted to be in.

He had sensed two presences within the falling coliseum. One was definitely the leader of Imperial, Dirk Xalstad, while the other was the only other person he had not seen on the icy battlefield, the loud mouthed, dark skinned warrior from before. Raelyse had first thought of joining Xalstad and together defeating him, but the arrival of the bloodthirsty man titan complicated things. And once again, though he was sure he could, the Myrusian had no intentions of uncomplicating them... yet.

The battle had started in the center before moving outwards and now cyclically, Raelyse was heading back to where it had begun. The ice was unsteady, melting and slippery, but thanks to his magic, as comfortable as dancing on granite for the Myrusian. It was a simple matter for him to harden the ice on which he stepped so his balance was preserved and he was able to rapidly make his way to the lone figure in the central area of the ice. Raelyse knew that more than a few warriors on either side had fallen victim to the fragile surface and now tasted cold, cold water in their lungs. He could not see Findelfin and this worried him slightly, though he discarded that thought. The elf could have been a valuable ally, but he was not the only one. The lone figure standing in the center, dressed in clothes that rivaled his own for flair and splendor, seemed to be the perfect replacement.

It was a bit of a shock when Raelyse had first seen him. He was well preened, wore fine clothing and held his blade with authority and skill. It seemed as if he was an older version of the Myrusian. It was just this reason why he approached him, hoping that their personalities mirrored, just like their looks did. Raelyse was still careful though, scanning with both his eyes and his magical affinity that they were alone. On the surface at least, they were.

“Well met,” Raelyse said loudly, though he was sure none of the other warriors could hear. That would not be good for his plan. “I am Raelyse. And though we started out as enemies this day, I hope we can be friends by the end.”

He scanned the old man for any response signs. The Myrusian had approached him rather abruptly and he kept himself in defense in case he tried anything aggressive.

“This war is useless. Other than to fill pockets with money and taverns with tales of our greatness, of course. No one will remember the ones who fall, so let us work together for us, the ones who will by the end, stand.”

To be honest, Raelyse wasn’t entirely sure whether the old man would join him. He had used his most trustworthy tone and his skill with the blade meant that even though his fingers were ready to unleash his sword at a moment’s notice, the Myrusian still appeared in the most passive pose possible.

“Be wise, I’m sure if you thought it through, you’d find that you can trust me.”

*Dodges Godhand's bullets which are now headed for Dan, X and W. Hope they hit you!* xoxo Raelyse PS. Now heading for Teric.

[Woshington]

Woshington was switching sides. Or, more accurately, he was finally poised to perform for the side he’d represented from the start: Imperial. Ruling over a narcotics empire was the freezing black man’s second life (currently experiencing his third), and during that weathering experience he had learned the value of having an underling in the competition’s camp. Woshington had fallen down a rung or two, but he was nevertheless pleased to be involved in a similar manipulation; this time at the hands of Dirk Xalstad. The Imperial representative had relayed an offer that couldn’t be refused. Woshington certainly was black, just like a real mole.

Bursting with excitement, Woshington continued up the stone steps, freed from the bitter coldness by the growing fire of anticipation in his belly…

In a moment his heaving marathon was over, emerging from the flight of stairs inside the coliseum and out onto the royal box. Careful steps were required as he sauntered out onto the expansive stone slab on which the splendid enclosure was built. The coliseum was crumbling after all. It was overly elaborate and Woshington, even in his overly stimulated state, couldn’t stop himself from spending a moment gobbling up the valuables on offer with his leering eyes: intricate white stonework intertwined with convoluted examples of opulent goldsmithery. He shrugged his shivering shoulders. “Down to bizeenesssssss.” he sneered. Above the slab on which he entered was an equally large and enclosing stone slab. It formed an ornate roof; edges decorated with complicated carvings that matched the classical style. The roof slab was over twelve feet wide and extended twenty feet forward. It protruded majestically from the encompassing bowl. In keeping with the entirety of the ancient stadium, the roof of the royal box was made of pure and fine travertine, a whitish stone. In that size and state, it must have weighed over eight imperial tons. Classically ridged columns held up the roof and were dotted periodically along each flank; the columns too had seen better days. The reserved area was open at the sides and the front, obviously, for viewing purposes.

Woshington heard Xalstad’s call to regroup in the coliseum echoing across the expanse, he was positioned absolutely opposite to where Woshington was. Hearing this he swaggered up to the very edge of the regal platform to inspect the state of the battle below and the positions of his targets. This was the first moment Woshington had given up his position since disappearing inside the old structure’s tunnels. Hmmm… He could see it was a mess. Certain individuals were either ignoring the call to take shelter in the opposite side or were unable to. The good: Raelyse was moving with Logan away from the initial nWo/Company starting point; the mounted Arsène was relatively central to the whole arena, generally positioned well to avoid Woshington’s planned onslaught; Xalstad leading the movements away; Woshington was hoping Skie and Xanbata Grim were balanced to draw back under Xalstad’s command. The bad: Letho and Lasair were going to be in his path. “Two,” he brooded over it very briefly, “fuck ‘em, I need to bury the fucking vermin.” On the opposing team, things looked more acceptable, as far as Woshington could see Godhand Striker and Teric Bloodrose were going to be in the corridor of attack whilst Dan Lagh'ratham was, admittedly, moving towards the general position of Imperial. The big W caught just a glimpse of Findelfin dipping beneath the waters.

After he’d stepped back from the very edge, Woshington’s creeping brown arm reached to the belt of spray paint cans hanging from his waist and tugged out the pink with a knowing smugness consuming his lips. Quick striding steps brought him to the front column the west side. He kicked erratically at the loose rock near its base to create a divot large enough to jam the can into. He did just that, the label scraping off to reveal the fresh metal beneath. With the small bomb locked in securely he moved opposite, and repeated the feat on the east side column. This time with a white can. Woshington, now with hands free, ripped off his left shirt sleeve. Then, he rapidly tore it into two distinct strips. Next he produced a lighter from his breast pocket and set one section of fabric alight. The material was fifty percent cotton and fifty percent polyester—the blend would burn longer than a pure fabric of either. A quick mental estimation had Woshington a few feet from the first solvent based can. A safe distance. With a deft flick the flaming fabric floated down to the flammable paint and unleashed a blasting explosion. The column crumbled near its base and Woshington’s smooth exterior was broken, he cowered backwards before rearing up to see that the roof wasn’t going to fall in that easily. He hadn’t expected it to. Again, Woshington repeated the feat on the opposing column. Another moderate popping burst rang out and again he grimaced, diving acrobatically out of the open side of the royal box. For a second time, he revealed his position for just a moment.

But it didn’t collapse. Again.

However, the roof of the stately pen was teetering forwards on the edge of the severely weakened support columns. Meanwhile, the lithe black man clung with his bony digits to the external ridge for no time at all before he realised his body would have to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. Woshington jerked his arm and dragged himself up onto the external ridge. Dashing with the grace of a tribal huntsman, he moved along the rim of the box and slipped off what was left of his gaudy shirt. His torso was fully exposed to the winter weather. The biting cold was written all over his contorted face as he launched his shirt up and around a protruding decoration on the roof above. With a drained jerk he pulled himself into a laboured somersault with the agility inherent to a bónfim material artist and landed awkwardly on the white travertine surface of the roof.

Treading carefully was the order of the day. Once again, the ghetto superstar was in full view as he neared the precarious edge. There it was, his mount: the form of an elegant female goddess adorned the very tip of the roof. Woshington launched with forward momentum, heaving his one hundred and eighty-five pound frame onto her. Straddled together, they were enough to turn the tide and the eight ton monstrosity began its annihilation.

The immense crack of ancient stone columns sounded out with a deep growl. The coliseum was an old lady roaring with scorn as a little native ripped the proudest jewel from her breast. As the roof tipped forward all beneath began to crumble in its path. Depressing what was below into a torrent of travertine added to its exponential growth in power, the flowing rock trundled gigantically along the angled path of coliseum seating and down towards the ever decreasing ice plain, ripping any lose stonework into its flow of rumbling rubble. The numerous columns that had once held the flat rock aloft were rolling like felled tree trunks at the fore of the flow, or twisting and snapping at each flank; they were widening the ensuing furrow of destruction.

Meanwhile, the dark skinned man rode the waves, goddess in tow, with his arms outstretched and his lungs beating out the tropical rhythm in his words, “Ya heard of us!? Ya heard of us!? Imperial here to get you, muthafuckaaaaaaaaas!!! Move suckas!” The gaping hole left behind let the sunlight stream into the bowl for the first time, casting Woshington as a messianic silhouette for all to appreciate. This was unequivocally the finest moment of his third life, and he felt it purely, he felt glorious in the eyes of the third party. His vanity was engorged by the moment. Despite the increasing rawness of his flesh as he raced forward through the frozen atmosphere he relished the destructive beauty of the aesthetic he created with a beaming smile.

The manufactured landslide was going to continue onto and into the ice and…

It was a shame that certain individuals (Lasair and Letho) were either unwilling or unable to follow Xalstad’s instructions and step back, but in Woshington’s mind it wasn’t that much of a sacrifice.

Hopefully… Beneath the ice, Findelfin ap Fingolfin was at risk. Battling on the podium, Striker was at risk. At the very limit of the rocky glacier’s probable range, the diabolically epic Lagh'ratham was at risk. On the general plain of the ice, Teric Bloodrose was at risk. But, suddenly, so was Raelyse—he was moving in on Teric’s position.

“Fuck that shit!” Woshington mouthed the words from his mount.

The benefit of this manoeuvre was becoming more and more debatable, especially considering the eventual scenario for our black ace. Woshington was all but finished in this battle; his equipment was inept, he was not in possession of sensational magic, glowing weapons or a resistance to the instantaneous numbing effect of truly icy waters. Woshington, bare-chested and already doomed by the cold, would surely be cleaved apart by any surviving powerful individuals that surrounded him. The only member of Imperial prepared for his treachery/loyalty was Xalstad. Woshington needed him to get the word out to his new team mates. He couldn’t count on them hearing his anti-nWo war cry over the deafening rumble of collapsing coliseum. But, maybe the more astute of them would realise his attack was aimed at the nWo's key players. Oh, and Woshington had no idea whatsoever that he was riding a time bomb—he didn’t know Dan Lagh'ratham was a terramancer. This all consuming effort was his only chance at bending history in his favour. It was his ingenuity versus their overwhelming powers.

Hope I got everybody’s position right, it’s getting difficult to follow. Also, feel like free to have the whole moving thing continue into the ice as best suits what you wanna do, don’t worry about bunnying me with Wosh on top or whatever.

Also summary as requested: it's like an avalanche of rock sliding down the side of coliseum as a result of the loosening and falling of one giant slab of rock. It's headed towards.. Godhand/Letho, Bloodrose/Raelyse, Lasair, Findelfin under the ice, and maybe its extremities will reach Dan

[Sighter Tnailog]

Elsewhere in the Citadel...

His eyes opened slowly, and he could tell he was in a sickroom. He'd been here before; once after his first Citadel fight, and once again years later when he and Leopold Stevens had engaged in a friendly bout. This was where they sent warriors who had died for their resurrections, or their healings...or whatever it really was that the Citadel monks did to their patients. No one really knew.

Beside him, on a small bedtable, was his brigandine and his mythril helmet, with Ainalindil sheathed in its scabbard beside both. He vaguely remembered stripping off his armor as he drowned, but even the fogginess at the edges of memory could not summon up what had happened to his sword. But he was glad to see the blade undamaged; he had grown attached to it. There too was the longbow he had dropped when he ran to Skie, his horsebow, and his arrows.

"You came to sooner than we expected, Diadem." The voice seemed to sneer at him, and he turned his head to see a monk next to him. He would have normally been happy to see a monk of this noble order, but the voice struck him as even colder than the lake of ice. And that title was not one widely known. Findelfin tensed for action as the monk continued quickly, "I'm afraid you weren't supposed to be awake for this!" The voice came as a shout and before Findelfin knew what was happening the monk was lunging, a knife gleaming in his hand, aiming for Findelfin's belly.

Findelfin reacted with speed born of desperation and surprise. With one fluid motion he grabbed at the monk's knife-hand, managing to catch it as he grabbed out his own plynt dagger. Resisting his grip, the monk managed to twist the knife around and Findelfin bit back a scream as the cold steel bit into his hand. In response Findelfin pulled the monk closer, letting the monk's weapon bite deep into his hand as the elf's own knife came free and found purchase in the neck of his opponent. He twisted it with a vicious wrench and heard a loud crack as the knife cut through the monk's spinal column. Findelfin cursed; the crack was not only from the monk's neck. He'd also broken his blade in the process.

He let the monk fall to the ground, burbling some wordless whisper as the blood spurted from the wound. He threw the broken hilt of his dagger to the ground and stood up from the bed carefully -- he didn't feel weak after drowning in the lake, but he had to be cautious just in case his strength hadn't returned yet -- he wiped the blood from his head and hands with the bedsheets. Using one of his other daggers -- he had owned three, now he had only two -- he cut a strip from the bedsheet and wrapped it around his wounded hand. He tied it tightly, but not so tightly. It was his sword hand and his bow arm; he had to maintain a little bit of mobility. He moved his fingers and pain shot up his arm. It would be hard going.

He put his armor back on quickly and strapped his swordbelt to his waist, then slung both bows and his quiver across his back. With monks out to kill him, the Citadel had now become more dangerous than the Clan War. Placing the helmet on his head, he walked around the bed and kneeled where the monk had fell. There was no trace of a pulse, and Findelfin rummaged for a moment under the monks voluminous garment. Perhaps he would find something that would identify his attacker. There was nothing there, but then he felt a smooth parchment slip in one of the robe's pockets. Pulling it out, he read its contents once, and then once more.

E

You are the key to the plan. Kill the Diadem, and let the others deal with the Elder at the Manor. If the Protector-Elect falls, kill him too. Remember to wait until after the healing to remove suspicion. With this strike, we should cripple our enemy forever. After killing Findelfin, go where the mercenary lies; our operatives in the illusion control chamber will make sure that something hits him. J has been commanded to kill him, and you are to kill J after he does the deed. Report that you found him killing the mercenary and that he tried to kill you once caught. Evidence has already been planted on him that will nicely deflect any suspicion.

Remember to destroy this message before reporting that you "found" J and "brought him to justice." It would be most incriminating if found.

P

"That it would, P, that it would." Findelfin's eyes narrowed, and he folded the paper up and slipped it into his breast pocket. It could come in handy.

Putting it aside, he knew he had to move quickly. All the healing rooms adjoined one another through doors set at each end of the rectangular hallways, with doorways to the outside on the east wall; he was in the room farthest south, as there was no door on the southward end of the room. But somewhere to the north was a mercenary of Imperial who would die if he did not move quickly.

He strode across the hallway and through the room door, keeping a weather eye out for any monks. From the tone of the letter, he did not think all the Citadel workers were in on whatever plot was brewing, but it would be within reason for the conspirators to have lookouts posted in the directions where Findelfin might run. Then again, if they expected E to move through these rooms after he killed me, they might want them clear of eyewitnesses.

He carefully approached the eastern door, trying to stay clear of the window as much as he could. He checked the lock; it was sealed from the inside. No random passerby would be in these rooms. It seemed to prove his thesis. With renewed confidence he set off through the room, taking his horsebow to hand. He strung it quickly and nocked an arrow. He had to wince a little as his wounded hand protested the pressure, but he could still get a decent draw on the string.

A few more rooms and he came upon a strange sight. A group of monks were tending a man, their hands aglow with light. He had no visible wounds on him, and some weapons still remained on his body while others were beside his bedtable, as Findelfin had seen. One monk put a hand on the man's forehead, said something in a strange language, and the others bowed. Findelfin merely watched; to his knowledge, few souls had ever seen the rites of the Citadel monks.

The monks left shortly, Findelfin still watching the portal from a comfortable position just inside the room to the south. And then he heard a click, and he raised one hand to his neck. Pressing a jewel studded on the torc there, moved quickly. He felt no different, but to the world he and everything he touched was now invisible. The effect only lasted a short time; he had to move quickly.

Entering the room, he could see another monk striding quietly from the east door. The monk stared right at the elf for a moment, but looked right through him, then unsheathed a similar steel dagger and approached the mercenary, who was starting to stir from sleep. The monk quickened his pace, raising his dagger to strike even as the mercenary's eyes snapped open to see his approaching foe.

But the blow never fell. The monk fell in a crumpled head, an arrow protruding from the base of his skull. Findelfin ap Fingolfin was nothing if not precise.

Summary: Woke up in the Citadel, killed a monk attacking me and found a note regarding conspiracy, killed another monk threatening an as-yet-unnamed mercenary.

[Bloodrose]

It seemed that at least one person lingering near the center of the ice was forward enough to confront Teric in his advance, but the well dressed individual approached in a rather unexpected manner. Rather than halt the veteran's forward progress with sword or spell, the man halted Teric with words. It bears mentioning, however, that those words were just as dangerous as a sword, and likely as double edged to boot...

"Wise, huh?" Teric bantered back at the well groomed man approaching him across the ice. "I for one don't think it takes a wise man to know not to trust you."

The fencing blade flashed in a circle as the veteran flourished in skillfully, prepared and expecting some manner of trickery. Strangers didn't usually switch sides and converse with one another in the middle of battle, and so it was hard to imagine that the silver haired runt had anything in mind but luring Teric off guard so as to dispatch him more easily.

"But, let's say that for a single second I believed any of the gilded words rolling off your silver tongue? How do you expect to persuade me..."

The thunderous boom and the ominous shudder that reverberated across the whole of the battlefield stopped Teric's words in his throat, drawing the warrior's attention (and likely the attention of anyone still alive) to the far end of the coliseum. There, as if struck down by the hand of a higher deity, the whole of the balcony and vantage area was sloping forward and crumbling downward in a great landslide of stone and debris. It was almost impossible not to watch, as the cascading mess grew in size and velocity, snapping up the crumbling structures of stone seating and railings to swell like a tidal wave of earth. At the forefront of the swell, riding the statue of a goddess reaching for the heavens, rode Woshington - his black skin a darker spot amongst the dark landslide of rumble fast descending upon the ice...

"You stupid shit!" Was all could Teric could manage to spit as he realized Wosh's man-made landslide was falling on the wrong side of the arena to be directed at the Imperial forces. Even if the mercenary couldn't hear the black man's pro-Imperial cries over the din of the falling rock, he could still see that the tumult was crushing down over the area most densely populated by NWO and Company fighters.

There was a crash and a wave of icy water as the landslide hit the edge of the shore, rushing out onto the ice in a furious charge. The weak ice, however, was in no way capable of supporting the absolutely enormous weight of the stone deluge, and the surface of the lake beneath the stone collapsed instantaneously. Down into the icy depths of the lake went the stone and rubble, sparing anyone on the ice from a vicious stoning. That wasn't to say those still occupying the center were safe, though, as the tremendous strain on the ice sent great slabs of ice flying and fissures splitting in a spider web across the lake.

It was all so surprising, and all so sudden, that Teric barely managed to notice the giant fissure in the ice opening beneath his feet, threatening to swallow him whole...

[Logan]

The psion awoke feeling as if he’d just slept away an entire day, but in reality only a few seconds had past. The wound that he’d suffered at the hands of Dan had already been fully healed, and his jacket was even mended. The power of the monks was truly a sight to behold. One of the monks approached as he hopped down from the table he had been laying on. “Logan, your swords,” the monk said as he outstretched the psion’s swords towards him. Logan nodded, ”Thank you. And what of the Diadem?”

The monk’s eyes diverted from looking directly at the psion as he shook his head in response. ”Damn,” the psion knew it was a shot in the dark to think that one of the monks could’ve actually taken care of the mark, but that was precisely why he’d brought in J. J was the kind of operative that would take care of business no matter the innate costs to his own self. Business was business when it came to J. And business was money.

Logan had become precise and lethal at running Vice’s organized crime syndicate. It had become eerily second nature to a man that had at one point prided himself on honor and respect. Oh, he still believed in respect, but honor was thrown out the window the day he found Ryan Kale murdered. There was no honor in the way he had been beheaded by the dark elves of Raiaera. No hero like Ryan deserved such a cruel fate.

The psion spoke again, ”Do we know the whereabouts of the Diadem?” The monk shook his head once more in an unpleasant response. ”Damnit! Do we know ANYTHING,” the psion screamed mentally at the poor monk before him. The monk nodded as he quietly responded in a way that made the psion feel pretty powerful, “Yuh-yes sir. He…he has the…orders.” The psion stared damningly into the eyes of the monk. Within only a moment the monk had fallen to his knees holding his head in writhing and utter pain. The psion smiled as he left the room.

He knew where the mark was headed, but he also knew he had to try to intercept the mark before he made it all the way to the chambers. The psion shook his head. What had the monks told him about the hallways before the war? He couldn’t remember. He started off down one of the hallways before figuring out it wasn’t the right one. Then it hit him. They said the tapestries will lead the way to the chambers…that’s right, the psion recited to himself as he snapped his fingers.

The psion reached out and touched one of the tapestries, a very vivid painting of a man holding an arrow at eye level and looking down it’s shaft to one side. Then it hit Logan. He sprinted off down the hallway, hoping he hadn’t been too late. He needed to get to his operative before the Diadem did.

[Letho]

((Bunnying approved by Godhand))

You owe me.

There were people that could have disregarded such words without a second thought, people of no integrity, no moral, no honor. Letho Ravenheart was not one of those people. To the Corone Marshal, life was all about upholding those values that so many had electively forgotten. Perhaps he wasn’t a Savion Knight anymore, but the Old Code was still alive within him, shining out through every act he did. On this day, when he stood against Godhand Striker and his company, it was put to the gravest test yet.

Yes, he owed the gunman. He owed the greatest debt a person could owe; a life debt. The mercenary had saved what he could not back in Shanleh, rescuing Letho’s lover from the onslaught at the hands of a vile centaur beast. It was a selfless, reckless act, not something one would expect from a man who valued the lives of others less then he valued a good cigar. And of all the times that that could came to haunt the Ranger, Godhand chose this very moment. With the battle raging around them, with the ice cracking and the swords clashing and people dying and monsters snarling, the silver-haired bastard brandished the one weapon Letho had no defense against. He brandished Myrhia.

Picking himself up after the body-check that Godhand performed – no small task given the half-frozen condition of his body – Letho desperately tried to replenish the oxygen supply such an attack knocked out of him. His shoulder was against one of the cracked columns, making him look like a drunkard that was taking a short pause before continuing his irregular meandering. His lungs felt as if they were breathing glass particles, his skin was like a thin sheet of pliable ice, his bones rattled by the all-encompassing frost. In such a state, it was hard to make two consecutive thoughts, but even in these early stages of hypothermia Letho knew he was doomed either way. If he ignored Godhand and continued to fight for the Imperial, he was pissing on the sacrifice that man made for his beloved Myrhia. On the flip side, switching sides was a glove slap to the honor and duty he was bound to by the Code. He was on a fork in the road, and either path was making him betray a big part of himself.

The decision was postponed by an uncanny intervention, though. The black-skinned man that seemed to like to flap his gums regardless of what he was doing initiated a massive landslide that made the arena tremble. The avalanche of stone debris came tumbling down the slope in a single, unstoppable wave, crushing everything in its downwards path. There was no escape from it. The best thing Letho could do was take a dive towards the inner walls of the loge and hope he’d survive the landslip. The rocks came, and came, and came, toppling over his crouched form, their jagged edges colliding with his head, his shoulders, his back, his thighs, his crotch, his knees. It felt like being ganged up on in some dark alley by a bunch of bullies that just kept kicking at you even when you were all broken and defenseless. And when the rocky beating finally ceased, Letho Ravenheart was bleeding, bruised, broken and buried under a ton of stone fragments.

There was no room to move under this heavy blanket of rock; there wasn’t even room for his lungs to expand or his balled fists to unclench. It truly felt like being buried alive. But, like so many times before, Letho’s muscles did their job. His legs pushed and his shoulders pushed and together they were able to uplift some of the rubble overhead. It took several of these heaving attempts to make his head resurface, several more to pull his torso out of the stone grave and several more to be able to finally breathe normally and sit with his back against a piece of rock and his arms on his knees. Off came his gauntlets, his armor that was mangled by the tons of pressure, his weapons that suddenly felt so heavy on his back. Sitting on that newly made slope, Letho never needed a breather more then at that very moment.

Godhand was there as well. The merc was tough to kill, tough as weed that grew between the pavement cracks. But he too seemed seriously rattled by the near-death experience at the hand of the landslide. His reappearance only reminded Letho of the decision he needed to make.

“I do not have time for repaying old debts now, Godhand. This is not the place, not the time,” he said to his adversary. There was no threat of a cheap shot here, not even from a vicious murderer such as Godhand. Perhaps there wasn’t much respect between the two of them, but they both believed in a fair fight. That was why, when the gunfighter regained his bearing, Letho didn’t feel threatened by the holstered revolvers. Besides, words were better weapons at the time anyways.

“What if I hadn’t had the time for your precious Myrhia?” Godhand replied, and his words had a bite more vicious than the cold. There would be no easy way out of this, no I.O.U.-s. This had to be settled right here, right now. Letho shook his head, exasperated.

“You had to bring that up. And now you want me to fight for you in return? To turn my back to the people I swore to protect? To side with the monsters like Dan Lagh’ratham?” Yes, that seemed like a fair price. The currency wasn’t the same – the debt Letho owed was about blood and flesh while the payment was bound to be in loyalty and honor – but it evened out when it came to value. For if honor and duty were a man’s life, wouldn’t abandoning be the same as giving his life? Yes, and Godhand knew it quite well when he pulled that card from the deck.

“Very well.” It was an answer of a man defeated not by swords, but by reasoning. Letho picked himself up with an audible grunt, wiped the blood that trickled down his forehead from a wound somewhere beyond his hairline and brandished the Lawmaker. Today it would serve a lawless cause. “Let us put an end to this madness as quick as possible.”

[Lasair Anubail]

She never made it to Godhand and Letho.

The mountain ahead of her began crashing down, rumbling and rolling with loose rocks and snow and ice that seemed to want to destroy everything that got in its way and sadly, she was in its way. For a brief few and precious seconds she didn’t know what to do or how she could escape it. Even as the very ground beneath her feet began to shake and tremble and threaten to crack the very ice beneath her feet, her mind still rebelled against her and refused to move.

“Lasair!?” She heard the growled word from Godhand even as her wide golden eyes continued to watch the boulders fall closer and closer to each with each second she didn’t do something. “Fly, you idiot!”

His yell finally knocked her out of it and with a burst of speed from her wings that made them move far faster than any eye could ever follow; the small Fae took off towards the sky. She flew as fast as fast as she could, pushing her wings to take her high into the air and above the rocks that ripped across the coliseum, burying both Letho and Godhand before crashing through the ice and sinking into the freezing water. When the landslide slowly and finally began to fade and calm, she turned her attention to the two warriors who had been caught in its path. At first her eyes saw nothing but grey rocks and mounds of snow that seemed not to move at all and she felt her heart clench in her chest as she prayed the two fighters were okay.

After a moment of two, she saw movement. At first it wasn’t much, just the slight shift of rocks that slowly fell ahead to reveal a head and then an arm and torso and finally she watched as the two men pulled themselves from the rubble. But even from this height she could tell that the two of them were hurt.

Twisting her body around, Lasair quickly began to head towards the two men hoping that she could help them in some way. After all, Godhand had been right, she either needed to get out of the way in this war or she needed to help. And one thing Lasair was good at was healing and she just happened to have lots of Wound Be Gone in her possession.

Landing on the ground not far from them, the small Fae began picking her way across the sharp rocks carefully as she moved towards them.

“Letho, Godhand!” She waved at the two of them as she began to approach. “If you two are done smashing each other I’ve got medicine!”

She stumbled a bit over a slippery rock and let out a small squeak as she wobbled around, trying to regain her balance. Once she had it again, she slipped her rucksack from her shoulder and rummaged around inside until she took out one of her jars of Wound Be Gone. Slipping her rucksack back on, she crossed the last bit of distance between her and the two warriors.

[Raelyse]

He had been undone. Even when it came to doing what he did best, Raelyse had failed. He had thought producing a second sun in the battlefield would have attracted the attention of all the warriors here and truly announce himself to the masses. But he had been out muscled from the spotlight, if he had ever been in it at all. An explosion interrupted his banter with the old man, for what they were doing had been nothing else at that point but pointless chat. It did not have the chance to develop into the alliance that Raelyse hoped it would though, for torrents of stone have an emphatic way of interrupting things.

Fortunately, the icy surface proved useful for the first time. Its weakness proved to be an advantage for the duo in the center, for it quickly collapsed underneath the weight of the stone, sending it to the bottom of the lake. There was no time for sighs of relief or celebrations though, for while they had escaped the fear of being buried alive, drowning in freezing waters still remained in the future. Cracks shot all across the ice as if they were being attacked from within, weakening the surface severely.

Knowing that he needed to work fast to survive, Raelyse thrust his cane into the ice. For the task ahead, he needed utmost focus. To win the trust of the old man and to save his own life both, Raelyse had to concentrate so hard that even the simple task of holding onto his prized possession was distraction enough. He hated working hard… but the threat of drowning was enough to put that bias away for now.

“You should trust me,” Raelyse began, his teeth slightly gritted as back and forth chit chat suddenly wasn’t so integral to this situation anymore. “Because I’m about to save your life.”

The cracks were appearing at apparently random areas but Raelyse did not have the nous to be able to estimate where they would spread to next. His best bet for survival was to target those nearer to him for steadiness, before targeting the cracks in between him and where the rock had crashed. If Raelyse sealed the area in the middle, the cracks could not spread to him.

The Myrusian clenched his fists tightly, closing his eyes briefly to throw any unwanted thoughts from his mind. When his eyelids opened again, he was a different man. He was working to save his own life, the one thing he valued above everything else. Cracks flew in the ice towards them, but they were sealed where they were. More ice materialized in between the fissures, sealing them tightly and ensuring the stability. Despite Raelyse’s prowess, the damage was too much to be fixed quickly. All the rock had collapsed, but the weight of the impact was still causing the ice to tip dangerously and the cracks in the ice were too many for Raelyse to focus on and fix individually. A cracking sound beneath him instantly snatched his attention though and he was almost too slow to remedy it and save both his and his companion’s fine clothes from icy fashion death.

Instantly snapping around, he thrust both of his hands forward, his palms opening and facing the crack that would soon force the old man into splits to stay dry. Ice materialized in between and the surface was restored before long. For now at least, the surface was firm.

Raelyse panted, perhaps a bit more emphatically to show what he had done rather than being out of breath. He still had enough energy though, to claim credit for saving their lives and bragging about his prowess.

“Friend of yours?” he asked sarcastically, his shoulder tipping in the direction of the giant stone and the black man. Raelyse had every desire now of killing the man, a longing that was shared by both of his weapons, which somehow seemed to nod their approval. His eyes shifted to seriousness for a moment though, realizing the situation that they were both in. “We must go. The ice will not hold for much longer.”

In all honesty, the ice would hold. Without further impact of tons of rock, Raelyse could slowly seal threatening cracks until the surface was reliable again. But how would he forge an alliance if they had no enemies?

[Arsène]

Arsène awoke with a start to find a corpse fall next to him and its murderer standing in the doorway with bow still drawn. As the mercenary slowly lifted himself, still afraid the sharp pain of death would return, he could almost smell the fresh droplets of blood, and he could almost hear the sharp twang of the bowstring as it continued to vibrate. His senses were more acute, and he more aware of his surroundings than ever before.

As a low ringing in his ear began to spring up, the awareness died down into more human tones. Slowly, the noble sat up on the strange bed in which he lay. His pale hands ran over his stomach and chest, trying to find any trace of wound of the flesh or mar in his clothing. It was of no surprise to him that he was fine, as Arsène had been warned of the Citadel's ability to regenerate its guests. And as if from a long nap, he let out a yawn and attempted to reach into his pocket for his bottle of stolen liquor. It was only when he found it missing that he bothered to look over at Findelfin, who stood in the doorway gleaming in shining armor and complimented by residual incense still left in the room.

"I suppose Imperial wasn't enough for you," he said with a biting tongue and a sharp glare, pointing towards the monk's corpse as blood spouted from the head like a fountain. "You deal out death to holy men, too."

Arsène's sword, next to him on a small table, was quickly snatched up by his owner as he jumped to his feet. Though shaky at first, the man quickly regained his footing.

"Whatever you have planned, know that I am no man of God. But like God, I will strike you down without mercy." In truth, Arsène knew little of the situation. But he was no fool; he would not let down his guard without reason.

I'm asking to have my score added to NWO, as I'm switching to their side.

[Slayer of the Rot]

A distant popping noise drew the Saraelian's glazing eyes. This war had become boring; as he had predicted, the trash had died, drowning, or crushed, to make way for the worthy. But the problem was, there really was no worthy - there was the little redhead that had thrown her ice bomb earlier, the other silver haired, finely dressed man with the blinding sword, and of course, Letho. Though, the marshal was in Godhand's capable hands; there was no reason to worry about him. With a sigh, Dan turned his head through the icy air, and immediately regretted not looking up before, or wondering where the onyx skinned Company member had gotten off to.

He saw him, just briefly, straddling the back of the statue of some unknown goddess, before another pop, and a flash of fire erupted from the balcony. With a series of enormous cracks, and a grinding growl, the stone wall shuddered, and collapsed. The rock gave way in a massive slide, roaring down upon the frozen lake and the remaining fighters. Bellowing with fury, all the amusement torn from him, the Saraelian threw his hand forward. The stream of broken rock that had killed the man on the horse converged, creating a large, thick block. In the same motion, Dan drove it straight into the middle of the rockslide - and it shattered, adding to the chaos.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck, there's too fucking much, I can't just throw that much out of the way... He tore across the arena with as much speed as he could gather, but it felt like he was going to god damn slow and the rockslide was coming down like a starving beast. The ice was being shattered like glass; enormous fissures burst from the rushing stone, the dark, cold water sloshing and rocking beneath it. Atop that shifting gray wave of destruction rode the dark skinned little turncoat. Shutting his eyes briefly, drawing in a sharp breath and ignoring the pain of the harsh wind on his wounds, Dan called on the Lion's Rage Amulet, bracing himself for the surge of power.

Nothing.

Where he'd taken it into his body, he felt a hollow space, like waking up to discover the absence of a kidney. His fury mounted like swelling waves, ready to break across a rocky shore. He didn't know who to blame it on, but it may as well be the tropical traitor, riding a stone beast of ruin. 'I won't tolerate this shit!' Dan flung his arms out before him, drawing close to the rockslide, and lifted with his palms. The edge of it rose in a lip, and kept coming with intense speed. Before he could react, it struck him with incredible force, throwing him to the lake. The Saraelian's skull rapped against the ice before the stone had swallowed him, breaking through to the surface of the water.

Bleeding, he sank into the icy dark.

Though the freezing water pressed in on his numb flesh from all directions, stinging like thousands of hornets, his hands fumbled for the greatest source of pain. A chunk of stone the size of his forearm had lodged itself into his stomach. Anger and panic set into him. He couldn't see the rippling sparkle of light above him...he'd been wounded. And now, he was dying like trash.

Caught up in his senseless fury, Dan Lagh'ratham thrashed in the water, ignoring the cold burn of his stomach wound. His arms lashed out, and his legs kicked with all his strength until the water around him was churning as though stirred by the massive fins of the leviathan. Bright stars of light were popping before his eyes now, his lungs ached, and he realized furiously that he was drowning. The Saraelian's hands grabbed at his throbbing chest, tearing at the cloth and the flesh and bringing more pain as blood spilled into the lake.

'I won't tolerate this...I won't fucking tolerate dying like this!!!' A new agony arose, driving away the stinging cold. It was though fire had been driven into his chest, burning away the invading chill of the lake, and bringing with it the horrific feeling of immolation. Propelling himself headfirst, lashing his limbs out in some attempt to bring the cold back, the Saraelian slammed into a spongy surface. Jaws snapping open, his breath left him in a surge of bubbles, and he clawed at the thing overhead - tearing away chunks of mud.

The lakebed.

Digging his fingers in again, he pulled his entire body through the water until his feet were driving into the ground, and with a great push of his powerful legs, launched himself like a torpedo upwards. Seconds later, he felt slick ice thump against his back and neck. It gave way with a single thrashing of his arm.

Fingers scrabbling against what he was grateful enough to call ground, he struggled to pull himself up, sucking in huge greedy lung fulls of air. Each breath fed that intense burning sensation, though, and Dan slapped his hands against his face, still breathing heavily, unaware of the growls escaping his mouth. Immediately, he pulled his hands away.

There was no flesh to pull at desperately; it had vanished, and now all that remained were an array of deadly sharp, exposed teeth. The fire in him swelled, breathed, and imploded with new vigor. His watery vision vanished in a film of blind white, and along with it, his mind.

Hunched close to the settled rockslide, the red-skinned, blind monster set down into a crouching position, turned its outstretched arms to the sky, and drew in the icy air into its nose, sitting still. A moment later, its head snapped towards the unsettled goddess statue and the traitor on it. To make the fire go away, he had to feed. And he could feel a heartbeat, and smell someone who he knew needed to be destroyed.

On his palms and the tips of his toes, Dan Lagh'ratham sprinted up the slope, launched off it, and straight at Woshington, slobbering mouth cracked open wide.

[Summary: Launched myself at Woshington, intent on brutalizing and eating him.]

[Bloodrose]

The ice beneath him was opening up like some terrible maw, the cold wet breath of the lake rushing up to meet him as the icy teeth widened to consume him. In his best attempt at saving his own life, Teric was trying desperately to keep his feet glued to those icy jaws, opening his legs into a painful split to prevent falling into the bitter cold water below. So wrapped up in trying to keep his balance, the warrior failed to notice the well-dressed man working his craft on the lake surface. The jaws of the lake opened to wide for him to straddle, and Teric clenched his eyes tight in fear as he fell backwards...

"Ah!" A surprised yelp tore itself from the veteran's throat as he landed not in the icy cold water, but instead landed on his tailbone on solid ice. Teric's eyes popped open almost instantly, still not entirely processing what had just happened. The icy beneath his rump was glare and clean - flash frozen and more solid than the lake surface had been even before the start of battle. What kind of sorcery is this? Teric thought. Although distrusting of most magic, the veteran was perhaps grateful of it for once.

Still somewhat dazed by his brush with death (for that was certainly his fate should his old bones crash beneath the frozen surface of the lake), Teric could only manage to stand and gaze questioning at the man next to him. The man who insisted on being trusted, and who was now insisting that they get moving. The words of warning went unheeded for a moment as Teric tried to untangle a battle that had just twisted itself into more knots than a sailor's hammock. My friends have become my enemies, and my enemies my friends. He mused, realizing that where Woshington was sincere in his betrayal, this Imperial sorcerer was sincere in his allegiance.

"It seems I owe you my life." Teric said coolly, still perhaps a little distrusting. Deep down the warrior knew he owed the man a large debt right now, but it was the mercenary's nature to be distrusting of everyone. As he spoke, his feet listened to the man's warning, moving the veteran off the freshly frozen ice and towards the safer ground the rock slide had created. The pile of rubble rose out of the ice like a great mound, and the jagged stone would be comforting beneath the feet than magicked ice. "Come on then, we'll make for the others."

As he made his way towards the new focal point on the battlefield, and as his senses returned to normal, Teric became aware of just how quiet everything had become. There were no battle cries or scream echoing out over the ice. There wasn't even the clang of swords on shields or the screeching of magic rushing through the air. The warrior could spot the Marshall, Letho, sitting near Godhand and the Fae - none of whom were fighting as Imperials and NWO should have been. Several Imperial along with the elf Findelfin were missing completely from the battlefield - likely victims of the frozen waters. In the current state of things, and with one of the only Imperials remaining now aligned with the Company's side, there didn't seem to be anyone left to fight.

"By the Goddess..." The words slipped out of Teric's mouth as the gruesome visage of a shredded Dan Lagh'ratham tore itself up from beneath the ice and emerged onto the mound ahead of him. The bloodied beast was barely recognizable, as anyone ground through the teeth of a rockslide should be, but the fact that he still lived at all was frightening. Frightening, and paired with the madness apparent in the mauled man's actions and guttural cries, altogether terrifying...

"Godhand?" Teric shouted out, turning to give the monster charging up the slope a wide berth. The veteran made his way steadily towards the NWO leader and the Imperials near him, wondering to himself just how much more fighting there was left to do here...

[Woshington]

Why was Woshington public enemy number one? It was the promise of access to firearms, and failing that, the coinage to facilitate such access. It was a shallow incentive, without the pretence of convoluted emotional motivation. That was why he had agreed to work for Dirk Xalstad.

His reasons for the double-cross were absent from his mind, he was frenzied by his role on the stage. The magnificence of the moment was just as real as the adrenaline streaming in his veins, arteries and capillaries—his right ventricle was slogging out overtime. That precious muscle was still keeping him alive in the cold. The beat of this heart, however, was drawing in a killer: Dan Lagh’ratham, the battlefield’s most dominant occupant.

But, a thrashing was taking place. The rocks raged down the slope, pulsing out a madman’s beat, throwing the mounted ghetto superstar around like a golliwogg ragdoll. It, the very beat itself, broke down into the ice upon reaching the changed angle of the lake. Woshington jerked up from his woman. Subsequently, the stone roof slab pumped back up for one last musical plateau and bobbed as it broke in two. The front section floated for a second, before beginning its slow descent to the lake bed.

Woshington was, however, still beaming with delight; he’d just used a stone torrent to scythe down Godhand. Fellow turncoat, Letho Ravenheart, was just a bonus. And. And, he thought…

I’m still riding this stone bitch.

With all forward momentum expended, the lithe black man dismounted his stone idol. The anansi rose up as a bandy form growing from a pile of sinking masonry. That was a peculiar image, but it was nothing. It was nothing compared to the morbid beauty of a flying Dan Lagh'ratham. The nWo beast was soaring at the black man, whose windswept eyes squinted to see a swirling blur of blood and flesh. At the head of the gory maelstrom was a set teeth surging forward with violent intent. It should have been a bloodcurdling sight, but Woshington was intoxicated by his own vanity. The entire arena disappeared and all Woshington could see was the man who was going to just… kill… him. He was sure of it, and didn’t care. He’d died the day he was born. He’d died again 28 years later. Rebirth had followed death twice before, why not for a third time? It was a leap of faith to expect the same experience. As for the Monks of Ai’Brone, Woshington had no need to even consider them more than a backup plan. So he smiled, smugly, ready to be revived across the omniverse one more time.

Somehow he was standing more than his six feet tall, somehow his legs appeared longer as he planted them firmly and defiantly apart, his outstretched arms covering a gaping span, his elongated fingers extended individually to their maximum, and his pendulous lips began to preach provocatively yet again. He was a master of shit talking; he was effectively weaponless, his body was bruised and beaten, and the cold was on the verge of causing absolute collapse while the cold waters slowly engulfed the large stone section he stood on. None of that was going to stop his sermon.

“Fuck you!” he frothed at the mouth, pouring all his dying fury into an antagonistic lambasting, “Fuck you, muthafucka, I’ll put a fucking bullet in your head. Fuck you, muthafucka!” he insisted it, he insisted it repeatedly again and again until the monster’s trajectory brought them together…

No dodge, no parry, no counter. Slayer--go ahead and bunny a slaughtering on Wosh—make it epic yo.

[Slayer of the Rot]

Words were brought to bear against his grisly form, but they had as much affect on him as not eating had. They sent him into a dizzying fury; far beyond anything any wounded beast of the wild had felt. He was spinning, muscles moving stiffly on their own. Every clear thought was dashed upon that anger, shattered before it could penetrate the blind, red rage. His throat was aching now with cold dryness with each harsh breath he pulled in; it longed to be wet with blood. Still, he fell through the chaotic expanse of his mind, dizzy with euphoria and pain and hunger.

His soaring body struck cold, dark flesh, and the traitor tipped over, falling down towards the slope he'd created. The grave that he'd made for himself. The furious obscenities were still coming, but they were becoming garbled now; Dan had clamped his grip down on Woshington's biceps painfully, and he felt the bones collapse when they hit the ground.

The red skinned monster paused for a moment, releasing his grip. Then he was a bizarre flurry of movements, of snarls and grunts, driving his fingers into the man's stomach. The flesh tore and dark blood seeped out. Dan flung his face forward, teeth gnashing, seeking relief from the fire threatening to turn him into a blackened husk. The teeth snapped, gulping down mouth fulls of chunks from the stomach, the liver, the pancreas, crunching through rib bones. With a snorting noise, and a yank of his neck, he came back up with the heart of the traitor, still clinging to the body by thick, pulsing arteries. With two furious whips of his head, he tore it free and ripped into the organ with a spray of blood, and it was gone in moments, struggled down in thick gulps.

The agony of the burn was beginning to recede, and the spinning was beginning to calm...rational thought pushed up through the heavy crimson haze, struggling to come out on the surface. 'Is he still alive? God damn, I made a mess.' The scorching pain continued to fade, but before he could stop himself, his hands were on Woshington's head, slamming it against the broken stone, clawing at the flesh. Under his finger tips, he felt the skull give way, and then his fingers were moving, tearing skin back from the slick bone and diving inside, pulling out what had made the man so dangerous and stuffing it greedily into his mouth.

The ravaged body glowed for a moment, and vanished, leaving the bloodied berserker alone on the grisly spot.

Finally, he broke through the pain and fury. Spitting on the ground, shaking his hands to try and rid them of the macabre filth, Dan shut his blind eyes and imagined a large, iron box. Into it, the remaining fire retreated, licking at the black metal. Straining visibly, he lifted his hands and struggled to press them together as he imagined chains wrapping around the prison, and a brass circle.

"S-s...seal."

The chains drew taught, the circle slammed down on top of them, and Dan opened his eyes. The sudden blue of the sky was bright, and he fell to the ground instantly, pawing at the chunk of stone lodged in his stomach. The color of his skin had vanished, and the color of his eyes had returned, as had the flesh on his face. Gritting his teeth, the Saraelian yanked the intruding object free and laid still, panting. He didn't feel sorry for what he'd done. Not in the slightest. The man had betrayed not just the New World Order and The Company, but Dan's trust when he and Godhand and Jame had allied himself with Teric's group. Setting a hand over his mouth, he belched, and looked miserably down the slope.

"Godhand! How many of the fuckers are left?! I'm getting bored!" He quickly patted his jacket and pants pockets, and grimaced. "And I'm out of fucking smokes!"

[Summary: As seen above, bunny approved.
Ate Woshington.
Resting.]

Spoils:
Incantation of Tyrannus
Level 3
By releasing the incantation, Dan may double his strength at the cost of his sight and rationality. His skin will turn red from his hyper oxygenated blood, and he is overcome with a painful desire to consume living or dead flesh. His face and jaw mutates; the muscles become stronger, the teeth grow sharper, harder, and longer, and the skin of the cheeks and lips recede and vanish so he may consume mass amounts of meat.

Lion's Rage Medallion is lost.

[Godhand]

Letho heaved himself up from the ground and stumbled backwards, colliding with what remained of a once grand stone column. Lucky for him he was too dizzy to put any force behind his movements, otherwise the shoddy remnants of the structure would have collapsed and he'd have tumbled back into the ice. The mercenary's ears were still ringing from Letho's earlier punch; Goddamn he was strong. Even with the boost from the Lion's Rage Amulet, Godhand still couldn't handle him once that shine kicked in. If it wasn't for the fact that he was a better fighter, technically speaking, than the Ranger, it would have been over by then. The swordsman regained his breath, but just as he was about to try and tackle Letho through the pillar, something else caught his attention.

There was an unbelievable boom, like an explosion, and the ground around them seemed to lurch back and forth. He got a deep, deep sinking feeling just before he turned around. I mean it was a loud boom. The swordsman turned only to find the very mountain itself tumbling down at him. And right at the head, humping a goddess statue while shouting profanities, was one of the Company boys. He was either a stupid son of a bitch or a turncoat, but the difference was academic. The gunman would be crushed all the same. His breath was shallow, and he knew he was way too tired and it was way too fast for him to outrun it. Besides, were was there to run to? Back into the lake, and then he'd freeze to death. Godhand instead chose to shut his eyes, grit his teeth and assume the position. Crouched on the ground with both arms hugging his head, he awaited the inevitable onslaught.

The first hit nearly made him throw up. Big, big rock. Bounced off his back like it was made of rubber. He felt the bile rise up in his throat but keep it together, keep it together. Pretty soon he was weathering a veritable storm of stones. It was like being hammered with the fist of an angry god. He felt the little pebbles raining on his neck even as the fat boulders shattered on him. A couple of them rolled over him instead of just falling on top of him and that was the closest he got to a break.

After what seemed like an eternity of senseless pain, it stopped. Everything was dark now. Quiet. It felt good. Godhand just wanted to curl up and wait for the angels to come. But he knew, even as the air grew thin, he knew he had to get out of there. His whole body screamed when he moved, but he kept it together. Young man. Hard man. He kept it together.

After some bucking, shaking and clawing, the swordsman broke out of his stony prison. He gasped big, grateful lung-fulls of air. His clothes looked like they'd been put through a, well, through a rock tumbler. Most of his skin was a dark blue or purple. His left retina was detached; he was lucky the whole eye hadn't popped out when he took a big stone to the back of the head. Godhand crawled away from what felt like the scene of a crime. He said...Something, to Letho. He couldn't form a coherent thought. Godhand's world was pain.

But just as he was about to give it up, a little angel appeared. A beautiful little red-haired angel. She scooped something out of a vase, nectar from Eden he supposed, and fed it to him. The swordsman grinned stupidly at her as he sucked the liquid off a wooden spoon she brought to his lips. It was good. It was great. The more he drank, the better he felt. Boy, was that ever a summary of his life? Hehehe. Hey, he was coherent enough to make jokes now!

The mercenary sat up when his vision cleared only to find that it was not an angel, but an adorable little pixie. Lasair. Godhand lunged forward and slipped her the tongue. God, he loved her. She was his hero. He stood up, and pulling her up with a small "eep", had her sit on his shoulder.

"You're with us now, kid."

It was then Godhand noticed Woshington was still alive. He instantly drew his gun, thankfully it hadn't been destroyed in the avalanche, and pointed it at the man. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, however, the traitor was knocked off his pedestal by Dan. The gunman cringed and turned away as the monster went to work.

Just then, the Company's President approached. He was an old one, but that's why Godhand liked him. Young kids had too much to prove. He preferred to work with the older guys. They had a better head for the business. Didn't play stupid games. But just as he was about to greet him, he noticed the colorfully dressed gentleman behind him. The gunman unholstered his revolver once more and leveled it at the man's chest.

"Who's this guy?"

Dan got his attention once more, shouting for him. Godhand turned to him, cringed once again and waved him over while averting his eyes.

"Ugh. Just get over here!"

[Lasair Anubail]

((Letho, Dan, if you two want some healing, feel free to bunny Lasair in your posts giving them some medicine. Teric...you don’t get any since you punched Lasair in the face and she doesn’t really like you because of that.))


Giggling softly from her now tall position on Godhand’s shoulder, Lasair began to look around at the battlefield and the fights going on between Imperial and the New World Order, which Godhand had just commandeered her for. Apparently she was no longer fighting for Imperial but instead she was fighting for him. Perhaps if it had been anyone else she would have objected, but not her Godhand. She’d do anything he asked her to if well, he would only ask it of her. Yet the man seemed complacent enough to just accept what she offered and never anything more, which she liked about him even more. And despite the rough exterior and sometimes harsh words, she knew he was really nice, he just didn’t like people to see it.

As she turned her eyes away from a rather gruesome scene of that scary guy—who used to look kind of cute—ripping into another man, Lasair watched as the old human started heading in this direction. Her entire body visibly tensed the closer he got to him, especially when Godhand practically invited him over. She didn’t like that old man, he was mean and vicious and her jaw was still sore from his punch.

Her small, pint sized version of Godhand took this opportunity to jump down from her and rest on the opposite shoulder she was sitting on of his counterpart. She found it really funny when the two of them were in close proximity because they never really seemed to get along.

“Looks like we’re fighting on the same side now...” He grunted; neither seeming pleased nor displeased with the entire situation.

“Godhand,” Lasair said rather quietly, “I don’t like that old man, please don’t let him come any closer. He punched me for no good reason!” She turned her face so he could see the growing bruise on the side of her jaw that was still red and swollen from his fist colliding with it. A fist she swore was made of steel and not flesh it had hurt so much. “He’s a big, old meanie.”

If she wasn’t currently propped up on his shoulder, she’d probably be hiding behind him instead. Sadly, she couldn’t really do that from her current position, so instead she stuck her tongue out at Teric.

[Bloodrose]

"It's alright, he's with me." Teric hung his sword off his belt and jabbed a thumb over one shoulder to indicate the man who'd saved his life. "Seems I'm 1-for-1 with Imperial. They took Woshington..." There was a slight pause as the older warrior made the mistake of glancing over, catching a glimpse of the horrific feast Dan was making of the turncoat. "...and I've got this one."

And I don't even know his name. The veteran was reminded. It didn't really matter at this juncture, but he would have to make sure he got to know his new friend when this was over - if it wasn't already.

Teric stopped several paces shy of the gunman leader of the NWO. The Fae sitting on Godhand's shoulder was sticking her tongue out at him defiantly, but there was timidity behind the bravado that said she'd be hightailing it for the hill if the mercenary wasn't there to protect her. Seems everyone is changing sides now. Teric sighed, somewhat nervously hoping that Godhand would remain professional in the light of certain events. The way the Fae and her toy - a miniature version of the gunman himself - sat confidently on the man's shoulders was all the proof Teric needed to know that there was history there. History that might potentially bring the two mercenaries to blows should Godhand - the bigger one - decide to repay the love tap Teric had landed on his little friend.

Just remember that she was fighting for the other side. Teric willed his thoughts towards the gunman. Perhaps for the first time the veteran wished that he had telepathic powers. She's lucky enough Dan didn't eat her like he did Woshington, so you can't tell me one little punch is worth brawling over.

"One, two, three Imperials - former or otherwise." Teric counted. He surmised from the restful, somewhat relaxed position Letho was in that the Marshall was as done with the fight as any. The Fae was with Godhand, and the well dressed mage was with him, so who did that leave? The battlefield was devoid of any obvious foes left to vanquish, and even if one or two Imperials still skulked in the shadows, the likelihood that they would try to take on the likes of the remaining NWO and Company folk was nil. They would have to be stupid to pick a fight with Dan or Godhand by themselves, let alone the both of them and company. "I think we might be done here."

Fetching a hand-rolled cigarette from his pocket, Teric stuck one of the relaxing vices in his mouth. He lit it with a match from the same pocket before offering up a couple of the treats to his fellows.

[Raelyse]

It seemed that being a traitor was becoming more fashionable than Raelyse's chic clothing. The Myrusian could count two that were on the side of Imperial at the start, but now seemed to flank their former enemies like an entourage of cheerleaders. He would have cursed if he didn't find the situation so humorous; it had been his idea first to join the winning side. He was almost forlorn that neither of his swords had tasted the warm sanctuary of an enemies' flesh, but was wise enough to know that those whose hearts still beat did so because they were either formidable foes or crafty enough to survive.

Raelyse had been unlucky enough to be in plain sight to see one who had none of the above characteristics. All of his first impressions of the monstrous man, he realized at that moment, were not exaggerated. With all the fury of a feral, starving beast he jumped and literally tore the black man apart, feasting on raw flesh and beating throbbing organs both. The Myrusian turned away, unable to stand the gory sight, instead focused on following the old man to join the group that would hopefully become his new allies.

They did not get on to the best of starts. Perhaps expecting a parade was too lofty an expectation for a turncoat, but surely a firearm pointed straight at his chest was too hostile a greeting. If Raelyse had been of lesser mind or self restraint, the gun would be on the floor and the imposingly muscled man would be writhing on the ground, tortured by lightning bolts. But that was one of the reasons why the Myrusian stood tall and strong at this moment while his former allies drowned beneath his feet. Engaging the gunman would be foolish because he had at least three other allies, strong ones at that. The old man was an enigma too. He had been friendly to Raelyse, even grateful, but there was no telling what he would do to save his own skin. The Myrusian knew there was nothing he would not do to survive. It was that thought that made him, temporarily at least, swallow his considerable pride.

“I am Raelyse,” he shouted loudly, answering the gunman’s question and announcing himself to this stage at long last. He was still ready with his magic, lightning and barrier, in case the group wanted something to kill or the gun were to fire. The Myrusian made sure that as he spoke under piercing gazes his feet subtly dragged his body across the ice, so that he was slightly behind the old man. Not considerably, just slightly so that at any sign of attack, Raelyse could dive behind him.

“A friend,” the Myrusian added loudly, with the perfectly executed, charmingly false smile of a conman.

He then turned to the old man, just in time to see that he had vouched for him. Relieved that he would be spared this day, Raelyse was happy that at least one first impression had proved wrong this day.

It descended on him at that moment that the reason he had chosen his first ally in this battle was because like him, the old man would do anything it took to survive. Luckily, stopping Raelyse’s heart was not one of those things.

[Woshington]

The clan war’s ghetto superstar was done.

Woshington didn’t wake up with an excessively robed monk looming over him; a different mysterious power had bust through the environs of the citadel to steal the contemporary black man’s essence. Whatever it was, he didn’t know. He didn’t care. He didn’t care as a dying foetus on the Coronian soils. He didn’t care when he was face down on the tarmac with a bullet in his head. Once again, he did not care when Dan Lagh’ratham’s teeth were chewing on the stringy fibres of his ligaments and crunching out the nutritious marrow filling his bones.

He had a different experience.

The digestive system consisted of, sequentially, tongue and salivary glands, oesophagus, stomach, small intestine and large intestine. Woshington died, he didn’t experience the tongue, he didn’t experience the slobbering filth of Dan Lagh’ratham, he didn’t feel himself slipping down the gullet. He did, however, feel the rest. That tight enclosure of the acidy stomach… the black man’s 28 year old body began passing through his host’s gastrointestinal tract. The big W was, quite impossibly, sliding through the little I: the small intestine. He didn’t know it, but he was squirming at the grotesque sight of wrinkles upon wrinkles lining the over thirty feet of this particular beast’s internal tubing. And into the colon, the organ designed to compact fecal matter. The twenty-four hours required for the planet to spin completely around on its axis and for shit to be prepared for shitting flew by, and Woshington was unceremoniously excreted. Without tearing, ripping, stretching or pain for host or parasite, Woshington was born along with and firmly inside a steaming pile of shit.

His fingers queried awkwardly at the layer of profuse, brown, cake mixture of the arse bowl that was congesting his eyesight. The problem was that his bony digits were coated too. He was rubbing shit with shite; progress was slow. But eventually the excrement was clumped at the corners of his eyes and he squinted up from a bed of broad tropical leaves. Woshington had been reborn into the same segment of the omniverse, but he didn’t know it. To him the difference between Corone and Istraloth seemed universal, not continental. “Where am I?” it was a question that didn’t linger in his mind. It was replaced with a vociferous reaction internalised to a gasping thought, “what… the fuck… is that?”

He reared up with amazement before stumbling back onto the ground. The beast before him wasn’t Dan Lagh’ratham, it was something entirely more intimidating. He’d come back for his fourth life via the release of a gigantopithecus sphincter muscle. An inauspicious beginning for sure. The giant ape was long though to have become extinct in the Althanian world. Radasanth’s scientific community only coming into contact with fossils from an ancient tropical forest from a bygone tectonic era. The towering primate was quite different to the specifications set down in the rudimentary paper published by the Althanian archaeological community. It stood on four hand-like feet, not two. Like a gorilla, its hind legs were short and its front arms were lengthy and visibly empowered by coils of dramatic muscle. Furthermore, it towered higher than the ten feet that conventional wisdom declared its limit to be. Fleshy jowls hung dramatically from its aged face and spread out laterally as gigantic masculine pads. Its eyes were small, almond shaped and a light brown that portrayed more emotion that the almost black brown of Woshington’s eyes. Its hair was patchy, not thick like other known primates, covering the body only sporadically but still more so than the hairiest of humans. Puzzled, the intelligent ape stepped back for a second of quiet contemplation before angrily leaning down at what he recognised as one of them: the mysterious rivals that looked slightly like he and his own people did, but were of the floating vine cities, Noothal and Istreeth. And these people, he knew, regularly raided gigantopithecus troupes along the forested mountain borders of their territory. Rage ran through the bulky male ape and Woshington could see it, he’d seen enough wildlife documentaries on TV in his second life to know that it was time to put his rangy lower limbs to use and run.

Woshington leapt with agility between the narrow tropical trunks and the blade-like leaves of rainforest flora. Woshington left intermittent shit stains. Meanwhile, that example of hulking fauna tore a never ending path of destruction to mark his trail. Despite the compromising situation Woshington shouted with a boom of joy, he was alive, and he felt it, he felt the equatorial warmth fill every cell of his body like he had in his second life. Just when he thought life couldn’t get any better, the blinking shower of sunlight between the gaps in the forest canopy turned into an actual shower. The forest rain refreshed him.

He was outlasting the gigantopitheci as its chase proved to less than relentless. His mind wandered back to Dan Lagh’ratham. It was natural. Lagh’ratham was the last thing he saw before dying. That dirty foe was in another universe, or so Woshington thought, but it didn’t stop dreams of a chance encounter between the two.

It would happen again one day. Woshington knew it.

[Sighter Tnailog]

Findelfin had no time for this man's feeble, sarcastic, arrogant, and ignorant protestations. The list of adjectives describing his mediocrity went on, of course, but Findelfin had no time for those either. He did take the time, however, to utter one simple sentence.

"Shut up."

Findelfin laid aside his bow and stooped quickly to the floor. Checking the man's garments for the proof that the other monk's letter indicated would be there, he found the letter quickly. It was hidden far less carefully than the other piece of parchment had been, and he pulled it out quickly. Scanning its words darkly, he thrust it towards the mercenary.

"There you go, sellsword. Tell me with a straight face this is a man of the gods and I'll send you to meet them. If you're lucky, you'll get a better reward than he's getting now."

The words had been simple, and to the point.

J

Your job is to kill the first mercenary of Imperial to fall. Our orders are clear: assist Imperial in paying for this war by whatever means necessary. Those methods include killing those to whom payment is owed by Imperial. Your absolution is already assured.

P

Findelfin was watching the mercenary closely as he read. The indications seemed positive. Finally, he said, "If my hunch is correct, P refers to the Pontiff of Ai'Bron himself working in concert with Imperial. If we hurry, together we can shut down the illusion and confront Imperial for its attempt on your life -- and, just so you know, my life before I arrived here to save yours."

That bit about Imperial was a lie, of course. The other letter was a clear indication that Imperial was not involved. But this mercenary didn't need to know about the other letter. But even as he said it, Findelfin felt his heart quail somewhere within him. The guilt wasn't because he'd lied, or that the lie was particularly heinous.

Instead, he trembled because it was easy.

[Godhand]

Godhand winced when Lasair claimed Teric had punched her. He understood that it was war but Jesus, she was just a kid. Or acted like one, anyway. Normally he might have bullrushed the elderly mercenary, but this was neither the time nor the place. Maybe they'd work it out later, but right now they had to prepare for the monks. Sure, they claimed they were pacifists, but they had also vowed never to interfere in the affairs of the outside world. Given where the NWO was trapped and by whom, Godhand didn't put much stock in their promises anymore.

They could have stayed there and waited, of course. The mercenary had no doubt that the allied forces of the New World Order and the Company had triumphed over Imperial in the group's home base as well, and that they'd more than likely already interrogated someone to find out where the rest of the group had been transported. Nevertheless, he didn't relish the idea of freezing his ass off in one of the Citadel's illusion rooms. The avalanche hadn't dried him off much, and with his wet clothes he was likely to catch pneumonia. Godhand tilted his head at the mercenary Teric had managed to flip and smiled.

"Welcome to the winning team. Catch."

The revolver spun around Godhand's finger before he tossed it to Raelyse in one swift motion. The man fumbled a bit, but caught it well enough. The mercenary wasn't worried about Imperial's traitor trying to put a hole in him. He'd be a fool to try and take them on at this point. He produced another one from his coat and handed it to Bloodrose before unholstering the one he'd used to fire upon their former enemy. The cylinder swung out and discarded the spent shells upon the snow before reloading it with bullets from his bandolier. He considered handing this one to Lasair, but considering it was the world's biggest handgun and she was probably the world's littlest lady, the recoil would more than likely blow her right off his shoulder. Instead, he merely produced his final revolver from a holster strapped right under his back.

"Keep in mind, I'm just letting you borrow them. Once we're out of here, I expect them back. Also, just because I handle two at a time doesn't mean you can. Use both hands."

Slayer had finally made his way over. He got the hint quick, producing his own revolver from the nether where he stowed the rest of his weapons. Even Letho got into the spirit, hoisting the butt of his lawmaker up against his shoulder. They were ready. They could handle it. Finally, a what seemed like a large window in space opened up before them. An cartoonish monk stepped out, cheeks rosy and belly fat, stuffed with whatever delicacies Imperial's money had bought.

"Congratulations to the New World Order for-"

He never had a chance to finish. They all fired at once.

(OOC: If anyone's got a problem with me bunnying you, just say so and I'll edit the post.)

[Raelyse]

Relief swam about Raelyse as he was offered acceptance into the New World Order, if only for now. If the roles were swapped, the Myrusian was sure he would not trust the turncoat. But then again, he would never have to be put into the shoes of someone that had to distrust his perfectly executed charm of a lie. Raelyse lied so easily and convincingly that he almost fooled himself. Almost.

As a token of welcome and appreciation, Godhand threw Raelyse a revolver, which almost caught the Myrusian off guard. He nearly fumbled and dropped it on the cold surface beneath him but his reflexes and dexterity ensured that didn’t happen. It took him a while to get used to its grip; it wasn’t something he had held before. He had seen it in use before, maybe once or twice but never had he ever imagined that he would use such a weapon. Raelyse had thought it uncouth and useful only for those without skill but now he realized that quite simply, he was wrong.

The revolver was elegantly shaped, its metal perfectly crafted into a magnificent weapon. Raelyse was so intrigued by his newest plaything that he didn't notice the illusion of the Citadel slowly fading away, as the warriors would soon return to the real world. He noticed the collective heads of everyone present turn towards a developing doorway. A shape formed out of nothingness as the temperature warmed and reality seeped into this Citadel battlefield. Then, a figure. Collective firearms were cocked, each eye locked on the rotund, portly figure that was slowly developing.

The Myrusian did something he rarely did, he joined the collective crowd. He had never operated a firearm before but had seen it enough times to get a rough gauge of how it worked. Raelyse shifted the weapon to his stronger right hand and used his thumb to pull back the hammer, triggering a loud click as the cylinder turned and a round was chambered. He dropped his cane to the ground to allow as his left hand to rise to the base of the revolver, its cool metal sending chills of nervousness through the Myrusian's body. Raelyse could not wait to fire. He did not waver in his focus though and lined up the sight with the slowly materializing figure.

There was nearly a collective sound as half a dozen firearms unloaded at once and the monk collapsed, dead. Raelyse knew not whether his aim was true, for he had been caught off guard by the recoil of the weapon. It was something that took him by surprise and he winced in pain as his shoulder cracked back painfully. He sucked it in though and crouched to pick up his cane, which lay in the ice. In both of his hands, he held the still hot revolver and the untested blade that he fancied so much. It was hard to tell at this point, which one he wanted to play with more.

He had not done the heroic deeds that he thought he would have done, he had not downed the strongest man here, nor done anything strategically valuable.

And yet, Raelyse could not shake the feeling that this day had not been a total waste.

If it's possible, since Raelyse joined NWO during the course of the battle, would it be possible for my score to be added to the NWO instead of Imperial? Heard Letho was doing the same.

[Christoph]

And the judgment is finally here!

General comments: It was agreed that I would just give a total score for each side without going into detail with the rubric or comments. Onthe whole, it was a fun thread with a lot of great talent in it. The betrayals and side-switching was interesting, and ultimately turned the tides and gave NWO a huge victory.

Base scores:

NWO: 73
Imperial 67

Attrition: Players who only posted once count as 1/4 of a person in terms of attrition and those who posted only twice count as 1/2. All others are counted normally.

End Attrition rate: NWO at 7 with Imperial at 3, giving NWO a 20% score bonus.

Final scores:
NWO: 87.6
Imperial: 67

NWO and allies gain a blowout victory! 100% of the loser's GP earned in this battle goes to the NWO treasury, and these scores will be averaged into the other group to determine overall victory.

Rewards:

Sighter gains 3338 EXP and 550 GP
Slayer gains 3040 EXP and 500 GP
Bloodrose gains 2815 EXP and 400 GP
Raelyse gains 3004 EXP and 500 GP
Letho gainst 4780 EXP and 600 GP
Arsene gains 850 EXP and 300 GP
Godhand gains 2960 EXP and 500 GP

Skie gains 300 EXP
Grim gains 150 EXP
Xalstad gains 150 EXP
Logan gains 600 EXP
Woshington gains 600 EXP

The NWO treasury gainst 1500 GP!

[Christoph]

And the judgment is finally here!

General comments: It was agreed that I would just give a total score for each side without going into detail with the rubric or comments. Onthe whole, it was a fun thread with a lot of great talent in it. The betrayals and side-switching was interesting, and ultimately turned the tides and gave NWO a huge victory.

Base scores:

NWO: 73
Imperial 67

Attrition: Players who only posted once count as 1/4 of a person in terms of attrition and those who posted only twice count as 1/2. All others are counted normally.

End Attrition rate: NWO at 7 with Imperial at 3, giving NWO a 20% score bonus.

Final scores:
NWO: 87.6
Imperial: 67

NWO and allies gain a blowout victory! 100% of the loser's GP earned in this battle goes to the NWO treasury, and these scores will be averaged into the other group to determine overall victory.

Rewards:

Sighter gains 3338 EXP and 550 GP
Slayer gains 3040 EXP and the requested spoil
Bloodrose gains 2815 EXP and 400 GP
Raelyse gains 3004 EXP and 500 GP
Letho gainst 4780 EXP and 600 GP
Arsene gains 850 EXP and 300 GP
Godhand gains 2960 EXP and 500 GP
Lasair gains 900 EXP and 400 GP

Skie gains 300 EXP
Grim gains 150 EXP
Xalstad gains 150 EXP
Logan gains 600 EXP
Woshington gains 600 EXP

The NWO treasury gainst 1500 GP!

[Witchblade]

EXP and GP added!

1,500 GP added to NWO's treasury!

Logan hits level 3!