Fight with a view. ((Open))

[Green]

"Here we go," spoke the monk, motioning toward the portal. "You should have an opponent shortly." Hadewych nodded politely in thanks and her escort turned and left, whistling an odd tune as he walked. Hers' was at the end of a short corridor, the arched ceiling and barren stone walls strangely illuminated despite the absence of any windows or torches. She had been wanting to try out the famed Citadel for ages. Her journal notations regarding the esteemed institution had been read so many times over that she could almost remember the place and what it was about without trying. The possibility of satisfying that ever present instinct that roamed her deepest subprocessors without having to worry much about the after effects thrilled her.

As luck would have it an afternoon free from another of Maklovoch's errands presented itself. The Citadel was quiet today and she was directed toward an open room almost immediately...the kindly, soft-spoken little man who had led her here was an antithesis for the violent encounters surrounding him in these halls and with which he provided customers on a daily basis, but it was probably safe to say that nothing here should be taken at face value, especially the monks.

The cyborg exited the portal and had to catch her balance, buffeted by numbing wind. She was standing on a narrow landing atop a high tower, a bridge tower in the approximate middle of said bridge about seven hundred and forty-six feet from the paved roadway below bustling with motorized vehicles and people meandering along the footpaths on either side, and turbulent cold-looking water even further below that. The bridge, painted a beautiful orangey red, spanned across the mouth of a bay and was an impressive one point two miles from shore to shore. Directly before her seethed an ocean under a veil of mist advancing in the late afternoon hour. A tanker loaded with crates was slowly entering the bay, "Hyundai" written across the low black hull. To her left, the suspension drooped and led toward a colourful city sprawling across rolling green land.

Somewhere in the back of her decrepit mind echoed the words "Golden Gate" and "San Francisco". If Hadewych was capable of smiling, she definitely would have.

[The Prophet]

Arkham stared icily into the polychromatic portal that swirled before him, noiselessly preparing himself for the imminent struggle that loomed before him. The rector standing behind the gray-cloaked prophet was diminutive, even for a dwarf, but she possessed a sort of quiet strength that made one forget all about her miniscule stature.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” the ebon-haired Ai’Brone uttered out softly, shattering the delicate silence. “Even if you are killed, I will be on hand to revive you right away.”

“I won’t need your help,” Arkham responded, his gaze never leaving the nebulous aether. “I’ve got my own way of outsmarting death.”

Without another moment of hesitation, the robed figure stepped forward to meet his fate.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Arkham had heard much about the Citadel. Legendary battles had been fought within the massive structure, and minstrels continued to sing of some of the greatest combatants, such as Aer’wyn the Bow and Huskarr the Merciless, thousands of years after their bones were nothing more than dust.

The prophet had no desire to join the ranks of these mythical heroes. He was here for one reason only; to justify a murder he must commit. His gods demanded sacrifice, and he was not one to disappoint. Cold-blooded slaughter was unacceptable in the eyes of the wicked saint, but he had no qualms about slaying an enemy on the field of battle.

Not even a second after entering the vortex, Arkham’s booted feet slammed into a slick, metallic surface. He had no time to examine his bizarre surroundings, as his attention was immediately drawn to the abomination that stood no more than three feet from his cloaked form. It’s infandous body was beyond description, and it was humanoid only in the vaguest sense. With a great deal of effort, Arkham managed to conceal his disgust, his thin lips drawing up into something not unlike a smile.

“Good luck to you,” he offered genially, extending a hand towards the cyborg.

[Green]

Some minutes passed and she was allowed peace. Hadewych squatted, her synthetic hand pressed against the metal for balance. The distant rumble of traffic and waves continued below her and for the moment the lives of those people -- real or imagined she was unsure -- wore on, oblivious. Hade might have been able to better appreciate the view had she not been so occupied with the looming conflict.

She had been built for this. Her brain had literally been wired specifically for violence, and in the recent past had been doing everything in it's power to make sure she regained lost abilities. She knew this was the reason for the alliance with Maklovoch, but it didn't bother her. Unfortunately for Hadewych, this purely mechanical lust had dominated whatever sense of "right and wrong" she originally possessed. The machine wasn't evil, just...old, in need of tuning.

Hade hoped against hope that her opponent would put up a good fight.

She stood when he arrived, thankful she had thought to relinquish her hat and cloak prior to entering the windy arena. He was one of humanity's more disturbing specimens, if he indeed was human. Pale and particularly oily-looking. He offered his hand but Hadewych ignored this and the words of good will he spoke. The software that could often be blamed for her one-track mind set was in full attack mode and had completely dominated what was left of her cerebral cortex.

Pupils dilated and the scattered layering of feathers on her neck aggressively ruffled, the cyborg gripped her staff loosely albeit securely with both hands and swung at his jaw.

[The Prophet]

Arkham raises his left hand instinctively to block the attack, but instead of striking his forearm the hardwood staff smacks harmlessly into an invisible barrier less than a centimeter from his ivory skin. It seems that this unknown magician had a few tricks up his sleeve. Any semblance of civility the prophet had possessed mere moments ago was gone; his face was now as static and unfeeling as the bridge he stood upon. The sun was already beginning to sink into the western sea. He’d have to finish the battle quickly to avoid fighting on this slick, windswept platform in the dark.

He should've known better than to treat this thing with even a modicum of respect. He should've known that the Old Ones would look with disdain upon such an artificial construct. This would not be an acceptable sacrifice; he doubted the beast's veins held the precious blood he needed to complete his ritual. Nevertheless, he could not stop the fight now. Even if he could persuade Hadewych to call a draw, he would not desire it. He heard the distant whispers of the Old Ones in his fractured mind, and they made it very clear what they expected of him:

It is undeserving of it's pathetic life. Take it.

KILL IT. KILL IT. KILL IT. KILL IT.

C'thun Ry'leh, Hergoroth Ny'archothep Ry'leh.

“Guide my hand, Ia! Shub-Niggurath!”

Lurching forward, Arkham thrust his open right palm towards the feathered creature’s malformed chest, intent on applying one of his dreaded signs onto the thing’s torso. At the same time, his left hand fumbled around for a hold on the offending battlestaff, intent on jerking the weapon from the winged ghoul’s claws.

[Green]

So, he could erect an invisible shield of some sort? Not too incredibly interesting, but of worthy note. Magic, she supposed. Hadewych had never been particularly magical. She was a melee fighter. Even in her depleted state the smooth, cool wood of the staff clutched between her palms was more natural than messing around with her vague ability to shape water and lift minute objects. She owed her very existence to magic, which might not have been the case years ago before whatever had transpired to put her in a comatose state aboard that ship.

But for all it's life-giving properties, she'd rather leave it to those physically weak enough to have to rely on it heavily in battle. There was a good chance the pasty humanoid would be one of those opponents, and with her only functioning battle skill against his more ethereal abilities coupled with the nature of the arena, the challenge would be great but nonetheless welcome. She needed the training it would provide. She craved it.

The second Arkham thrust his hand toward her, Hade jerked instinctively back and felt her claws give way under a crusty white substance, probably bird droppings. In another instant she had lost her balance completely and with a grinding scrape fell from the top of the tower and hit the suspension cable with a reverberating ring of metal striking metal. She wrapped her torso and limbs around the thick tube, the staff which had eluded Arkham's grasp when she toppled held in her more reliable fleshy hand.

Damn it! This was not a desirable location!

The cyborg struggled to rise, awkwardly getting her claws under her in a precarious semi-crouch.

[The Prophet]

Arkham had been mildly surprised when his outstretched hand passed through empty air, but his overcommitted strike had been a blessing in disguise; his opponent had tread on haphazard terrain and had plummeted to her death. A victorious smirk crossed the magician’s face as the beautiful sound of metal hitting metal reached his partially-concealed ears. He gingerly stepped to the edge of the narrow platform, expecting to see a large spattering of metal and flesh on the ground below, but he was not so fortunate. His opponent clung desperately to some metallic roping a short distance from the tower. Anger flashed in the prophet’s eyes, but he did not lose his cocky grin.

“You’ve doomed yourself. Even…” he paused, taking a quick glance at the ivory patches at his feet. “…even the birds aid the messenger of the gods,” he cried out loudly enough to be heard over the vicious wind, his arms outstretched above his head in a sign of victory. “You are a blight upon this world, and They will not tolerate the existence of such a beast,” he uttered darkly, pointing an accusing finger at the nearby cyborg.

“You have danced with Death himself, and you could not keep up with his frenzied waltz.”

The instant the word ‘waltz’ escaped Arkham’s lips, a faint, almost imperceptible buzzing began to sound in Hadewich’s skull. This buzzing gradually intensified in volume and clarity until it became recognizable as a horrifying tune that could not have possibly been produced by a mortal mind. This was the sound of fear, the sound of doom, the sound of imminent death. This was the sound of the Nameless God that was simultaniously terrifying and delightful; all that heard it would feel an urge - nay, a [i]need[/u] - to dance.

Arkham would typically ignore the haunting melody in the midst of a battle, but such was his confidence that he allowed the tune to wash over him. He welcomed it as a son welcomed the praise of his father. His feet began to shuffle back and forth in a clumsy dance as the dread sound enveloped him, the whispers of his Gods still echoing in the back of his mind.

[Green]

Her claws nearly slipped again on the rounded metal and Hade's organic heart leapt into her throat when, for a single terrifying moment, the staff escaped her grasp. But the cyborg was able to catch it in time and had it back in the customary position by her side, in as difficult a stance as she was. Above her, Arkham was sketched against the darkening sky. Thin vaporous tendrils carried on the wind wrapped themselves around the structure and the opponents as one of the city's many namesakes drifted in from the sea. This wind whistled hollowly through gaps in her frame.

She did not think in coherent thoughts but rather in streams of computer gibberish as her fragmented mind fought to determine what next it should do. Hadewych was at a strong disadvantage here. All she could do was wait.

The human was saying something. Saying quite a few things, actually. She couldn't make it out, what with the rumble of traffic and the wave action. Soon, however, a different sound permeated her brain. It was not from within the arena. A distant thrumming...nay, beating. Yes. Drum beats. A single beating drum, accompanied by a flute or similar instrument. Hadewych's grotesque head swung this way and that, attempting to locate the sound of the players that shouldn't have been there, but instead she felt an irresistable urge to dance, and a dark veil slowly closed around her.

The broken data stream faded. No! echoed in her mind. Her limbs jerked. She pushed back, trying to resist, but a vibrant red spark discharged from her skull and arched brilliantly into the air, along with searing pain penetrating the very depths of her cranium. "What is this!" her voice shrieked in alarm, her torso straightening as her claws performed small hops.

She had to give in.

She couldn't give in! She would die if she gave in! And the pain...

The fruitless hopping intensified into a full-blown jig and she twirled her staff single-handedly, more sparks discharging as the mechanical bits in her brain struggled with magic thrust upon them. She was approaching sensory overload...an intracranial fan switched on and then died in a puff of smoke.

Hadewych wobbled. Fell. In the few seconds of her plummet, doom overcame her.

There was a crash and the sound of squeeling brakes and car horns. The cyborg had landed on her back in the middle of a mint green VW Bug, splintering it's windshield and causing a magnificent crater on the top of the car itself. Traffic came to a standstill as people opened their doors and stood, gazing at the weird, prostrate creature in awe. Some had spotted Arkham and pointed at him, chatting in fear, excitement. The fall had damaged an external artery carrying blood to her fleshy parts and the thick black-crimson liquid was pooling underneath her, mingling with water to stream haphazardly onto the road. Hadewych did not stir.

[The Prophet]

“…and then the metal demons rolling upon the ground leapt onto that foul creature’s body, devouring it piece by piece until it was utterly consumed!”

The people assembled around the dread prophet stared at him with mixed emotions; some were enthralled, some were horrified, and all were skeptical. They had just come to buy some meat from the nearby butcher, not listen to the possibly-true stories of a possibly-insane mage, but Arkham’s zeal had caught the attention of these innocent bystanders.

“That ain’t true,” remarked the butcher himself, his sanguine face set into a perturbed scowl as he leaned in doorway of his dilapidated shop. “Now stop holdin’ up my customers.”

“…and you should have seen the lights!” Arkham continued, ignoring the protests of the nearby shopowner. “As I watched the demons devour the abomination who dared to challenge me, I noticed that the sun had fallen below the horizon – yet, there was still light enough to see. I looked up, and beheld lights as far as the eye can see. There must have been thousands – maybe even millions of them!”

As the robed figure waved a hand dramatically before his face, a few older members of the crowd snort with disdain and wander away.

“Doubt me no further. I have proof.”

Not a sound could be heard in the foul-smelling square as the prophet reached into the pack at his side and produced evidence of his victory. Gasps were heard all around, and one man of weak constitution fainted into the arms of his wife. The few children close enough to see the object screamed with fright and scurried away, horrified.

For in his hand, Arkham held one of the still-twitching claws of his misshapen foe.

[Green]

"He TOOK my CLAW."

"I assume you didn't read the fine print, then."

Mere hours after the fight. Hadewych was back under the flapping yellow tarpaulin from which underneath her employer choose to operate these days. Maklovoch was calmly arranging some clockwork devices he had for sale sitting to the side, his face betraying the barest trace of amusement at the cyborg's tale. "Always read the fine print," he stated during Hadewych's pause. "And let this be a lesson for you, cyborg. I hope the absence of your claw will not interfere with your work."

Hadewych was absently staring at her four remaining digits, grey eyes iced and reptilian-looking. It was her own fault. She told the monks to surprise her...she was too enthusiastic, too impatient to think it through. They siphoned through lost memories and brought her to a faintly recognisable place, a place that put her at ease for reasons she could not pinpoint before the actual battle began. She told them it was an open battle; she'd fight anyone. She was confident.

She was stupid.

There was no doubt about it -- that mage had thoroughly and absolutely delivered a solid and embarrassingly short-lived ass whooping. She supposed she deserved the dismemberment. Future Citadel battles would be ventured with less carelessness. She would keep control, next time. She would keep the program that had swamped her rationale in check, next time.

"No, sir," Hadewych answered at length, closing the depleted cybernetic fist as tightly as the old joints could muster. Since finding Maklovoch three weeks ago and accepting his employment offer, Hade had learned that he was an exceptionally difficult read, though the implied threat in his voice just now was clear. His denizens were free to do as they pleased as long as they always returned to this tent, under this tarpaulin, ready and willing to do whatever he asked of them.

"I am awaiting my next assignment, sir."

[The Prophet]

A warm chuckle erupted from Arkham’s thin lips in response to the reactions of those assembled before him. He thrust the claw forward toward the onlookers, an amused smirk plastered to his pale visage.

“Doubt no longer. Come here, touch it,” he instructs, motioning the crowd forward. After a brief moment of uncomfortable silence, one of the braver young men in the crowd walked forward, his emerald eyes glued to the scrap of metal. Slowly, he reached forth his hand until it made contact with the object, his calloused fingertips lightly brushing across the smooth, metallic surface.

“Wow,” the courageous youth breathed out, enthralled by the treasure before him. “It’s… it’s real. He ain’t lyin’!”

Arkham retracted his treasure after a short while, replacing it in the leather satchel at his side. “For those of you who wish to know more of the Gods who give me such strength, come closer. The rest of you: Go buy your meat,” he instructed with a sneer, his steely gaze sweeping over the small crowd. The majority back uneasily away from the prophet, none too eager to learn of the dark Things that lurked behind the prophet, but a few brave souls (including the man who had dared to touch the dreaded claw) lingered after the majority of the crowd had departed. They were far too curious (or stupid) to abandon this fantastic storyteller now.

In the hours following Arkham’s performance, four young men and women were told things that no mortal aught to know. Terrible things, things that would make even the bravest man blanch with terror, were made known to a select few.

And so did the corruption of Scara Brae begin.

Requested Spoils:

Arkham: Cybernetic Claw - Hadewych's claw. Nothing more than a trophy of victory.

Hadewych: Nothing. Just gold/experience.

[Witchblade]

Story

Continuity: - 4,4 Well, this was an open battle in The Citadel, so it’s hard to expect there to be any real kind of storyline or continuity going on between the characters, though it is still welcomed if it can be done. There could have been something rather interesting done with these Gods that the Arkham worships, though I am rather curious as to what is going to come of him stealing Hade’s claw.

Setting: - 4.5, 4 Neither of you were very descriptive with your surroundings. In fact I found that I often lost myself in trying to figure out exactly where the characters were instead of the action that was taking place. Slipping off the bridge was a nice use of the setting. Just remember that you need to give a good description of the setting, which does not need to include exact calculations on the distance of certain objects, in fact that almost takes away from it, because then the reader is thinking more about just how great tat distance is instead of what the place looks like.

Pacing: - 4, 3 The battle was very short and almost no fighting took place, not to mention the climax was no climax at all. Plus, when Hade suddenly changed to being in some kind of marketplace it threw off the entire thread because there was no lead up to it. Just all of a sudden he’s away from The Citadel, the battle was over and he had a claw in his possession.

Character

Dialogue: - 4.5, 4.5 There wasn’t anything special with the dialogue really. Hade kind of talked a lot for someone that was in the middle of a battle, but that kind of went with his over the top personality. He just felt like one of those crazy, extravagant kinds of people to me. So the talking wasn’t necessarily wrong, there was just a lot of it. I thought the opening dialogue for Hade’s last post was rather cute.

Action: - 4, 5 For a battle thread there really wasn’t a lot of action at all. Hade never attacked once and for a machine that was built for fighting, she certainly went down rather easily without well, much a fight. I thought this contradicted a lot of her internal dialogue and I thought a cyborg would at least be able to better assess a situation and make more logical decisions involving not slipping on bird poop. Can we say MGS 2 anyone?

Persona: - 4, 4 The characters didn’t really come across that well. They were there and they had some interesting internal thoughts but for the most part they were rather flat. Hade was just some kind of cybernetic machine that somehow thought killing was great or something like that and yet, got her ass kicked in instead. And Hade, well, he was a very strange Prophet of some kind—never did find out anything about those Gods—that seemed rather flamboyant in some kind of way.

Writing Style

Mechanics: - 7, 6 Prophet, I only noticed one incident where you switched over to present tense instead of past tense. Last post, second paragraph, first line: ‘he instructs, motioning towards the crowd.’ There were very few grammatical and spelling mistakes in the posts, good job on that. But Prophet, try to avoid using brackets in your posts.

Technique: - 3, 3 there wasn’t very much use of literary devices throughout the thread, though I encourage the two of you to keep trying. Some foreshadowing is always nice and rather simple to do too.

Clarity: - 6, 4.5 The setting was a bit confusing to me; I never could quite picture the entire bridge scene. Also, Arkham is suddenly outside of The Citadel without any kind of explanation what-so-ever, I was highly confused. Try to at least give some kind of explanation either a flashback partway through the post or even write him as having left the battle and The Citadel. It will be far less confusing to the reader.

Wild Card: - 3, 3 It was battle without very much battling.

Total: 44, 41

The winner is Green!

Rewards:

Green receives 475 experience and 150 GP!
The Prophet receives 150 experience and 100 GP!

[Zook Murnig]

EXP/GP added!