Overcoming Perception / Playing on a Higher Scale

[Jörgen Älvestam]

(open)

A brilliant creation had fallen under the eyes of Vorphalack Seiszer during the years he had already spent in the country of Corone, it was the famous citadel. A building supplying a multitude of magical battlegrounds feeding from the imagination of whoever set foot upon it, sown and held together by the very energy that moved the universe – knowledge - or so he believed. The Citadel's battlegrounds were sources of pure Mind Magic, Illusionary Magic, Mesmer Powers, however one may call it - it was one of Vorphalacks primary purposes in life, the very research of that said power.

The time had once again come to lay himself in its comforting embrace, yet today it was not for the sake of research but far more the entertaining component of it all. Quietly Vorphalack sat within a darkened arena, upon a chair of brand new leather with the warm color of orange-brown. His leather trench coat flowed gently over the round curves of the chair, his fingers tapping alternatively an un-played rhythm on the armrests, his head lowered in a way that shadows enveloped most of his devious face. Opposite of him was another chair of the same fabric, empty. The floor beneath was of black marble, finely polished, glinting here and there within the unusual lighting to which we will now come.

The arena seemed to have no distinct boundaries, more or less they were unseen, and of course there was an idea behind this all – the arena was created to actively feed from one’s mind…what this meant was clear to the mercurial man already situated amid, but would it be of quick, slow, or no knowledge at all to his adversary to come?
Somewhere in random distances around the arena projections flickered greenly in the dimensions of squares, framed and thwarted by steel constructions hovering as well in mid air. These forms of sorts determined vaguely that the arena ground was to originally be seen as a circle. In the dark skies above flashes of a soft green illuminated the venue below. What would certainly throw one or the other contestant off at first, concerning this facet, would be the pure white light illuminating either of the chairs centered on the floor of this area. It threw shadows as if coming from atop, yet in that very direction there was no source whatsoever.

Everything about this arena was completely unnatural; the sparseness of objects that stood within it, the untouched and sterile status of everything within, a light seemingly coming from something as odd as another dimension, and the shapes, constructions, and forms of those never seen in any city, let alone any continent of Althanas. Though one would feel humble with these forms, one would certainly not think to build like this. They seemed like a step future architects of this world may take in centuries to come.

Abruptly the illusionist stopped rapping his fingers unto the armrests and reached into the right pocket of his trench coat, retracting from it a pair of thin leather gloves. With slick movements, dodging the usual trickiness of slipping ones fingers into a glove, Vorphalack slid his hands into their adornment concealing attire. Without further action he rested his arms at the chairs side once more and began anew with the tune he had drummed afore. His long and currently unbound hair lay smoothly upon his shoulders and chest, reacting not to the artificial breeze sweeping across the illusionary arena. It was as quickly as the gust came that it vanished into thin air once more, leaving everything as it was before – so impeccably sterile that it almost seemed dead.

It was up to whomever it may concern that enters this arena, to prepare for a battle surpassing the brute and relentless exchange of swings, thwacks, punches, and stabs or jabs. This bout was to be carried out upon a higher scale…

[Molotov]

“So, you bloody entered yourself in the Cell,” Molotov thought to himself. “You spend a sodded year in Shanleh doing bloody nothing but training, and now the only thing you’re going to do with it is enter in the Cell? Can’t you think of anything better?”

The mutant had to laugh at the irony of his thoughts. He had been away from most of the politics of Althanas for quite some time, and a great deal had changed in the interim. Raiaera had been liberated from the undead, General Damon Kaosi had died and some new heroes had been found as a result of the Serenti Invitational. All that while, Molotov had been laying low, for fear that the Forgotten Ones and Ashiakin might be coming after him.

As much as he hated to admit it, the Cell was an important aspect of his return. He had returned from Shanleh because he was tired of living in shadows, there would be no better way to make his presence known to both enemies and allies alike than in the pressure packed atmosphere of the Cell. Molotov knew he could handle it, if there was one thing in which he was well trained, it was dealing with brutality. Emerging through the finals of the Gisela open was enough to ensure that.

Now, coming to the Citadel was going to be an effective tune up before his big battle. It had been over a year since Molotov last remembered being in a fight with a genuine opponent, one who was capable of doing as much damage to him as he could do in return. Plus, more pointless as Citadel matches could be, the mutant had to admit that a battle was a more productive way of spending his time than milling around the Radasanth bars.

Thus, Molotov now took a deep breath and entered into the first Citadel room that had caught his attention. It had been his recollection that there were often one or two rooms that were designated for “experimental battles.” Molotov had never participated in one, but he’d heard about them before. Instead of the usual challenges of brawn that always attracted a large crowd, these were a chance for the Citadel monks to test out their newest designs in a lower pressured setting. Participating always ensured something unique, but it was rare that there would be many spectators outside of the monks.

Molotov was fine with being an unknown, and at the moment, he actually preferred it. Given what an impact he hoped to make on the field at the Cell, keeping his notoriety down would have been preferable. With unique piercings and a bright mohawk, he would undoubtedly be identified by all the rabid fans of the Cell once the tournament started. He needed no more hype than that. Anything more would just be ostentatious.

As the mutant entered the room, he found he was the second person there. It was a certainly interesting setting, his opponent was seated and there was an empty chair for him. Every last color in the room seemed just the slightest bit off, and the entire arena seemed to be full of exploding mists of bright pastel colors.

“Like a bloody painting by a pretentious sod in art school,” the mutant thought snidely as he took his seat. He offered off a slight smile to his ‘opponent’ and introduced himself tersely, merely stating his name and politely offering his opponent a cigarette.

“Know what the rules of this particular little game are?” the mutant said as he cupped his hands over his lighter and then took a deep drag. “I’d bloody like to get this started soon.”

[Jörgen Älvestam]

At the introductory words of his newly arrived counterpart Vorphalack Seiszer ceased his fingers’ drumming. With a slight smirk at his obverses manner to speak, the leather coated man began to focus his own on the eyes of the man calling himself Molotov. The creation before him posed somewhat decadent, at first, yet Vorphalack knew all too well not to judge a book by its cover so to speak. Then, with more than enough time to prepare, Seiszer’s words began to invade the anomalous one’s mind…

“What could one possibly say…”, the telepathy began, “…to someone who ignores his way, who’s never been touched by grace. How could one eventually express, all that tension, all the stress, that can’t be read on his face.”

The leather clad man then retracted his connection, focusing on what was around him. He knew there was more thought to this man, he was requesting for him to show it. Yet how the opposing mutant creature would evaluate the source of the words that echoed in his head was another story. Suddenly the square projections hanging in midair, encircling the arena, began to flicker. With sudden flashes of light words appeared upon them in the color of white, just as Vorphalack began to speak.

“Why so rushed, is there something better you have to do?” Vorphalack started, a clear, edgy accent carrying his words, “Like drinking at a bar and talking about the unimpressive things in life with a greasy host, whose only job at night it is to keep his bar clean and listen to the humdrum and banausic stories of drunkards, or the fine philosophy of how beautiful that barmaid to your left is and how wonderful it would be to exercise the horizontal with her?”

Vorphalack brushed his goatee before offering a solution, “If so then leave, where the door is situated I believe you remember…or not? Where has it gone? It is seemingly not there where it has been…oh the peril…”

On and on the words he spoke began flashing up on the projections around them, illuminated their framing steel constructions in the go. Again Seiszer gazed from his concealing shadows into the eyes of his adverse, establishing a connection on an unseen plane.

“The rules are simple. Overcome your superficial ways of thinking.”

This time nothing appeared on the floating squares which they were amidst of, only the usual unruly flickering of the projection continued undisturbed. Vorphalack now focused on the arena once more, on the very substance it was of. In silence concealed a pitch black staff, about the length of six feet, materialized beside his foot, this was not a power of his own – ‘less one would count the mind’s imaginative power. How his mutant obverse would percept this maneuver was a riddle, V. Seiszer would see soon enough though if it had even been noticed amid all these shadows.
To cast aside any wrong thoughts, it was not Vorphalack’s intention to indulge in an exchange of hits just yet. His true goal was to make his opponent lay his body of thought on the table. V. Seiszer longed for a conversation beyond the tiresomely mundane.



[OOC: Vorphalack’s accent can be imagined as that of a (german)-Swiss or Russian, sharp and edgy, and his voice rough and gravely.]

[Molotov]

Molotov already could tell this would be one of the monk’s less successful experiences. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “There are just two of us in here, is there really all this need for telepathy and that rot? Yes, I’m sure it makes you feel like you’re dark and mysterious and all the wannabe vampire sods that run around the dark alleys of Corone are impressed. However, I’m not one of them.”

The mutant exhaled a long stream of cigarette smoke. Admitedly, he was a bit uneasy about this battle, but his opponent seemed to really annoy him. Immediately, all the bright pastel mists began to darken around him, and Molotov fidgeted a bit uneasily in his chair. He had wanted this battle to be a quick tune up, a chance for him to brush up his skills of battle psychology and timing. He had absolutely no intention of trying to bear his souls. “The bloody monks in Shanleh tried to do that enough,” Molotov thought.

However, the mutant knew now there was no way out of the battle but through. He was better than the average person who spent their time in bars and chased after women, but his appearance would largely be deceiving in that regard. Most of his time since returning from Shanleh was spent in taverns like the Ruby Soho, where he did little more than drink, discuss politics and eventually find a buxom woman to spend the night with. He had told himself that he would wait until after the Cell, when his name was reestablished among the important players of Althanas.

“Anyways,” he sighed. “What is it you want to know. I grew up poor, in a bloody little town in a bloody industrial town in Alamarter. I went to Jamison Academy on scholarship, got expelled, killed a whole bunch of wankers, should have won the Gisela, have been chased by some bloody demons from the time of the tap and now I’ve ended up here…” Molotov took another quick drag of the cigarette before continuing. “So,” he added. “You could see why I am less than impressed by an event like this.”

If there was anything that Molotov hated, it was people with pretentions. During his days in Jamison Academy, the mutant had heard student after student, teacher after teacher discuss the problems of rural poverty in Corone and their incredibly simplistic solutions by with which they could be fixed. Most irritating of all was the people who said the problem was little more than a bit of application, that the poor would have uplifted themselves if they’d only possessed the drive. It was all a bunch of rot, politics exchanged among people so tired by their mundane existences that they tried to pretend like their lives were something higher. “Like if you took away their riches those sods wouldn’t be digging through the mud just like the rest of us,” the mutant thought. “They come up with stories to try and pretend that their lives aren’t so different, so that they can make themselves believe they’re living on some higher plane.”

Molotov chuckled. “I would love to overcome my superficial ways of thinking, or whatever fuck term you called it,” the mutant said. “However, as you may have noticed, I bloody only have one mind, two hands, two legs, one mouth and one stomach. As it is, mind is too busy trying to figure out how to use my hands and legs to fill my mouth because my bloody stomach is looking for food. I’m sorry if that isn’t the kind of conversation a wanker like you has at a cocktail party with the sodded duke of Radasanth, but to me it’s the highest level I have. Survival in the world of hard knocks.”

[Jörgen Älvestam]

“What is it that makes you think I care to converse with the stupefied upper class of these countries and states. They are only puppets to a higher force. To think that they speak only one word without having been told to do so is a truly simplistic, if not idiotic, train of thought. I am also sorry to disappoint you that I’m not a prodigy of filth - as you would seemingly prefer – nor am I the twisted outcome of an aristocratic upper class education.” Vorphalack was beginning to feel the uncomforting emotion of agitation, noticing that his opponent had not the slightest intention of committing himself to a conversation beyond what he thought was obvious. “And I am truly sorry that feeding yourself already seems to exceed your mental capacities.” Seiszer continued in thought.

“Well then…let us begin, I would rather not waste my precious time with this type of useless chit chat any further, as I expect you are a busy man too…to some sort of extent.” Vorphalack muttered in a mocking tone, visibly annoyed by his opponent’s insolent behaviour.

Avoiding further hesitation the leather clad man brushed his hairs back and tied them into a knot in order to keep them out of his face in what was inevitably coming. With a quick grab to his feet Vorphalack picked up the staff that had materialized about half a minute ago. The things of leather he wore squeaked and crunched as began to elevate himself from the seat beneath his hide.

“I reckon you get up with haste…”

After having risen to his feet the chair he had sat upon began to emit black smoke, before vanishing into a cloud of smoke with a loud blast. The definite same was happening to the chair which the man named Molotov had planted his rear on, yet if he had stood up in time was uncertain, nor was it of any concern to Vorphalack. The evidently vexed man made about ten steps in the opposite direction of his opponent’s position before turning around. He couldn’t see the Mohawk-styled man amidst the smoke that was only slowly clearing, yet Vorphalack knew he was this general direction.
Uncertain when his counterpart’s first strike would occur, Vorphalack’s gloved hands tightened themselves around what was a piece of this arena in form of a staff. His left hand reached to the mid section of the staff, backhand facing downwards – his right hand cradled the bottom section of the pole, backhand facing away from his body.

The external agent was not impressed by whom he faced. He even felt insulted by the words that ensured his opponents opinion on him, who seemed to think that there was not more to him than being born with a silver spoon in hand, which wasn’t even the whole truth. Who seemed to think that the history of himself was even the slightest bit of interesting information to Vorphalack Seiszer, it was more than an insult to the illusionist.
He could have cared less about the juvenile days of the man who he faced; it was the very body of thought which he wished to decipher. A being develops on its own, there are far more things to ones thoughts than their history. It plays a definite role within the composition of one’s personality, but does not make up the whole. Vorphalack wished to investigate the very notion of a being – and why it was the way it is – with a counterpart tarred by at least a similar psychological brush. Not the scammed politics or pseudo intellectual philosophies of these countries’ leaders – who were the very puppets of something he was part of not to mention.

Whatever and wherever his opponent was, he was certainly not on the illusionist’s good side. Nonetheless Vorphalack was prepared for just about anything.

[Molotov]

Molotov was about to snort and offer a sarcastic remark about how it seemed unlikely that a self righteous man could ever be brought to a more deserving place when his chair began to shake. The mutant got up, and he’d noticed that his opponent had done the same. Unsure of what was going on, it was less than a few seconds later when his chair evaporated in a mess of smoke. Suddenly, all the bright colors that had surrounded the room before were enveloped in a hazy black fog. It was thick and dirty, and it made the air hurt to breathe. The mutant coughed and wrinkled his nose. The stench of this foul mess was nauseating.

“Thank god at least for the sunglasses,” Molotov thought. They kept his eyes from watering up because of the noxious smoke. The dark tinting made vision difficult, but even if the mutant had removed the glasses, he wouldn’t have been able to see anyways.

He exhaled deeply but was cautious to move quietly. Molotov was getting the impression that he was nothing more than a puppet in the game of his opponent. First, he had been asked to sit and share his life philosophy. Then, upon putting his opponent’s elaborate pretensions in their proper place, the entire room had exploded in a mess of smoke. Now, Molotov made his way back towards the exit, not because he wanted to escape, but because he figured that the most breathable air had to be closest to the wall.

“Or near the ground, he realized as he had backed away. Immediately, the mutant crouched down. The thick black smoke was rising, and while the air below wasn’t particularly clear, it provided a bit more vision than the rest of the area.

There, Molotov could get a good enough glimpse of his opponent’s legs to have an approximate idea of where his opponent was. Though at first, the mutant’s plans had just been to wait for the smoke to dissipate, he knew that was something he could ill afford now. While he couldn’t be certain, the smoke was likely poisonous. Anything that smelled that foul couldn’t be good to inhale. Plus, if Molotov’s suspicions were right, and he was really caught in the playground of a petulant would-be philosopher, he would have to end the battle soon to have any kind of a chance.

“Lets throw this wanker off his game,” the mutant thought coolly. He opened his palm and released a small translucent yellow beam that was headed straight for his opponent’s knees. It cut through the smoke hazily, and Molotov didn’t doubt that releasing the beam would give his position away. Still, the mutant couldn’t resist the idea of bringing about delirium in an opponent who had just seemed so utterly smug.

[Jörgen Älvestam]

Vorphalack stood calm amid the gradually lifting haze which was the smoke, breathing slowly. Most definitely the air had a bitter and somewhat toxic aftertaste, but in this illusionary arena it was far from being truly harmful. There were two options as to how this battle could continue, as far as the ill-tempered illusionist was concerned. For one, his opponent could spring through the fog, into Vorphalack Seiszer’s general direction and wildly flail his weaponry at him – or there would be an indirect attack of some sort, most likely a magical power.

A pair of brown eyes tried to pierce through the smoke before them, trying to make out the slightest harmful thing beyond. Then suddenly they singled out a yellowish beam nearing at inevitable speed. There was certainly not much time to think now. Jumping? – impossible, the beam was aiming too high. Run? – and run towards it was.

“So be it! If you cannot think you shall feel – feeble-minded halfwit!” A possibly final insult into his opponent’s direction and it began. An obvious brute exchange of thwarting punches and jabs.

With a quick spring Vorphalack launched himself through the smoke and into the direction of the yellow beam that was aiming for him. It had given the current position of his opponent away almost too perfectly. Staff raised above his left shoulder, the beam now made contact with the antagonized pole wielder’s body. Unsure of what effects this magical beam would have on his body, Seiszer lunged himself forward. His torso already twisting rightwards, staff sinking, ready to smash unto his opponent at first sight, no matter what would come he would attack at least once – and be it the last thing he would do.

The diagonal manner in which Vorphalack Seiszers staff was lashing through the blackened air would allow him to focus his attack on a wider area. This again, would give his opponent only two options, to either spring backwards a good distance in order to avoid the attack – or to parry it with a weapon of his own.

“Amongst my anger there is almost pity…” Vorphalack’s thoughts drifted in the back of his mind, subconsciously defining the resentment concerning his opponent, “…pity for this man, a victim, lost to apathy.”. Nonetheless he was just as concentrated about the battle at hand.

Would his attack hit, Vorphalack was intent on releasing an entire barrage of jabs, butts, and thwacks as long as his body would support his actions. As long as whatever magic his foe had unleashed upon him would not cause his body to give in.

[Molotov]

Molotov couldn’t have been sure if his beam had hit his new rival or not, but immediately after casting it, the mutant felt a bit regretful. “To bloody think I wasted my best chance like that not on a sure thing,” he mumbled. He realized that his opponent had got into his head. It was something that the mutant knew should have never happened, generally it was Molotov who played the mind games so successfully. What had happened to him? Had Shanleh somehow made him soft, in purifying and strengthening his soul, had he forgotten the path that had got him to where he was? If so, was it even really a loss. He had been a murderer before, with a sense of justice that had been violated so harshly that it couldn’t reset itself.

That was not who Molotov wanted to be again, but he wondered what kind of a price he might now have to pay. He who had always been so cool, so bemused, so uncaring was beginning to realize the truth. Ideas like truth and justice stoked the soul, creating feelings and emotions that could take control of an otherwise rational being. Molotov’s earlier attack was just the simplest example of this.

“Cool down, bloody cool down,” he warned himself. Suddenly, Molotov realized he couldn’t afford to think about these trite philosophies any more. Emotional or not, his opponent’s footsteps had quickened, and the man was charging right at his direction. Almost immediately, Molotov suppressed any thoughts of his doubts or ability to outthink his opponent as he concentrated only on the strategy of the upcoming attack.

However, dodging this attack would be more difficult than he had planned. He had given away his position, and if his opponent was even half as intelligent as pretentions would indicate, then the fact that he was crouched lower to the ground would be known too. Since he had already been moving backwards, Molotov’s back was almost against the wall already. Even if he had wanted to slide back, it would have been near impossible. Most importantly, while his opponent was charging, the mutant couldn’t see the swing coming at him, so he’d have little opportunity to block or dodge with a weapon of his. “Get low, you can dodge this attack and then let the bloody delirium take over that sod” he realized. It wasn’t a favorable solution, but it was probably the best. If he lay flat on his stomach and rolled forward, the mutant knew it was likely that his opponent would trip forwards.

“Maybe the wanker will even hit his head on the wall,” Molotov thought hopefully, as if he needed a little more convincing that his plan was the right course of action. With that, the mutant got down onto his stomach and began to roll forward, ready to trip up his foe.

[Jörgen Älvestam]

With the noise of shuffling emitting from the ground, the thwack of his staff into something soft, and the levering force that it provided after being blocked Vorphalack was sent flipping through the air like a pole jumper. His staff had been stalled against something moving in his direction, resulting in flinging him upwards and onwards. The illusionist’s downwards aimed swing must have landed somewhere upon his opponent, where exactly though was impossible to tell. Proof that he had landed a hit though was given by the fact that if Vorphalack would have instead smashed his pole unto the marble floor below a loud cracking noise would have sounded, unlike the dull thud that it had really made.

Whilst being launched through the air in an uncontrolled flipping manner Vorphalack knew that a wall was coming closer by the second. Instantly his mind trailed the very fabric and source of this arena once again, before finally tapping the very state of being in which the wall was. Vorphalack didn’t have the time to ponder further if and where his attack had struck his opponent, not with the thought of crashing into a wall after being catapulted through the smoke. The illusionist’s entire and only thoughts were focused on the dematerializing of that very wall and the extension of the floor behind. After all there was bleak nothingness, a literal bottomless pit between the semi-high walls and the projections that floated about the arena.

Soon enough it was clear to him that he had managed to avoid any injuries, at least to a certain extent. Vorphalack hit the floor beyond the wall becoming further translucent by the very second, tumbling, skidding, and hitting his head on the black marble floor.
After sprawling his limbs out to avoid further sliding and tumbling Vorphalack regained control of his personal situation. Immediately he sprung to his feet, rubbing his eyes with one hand before returning it to the lower section of his weapon.
The smoke had almost lifted completely revealing the vague figure of his obverse as well as the new shape of the battleground. The arena itself had for some reason lost its entire encircling wall, opening itself to be an even larger battleground, though it’s true edges which lead to the darkness beyond where hard to elucidate within its shrouding shadows. Whilst the marble floor beyond his opponent was still clearly decipherable, the shadows in which Vorphalack stood made the newly created extension beneath him seem like a plane of black matter. Possibly being an advantage.

“Crux damnit! I must give you this – if that was a planned maneuver, it was good thinking.” Vorphalack complimented in the direction of Molotov. “Now, seeing as we will engage in something so simply beautiful and intimate,” The leather clad man continued with a sarcastic tone, “…such as battle, the name is Vorphalack.”

It was the very moment that followed that it returned to his full consciousness, the yellow beam which had struck his body only moments ago. What would the effects be? He had not the slightest clue. A feeling so unnerving overcame Vorphalack that his hands began to shake. For once he had not the slightest idea of what was going to come and it visibly made him panic. The tip of his staff hovered shaking in mid air, his breathing started to become irregular, this was his opponents chance to dominate would he take advantage of the situation. Additionally the trick to solve this arena’s riddle had just been performed before the very eyes of his counterpart, if the mutant would also learn to solve this…

[Molotov]

Though the mutant had got down on the ground, it was to little avail. His opponent’s staff was long and the attack was particularly sweeping. Molotov screamed as he was hit on the left side of his flank, groaning in pain and the entire shock of the wound. Though, his plan had been an adept way at cutting his losses he still bore the brunt of his opponent’s quarterstaff. Though he hurt, the mutant knew that there was no time to waste. Despite the foul black stench that covered the room, the mutant was going to need to find his way up. Finally, he had begun to sweat a little. It lubricated his joints and joined with his adrenaline to give him the motivation to pick himself up from the first attack.

Sore, Molotov now held his side and listened for his opponent hitting the wall. In the mess of black, the mutant knew that there would be little chance for him to see the carnage, but at the very least he should be able to hear the end of his opponent’s footsteps with a sickening thud. There was nothing, his plan had failed. Now he was wounded, neither his trenchcoat nor chainmail had shielded him from the quarterstaff. Molotov’s entire left side was now sore and likely to bruise.

There were few options now for the mutant. He had to hope that his beam had hit and delirium would take over his opponent soon. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to keep up against a faster opponent. He doubted from the trajectory that it would have missed, but the delirium was still a complicated spell, one that the mutant didn’t always find as fast acting as he would have hoped.

Now on his feet, Molotov listened to his opponent’s pithy attempts to sound superior and took a few cautious steps, taking extra care to make each of them sound confident. In the dark morass of the smoke, the mutant knew the longer he could hide his injury the better it would work to his advantage. Ranged combat now suited Molotov just fine, especially because time was on his side. Not only would delirium take over his opponent, but fluids in the mutant’s body would begin to heal him.

“Better stall then,” Molotov thought. “Keep this sod guessing for a bit, then maybe I’ll be able to get my back in this again.”

Knowing that was unlikely, the mutant spit out his cigarette. It had been crushed when he’d dropped to the ground anyways, and now it was just one less thing that Molotov felt like he wanted to deal with. He gripped his tungsten rod strategically, holding it more to parry an attack than to launch an offensive of his own.

His opponent had introduced himself. Molotov smiled, that was a good sign. “Not sure what kind of a higher meaning this Vorphalak wants, but lets bloody see how long he’ll sit around to find out about it…” the mutant mused.

“Well then Vorphalak,” Molotov replied. “Why don’t we make this more again? You think this battle is meaningless, so do I. Even though you’re a ponce, I don’t really care to hit you. If you’d like a discussion on the finer points of life, I’ll oblige you if that’s really what you bloody want…”

[Jörgen Älvestam]

“Please, spare me of this sudden counterfeit interest you’re proposing. It will take greater words to flatter or fool me than those of a dilettante decei…what on…!?” His snide words were cut by a grunt of pain from his own mouth.

Suddenly Vorphalack dropped to his knees. It seemed that his shaking hands and slowly blurring vision weren’t enough, his head throbbed with pain. It felt to him as if someone was driving millions of nails into his skull one by one. He felt almost drunk, yet without the comforting and elevating effects that alcohol usually provided. The darkness around Vorphalack began to spin, twirl and flip. A nauseating feeling rushed through his abdomen, and the bilious fluids of his body began to bubble and churn in his esophagus.

The delirious man wondered if his opponent had seen in what kind of state he was currently in, miserably trying to obtain a standing posture again, slipping, shaking, and trembling. He must have, he thought, the smoke had completely cleared by now. What Vorphalack had forgotten though was that the shadows and the further darkening sunglasses of his mutant obverse would maybe cloak him in a mysteriously dark and indecipherable way. It was, even if unconscious to him, the only possible chance he had of hoping to buy some time in order to hopefully let the fever-like condition wear off. At the same time it was clear that the ache in his head would not completely vanish, given the possibility that the magic would wear off with time. The many times that Vorphalack’s head had smacked against the marble floor after being pole vaulted through the dematerialized wall, a rough estimation of twenty-six feet in distance, would certainly leave a lasting impression…

What sadly, and seemingly, neither of them knew was that they were caught in the middle of the possibly most ironic moment The Citadel had ever seen. Both combatants tried to hide from one another on a wide open field. Both hoped to stall the battle in order to regain a status in which they could carry on with the competition. Both dabbled in the uncertainty of what their rival was currently doing.

“What on earth is happening? What’s wrong with me!? It must stop!” Vorphalack muttered out from his clenched teeth, his eyes squinting in pain.

Contemporary flashes of green lightning hailing from above simply increased the agony Vorphalack Seiszer was in. Every source of light was like a needle-stab in the eye, but he couldn’t make them disappear, he couldn’t concentrate, he couldn’t focus, it was useless. Whatever had gotten into his mind was hindering him to keep a level head. The only thing he thought about was the pain, the pain that could get even worse if his opponent would take advantage of his vulnerability. It was the only thought he had between the shocks of pain that drilled through his head.

With the last strength his body managed to bring up he withdrew himself into a crouched position, his hands clasping the odd staff as firmly as possible. Would his opponent charge at him now, he would at least have a minimal chance of primary defense – if only he had known of the irony…

It was unsure if the elaborately dressed man knew exactly what he had done to Vorphalack, for he had attacked the most precious and dangerous weapon of the illusionist, namely his mind.

[Molotov]

As Vorphalack responded to the mutant, Molotov couldn’t help but feel confused. Before it had trailed off, Vorphalack’s voice had sounded so distant and far that it couldn’t have been coming from inside the arena. “He’s a bloody good arena away from me by the sound of that,” Molotov realized as he nervously gripped his rod. The mutant fidgeted on the balls of his feet, unsure of what was going on. He pulled off his sunglasses, stuck them in his trenchcoat and rubbed his eyes. He didn’t know how to explain it, but suddenly, all the smoke in the room seemed as if it was dissipating, as if somehow the arena itself was expanding.

“Is this your bloody higher purpose?” Molotov called out, showing his nervousness through the way he was fidgeting. All of a sudden, it felt like the tables had turned in the battle. Only a few seconds before, Molotov had felt in control. True, he was surrounded by a nauseating smoke, but he had felt like he’d had the advantage of time. His wounds were healing and delirium was going to overcome his foe. Now, Molotov realized that he may have been a bit premature. In this expanded darkness, it would have been easy enough for Vorphalack to wait off the effects of the delirium spell.

Molotov was surrounded by the darkness now. Any flashes of light or changes had not appeared to him through the thick black smoke, and he had no idea what was causing the change. All he knew was that his opponent seemed much more comfortable than he was. Quickly, the mutant grabbed his adze and slapped it against the marble ground. The adze head erupted in flame, providing the mutant with a bit of light.

“Come on,” he mumbled, displeased with what little vision it provided him with. “Come on… bloody hell…”

It was foolish of him to speak out loud, but the mutant knew he’d already revealed that he’d been rattled. “Not like it would have come as much of a surprise anyways,” he thought cynically. “He’s probably had this planned all along, stupid wanker. Bring me in here and then play me like he knows what he’s going to do.”

Molotov figured there was only one potential solution for him. Since he couldn’t see, very far, he couldn’t afford to move. His adze burned like a beacon, revealing his position, but the mutant had yet to see any projectile attack from his opponent that would have made him all that concerned about giving away his position. To add to that, it wouldn’t have particularly surprised the mutant had Vorphalack possessed infravision. Given the large set of ‘coincidences’ that had gone the way of his opponent, Molotov would hardly have been surprised to note another.

The mutant had to act fast now. With little other option, he created a huge ice projectile, five feet long and two feet across at its widest. It was sharp, capable of goring through the torso of Vorphalack should the mutant be so lucky. Without a clear target, Molotov sent the projectile out towards the general direction of the last sound, hoping at the very least he might rattle his foe.

[i] “If it misses, he might not even see it…” Molotov realized. “And if he does, it bloody doesn’t matter anyways. He’d have to know I’m lost in this sodding darkness anyways…”

[Jörgen Älvestam]

Fighting the sorcerous fever with all the power he could bring up, trying not to close both his eyes at once. Would he have succumbed to the craving of shutting his mahogany eyes, a rather misfortunate unconsciousness would have likely taken over. He could barely make out his own hands due to the blurred vision he was currently cursed with. A cracking noise emitted from the direction of the nebulous smoke, jabbing at his ears like a knife causing him to flinch in pain. Now he could vaguely distinguish a warm light amid the lifting smoke though. It revealed an imprecise silhouette of the Mohawk wearing man.

Following, though, the laws of what was earthen, the man could not see beyond the light in order to spot Vorphalack simply because his eyes would most likely not allow him to focus on the distant dark beyond the radiant. Those though were not the thoughts of the panicking pole wielder, although it was now clear to him that his opponent knew not of his precise position. Then again he had not shifted his position after shouting about with a more than hinting volume. He wondered, had it given him away? Once more, added to the pain he tried to suppress, panic clutched his mind tighter than before.

”This is depressing…” Vorphalack muttered in a melancholic tone, trying to re-align the turmoil in his head. He couldn’t even manage to keep his staff still as it wavered and twitched in the air. His head constantly tilted off to one side or the other, causing him to reach from his staff to the floor for balance.

Finally the blurring effect began to wear off, only slowly at that, whilst his brain still throbbed relentlessly. He could feel every heartbeat in the core of his head ever so accurately as his feverish blood thrust its way through the vessels about his proverbial wit. With clenched teeth and lowered eyelids Vorphalack shifted his gaze once more upon the radiating fire in the distance. For some strange reason it was beginning to fall victim to some sort of eclipse. A circle blanketed the fire in darkness, a silver lining at its edges.

The discombobulated illusionist wondered, “What on earth is this…has he solved the riddle?”

Imminently following the eclipse was a booming thunder and lightning strike. The thing that had blocked his vision of the fire had been revealed. Vorphalack’s eyes shot wide open in both astonishment and fear. Soaring directly at his face was a gigantic icicle, obviously another power of his obverse. Posing a direct target was alone his own fault though, he hadn’t moved and his opponent had already proven to be an extraordinary gifted guesser. With not much time to thing Vorphalack pushed the tip of his staff left, hoping to deflect the icicle.

In vain. All that sounded was a slight crackling of the icy projectile against what seemed to be marble. Vorphalack had only managed to force his own body to the right by pushing at his foes enchanted missile. The tip of the icicle rushed into Vorphalacks cheek and tore a chunk of it from his face in mid-flight. He was not to be redeemed from his punishment just yet though, as the thicker blunt end of the cone shaped icicle smashed unto his left shoulder.

His hands failed him and his weaponry was sent flying into the indifferent darkness to his every side. The back of his head thumped unto the marble floor, muffled only slightly by the knot he had tied his hair into. Vorphalack groaned with pain as he reached to his left shoulder. With the preoccupying pain in his head he couldn’t tell if his shoulder had simply been bruised, dislocated or broken. In his current state he was unsure if he could recover from the attack. With all the distraction he could neither more control the arena. The irony had ended; the uncertainty of a textbook pitfall began. No longer was he superior…no longer was he in charge, the weight had tipped.

[Molotov]

While Molotov couldn’t tell much about the fate of his icicle, he took it as a good sign that Vorphalack hadn’t said anything snide in response to the projectile. “The sod is too bloody condescending not to say anything…” the mutant thought. “If he hadn’t been hit by that, I’ll tell you he would have figured something stupid, bloody wanker.” He exhaled deeply, knowing he was going to have to make an important guess. He could move forwards only to find that he had finished off his opponent, or move forward to walk into an enemy’s trap. Molotov knew it was bound to be one of the two extremes. As long as he had his adze burning, the mutant would not be able to hide his presence.

“And I bloody might as well,” Molotov thought to himself as he moved forwards. He was a bit unnerved, but he knew that this battle was going to have to end certain or later. There would be no way that he could be certain to quell his uncertainty, and Molotov knew that the longer he waited, the more tricks his opponent could pull in this seemingly malleable arena.

The mutant walked out over twenty feet before he got a glimpse of his opponent. The adze provided enough light that Molotov could see about five feet in front of him, and now he studied his opponent, pleased to notice how his opponent had been wounded. Suddenly, Molotov’s entire perception of the battle changed. His stern face seemed to melt, and as he looked on at Vorphalack, he remembered some of the things he had been told in Shanleh.

The farther people build themselves up, the more they were afraid of falling down,” the mutant remembered. Though he couldn’t be certain as to the extent of his opponent’s injuries yet, Molotov couldn’t help but feel a bit sympathetic. Now, Molotov saw the way that this very room was not a trap of Vorphalack’s, but a metaphor for the man’s desires. The way that the room had changed from a closed dark area to an expanding room of the unknown seemed to represent Vorphalack’s conceptions of the human mind.

“Tell you what…” Molotov said sympathetically. “I’ll tell you bloody what you want. We all live lives in a tough world. Everything we do puts us in trouble because there’s a sodded cost to everything we do. We pay for our actions, or try to make someone else. Ultimately, we always pay. That’s why we bloody get up every morning, and all that really matters is living, feeding yourself and if you’re that bloody lucky, then a bit of love. Is that what you need?”

The mutant figured that would be enough to satisfy Vorphalack. Molotov had already got what he’d wanted. He’d tuned his senses for the cell, and perhaps even taught a stranger a lesson. The latter was unlikely, Molotov was quite cynical about the capacity of the average human to change, but it would have been a worthy accomplishment if he’d managed to do it.

As far as Vorphalack stayed on the ground and yielded, the battle would be over. Smoke was beginning to congeal in the centre of the room, returning the two chairs to their initial position. It seemed at the very least, things were taking a change for the better.

[Jörgen Älvestam]

“Far from it…” Vorphalack cackled, “You were walking down the right road, then took a wrong turn alas.” His words flashed up upon the projections that surrounded him once again, illuminating the arena with bright flashes of white light now and then. Reflecting from the shiny new leather on the once again materialized chairs, a sign that his opponent had seemingly found a key to this arena?

It impressed the external agent that the mutant had come so close to perceive what drove Vorphalack. There were not many of the “common” continents to think about the truly important things. Molotov had made a mistake by revealing his eyes to the illusionist, who was not yet ready to give in to his injuries. Adrenaline began to race through the veins of the hurt anatomy of Vorphalack Seiszer. From a squinted pair of eyes the illusionist gazed into those of his opponent and began. The battle could have been so eventless and short for him that he would have rather killed himself than face such a defeat. Grateful for having outlasted the feverish condition he had suffered, Vorphalack initiated the manipulation of his foes mind. Only few seconds and the opponent would suffer the illusion of his greatest fear.

“I surely want to tell you, that what you say is of course correct…”

Strenuously the battered body of the leather coated man propped itself up, a face devoid of any expression. It seemed he still had trouble with the aftereffect of the severe traumata’s done to his head.

“ – and truly beyond the superficial.”

With greater effort and the boosting sensation of adrenaline Vorphalack had managed to clamber into a kneeling position, blood from the wound in his cheek running down his face and sifting into his clothing.

“Yet, there is still more to the entirety and results of our actions. Something so uncertain and mystic even I cannot explain its whole. The main question is though, why do we pay for these actions, what makes us choose to execute them, and who do we – if I may use your wording – ultimately pay to?”

Slowly Vorphalack began to erect his posture again, visibly having trouble as his left arm did not support him the way he hoped it would.

“I know that each individual creature cherishes its own beliefs. Some, as I believe, with more merit than others. Some, as I dare to think, with more truth than others. Anyhow…”

The time his explanations had bought him should have given him enough time to commence with the sorcery, he furthermore doubted that his opponent would unmask what was coming, then again the mutant had already proven himself a competent guesser. Vorphalack began to feel gratified that he had encountered an opponent of such caliber. Surely this battle was far from displaying superior combat action, but it did finally begin to play upon a higher scale. His opponent had confirmed himself a strong cognizance, pleasantly astounding the jaundiced illusionist.

Though amongst all this newly gained confidence, Vorphalack had forgotten about something that played a greater role in this battle. The fact that he couldn’t be sure as to how long the adrenaline would support his wounded body played a decisive role. If it would dissipate too soon, it would be sealed that he would go down without much a fight. Thus the leather clad man was portraying an almost too assured being, though that couldn’t really be of much disadvantage.

[Molotov]

“We pay to that which gives,” Molotov replied succinctly. He didn’t particularly think much about his answer, and that was primarily because he didn’t care. The only reason he really answered was to keep Vorphalack occupied. The room was being transformed again, and the mutant slipped his sunglasses back on to avoid the bright lights that were all around him. “Everything comes with a cost, like I said, to the environment, to our country, to the people we love… smack your love around and she leaves you, kill a man then his brother will find you, smoke a fag and you end up with heavy lungs… is it really that hard to figure out for you?”

The mutant had rejected any idea of a higher being a long time ago. His mother had prayed, and if the letters were true, she had prayed that much harder when she had been sick. Anyways, it had made little difference, she had died, much like anyone else who hadn’t wasted their time praying. Molotov had learned a lot from that moment, that if there ever was anyone above, they worked in ways so mysterious that they couldn’t be counted on. Either that, or they were rich men’s gods.

Now, Molotov was just getting frustrated. The mutant had come to the Citadel to hone his skills, not to discuss “higher meanings” or anything else like that. It meant very little to him that his opponent was conjuring flashing white lights or restoring the leather chairs to their initial position, other than it was a strong indication that Vorphalack intended to keep him there much longer.

“I don’t believe in anything beyond what we have here,” Molotov continued as he backed away. “And you know right now that I could bloody kill you where you stand. Yet, you still want to sit around, making chairs and discussing philosophy. I’ll tell you what, bugger, there is something bloody wrong with you! I don’t know what kind of sodding logic you’re following, but you’re hurt, lets end this and I’ll buy you a pint at a bar or whatever. Then we can talk about the meaning of life, whatever bird broke your heart and turned you into a sniveling philosopher… whatever fuck thing you want…”

After that, the mutant conjured up a second ice spike. Molotov kept it hovering in front of his body, as if he was trying to weigh his decisions. He could take a strike at Vorphalack, but he really didn’t care to hurt the man. Any sense of magnanimity was lost once Vorphalack had failed to surrender, but Molotov still wanted the fight to end without more violence than would have been necessary. The mutant still held his flaming adze, and by now his healing abilities had allowed him to overcome most of the effects of the earlier attack.

“If I wasn’t bloody stuck in this man’s sodding maze then I would certainly be controlling this fight,” Molotov realized. It was hot there, and now that the smoke had all but cleared, the mutant felt the urge to clean his grimy face. Doubting an attack from Vorphalack, Molotov sought to bide his time while he awaited an answer. Thus he pulled off his sunglasses and wiped a bit of sweat off his brow with the back of his sleeve.

That done, Molotov sighed once again and addressed Vorphalack. “Can you bloody just tell me what you want though?” the mutant asked, looking straight into the eyes of his enigmatic foe so as to get some kind of insight into what drove the man.

At the moment, Molotov felt like he was going insane. He had never imagined such a non threatening opponent being so incredibly frustrating.

[Jörgen Älvestam]

Vorphalack could see that his opponent was unnerved, this was the perfect opportunity. Standing fully erect now again, the caliginous illusionist gazed his opponent directly in they eyes. One second, Vorphalack could feel his heart beat and his mind work. Two seconds, the throbbing of his head became a lesser distraction. Three seconds, a depiction of his foes greatest fear shot from Vorphalack’s mind into that of Molotov. All this had happened on an unseen plane, there would be no witnessing of what was happening by anyone. Not long and Molotov would be perceived as a lunatic of the worst sort, a hallucinating freak making a fool of himself, or so the leather clad agent hoped.

At the soonest proof of the phantasm’s panic ensuing presence, in what he now considered a victim more than an opponent, Vorphalack would lunge himself forward. Then again his attack would need to be timed correctly, as Molotov would most likely be flailing his weaponry around violently. Getting struck by a swing of the weapons the mutant wielded in his current condition, Vorphalack would probably be forced to face the bitter end of that very bout.

“Oh please, you talk as if you think I believe in a higher entity. A giver and taker at once. A father, or mother, figure thought to comfort those weak of mind.” Vorphalack chatted in a sharp tone, blood sifting from his wound, “No, you have gotten me all wrong. I speak not of a feeble, blind, old fool suffering from elderly dementia. My words enunciate the description of the force beyond that. I speak of the power that binds the very universe together. This power is…is something that need not necessarily be of spectral or divinity for that matter. I speak of the driving force of matter, of being, not the divine interventions of which so many believe it exist.”

Vorphalack paused, his eyes widened as a malicious grin swept across his damaged visage. Suddenly something within the usually calm and overly content illusionist broke apart and transformed him into an abnormally aggressive creature, “Anyhow, this is none! Absolutely none of your concern now, is it!?”

Or was this only the perception of his counterpart, who was most likely currently suffering the conditions of Vorphalack’s wrath. Heedless of that, Vorphalack Seiszer was ready to snap at the smallest chance to land a crack on his opponents jaw.

[Molotov]

Molotov knew seconds after he locked eyes with Vorpholack that he was in trouble. His fingers began to tingle, as if they were being touched by a thousand little pins. The mutant’s forehead felt the same way, and a splitting headache began to delude him with pain. Molotov shuddered, as a sudden sweat appeared, and then vanished within an instant. Though the entire process seemed like it took hours for Molotov, in truth it had taken less than seconds. A shiver rose down the mutant’s spine and then suddenly, right before his eyes he saw his dead mother. She stood before him, somewhere in her approximate forties. It was shortly before she had died, and now she looked at Molotov with a forlorn look on her face.

“Mike,” she said sorrowfully. “You’ve grown… but look what you’ve done!”

“Like you bloody care,” Molotov said, his fingers now balling up in fists that began to cause bleeding in his palms. “You never loved me…”

Molotov’s mother looked even more disappointed. She took a deep sigh and her eyes welled up with tears. “We sent you to the Academy because it was the best for you, when you grew up, you hated us, everything we stood for when we only tried to do right by you. We sacrificed everything so you could go to that school, your earnings at the factory, nights with us together. I lied on my deathbed waiting for you…”

“Just like Jennie did…” Molotov muttered, wondering just how much he had failed.

“Seems like no one can depend on you,” his mother replied. “Everything that happened, its your fault. No one sacrificed anything so you could become a murderer.”

Molotov looked crestfallen. His muscles suddenly loosened from their tense position in a bit of utter defeat. Molotov’s weapons fell from his hands and he began to shudder violently. “Please… mum, I’m sorry. Bloody hell… you know I didn’t mean to do it…”

“You still did it,” Molotov’s mother replied. “You are rotten to the core. I’d like to blame it on the mutation, to think it was not my fault. You can’t blame Jamison Academy, everyone else from there seems to become something famous.”

Molotov didn’t know how to reply. He had dealt with many different emotions during his time in Shanleh, but he never came to terms with the things that he could not fix. He could gain the forgiveness from the living, but never from the dead. He had thought it might not matter, if he made up for it with more of the living, but now Molotov knew that his mother would not forgive him. The mutant just shook and crumbled to his knees.

“Bloody please…” he stammered. “I tell you I’m ready to pay…”

Out of the corner of the eye, Molotov could see Vorphalack. However, the enigmatic conjurer was no longer much of a priority. Nor was the strange battlefield or anything else that had seemed so important when he’d first entered the Citadel. It all seemed so incredibly petty now.

[Jörgen Älvestam]

The man had broken, the very man of incredible power was on his knees. Vorphalack, just as he was about to pounce his mind beaten foe, withdrew his clenched fists. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t throw himself at the man who was fighting an inner war. The figure before him did not panic like the rest of the foe’s that had suffered under the conjuration of a phantasm. This man simply broke, it was his past that posed his greatest fear. Vorphalack could see what was going on inside the mutant’s mind. The illusionist had been sent to out into the world of Althanas to gather information on illusionary magic, survey althanian politics, and rid of immediate dangers to the occult agency. Killing this man would contribute to the completion of these tasks, quite frankly, not the slightest.

“This is inhumane…” The leather clad man muttered as he focused on withdrawing the spell from his obverse, “I’m not here to torture anyone.”

With a blast and a small flash of light Vorphalack staggered backwards, it was certain that the cancellation of the spell had been effective. After catching himself the illusionist clutched his head, it throbbed with immense pain, he had to endure too much. Now it was once again his turn to feel agony. Vorphalack lowered himself to his knees de novo, the full effect of his battered shoulder was now to be felt. For a large part the profuse bleeding in his face has stopped, nonetheless a few select veins still sprinkled blood from his cheek.

“I hope you do accept an apology, but I have noticed that physically and without a feeble trick to drive you to your knees I would currently not stand much of a chance against you. To win simply through trickery are not my intentions, besides I was seeking something else than the brute comparison of brawns, which I would undoubtedly lose to you. I herewith resign from this combat…” Vorphalack continued with a chuckle, “I hope the offer with the drink is still up, but I would prefer to pay…it would be the only just way of ridding me of the debt I owe you – a good time.”

Vorphalack grinned at the thought of how the mutant had wanted to lecture him throughout the battle, “Well…you know, there is one wisdom I will carry from this battle. I need learn the ways of the Iron Mind, not a nice thing if your own medicine…is used against you.”

With these offers of truce, the mercurial man hoped for the best. It was no further in his intention to continue this battle, surely not with his current wounds. Despite that it had all been one sided towards the end, Vorphalack felt that he had achieved some sort of knew knowledge about himself.

[Molotov]

The terror faded away from Molotov’s eyes, leaving him covered in sweat and physically tired. His hands felt weak just from being held so tightly, and his entire body felt like it was too big for his soul. He was cold and weak, and his hands fidgeted clumsily as he stuck a cigarette in his mouth. “I’ve bloody made some mistakes…” he muttered out loud. “But I think I understand this force you’re talking about.”

Molotov exhaled deeply. The higher force was merely an interaction among people, the tragedy and wonder of their interaction with each other and the constructs they created. Justice, government, rage and mistrust were all of their creations. The mutant didn’t explain that at the moment. He was too tired to muster words that were that complicated. In fact, Molotov may have not even realized his new realization, because of all the grief that had washed over his body.

He shuddered a bit. “I would like to go with you…” he said, in part because he felt like he just needed company at the moment. One of the problems from being gone from Althanas proper for a while meant that he lacked many friends now. Company seemed like it would be necessary.

It had been a great ordeal for the mutant, and now that it was over, Molotov felt like he deserved a drink. A long stream of smoke blew out from his nose, and eventually, after what seemed like a lifetime of just trying to regain composure, the mutant gathered up his weapons and prepared to leave.

“Bloody hell…” he thought to himself as he left the room. “I’m going to ask next time I get into one of these sodded fights… this one is too bloody complicated for me…”

It had been a different experience to fight a battle that had involved so little violence. Perhaps someone like Vorphalack would have thought it to be something higher and more meaningful, but the mutant was apathetic to these great things. The truth was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

Ultimately, it had been a bit frustrating, but Molotov had emerged from it alright. However, had the mutant been looking into a mirror, he would have noticed a subtle orange tint that was brimming underneath his icy blue eyes. Some things that he thought he had eliminated may have only been lying dormant.

[Storm Veritas]

JUDGMENT

Wow, what a horrible job it is to detail this battle and decide a winner. Both of you were very, very good, although neither of you had terrific consistency. I was pleasantly surprised by the Vorphalack character; it’s always great to see some new blood writing at the top level. That said, there were points where neither of you were at the top of your game. THIS JUDGMENT IS VERY, VERY CRITICAL. Much moreso than a typical thread would be, I made this extra critical because (A) You two are both fantastic writers, and (B) I’m in a really shitty mood that has nothing to do with either of you, but you’re gonna suffer a bit nonetheless.

Jorgen’s Character

Introduction - 8 – A great starter for a very well written thread.
Setting - 7 - It was good work to see your manipulation of the setting, which was very difficult given its barren nature.
Character - 6 - I thought Vorphalack was a little flat – purely intellectual with very little depth, which was a bit disappointing. A little too haughty – it was good to see him break down at the end and go for a drink, but by then seemed out of character.
Dialogue - 7- Your dialogue comes across as a bit pompous, perfect for your character, and has a great feel, but you have to be EXTREMELY careful with punctuation, grammar and spelling when you use massive words to describe what’s going on. Every error is further magnified when you assume intelligence in character.
Writing Style - 6- I love the writing style, although you made several grammatical mistakes that hurt your writing style score. Confusing adjectives and adverbs, some verb conjugation issues… we all need to work on our editing, and you’re no exception, although it appears there was some real effort in this fight.
Strategy - 5 -Your strategy wasn’t poor, but very convoluted and hard to follow. What was the motivation?
Rising Action - 7 -The rising action was well documented with the darkness – a killer element to tie in the reader.
Climax - 6 -The climax was a small disappointment. It seemed like your character can’t really be hurt, yet considers himself very frail. Where is the follow up to the pain of having an icicle dice your face and knock the stuffing out of you?
Conclusion - 8 – Great care was obviously taken for the conclusion, but the message sent was a bit heavy handed. Subtlety could deliver it more effectively. Less is more.
Wild Card - 7

Total Score - 67

Molotov

Introduction - 7 – Very solid, well written, and you suffer only by comparison here. Jorgen’s intro was his best, your intro was mid-road by your standard.
Setting - 7- You didn’t have a lot to work with, and you did it very well, but perhaps more discussion about why Molotov kept the shades on, or why he wasn’t afraid to give up his position would help.
Character - 5 – I normally adore the Molotov character, but I think I’ve been spoiled by the “Paper” threads. Here, he is blue collar rooted but not predictable, and I was stunned to see how quickly he forgave his opponent for conjuring images of his dead mother. Seriously? What? Molotov wouldn’t slap the shit out of someone for that, but rather buy them a beer? Did I miss something?
Dialogue - 7- Good, but I think you are beginning to rely a bit too heavily on the words “bloody” and “sod”. British accent I get, and I love that feel the words give your dialogue, but it’s just a little too much here.
Writing Style - 6- I’m being VERY harsh here, since I’ve publicly stated that I think that you’re the best writer on Althanas on multiple occasions. But on a “Shyam scale”, this isn’t close to the best I’ve seen. There were a bunch of errors that we all make – things like a period where there should be a question mark, several agreement issues, things I never remember seeing from you.
Strategy - 8 – I dug your strategy a lot. You had very limited means to suspend your character, and kept him relatively active and physical and straightforward where you could. That decision at the end already cost you points (and will cost you more), so I won’t tack you on this one.
Rising Action - 7 - Good. Similar to your enemy, you used the darkness to create suspense very easily.
Climax - 5 – Molotov went from savage to friendly very quickly. It was exciting, but confusing at the same time. You had the opportunity to finish him, but didn’t want to see him suffer. OK, but in your last post you launched a massive icicle that could easily have killed him, were you lucky. Also, I can’t believe you wouldn’t hear the sound of a guy’s face getting ripped open, him getting smashed with a massive icicle, and him crashing to the ground.
Conclusion - 5- See above. I was completely stunned that you let the final illusion slide. There may be more to Molotov than what I’m aware of, something that would explain why he didn’t go crazy here. If that’s the case, you should allude to it a bit more clearly. Then again, I could be just off with my assessment.
Wild Card - 7

Total Score - 64

Judgment goes to Jorgen! (I can’t be bothered to type out those umlauts). This really WAS a very fun thread to read, and was by and large masterfully written. My hypercritical judgment is more to explain why this isn’t close to JC caliber, because both of your had a storyline and several plot elements that really got me thinking early on in the read that I could be reading a masterpiece. Still very good, not quite a masterpiece. Plus I’m a bit of a dick, which hurts your scores.

Jorgen gets 1780 EXP.
Molotov gets 650 EXP.

Both also get 150 GP and some lovely parting gifts.