View Full Version : We're just gettin' warmed up!
(Closed to Modrue)
Jon Walter's blood was boiling.
In clothes that were crusted with many colorful stains, he had marched across Corone to the Citadel. In the afternoon sun the tower gleamed a brilliant white, and was visible even through the thicket of trees that Jon had passed through to get there. His footsteps stretched toward the horizon, and he made certain that each step was etched in the ground. His seething heart made every action deliberate, every movement intense.
When Jon reached the first cavernous chamber of the Citadel, he was quickly greeted by several attendant monks, each of a different shape and size. Their leader, a tall man with silver hair peeking from beneath his brown hood, quickly extended greetings on behalf of the order, while Jon leveled an unwavering look at them. Most people would take in the vast architecture of the building when they visited for the first time, but this man's heart was set on one thing alone. "This is th'place where I c'n fight s'much s'I want, huh?" Jon asked.
"Certainly, sir! But tell me... would you like to clean up a bit while we make arrangements?" the monk asked, motioning in the visitors general direction. Jon's clothes were certainly gross, but his body seemed worse off. Scratches, bruises, cuts and day-old wounds seemed to make up the man's face more than did his eyes or nose. Jon brushed his countenance for a moment, scowling.
"No. Wanna fight soon s'I can. Don't care who, just show me where t'go." Jon spoke quickly, and he approached the monks while talking.
The leader seemed to understand Jon's need; he and the other monks led the man directly to the entrance of a room.
"What environment would you like your battle to take place in?" the lead monk asked. Jon cringed as his blood seemed to throb through every inch of his wounded body.
"Like fuck if I care! Whatever seems good!" Jon shouted, balling his fists. The leader looked at him sternly.
"This may be a place for warriors to do battle, but there is no reason to lose your temper outside the arena. We will fix the room up for you, and then you will wait until we send an opponent in for you. Understand?" the monk explained.
Jon nodded furiously as the monks brought their hands to the door. The white stone slab glimmered with blue light before slowly swinging open. The entrance was lit from the inside, and the monks ushered Walter into the randomly-generated arena. All that was left now was to wait.
Jon Walter's blood was boiling. He didn't know how long it would be until someone was sent in.
"But it better be fucking soon..."
((I leave the choice of arena environment up to you, Modrue!))
The Citadel.
It was the most amazing piece of architecture that any of humanity could take pride in. It was impossible to destroy and impossible to recreate. To the eyes of Radasanth, and very well the eyes of the world, the Citadel was the center of humanity. It was the most important piece of Corone. It stood before the demons overran all of Althanas, it was there when Teria was destroyed, and stood as the center of the town when the humans once again took over the massive island.
In the eyes of the world it was a monument to success, in the eyes of the demon’s it was a bane.
Modrue was little different in his view of the Citadel, though he was far different then the demon’s of Haidia. He was a botched experiment, a failed test, an abomination of the demon race. The demon was a wielder of the shadows. He harnessed the gift and favor of his goddess. Where other demon’s sought to eliminate the race of humanity, Modrue sought to harness it. True, the Citadel was a bane, but it was also a place of opportunity.
The shadows of the Citadel reached out to the mock elf. They were whispering soft murmurs of distraction, sweat nothings of comfort. With every step through the corner’s shadows a cool serenity washed over the demon. Around him strange looks and angry grimaces followed Modrue, but he was used to it. Shrugging them off the demon pushed against the first door that he was pulled towards.
“Umm… Sir,” but that was all the monk was able to get out before the demon stepped through the heavy door, literally shifting through it like a shadow. A toothy grin emerged on Modrue’s face as he looked around. It was interesting, to say the least.
Darkness was the first thing that came to sight, darkness that brought that toothy grin to his face once again. It looked like a mine, or cave of sorts. Small lights on rusted hooks dimly lit the shadows. They were scattered through the cave, placed at intervals enough to see the next one, but not enough to truly light the fighting grounds. As Modrue turned again he saw the first aspect of the mines, a full sack of what could only be ore.
“May the Mother Shadow touch my soul,” Modrue muttered in his deep, guttural voice. “Where is my opponent?” A quite, light click of the demon’s gloves touching each other echoed ever so softly across the titanium-mythril veined walls. If the opponent did not prove up to the challenge, as the cocksure demon felt was certain, the area provided would at least be enough to keep him occupied.
The Citadel could've been a flying fortress to house the gods, and Jon would have stepped in just as quickly. He wasn't here for history lessons. For a while, all he could hear was the furious rhythm of his heart, which pumped through his feet until it felt like the entire mineshaft was pulsing with life. The cavern was barely lit and his vision was slowly adjusting to the darkness... not that Jon cared. His blood was too hot now, it burned the backs of his eyes and his ears. If he didn't find a fight soon, it would burn right through his flesh. But this Citadel was the only place it could happen without repercussion.
When he'd entered the arena, Jon had found himself next to a cart and a vein of rail tracks, all at the foot of a steep incline. There was no sign of life anywhere, so Jon started following the hanging lights away from the cart. As Jon stepped beneath one of these lights, it began to swivel in a slow circle, and there was nothing pushing it. As soon as he was out of the light, it stopped moving.
Jon's cautious walk through the dark turned into a trot. The lights never really illuminated much, and the size of the shaft seemed to change every hundred feet. Sometimes it was more confining, other times the walls disappeared from view. The man was running now, and as he moved he drew a knife completely stained a dull red. In the dimness that might be impossible to tell, but Jon knew what it looked like. His steps were loud, heavy bounds that reverberated through the cavern. Stealth wasn't his game.
"C'm'OUT!" Jon raged, willing his opponent to appear before him. And then Jon could see it - a man-shaped shadow, within a few lights of him. "Tha' damwell best be 'im!" Jon spat as he rushed the figure, driven by a fierce pounding heart. Who or what his opponent was didn't matter. There was a fire that needed quenching.
****
Bandits. Highwaymen, to be exact, but either way Jon was surrounded. His path was cut off, men on the left and men on the right Those were a lot of blades.
"Lookie boys!" It's the biggest man, directly in front, "The dirtsack here thinks he can take our route without payin' the toll! Are we going to let this slide?" Grunts and hollers respond from the peanut gallery.
"Lis'n, shithead! Ayain't got nothin you'd want!" Jon turns his pouch inside out for effect before throwing the damn thing on the ground.
"Tsk tsk tsk," goes the big guy. "That's okay. Really, it is! We know the exact amount it takes to trade in blood for gold!" He throws his hand forward, the highwaymen start moving in.
'It's not that easy to take me down,' Jon's thinking. 'Don't take me so fucking lightly!' He rips his knife from his pocket and charges the leader straight on.
The lights flickered as the shadow of man passed by them, the shadows cast danced with glee against the shimmering walls. Modrue was a man of little patience. He had cast himself into an arena not knowing what would come of the battle ahead. In truth he feared nothing, but at the same time he held a pride in himself so strong that he feared to loose. As he continued through the halls whispers of glory, pride, and prestige ran through his easily persuaded mind.
“Love,” the voice from his mind whispered. It was the woman of the shadows; the lover from the darkness that followed Modrue’s every move. His manipulation of her world, her very being, was her ecstasy and pleasure. The more the demon delved into her realm, touched her body—the shadows—the more power she allowed him, the more spells and abilities she granted him. “Use me, touch me… allow me to help you. Soon you will be strong enough, soon you will be granted the pathway to my glory. Soon my love, very soon…”
Again the pale, thin lips of the demon parted to show the sharp teeth beneath. Her whispers were comfort at all times, her promises were strength. With them Modrue knew he was truly invincible. Before he could think much more, however, the report of an approaching being came to him. His long, thin ears – the ears of the dark, mock elf – twitched with the noise.
He was human and that was all that Modrue needed to know.
Before the demon could think instincts took over. His hands turned, metal gloves swinging forward. His powerful arms were augmented by an unnaturally enhanced strength, a gift of the shadows. Even in the flickering lights, with the darkness of the dark cave, Modrue could easily see the weapon in his hands. The man spoke a broken common, and the demon smirked.
A roar of laughter - the kind that chills the marrow and bites at confidence - bounded within the tight passageway – the walls were barely two feet from the tips of his fingers if the demon stood with outstretched arms. Modrue charged towards his opponent. His clenched fist angled to allow for the knife to reflect away. His second fist ruthlessly sought the stomach of the over-zealous man. His coat flared as he sought to squeeze past the charging man and turn to prepare for a counter from the man, or one for himself.
"Too rash human," Modrue murmured as he attacked. "Far too rash for it to work so soon."
POW
Jon's arm was thrown to one side just as a fist burrowed into his stomach. This wasn't the punch of a normal man; the strength and stopping power were unreal. Jon had thrown his left arm in front of him at the last second, only half-aware of the demon's attack. The impact was dulled a little, but the wind had still been blasted out of him. And his arm felt like it was about to fall off. And suddenly Jon's opponent was behind him.
The fire was still there though. Jon was hurt, certainly, but his face was already marked. The blood was pounding against his arms and it was just waiting to be spilled. Jon only saw the enemy in flashes, everything was beginning to happen too fast for conscious thought to register. What Jon saw was a big man, a foot higher than he, and bulk to match. That was all he noticed before Jon found himself springing into action again; his blood called for it.
The target was different this time, more precise. Jon first dashed and then dove for the demon's leg. Whichever limb was closer, his plan was simple; grab a limb and bury his knife into it. And then he was high-tailing it for deeper into the mineshaft. This wasn't a fight that would end bloodlessly, Jon would see to that no matter who won. He'd use his teeth if he had to.
The demon felt pure ecstasy as he moved. At his back the walls of the cave pushed back, the jutting crags and jagged rocks tapping against the imbedded plynt plates within the coat. Before him, however, was where the true joy was coming from. The heavy, titanium glove sunk into the stomach of the human, enveloping it. A successful attack so soon in a match of the Citadel’s nature often meant victory, and the sweet taste was already on the tip of the demons tongue.
Without waiting Modrue whipped around, his empty crimson eyes searching for the devastation his blow may have caused. Finally the demon had a chance to see his opponent. He was human, as he had first noted, but he was very little. His eyes were what the demon would suppose humanity describing as ‘creepy’. They sparked his interest, seeming to be little more then empty voids. His opponent was a display of chaotic hair, tattered clothes, and wretched looks. He looked to be a vagabond at best.
A toothy smirk rose on the face of the demon as his opponent rushed again, the pathetic knife held high. He reared a fist back. His eyes remained focused. Instead the man dove. In complete surprise the demon stepped back for support, more intuition then conscious thought. The forward leg paid the price.
Growling the demon swung his back leg forward at the crouching man. Modrue’s other leg had taken a devious jab to the back of his calf. It was enough to bring forth a roaring fury, and a rash attack. Before the heavy, booted foot could meet the human he was already away. Through a cloud of dust the foot flew, but only a vein of mythril would be the recipient.
Again Modrue was forced to turn. His weighted, plynt plated coat moved just enough before falling still again. “Damned human,” the demon called after the fleeting man. He restrained from leaping into the shadows to follow. “Flee more, coward, and you will only be sinking yourself further into the darkness of my powers…”
A light ‘thunk’ marked each of the demons steps as he followed through the darkness.
Jon fled down the mineshaft, adrenaline fueling him. In fact, he was still out of breath and a dull, pulsing ache had filled his stomach. But his blood was boiling and Jon had to act. He did not want to be hit with that demon's punch again. Assbiter! Gonna pay that back! Jon thought in anger as he retraced his steps back to the rusty old minecart.
The cart was a solid box on four sturdy wheels. Filling it was a large pile of ore chunks, bits of precious metal that had been loaded into the trolley by unseen hands. To Jon, it seemed that it would take was a good push to send the cart rolling down the incline and into the dimly lit darkness below. Which is why it made no sense for a crumbling lever to be situated right beside the trolley, all markings worn by age. Jon only thought about this for a moment before hiding behind the trolley.
The scoundrel crouched low to the ground, knife in-hand. Whether he was seen or not, he'd be close enough to get in another good hit; for now, he just needed to catch his breath.
And that's when the glint of the metal inside of the trolly caught his eye. Ore like that must be pretty hard stuff, Jon began to reason with his limited wit. He took a chunk of the stuff out and felt it in his palm. It had a good, solid weight to it, if he managed to get close enough... that was the plan. Whether or not he could get in a quick knife-blow, Jon was closing in. Even a rock-to-the-face wouldn't be enough to end this fight, but at least there was a direction now. Jon's blood simmered in relentless anticipation.
Thick, slick blood was drooling from the wound in Modrue’s leg. The hole opened up in the back of his black trousers was wide, but shallow. He took utmost precautions of not showing its affect in his stride. It was not hard to keep the dull pain concealed, especially for the tank-like demon.
crrack
Under the heavy boots of the demonic being rocks popped. His crimson eyes scanned the darkness ahead of him, the shadowed halls giving him no trouble. He was in his element, he was in the darkness. Modrue’s ego was quite large and to put him in an element such as the dark cave would only serve to boost it further.
“There you are human…” The words were issued with a false smile. Sharp, devious teeth peeked out from behind his thin lips. Though the battle was slow the demon had little doubt that it would quickly begin to become interesting.
Due to the fact that Modrue’s wound was yet to heal, a full frontal attack was not possible. Instead he opted to show off. With a glint in his eye, despite the dismal scenery of the cave, the demon opened up his mind to the darkness. Around him the shadows squirmed and danced. It was a fluid dance, much different than the shadows cast by the flickering torch flames.
From the demon a tendril of the shadows, hardly discernable when held to the backdrop of the cave wall, stretched towards the human. It was sharp, vicious, meant to pull him from hiding. The tip of the manipulation was aimed directly for the human’s shoulder. Modrue wanted to play with his opponent, like a cat does with a mouse before killing it.
The bandit leader's done well to earn his rank. Jon gets knocked around, a huge gash visible across his stomach when he'd got caught by the bastard's bastard sword once. Jon only has a knife, but he doesn't need anything else. Just needs to get close.
It's a crazy move, but Jon dives at the highwayman's legs, sinking that knife into the bastard's calf as deep as it will go. That gets a reaction from Mr. Leader, all right. The man flails, only managing to scratch Jon as he takes the hit-and-run approach. Those other bandits are running toward him pretty damn fast after that. Jon doesn't need this bullshit, so he starts running down the way the highwaymen were guarding.
The bandits give chase, they don't like the idea of unpaid entry. Jon keeps running until cliff walls begin to box him into a narrow valley. A pile of rocks sit at the bottom of one of the sheer rock walls, and Jon decides that maybe a stand is in order after all. Teach those fuckers not to mess with a drink-deprived hobo. One-by-one the bandits start running into the tiny canyon, then Jon picks up one of the hefty rocks to confirm their weight and starts his pitch.
The demon loomed into view, stepping out of the shadows and into the torchlight just enough for Jon to spot the creep while peering out from behind the minecart. Thass right, justa li'l closer... he thought, the weight of the mithril ore in his hand comforting. It wouldn't be long til- SHRK!
"AGH!" Jon yelped. Without warning, something tore through his left shoulder. He didn't even have time to brace for the pain as it jolted through his flesh, radiating in waves through his arm and down to his fingertips. There was blood, all right, a steady stream of it. And whatever had hooked into his arm, Jon couldn't see a damn thing. His left arm slackened, the muscle supporting it quickly becoming useless. What the hell?! If it happened again, he had no way to prepare for it. He had to move in case it came back again!
Jon rolled out from his hiding corner of the cart and into plain view, with the bulky demon drawing near. A realization dawned on the foolish man. Aww SHIT, Jon swore in his head. He'd been played like a whore's lute. That made his blood bubble and boil, spilling out of his shoulder in thick spurts, infuriating him further. With a yell Jon pitched his hunk of mithril ore at the demon and then spun around to face the minecart. Jon chucked another hunk of the stuff at Mordrue, gritting his teeth and hoping that whatever got his shoulder didn't get back again.
The sadist smiled as the fleet smell of blood blossomed in the still air. To the demon the smell was like a fine wine, aged and perfect. It brought a genuine smile to the normally still face of the beast. Modrue moved towards the man’s yelp, the anguish of the shadows making him sound like a scolded pup. “There you are human…”
As soon as the man stood and the crimson eyes of the killer were fixated on him, Modrue knew he was finished. The demon crouched for half a second, allowing the large chunk of mythril to strike his shoulder carelessly. It left little mark, and hurt even less. When the shoddy man turned to grab more the sadist lunged forward with fists extended.
Without hesitation Modrue threw a heavy punch. The titanium fists crashed into one of the pieces of ore, sending the missile back towards the man. Another couple of steps and the other fist was reaching forward, aiming an uppercut at the man’s stomach. The first hand was already cocked and preparing another swing by the time the second was launched at the man’s chin.
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