Cage Number One

[Ther]

(Roster: Slayer of the Rot, Molotov, Damion Shargath, Christina Bredith, Udrik,
Zieg dil'Tulfried, Arsenic Ruin, Steamrow)

It was the greatest moment of Mendan Kinnity's life.

For the young dramaturge, hosting The Cell was the culmination of two decades of hard work, a symbol of his transformation from a sickly child of privilege to a well-muscled, handsome young poet, arguably the greatest of his young generation thus far.

Twenty years ago Kinnity had fled from his ancestral home on the outskirts of Radasanth, upset over the prolonged physical abuse he suffered at the hands of Cantinil, the longtime elf servant of his family. Wandering the streets of the great city, he came across a man promising tales of magic circlets and dragons, tales of bravery and boasting. After searching through his pockets, the boy produced a coin he had stolen from his home, and was admitted into the theater. There, like the rest of the audience around him, the impressionable Mendan was transfixed by the tale of a knight, who, instead of training for a tournament he had entered, spent his time bragging about what he saw as his guaranteed victory. The knight, of course, was slain in the first round.

When the story had ended, the audience left the theater satistifed - everyone, that is, but Mendan Kinnity. The boy stood frozen in one spot until Dalo Smaith, the owner of The Swift Hart, saw him there standing alone. When the old man asked the boy what he wanted, Mendan replied that he wished to tell stories like the one he had just heard, an answer which caused Smaith to laugh aloud. Smaith told the boy to go home, but when Mendan lied and said he had no home and no family, Smaith grew concerned and offered to let the boy spend the night in the actors' quarters.

One night turned to two, three, and then a week. Smaith, having married his craft at a young age himself, noticed that the boy was boosting the morale of his troupe and eventualy took Mendan as his own son, training him to be both an actor and a poet. Because Smaith's plays often involved mock battles, Mendan also learned how to handle a blade, hardening his body in the process. And when Smaith died fifteen years later, there was no doubt that Mendan should be the one who took control of the theater, and indeed he did, boosting the size of his audiences with his historical plays, violent melodramas the likes of which had never before been seen on the Radasanthian stage.

So when Mendan had heard that The Cell had no promoted this year, the playwright decided he would organize the event himself, hoping to spread awareness of his work in the theater. He had spent The Swift Hart's entire treasury in promoting the tournament, but no man knew what the people of Radasanth wanted better than Mendan Kinnity, and it was therefore no surprise when all four amphitheaters hosting the tournament sold out. If all went well, the theater would see its investment returned tenfold.

With the crowd anxious in their seats and the warriors locked inside the cage, Mendan rose from his balcony seat high up in one of the ampitheaters, dressed merely in the simple colored tunic and trousers of an actor. With his booming stage voice, the young playwright made his first of five speeches that day.

“Friends, welcome to The Cell,” he said, bowing and pausing for a minute to allow the crowd its applaud. “My name is Mendan Kinnity, and I am the director of The Swift Hart Theater. I wish to thank you, the unified people of Radasanth, for coming out this day, and for making this tournament the largest gathering of citizens ever for an event outside the city’s gates. Today we will see competitors from all over Althanas, men from as far as Salvar and men from exotic Fallien, competing with one another in a steel cell for fame, wealth, and most importantly, for honor. These men deserve your respect and your adulation for risking their lives today, and I have little doubt that the fine folk of Radasanth will give that to them. To the competitors I have only one message: mercy is shown in life to those who act merciful towards others. Victory need not come at the expense of another man’s life – there is equal honor in accepting a yield from a broken and battered opponent. But as wiser men than I have said, ‘Words find glory only in partnership with deeds,’ so let The Cell begin!”

[Molotov]

“Had sex this morning, wasn’t good, wasn’t bad.”

Molotov mumbled the little ditty in a tuneless way as he waited for the Cell to begin. The mutant had arrived in the cage particularly early, knowing that he would want to get a good glimpse of the arena before the match began. At first, the mutant had carefully noted the condition of the floor, the give of the chains, the height to the ceiling and everything else that might factor into the decisionmaking of a more calculating battler.

Now, some dignitary was giving a speech, and Molotov felt like not a word of it mattered. He huffed callously on his cigarette, letting the smoke breathe out in a light grey stream from his nose, and let out a despondent exhale. He had known why he’d come here, to test himself against Althanas’ best and let them know that he had returned back into their world. However, now he was beginning to wonder if it was really worth it. For a good time in Shanleh, Molotov had stayed away from fighting. He had worked in a monastery, initially doing nothing more than odd jobs in exchange for martial arts training. Over time, he had learned a great deal, not just about himself, but about forgiveness and redemption. It had felt for a while like he could make up for all his past mistakes- that redemption was really just as easy as doing the right thing from there on out.

Now Molotov felt as if he was jeopardizing everything he’d learned. It wasn’t fear for his physical wellbeing, though he knew a good number of old enemies would soon be coming after him when they heard about what he’d done. Mara Jade, Corone nobility and perhaps even Tel’Aglarim would be looking for him to punish him for some of the things he’d did to cross them in the past. Still, it was as much for them as it was for himself that Molotov wanted to announce his return. He knew he had enemies, but this way the mutant knew they would all emerge around the Cell, especially if he were fortunate enough to make it to the finals.

Thus it was not fear of bodily harm that drove Molotov to question himself, but a more spiritual question. Though the mutant had never been in the Cell before, tales of what had transpired in the previous edition of the tournament were well known throughout Althanas, and Molotov remembered one important detail. It had been a bloodbath. Now, the mutant was afraid of what he would do if put in that situation. He had only recently been reintroduced to society, so the idea of being thrown into such a barbaric structure risked bringing out the worst in him again.

Molotov wished he’d considered that possibility before he’d stepped into the steel cage. It might have caused him to reconsider. However, now he had no choice, so he waited. He leaned back against the wall, his tungsten rod in one hand as he puffed on his cigarette with the other. Molotov was certain he would remain anonymous for the time being. His well known mohawk was hidden underneath his dragonscale cloak, and he had abandoned his spiked trench coat in favor of this more traditional armor. Initially, it had been Molotov’s intention to wear the cloak so as to surprise Althanas with his appearance in the Cell at a particularly dramatic moment. Now, he just enjoyed the solitude that his anonymity had provided.

The speaker, whoever it was, finished his speech. The Cell had begun. Molotov’s fingers danced nervously on his tungsten rod and he took one last drag of his cigarette before tossing it down to the floor.

“Had sex this morning, wasn’t good, wasn’t bad,” he hummed again in a tuneless way.

[Damion Shargath]

The crowd roared furiously at the sight of their entertainers, their cheers causing the very foundations of the amphitheater to vibrate, glorifying the bloodshed that would imminently follow.

A massive cage standing in the middle of the amphitheater posed to be the absolute center of attention. The sand swirled up at the wind gusts that rushed through the building, forcing the beige granulate into every slit, mouth, and nose there was. Contenders of great diversity stood in each corner, minding their own business, eyeing their obverses, evaluating the threats, developing a plan. According to the rumors there were numerous newcomers with great potential, a myriad of veteran’s hungry to return to the battlefield, and a select few – but truly grand heroes thrown into the cages, eager to settle scores. The looming tension which floated like a thick fog through the air could be felt by every man around. So it came that the powerful stood aside the weak, the battle-versed amid the fledglings, the disheartened beside the confident.

Returned from two year’s of seclusion he situated within the south-eastern corner of the massive cage. Nobody here knew his name and that what physically backed it up, of that the man was certain, but if his assumption proved correct was another story. Though the chances were high that he posed as a no-name to those who didn’t venture the barren, icy plains of Salvar, or shunned the famous Citadel. Being cloaked in this namelessness could grant the halberd wielder a significant advantage in the coming battle. His head lowered in mockery aimed at his opponents, the ruthless slayer had entered the contest in expectancy of finding a worthy adversary in the field of close combat.

Suddenly the wind had stopped blowing, the clouds parted, and the sun had a clear shot at the venue, transforming the amphitheater into an unbearable heat source. Being accustomed to the sub-zero temperatures of Salvar it didn’t take long for the unfamiliar heat to force the first pearl of sweat from Damion’s forehead. The silky droplet ran down his face, raced along the many scars upon it, then parted from his chin unto his breastplate. A vexed expression shaped upon the halberd wielders face. He hated it, abhorred it with every inch of his body, the warm climate of this region.
Quickly having grown tired of the sticky, musty air he reached into his right pocket and pulled forth a set of matches and a packet of cigarettes. After having placed one of the tobacco sticks between his lips, his gloved hands scraped a match across the rough surface of trousers. The wooden stick struck ablaze at its tip before being guided gently to the cigarette. Having fulfilled its duty it was cast to the floor beside its possessor, who followed with a deep pull on the drug. The comforting taste of the burning plant embedded itself on Damion’s tongue, banishing the stale taste of the swirling dirt.

A contender to one of Damion’s flanks had the equivalent need for the nicotine stimulant, this he knew because he had seen him fingering a packet of cigarettes before entering the cage. There was something about the suspiciously dressed creature that sparked Damion’s interest. For some reason he felt not the need to attack the man, he felt there was a sort of connection between the two surpassing a regular rivalry. Then again Damion relied only on assumptions, and not on true facts. Regardless he grunted in the direction of the man, holding towards him the packet of cigarettes in a gesture of offering.

“Salvic Superior…” Damion muttered from beyond the cigarette in his mouth, taking into perspective that his obverse would possibly recognize the rare brand, “…incase you want one for later.”

The crowd grew quiet for a second, whoever had been speaking the speech of the needless had finished. At the host’s last words the crowd rose to their feet, threw their hands into the air and boomed with shouts of anxiety and joy. The usually content upper class section of Althanas’ countries jumped from their seats as did the proletarian fraction, the spilling of blood seemed to have the power to unite nations just as it could sever them.
Damion shot a glance upwards at the beckoning host, jolted his right hand to the mid-section of his halberd and began to waver it back and forth, anxious to throw himself at the next combatant. He was eager to show what men Salvar carved. It began…

[Molotov]

Molotov eyed the stranger offering him cigarettes for a moment before making any kind of a decision. He had been humming to himself before the battle had started, but now, this stranger had piqued his interest. To the best of the mutant’s memory, he had never known the man. He did, however, know Salvic Superior. “Best cigarette you can buy round Knife’s Edge,” the mutant remembered. He took one of them cautiously and stuck it under his ear.

“Thanks,” he said. “The name is Molotov…” He figured the name would have some meaning to the stranger. At the moment, the mutant wasn’t sure how to interpret the gesture of the cigarette. The most likely solution was that it was a peace offering, a request for some sort of an alliance. By accepting the cigarette, Molotov had agreed that they would team up together. That would have been fine, since he had just come back from his self appointed exile in Shanleh, Molotov had no allies otherwise. The people in this cage were largely unknowns to him, though the mutant knew a few of them by reputation. If this stranger cast in armor wanted an alliance, that was a deal that certainly suggested mutual benefit.

However, Molotov knew that he couldn’t be sure. The fact he’d been allowed to pick his own cigarette was a good sign, but he couldn’t know for certain. Mara Jade would have become an experienced shape shifter by now and was also adept and immune to poisons. This armor clad stranger could easily be her, and the cigarette would have been her attempt at poisoning him before the cell started. Molotov didn’t know how she would have known about his appearance here, but for all he knew she could have been involved with the tournament organizers somehow. It also could have been one of a myriad of the mutant’s other enemies that had passed off a box of tainted cigarettes to the mutant. The Salvic Superior brand didn’t particularly remind Molotov of any specific enemies of his, but he had enough enemies in Salvar that it could have been some kind of a message.

Thus, Molotov couldn’t be sure. Though it could have been innocent, cigarette was also cause for suspicion. Molotov’s response would have been the same anyways, so it was good that he’d taken the cigarette. Either way, he needed to stay close to this armor clad warrior. If they were to be allies, it would only be to Molotov’s benefit. If they were enemies, the mutant knew he would have to keep his enemies even closer.

He gulped, ever so slightly. These were the decisions he didn’t want to have to make any more. The quick ones made in times of peril when the only real consideration was survival. It was an uncivilizing experience, one the mutant didn’t particularly want to endure. The almost intoxicating adrenaline surges were already beginning to take its toll on the cage, the man who had just handed Molotov the cigarette was now waving his halberd around preparedly.

“Like a bloody little schoolboy right before the end of term,” Molotov said to himself. He exhaled. Molotov didn’t want to be drawn into a more trouble just because of this alliance that he’d made.

“Let’s watch what goes down here, eh?” Molotov asked tentatively, his eyes darting quickly between his supposed ally and the rest of the Cell. The mutant wasn’t sure if excitement had overcome the man so much that rational words would have little effect. “No sense getting busy til there’s something to be done…”

The last thing he needed was to be seen as the cage’s biggest threat. It would mean that everyone else would team up against him. “Was a good morning’s day until we decided to die,” Molotov hummed listlessly. He couldn't remember where he'd heard that tune before.

[Zieg dil' Tulfried]

The fire for battle was very apparent in Zieg dil' Tulfried's soul. He was the High General of the Demon Army and participated in all of the tournaments that he could. He was in fact the previous year's third place finisher in the Cell. All who saw the demon could tell he was a warrior. The blue and black titanium armor which covered his body and the two swords which hung of his hips were all the evidence anyone needed. Even his helmet, which was punctuated by a long horn inspired violence.

The demon knight was more than familiar with death and fighting. He had participated in hundreds of battles, more often than not emerging as victor. The leather grip of his demon blades felt comfortable in his hands, perfectly balanced for a person of his strength and stature. His armor was finely polished, sleek and gleaming in the bright lights of the tournament. Zieg's metal boots clanked lightly as he walked upon the rock floor of the Cell.

Emerging from the shadow of the entrance into the Cell, he found that only two of his opponents had already arrived. The other five had yet to make an appearance. He recognized only one of the two as Molotov of the Mutant Misfits, the army he succumbed to in the recent Gisela Invitational. The other was a complete unknown to him, though the way he carried himself implied strict confidence and a decent amount of power.

Zieg ignored them both as somewhere high above the patron of this tournament was speaking mindlessly. He walked along the the chained wall of the cage, running his hand along its rough ridges. He was in his own little world as he focused for this intent battle. The previous year, he had brought Xeppa along for the tournament, but this year he had decided to go solo. He wanted no handicap nor any crutch to lean on as he fought this year. Instead, Xeppa and Zieg's son, Kaza, were up in the stands, cheering Zieg on loudly.

Zieg pulled the Gamygym from its place at his side and ran his gloved finger along the edge. The blade was a piece of art, the only thing more amazing than its appearance was its power in battle. With a single thought, flames slid up the blade from the hilt, empowering the blade with heat directly from Zieg's heart. He was ready, let the Cell begin.

[Arsenic Ruin]

Caged like an animal, lead into the wolf pack like a lamb to the slaughter. He was green, or partially green his habits had been broken, and this was close to the final product. The air swirled with a mixture of must, and dirt. Tongue lapping at the roof of his mouth it was another environment he was put in to test his run of skills. Green eyes vibrant with life and that same lackluster smile that was put on for show, bluish hair cut to end just past his ear. Brushing against his cheeks as he stood in the north western corner of the cage it could be his final resting place, or it could be where he shined for this exuberant crowd to see.

His heart skipping a beat as excitement washed over him as he basked in the warmth of the turning sun. At this point the angle of perspective would shift as it always did focusing on the right eye of our dearest Hero. The spotlight was on him of course as he stood there in what glory he did hold entering the tournament on his own and of course alone in the midst of it all. Chuckling lightly as he inclined his head forward, his laugh rumbled shaking his body as he clenched his eyes tightly, fingers curling into fists.

Arsenic, the wandering free squire soon to be knight, the committee of many good deeds to his name, swathed in battered garments and garbs. An ode to his own glory to come, his head was soon raised to show his youthful face, his attire changing greatly over the coming months since he ventured out. Ripe with age and on the verge of being able to attain something that wasn’t to far out of his grasp. With steeled eyes he looked upon the competition, weaponry in tow for the lot of them he soon would soon be found a meager competitor against some of the greater weapons.

But pay that no mind, as he looked over himself, his previous armor traded in for something of an upgrade. His abdominal plate had been dashed to the rocks, as well as the rest of his armor, which was destroyed and pitched to nothing more than destruction and smaller peaces. Replaced with armor that looked seventeen years over used, but to him they were perfect. Arsenic’s breast plate meshing into a shoulder plates that held the curve of his broad shoulders, taking the place of his previous chest armor wrapping around to cover his back as well. The copper toned armor, worn over a silken under shirt that became rough over years of wear holes pitted over older spots. Scratches though marred the surface of the upper armor. While his legs were clothed in a rough, and resistant cloth for which he had no name, and on his feet he wore boots. Hands hidden beneath gloves, and his sword rest at his hip, the mahogany scabbard housed the long sword that he treasured dearly.

Damascus a blade given to him by his teacher, upon his leave as a form or type of “graduation” present, he touched the blades hilt with his left hand rubbing his thumb against the pommel as he soon heard the crowd draw to a clam. Arsenic inhaled deeply, before stepping to the middle of the Cage, doing nothing more than standing observing the competition as he securely gripped the handle of his weapon.

“Shall we begin my fellows?”

[Udrik]

“Words find glory only in partnership with deeds, so let The Cell begin!”

“Mr. Kinnity. Excuse me. Mr. Kinnity!!” Udrik ran to the edge of the cage, grasping at the links as though it would make his voice louder. It was no use. The roar of the crowd would not allow Udrik to be heard by the man whom he had sought so desperately to speak with. It had been just two weeks since the priest had left the Great Library of Khal’jaren in the Black Desert of Raiaera. Now he was mere feet from the completion of this journey, within earshot of the answers that would afford him the knowledge to begin his Great Pilgrimage, but instead he was trapped in a cage with a motley looking bunch who could easily end his life.

Udrik Alashan was but a novice Priest of Khal’jaren, but he had accomplished much in his short service to the Thayne deity. His studies had already brought about near as many revelations as the highest ranking of priests and his counsel and wisdom were highly valued among the fellow clergy. That was why Udrik had been chosen for this ghastly mission - many among the counsel felt that Udrik had been granted a special gift by Khal’jaren - that he was somehow granted a special protection from their all knowing Lord. So when it was decided that Mendan Kinnity was the one man who could help decipher the most ancient of stories from the most ancient of tomes in their most ancient of libraries, Udrik was the clear choice to be sent to speak with him.

What followed was a mini-series of misadventures. The short of it resulted in Udrik returning to his oldest friend, Alistair, the ranking Priest of Khal’jaren in Radasanth. Alistair counseled that a standoff like Udrik would not be able to simply approach Mendan and expect a sit-down. No, Udrik would have to prove himself in upcoming Cell tournament first. Not only was it necessary to reach Mendan, Alistair said, but it would prove to be a vital part of Udrik’s personal life journey, that great knowledge would be acquired should Udrik perform well. Of course he complied in short order.

So here he was.

Udrik turned back from the fence at the sound of conversation behind him. It had been what… something like three years, THREE YEARS!, since Udrik had last had to fight? What was he doing? He recognized many of the names of his competitors. Molotov The Mutant. Damion Shargath, warrior of great repute. And of course, Zieg dil’ Tulfried, Demon General of Haidia. Before these great warriors stood the unarmored, barely armed Udrik Alashan. It was little solace that he was of greater physical size then all but the demon. Surely they were all greatly more skilled in their martial prowess then he. His gifts were knowledge and wisdom; a trivial edge when locked inside a steel cage.

But Alistair would not have lead Udrik astray and he knew that. Surely there was some purpose. Yet for now, Udrik’s only thought was to survive.

[Christina Bredith]

Christina stood at one secluded corner of the massive steel cage, idly picking at something from underneath the well-manicured nails of one hand while the other rested on the hilt of her sword, Rosebite; the weapon had been released from its scabbard and its tip was resting on the floor of the cage as she leaned on it. Her eyes were not on that task, however; instead they surveyed the other warriors who had also found their way into this tournament. God, it’s like a who’s who of freaks in here. Off to one side, the woman noted a man covered in a dark cloak so that nothing but his nicotine addiction could be seen. Right beside him, in the corner opposite Christina, stood another man with a similar addiction, dressed in full platemail. He handed a cigarette to the first bloke, which caused Christina to tsk to herself. They’re buddy-buddy already. Wonderful. The woman tossed some of her golden hair back and surveyed the rest of the group. A massive man protected by more armor than a Larician warhorse towered over the rest of them, and so she hardly even noticed the timid monk who had entered. The Half-Drow would have gone unnoticed, too, except that he was approaching the center of the cage and goading them into beginning the battle.

Well, Christina could be sure of one thing: she wasn’t the black sheep among the combatants, but rather the only white sheep in the entire group. Each opponent looked stranger and scarier than the last, and it became quickly obvious why the Cell had such a reputation for bloodshed. Why had she entered, then? Because it was there, of course! Christina was on her way to Radasanth anyway, after leaving her less-than-hospitable uncle’s company, and when she saw the registration for the famed Cell, there was no resisting the chance to enter. Christina didn’t seek glory or victory here – all she really wanted was a chance to get to know her sword and its peculiar abilities.

Even so, victory was always a nice bonus, and Christina was quickly realizing that mere skill wouldn’t decide this battle. She was no stranger to bloodshed and violence: the battle that raged in her home town against the orcs that invaded it gave her all the experience she could ever need in that regard. These opponents were no orcs, however; as ridiculous and menacing as some of them looked, they were obviously a good deal smarter than those putrescent, green fleshbags, and that was to say nothing of their obvious talent. Perhaps she would have to form a temporary alliance with one of these brutes, just as the two chain-smokers seemed to be doing. It could work very well in her favour, especially since three fighters from each cell move onto the next round, rather than just one. If I play my cards right, we could both come out on top.

The woman figured they couldn’t quite begin yet, though. By her count, they were still missing two of the combatants, and she was absolutely certain that they would end up being even freakier than the other five. That just seemed to be the general trend of the tournament. Obviously its reputation has spread further and wider than just the island of Corone, because there’s no way most of these people came from here. If it drew a crowd from as far and as wide as the demon underworld itself, then Christina could rest assured that her abilities would be tested to their maximum. A pretty smile lifted the corners of her lips. This’ll be fun!

[Damion Shargath]

A grin flashed across Damion’s face as his newfangled accomplice plucked one of the offered cigarettes. It wasn’t, for a change, a snide beam of mockery or sadistic pleasure but one of innocent satisfaction. Gently he slipped the cigarettes back into his pocket before shifting the grip on his halberd. As the hooded one then came to introduce himself, offering in tandem a somewhat comedic advice Damion assumed a somewhat more offensive position.

“Don’t worry about my nerves, I can regulate my lust for blood…but do you see some of them trying to conceal the nervous looks on their faces at the sight of my twitching weapon? I think you get the idea…” Damion explained in an accentuated tone.

He shifted his right hand to the lower section of the pole-arm, his left to the mid section. This was a purely offensive grip, one of a very versatile kind. The leverage force the wielder could execute with his right hand was sheer immense, whilst the left hand regulated the aim ever so precisely. The mid-section grip would allow the carrier’s left hand to slide either further down for increased force, stay put for a mid range attack, or glide upwards in the direction of the blade in order to execute maximum precision at short range. All the while one’s right hand could shift flat unto the butt to thrust the halberd forth, thus increasing its range.

It seemed to Damion, that most important parts of this violent puzzle had arrived. First there was the warrior monk struck by aghast and visibly tremulous as he identified the veteran adversaries at his flanks. Second a deviously charming lady, her fatal mistake being the aloof behavior she presented towards her foes. Third there was a young hybrid growing a peculiar color of hair, draped in worn clothing, with the avid craving for battle, possibly too childishly fervent and over enthused. Lastly there stood a large demonic creature cast in full platemail, a leading force of the Haidian army, a creature to which the Salvic man looked up to in a sense of battle-capacity and experience. He had heard a many story about the grand beast, but there was one further competitor. Then again the man who’s presence was devoid had not sparked any of Damion’s interest prior to the battle, possibly this could emerge as the halberdier’s largest mistake. The missing piece was said to notably radiate power, but he posed too simple a construction to Damion, there was nothing to him that seemed out of the ordinary.

Nonetheless the most important part of this bemusing lot already stood aside the steel clad sociopath. The creature who thought he’d gone unnoticed in this great event, Molotov, a mutant with a foul reputation amongst many and a high toll of respect among the rest. The yet rootless alliance they had formed would prove most useful within the coming rampage.

“You see, there are those one deceives…” Damion eyed the other contestants about before continuing, “…those one trusts, and those that one buys to latter betray. This blow will enter in your top left quadrant and follow down to your bottom right. A forceful swing to the flat of my halberd’s blade should do the trick.”

At the completion of the warrior lingo, that must have seemed like gibberish to an outsider, the actual battle began – at least it was to seem so. Damion Shargath had now put all his faith in his hopefully comprehending counterpart. Thus, with a vigorous leap he launched himself upwards with a spinning notion. His body stretched in a most imposing manner, armor clanking in the go, almost as if one could see his muscles contract beneath the armor so intense and assured his movements seemed. After completing almost an entire rotation Damion brought his halberd down upon Molotov. As he had warned, the halberd came from Molotov’s upper left, aiming to his bottom right.

The quadrant’s Damion had spoken of were the four which mathematically created a vector matrix. What he was trying to say, was that the following strike he would attempt would draw a diagonal line from his obverses left to right. The aim of this action was to cheat the others encompassing them to believe that south-sided clash was none of their concern. Reality would be reflected though, in their glistening blood, upon both the ex-soldier’s and mutant’s weaponry. Of those things Damion was sure. The others were practically bound to divulge in their own skirmishes, as it was sure for any that would approach there could be arranged a more than untimely death…

Few were as cocky as the man in the multi-plate armor, though this was at the time certainly not a bad trait of character…

[Zieg dil' Tulfried]

"...let the Cell begin!"

Despite the fact that two of the participants in the Cell had yet to arrive, the lone demon in the cage stepped forward from the chain wall of the arena, eager to begin battle. His blade felt comfortable in his hand and he merely had to choose a target. The one who stood in the very center drew his attention at once, a human male that held a sword of his own. He appeared ready to begin the battle, unlike the others who were either speaking quietly or standing alone.

Gripping the Gamygym in both hands, Zieg sprinted at Arsenic, if Zieg remembered the program correctly. Cold calculated fury built in his mind as he sprinted forward, focused upon his target. A hollow voice entered into Zieg's mind, with words of encouragement.

Good luck, Zieg. Just stay focused and I know you'll win. Xeppa's voice echoed in his mind. Another voice followed closer behind the first. Good luck, papa! A smile came to his face at the cheering of his closest companion and son.

He slammed one last step into the rocky floor before pushing off and swinging his blade hard toward Arsenic's chest. The flaming blade sliced toward his body, leaving a trail of heated air in its wake.

Nothing around Zieg mattered anymore. Only those who entered the demon's awareness would be reacted to. His opponent was all that mattered. Well, that and winning the tournament. However, his focus may end up being his own downfall.

[Arsenic Ruin]

Arsenic bobbed his head lightly as he felt a few eyes rested on him, he had that generic spaced out look on his face drifting between reality and his subconscious devising a stratagem. His left hand hung heavy on the pommel of his sword, the cooled metal somewhat comforting causing him to grin as he daydreamed. Big mistake, the canvas that covered the flooring of the cage shook as his first opponent bustled toward him. Moments before though this one’s weapon burst into flames, manifesting them from thin air, which was an interesting trick. Arsenic was snapped back to reality as the floor tremors rocked him. His senses were apt as he smelled the burning, he took in the heat rising and he felt the approach.

The battle began, his lips curled into a grin as he stood their watching the charge. His grip on his sword ne’er changing though he found himself compelled to draw his weapon. Eyes looking over the larger combatant as he came at him soon widening, pupils contracted to pin prick sided flecks in the midst of a white sky. Genuinely he would have felt nervous months prior, but his mind automatically flicked to his reason for motivation. Teeth gritting together as he didn’t see Zeig approaching him instead, he saw Arwan coming forward with a swing of his claw again.

Zieg’s arm sprung into action with the swing, Arsenic’s eyes raced along his attackers limb correlating immediately. This time though having adversed affects, where he staggered he felt himself become steadfast reacting on a moments notice flitting backwards allowing the blade to pass in front of him. Though Arsenic was sure in his movements his heart never ceased to thump loudly. His weapon had yet to be drawn though he did adopt a crouching posture, his right hand extended forward open palmed, while his left hung back hovering over the hilt of his sword on his hip. His armor never squeaked or groaned against his movements, and his face showed neither strain nor discomfort. Though his confidence well exceeded his actual chances that might be what separated him from the rest.

Twisted by association he compared his opponent to the pale figure he deemed a worthy adversary and rival. As well as being number one on his list of evil creatures to remove this world of. The young fighter would use this moment to approach his opponent; through common sense he believed that his opponent would be coming around for a follow up swing. Nothing more than that lay between the seconds of a second life, or the seconds of an actual death. The flames raged from the blade, and they burned unnaturally but nothing thus far in his journeys had been natural. With his own response to his opponents attack; Arsenic sprung forward off the ball of his right foot.

Be ready..

A spreading shiver as his body, sauntered forward in a few steps, which brought him face to face with his opponent, last minute movements come in handy as he brought his right foot down “stepping” wrong on it making it look like he twisted his ankle. His face displayed pain, as he sharply rebounded to the left. Immediately his left hand clasped down hard on the hilt of Damascus. Swiveling himself around behind his opponent he brought the blade upward to the back of his foe arm making a full extension, as his weapon would most likely hit. Swiveling the weapon split secondly to change his grip on the weapon Arsenic slashed downward from right to left form an attack to his opponents back.

[Molotov]

As his ally spoke to him, Molotov had just been eyeing the competition. No one had particularly stood out to him, but the mutant knew they were going to have to be particularly careful. If he was seen as part of a particularly cohesive alliance, the threat perception of him would greatly increase. Coming into the cell wearing sunglasses and a dark cloak had probably already unnerved some of the less hardy warriors in the cage, and the thought of his alliance with a man who seemed to be particularly capable would likely trigger similar alliances from some of the cage’s other known fighters.

Thus, he liked the plan very much. The two of them fighting amongst each other would keep the rest of the competitors away, and perhaps even allow them to save their energy until the rest of the competition had tired themselves out. With three people advancing, an ally could stay reliable all the way until the finals.

However, Molotov was still skeptical. He had yet to catch the name of his newfound companion, and he was less than thrilled by the idea of letting an otherwise strange man strike first. At the moment, Molotov had only the cigarette as a sign of commitment. Even a Salvic Superior would buy one little more than a drink most places in the outside world, so it should mean even less in a cage of death. Thus, as the strike came forward, Molotov hissed quietly towards his ally. “I’m bloody gonna block,” he said.

It would be necessary. Molotov had noticed that a blonde haired woman not that much older than him had been eyeing him particularly disdainfully before the match had began. Perhaps it was just because she didn’t care much for men in dark cloaks, but Molotov knew he couldn’t afford to take any risks. She may have looked just like another soldier in a Corone military, and perhaps one of the more fragile ones at that, but the mutant knew well enough that appearances could be deceiving. Not only did some of Althanas’ least muscular possess particularly damning magical capacity, but one of Molotov’s chief rivals was the shapeshifter Mara Jade.

“She can’t be left alive,” Molotov thought regretfully as he moved his staff downwards to block his ally’s halberd. “It’s a bloody shame, if she’s just a soldier then she’s a pretty little bird at that, but I can’t be too careful here…”

Once he felt the impact of the halberd upon his metal rod, Molotov spun quickly. He used the blade of the halberd like a fulcrum, plying his weapon off of it as he spun around. Acting quickly and without any explanation, the mutant was behind his ally within a few quick seconds. Immediately then, Molotov locked in a sleeper hold, putting one of his arms around the neck of his armored companion, and the other at the back of the head. Molotov held it loosely, so that there would be no cause for any kind of confusion with regards to his intentions.

The mutant grinned. This position was exactly what he needed to whisper strategy secretly. Molotov’s mouth was right near his ally’s ear, and his lip movement would be blocked by the hood of his cloak. It was a perfect opportunity.

“See that bird over there… the blonde one?” Molotov whispered tersely. “She bloody saw us make the deal, so she knows what we’re about to do… we have to kill her quickly and smartly, so that no one knows about our plan. I want you to push me away, hit me in the chest or kick me, I don’t bloody care. Then fade back towards her, I’ll shoot you with some sod thing and then you dodge to your left, okay? She’ll be hit and go down, and you can finish her off…”

It was a good plan. Molotov was certain of it. He knew his partner would agree. Even if it wasn’t for the necessity, the mutant got the impression that the armor clad warrior was not the kind of person to take much mercy on the pretty and poorly armed. It was a strange alliance, but Molotov felt like it was the only thing that would keep him grounded to someone else as the battle progressed.

Bunny approved

[Damion Shargath]

“Taken notice of...” Damion muttered from behind clenched teeth, trying to give away as little volume as possible as any surfacing of their plans would run them right into defeat’s clutches, “With a little spin we shall begin, then brace yourself for a kick coming for your torso, backpedal against the mesh to absorb the shock.”

Damion grabbed at Molotov’s arms as he remained for short moments in the chokehold, after all it shouldn’t look staged. Then with a rear kick at Molotov’s right foot, Damion hunched the skinny man upon his back. What followed was a forceful tug on his companion’s arm which resulted in twirling him from his back before of his face. Damion isochronally struck the butt of his halberd into the sanded ground to increase the astonishing effect of the coming pageantry. With Molotov simulating a staggering movement, the halberdier lifted himself into the air his feet aiming at the thorax of his comrade. The steel halberd posing a supporting pillar for his weight now enabled Damion to thrust his right foot into the chest it was hovering before. That done the steel clad man engaged a flipping motion backwards, with his left leg coordinating the force of the acrobatic spin. His armor glinted in the sun, casting shattered rays of light all about. As his arms contracted they took the ported halberd with them, sending a couple chunks of sand and dirt into the musty air.

It certainly all seemed more spectacular than it was, nonetheless it would impress one or the other. Amongst the cheering roars of the crowd Damion could barely make out the dull thud of his counterparts back against the steel mesh, but was put at rest as he did. It had worked as planned. With the gravelly noise of sand sliding over dry earth the battle-contortionist landed stable on his feet skidding backwards an unimportant account of feet. He stood a silhouette in a cloud of swirling sand, larger chunks clanking on his armor as they rained down out of flight. As his gray pair of eyes then trailed down unto his mouth, a slight feeling of miscarriage spread. The mangled snag protruding from his lips, which was once a cigarette, flew to the ground after being spat out in disappointment. Seemingly the white stick of tobacco couldn’t endure within all the twisting, twirling, and spinning.

“Very well my friend, now it’s up to you…” The halberdier thought as he twirled his halberd into a position destined for an uttermost distanced assault, “Not a chance, is what she has. She’s been deemed into the role of the damned. Your words the legislative force, my body the executive force, our plan the superior judicative.”

“You measly worm really thought that a cigarette had meant all that!? Your lesser sense of competition calls for pity it does not deserve! Prepared to be impaled upon the pole that drove so many others before you to their death, maggot!” Damion boomed from the enshrouding cloud of dust.

It was more than definite that his counterpart would understand these words as further actions which supported their plan, additionally it was doubtable that anyone else within the cage still held them for comrades.

Damion loosened his posture now, ready to spring from his current position and start into the direction that lay behind him. He was solely anticipating Molotov’s pseudo vengeful commotion, his heart pounding louder than usual once more. After returning from two years of seclusion, killing one unworthy contender after the other, he found himself alas amid a battle most vivid. A battle that actually managed to upkeep his interest, a battle that administered entertaining him more than any other before.

Bunny Approved

[Slayer of the Rot]

'Let's give them one last hurrah...'

Late as he was, the mercenary certainly didn't rush up the meticulously polished stone entrance to the Cell; instead choosing a slow and easy pace that drew little attention to him. The eyes were on the fray in the middle of the cage, and what few noticed him quickly forgot he was here at the ringing sound of a pair of clashing blades. Dan Lagh'ratham smirked; it was somehow so easy to be forgotten, but it didn't bother him. His mind was set on one thing only -- winning this year's Cell, though it did rather disappoint him that he hadn't noticed the bitch's name on the roster. He'd have given his left arm...again, to show her the wrath she'd invoked with that single dark and cold portal into nothing.

The bloodsport had started without him, but that stomach churning metallic scent wasn't lacing the air. The combatants were rather slow this time around. Dan paused at the only door to the cage, lowering his sunglasses and giving a small whistle at the thick, heavy padlock sealing it shut. It was one of the those high security sorts executives slapped on the doors they didn't need anyone to get through, the type that required two keys and a combination to open. Giving a shrug, he simply grabbed it and gave a sharp pull, snapping the lock, the latch, and half the door off with a brief groan and then moderate shriek of protesting steel.

"None of you are dead yet? Christ, what a bunch of fucking greenhorns," he called out, stepping inside, drawing his heavy revolver from it's holster on his left thigh. Light reflecting dully off the black matte of it's barrel, the smell of blood, his own, rising faintly from it, something he could sense far better than most of the others here. With a snap of his wrist, he flicked the chamber open tapped it against his opposite forearm, empty cartridges tinkling to the still clean, stone floor. Reaching behind himself, he lifted his shirt tails and took on squat bullet, brass and lead winking, loaded it, snapped the gun shut, and took aim at the first warrior he recognized. He squeezed the trigger and the revolver bucked in his grip, a minute annoyance to one of such strength, sending a bullet straight at the neck of Zeig Dil' Tulfreid, presently swinging a burning shortsword towards the chest of an odd looking young man with blue hair. Shrugging at the thought that he may have saved a later victim, the mercenary burst into movement finally, a blur of it, lunging forward at a full tilt sprint as he holstered his gun, leaping into the air, and summoning the Rotslayer, it's scuffed bladesweeping down so his hands held the stained canvas wrapped about it's rough hilt in a reverse grip, dropping down onto the demon and driving it's tip down, with quite enough force to drive the blunted edge into most anything that got in it's way.

'One last hurrah,' he though with a wide grin, feet slamming down onto the floor and causing a number of small spiderweebing cracks, expertly spinning the Rotslayer a few times before resting it across his shoulders.

[Molotov]

Molotov was a bit surprised by how good his ally was at pantomiming battle, almost to the point where the mutant was a bit suspicious. However, none of the kicks or twists had meant anything more than a little soreness, though Molotov now carried himself like he had been hit particularly hard.

“You wanker,” Molotov shot back, his voice sounding perhaps a bit too melodramatic for the situation. “I haven’t dealt with a single wanker as bloody stupid as you before, you tried to give me a cigarette, just to attract my attention. Now, you’re bloody going to die, and all because you bothered me. I’d have left you alone before, stupid wanker…”

As he spoke, a large shard of ice appeared in front of the mutant. It was at least five feet in length and two feet in diameter at its longest point. Conical, it was a particularly sharp missile at its longest point, and Molotov knew if he aimed it well, his problems with the blonde woman would all but be eliminated. Still, for a second he paused. The ice shard hovered in front of him as he pulled out one of his own cigarettes and lit it. While it was likely that his ally perceived his actions as merely buying a bit of time to get better aim, Molotov was mulling over his decision.

“To think I got that worried about a bird,” the mutant thought. Initially, when he’d come up with the plan, Molotov had been thinking only about his security and the strength of his alliance. Now, as he took aim and got a good look at the girl, he was increasingly dissuaded that she could be any threat. Granted, she could have been Mara Jade or another shapeshifter, and she could have possessed massive telekinetic powers, but in no way did she carry herself like that. Had the blonde girl been anything more than another nervous rookie in the cell, she would have been one of the better actors Molotov had ever seen.

However, now the mutant had obligations, not just to his partner but to himself. He had entered the tournament to announce his return, and there would be little way he could do that without killing someone here. Molotov wanted the nobles to tremble in their boots again, for Mara Jade to freak and go running into exile herself, and for every act of cruelty to come with a moment of hesitation out of fear for what he might do. The latter was a far stretch of the imagination, but unless there was some death at his hands, there would be no way that the mutant could make his statement.

“And where better to start that a Corone soldier,” he thought regretfully. With that, Molotov shot his ice shard straight towards the blonde, knowing that his ally was about to jump out of the way. “Let’s just hope she deserves it, it’d be a tough way to go otherwise, even for the Cell.”

As the mutant watched the ice surge forwards, he took a long drag off the cigarette. While he was exhaling, Molotov began to mumble the words to another song.

In case there is any confusion, this attack is at Christina Bredith

[Arsenic Ruin]

The clashing of blades rang out across the Cell; his attention was stolen for a moment. He caught the subtle movements of two other combatants out the side of his eye. Grid locked in the dance of death hoping to come out victorious. That is what Arsenic desired but wrapped up in his own ambitions he forgot his opponent at hand. He felt the heat still on his face even as he had taken the step backwards, but he wasn’t concerned it was that fight between the knight and the mutant that held his attention.

But then he was snapped back into focus from the screaming of the release of a bullet towards his larger opponents neck. Twisting his weight around as he backpedaled accidentally into the path of the ice shard. Catching a glimpse of the crystalloid object hurtling towards him out of his peripheral vision he rotated himself off to the left, swinging his elbow around towards the face of the woman he had no idea was behind him. These actions taken would cause his head to turn, as he brought his left hand upward to strike the shard with his sword he saw the woman.

As metal met ice, along with the half drow’s slight strength curve he struck the projectile four inches short of the tip. Causing it to be diverted into the air. The cause? The blade dug a diagonal groove like a hook into the chunk. So when the weapon was pulled upward it caused the shard to change direction. The blade raked across the underside of the ice causing a winter powder to loft through the air. The ice passing over his head rising into the air ultimately falling back down to the ground, as it would touch in the warm it began to crack. His head turned slightly catching the woman his sight face flushing luckily his arm missed her but barely he bowed deeply and apologized.

“I am so sorry Madame, I had no intent on attacking you purposely.”

Arsenic, after apologizing drove the pommel of his weapon towards the middle of the spider web cracks spreading through out the ice chunk. His breath discernible as cold air mixed with warm, the metal crashing against ice causing the cracks to become more noticeable on the other side he saw the distorted figure of the man that sent the projectile. Leaping over it would cause Molotov to be the next combatant on his list. His weight shifting mid air holding the weapon reversed as he brought his left hand to thrust forward.

He was protecting the lady, it was wrong he knew. This was a tournament; in such events one was expected to throw their life away if need be for the sake of victory. Almost like a war fought not on equal terms but fair enough terms. Weight shifting haphazardly as he spun through the air sending the blade directly towards the face of Molotov.

His heroic rage pouring on into the blade as he swung the weapon fiercely towards the face of his new opponent, angling himself forward so that the sharp of his weapon would pass clean through flesh and bone. As the weapon neared it sliced through the cigarette as conformation that his weapon was on the right path.

All nervousness dissipated his grip reaffirmed as his own heart burned with the desire to be the victor. His eyes ablaze with ambition, and his sword scream as it parted through the air. Blue locks brushing into his face lightly causing his vision to be fragmented and distorted but strands of hair moved as his descent sped up. Releasing his weapon as he hovered next to him, then he gripped the weapon regularly to improve the force of the strike.

[Damion Shargath]

It continued.

A pleased grin drew itself across Damion’s face as his comrade continued with their plan, something though was odd. Damion had fallen into questioning whether trusting his counterpart would prove as worthwhile. The suspiciously high amount of time Molotov had taken to fire the icy projectile into the halberdier’s direction made him question the advising words of the mutant. As far as the steel clad ex-soldier was concerned there was only one way to find out. It was to continue with their scheme.

“You honestly think you can strike me down with your petty magic!?” Damion roared ferociously, “I’ve seen innocent farmers do a better job at attacking with a hayfork, than you with your pitifully unreliable sorcery, fool!”

For a change there was a certain amount of truth in Damion Shargath’s words, he truly did not hold magic wielders for capable fighters. Nonetheless he knew there was more to Molotov, he could rely on the many stories he had heard or even distantly witnessed back in the frosty lands of Salvar. The frosty lands of Salvar, they probably shared the same temperature as the magical ice projectile aiming for the armored combatant.

A moist surface had gathered upon the cone shaped icicle, acting like a magnet to the dusty clouds it penetrated, losing its shine the further it flew. Soon it would not furthermore appear as the ice-elemental magic that it was, but far more as a geomancer’s summoning of an earthen projectile. Then at a well estimated distance, Damion jolted a good six feet from his current position leftwards. Streaks of sand drifted after him through the air in pretentious manners. Suddenly he became unsure if he could trust his newly acquired comrade. The icicle wasn’t easy to distinguish from beyond the distorting cloud of dust that swirled about him. What if left had been the incorrect direction to dodge, what if the magical missile would tear Damion’s upper half in two? There was no time for second thoughts. The suddenly insecure misanthrope would now have to lay his faith into the hands of another, and he hated every single moment of it.

With a piping noise the matted icicle rushed past his body dividing the dusty cloud beyond in two. Once more the gravely skidding noise sounded as the warrior’s boots made contact with the floor. Immediately Damion spun around and started off into the direction of the blonde haired woman behind. The halberdier thought it best if he’d set in behind the icicle, so that it could act as a dissimulating conduct. Thus he lowered his back, braced the halberd at his side, and followed in behind the trail of the glacial missile. An uplifting feeling came over Damion as he dashed through the cool trail of air the malformed hailstone left behind. Most likely the blonde haired woman, in her aloof behavior, would not notice that there were two dangers closing in. Nor would she probably know that if she was to dodge the prior, namely the sorcerous assault, she would have to deal with another far more versatile threat. The only chance she had to see through this farce was to coincidentally overhear Damion’s footsteps, which were being decisively muffled by the sheer eardrum thrashing roars of the crowd.

There was little the young lady could do. With a simple and quick spin, Damion could lash an area covering sweep into either direction. Then it came, a sundering shock. Before his eyes the bedraggled boy with the blue hair had thwarted their schemata by deflecting the frigid cone.

“How dare this…this insolent fool!?” Damion’s eyelids began to twitch with thoughts of rage as he closed in on the young man, who was now rushing towards his comrade, “You will now feel what it is like, to pay for your ignorance.”

Breaking from the middle of his run Damion twitched his halberd horizontally behind his back. Then, with his right hand he shot its blade outwards before the pointy eared one’s feet. It was Damion’s way of showing a person that they weren’t worth his time, a blunt strike towards them during their passage, before continuing with his original plans. The blade of the halberdier’s weapon would either separate the young man from his feet, or make him stumble to the toes of Molotov. There wasn’t much else he could do, unless of course he wanted to take himself into the air and become a sitting duck for the next ice missile of the mutant.

Nonetheless, the incensed warrior would notice later what exactly his weapon had caused the amateur sword wielder to do. This wasn’t further his concern as he knew Molotov wouldn’t have much trouble with the overzealous oddball. His main object of focus was once again the woman he had been ordained to erase from this battle. With his halberd in a dragging manner he wouldn’t have much time or opportunity to snap it into a proper position. He would have to make the best the young woman’s reaction to him advancing towards her with obviously malignant intentions. Being only the miniscule account of maximally twenty feet away from his destination, this moment would come soon enough.

[Christina Bredith]

Christina was not unaware of the battle as it began to rage. As soon as swords were drawn and iron clanged, her eyes were scanning the arena for her first target. Wise be she who waits for the first strike; that’s what the woman was set upon at the time. While the halberdier and the mutant were busy fighting each other, and with the titanium monstrosity’s attention grasped by the energetic Half-Drow, Christina found herself in an admirable position. She looked at each of her opponents in turn and sized them up. No, was her thought as soon as she looked at the mighty Zieg, who naturally caught her eyes first. There was no chance of penetrating armor like that. She would have to bide her time and wait for him to tire. With three competitors advancing to the next round, Christina knew she could leave that beast of a warrior alone and advance along with him in the end. She could, of course, decide to help him in the attack against Arsenic. There are no bonds as strong as those forged in battle, and by assisting each other they might both find yet another route to victory. But damned if I’m going to trust anyone in here.

Damion and Molotov seemed occupied with each other, much to Christina’s surprise. I guess good will doesn’t go as far as I thought. But the halberdier sure seemed to be taking it a bit over the top. He was acting like he was about to smite some enemy of God, what with the way he was talking, and yet all the cloaked man had done was misinterpret the meaning of the offered cigarette? And what’s worse, his opponent was responding with the same zeal. Like I said, she thought with an amused huff, a who’s who of freaks. Why, then, should the two least-freaky combatants not fight each other? The nervous monk was still unclaimed, and Christina decided that she would change that in a hurry. With a flick of her wrist, she brought Rosebite into a more conventional grip, and leaned back against the wall of the cage while she prepared to charge her new target.

That’s when something caught her attention from the corner of her eye. The light that filtered into the cage had flickered strangely, as though refracting off something crystalline. With her curiosity piqued, Christina turned her head just in time to see the spear of ice racing towards her. Damion had dodged right out of the way, and she was its next unwilling target! The woman’s silver eyes went wide as she saw the projectile’s advance, and her lip twitched. Better think fast! She swung Rosebite again, but her intent was not to hit the icicle – the so-called attack came much too soon for that. Christina merely cut through thin air, and planted the tip of Rosebite’s blade against the soft earth. “Up and awa—”

Her planned escape was interrupted by a different sort of relief. Who would have believed that the excitable Half-Drow would be her accidental guardian angel? The man stumbled into view just as Christina had been about to remove herself from the icicle’s path, and he caught sight of the weapon just in time. Her instincts were thankfully just as good as his, because when Arsenic spun around, she swung her own body along with him, in order to avoid getting belted in this head by his elbow. As it happened, Rosebite was unnecessary in her escape: Arsenic’s weapon provided it for her, sending the icy spear over their heads and out of harm’s way. The man’s apology was unnecessary in Christina’s eyes, and she saluted him with a cheerful grin. “No problem, sweetheart.”

There was no time to say anything more. Even now Christina was aware of the designs of her opponents. Damion wasn’t running in the direction of his assailant – he was chasing the icicle, and she was his target! If there was ever an irregular move in the history of combat, that was it. You never turn your back on an opponent, especially one who just lobbed an icicle at you. The only explanation, then, was that Molotov and Damion were not opponents at all. Should I be… flattered? she wondered.

But now Christina had an ally of her own. She didn’t know how far she could trust Arsenic, but at the very least he was the lesser of seven evils. As soon as Damion’s halberd swung at the Half-Drow’s feet, Christina lashed out with an attack of her own. She slashed her steel blade in a vertical arc in front of her body, and cried, “Scream, Rosebite!”

A silver gem on one side of the blade began to glow, and the orange rune carved into it flared to life. Where Rosebite passed through the air, a trail of blue energy was left behind in the shape of a crescent which raced towards Damion. Hopefully he would be distracted enough by his attack that Christina’s Sonic Sable would go unnoticed until the last minute – at which point its crushing, concussive force would be felt in full. If she knew one thing, it was that breathing at all with crushed plate mail would be quite a feat to behold.

[Molotov]

As Molotov watched the trajectory of his projectile, he cringed as a young warrior got involved. “Just what I needed,” the mutant muttered. “One of those wandering knight type people who run around saving birds they hope put out…” The mutant sighed. Molotov hated knights more than anything else. He eyed this new player curiously, wondering why the would-be hero wasn’t content just to fight a demon general. It was likely that the stranger would be turning towards him now, and the mutant held his metal rod to prepare for the battle.

Still, there was a part of the mutant that wasn’t all that regretful about the fate of the attack. Molotov had kept his eyes focused on that of the blonde as his projectile had headed towards her, and he could tell her confusion. She was not a shapeshifter, nor was she a sorcerer of great power. The mutant didn’t doubt that she would be mincemeat to his ally, and he couldn’t help but feel bad for that. At the very least, the mutant thought her death might be a bit more humane than being gored by a giant ice spike.

“Bloody worry about the big sods in here,” Molotov shouted, offering instruction to his ally. The mutant was ready to defend now, and he waited eagerly for the knight to attack. Already, Molotov could envision the mind-games that he would play against that kind of a kid, the kind that thought to prove himself in the middle of a melee by trying to get a date. For a moment, the mutant contemplated taking off his hood, so that the rookie would know exactly whose ice shard had been deflected.

However the would be hero was upon Molotov before the mutant could recognize it. It was barely all Molotov could do to spin his head away from the sword. Molotov winced, watching as his cigarette was cut in two right before his eyes. “Alright,” the mutant thought angrily. “Earlier on, this wanker was just trying to get a date… but now he’s bloody pissing me off…”

In retaliation, Molotov knew he was going to have to act fast. It didn’t matter exactly what he did, or even how much damage he managed to create, as long as he could get a bit of room. As he watched the blade flash before his eyes, the mutant chose to say absolutely nothing, for he lacked the time to recall any of the snappy things that he had thought to say but a minute ago. His entire attention was focused on a two prong attack, and Molotov started by moving back with his hands for a broad sweep towards his opponent’s thigh. In addition. Molotov attempted to stomp at his opponent’s thigh with the bottom of his boot as he fell back, knowing that the steel chains would catch him from falling too far back.

From there, the mutant knew how to continue. He’d fought far too many young paladins to be particularly overwhelmed by his newfound foe. Molotov didn’t even bother to call for his ally. It would have been overkill against a struggling young knight.

Adrenaline was beginning to surge through Molotov’s body, and the first sword strike had etched itself right into Molotov’s brain. Even though he was confident, the mutant knew he was going to have to stay sharp. It was exactly what he was afraid of, ally or not, Molotov had no choice now but to enter the world of survival.

[Damion Shargath]

A pair of dull gray eyes grew wide at the view of their new endangerment. The time had come to make a quick decision if he wanted to survive. The young woman before Damion had unleashed an impressive wave of force that would prove most difficult to bypass. A massive of cloud sand was rushing towards the acrobatic halberdier, some sort of visible wind gust at its head. Truly, there was not much he could do now aside from being rather sure about not wanting to test the strength of such magic. Nor was there time to think of a conventional method of evasion, the misanthrope would have to think out of the ordinary.

Thus, with a stalling twitch of his blade into ground beside, his feet lifted off the ground. Damion was now trailing a crescent line through the air, the grounded blade posing the axis around which he turned. The sonic beam passed right beneath his arm, its sheer force ruffling his hair and slowing his flight as it went. As he then entered the cloud of smoke it had left behind everything became a shadow beyond the distorting mass.

He was growing visibly annoyed by this fray, for the repetitive dodging of diverse magic was not his understanding of a battle. No doubt, he had been fortunate that his blade had struck against some sort of larger stone within the ground else there would have been no leverage force whatsoever, which then again would have resulted in an involuntary testing of brawn with the sonic beam.

Added a little luck, the sonic beam could now even strike her makeshift savior occupied with assailing Molotov, which is if it wouldn’t deplete of force on the way. With one threat down and another in the figure of a blonde haired woman to go, he plucked his halberd from the ground. His descent began.

“Well, I’m impressed.” Damion mentioned falsely as his feet contacted the ground, his body skidding only few feet from the woman’s range, “…but by the menial looks of you, I don’t see this battle exceeding the time of one minute! Please do at least try to defy my impressions…”

Both he and the woman were now trapped within the synthetic sandstorm. A distorted vision was not something to keep the halberdier from a battle though, as he was more or less used to it. One who resided in Salvar would inevitably learn to attune his eyes to storms of sorts, and this one was barely worth mentioning in comparison. The exceedingly malevolent sociopath was clearly in his element, the only irregularity being his dissonance with this region’s temperature.

Damion could almost distinguish the woman’s figure perfectly among the undulating sands. She stood with pulled blade, a matted figure, little more than six feet away from him and posed a perfect target. Quietly he slid the lower section of his halberd into his right, as well its middle section into his left hand. It was also then that he noticed the damage he had done to his weapon. The fact that the blade had been stalled against a stone in the ground probably didn’t do the somewhat weak material too good. It furthermore possessed no straight edge, instead displayed more of a jagged and wavy fissuring instrument now, and needless to say that Damion preferred a clean cut to his weapons he simply had no time to linger over such trivial disgruntlements. There would have been nothing more abhorring to the violent natured man, than being forced to sidestep another sorcerous assault.

With a grunt of brutish animosity he then lunged himself forth, going for a direct stab at the female’s torso. The problem with such an attack was that it posed easy to deflect, then again hard to completely eliminate. What was to follow, as Damion fully expected this attack to be swiped or dodged by its target, was a brute swing of the butt into his disputant’s lower extremities. This would undoubtedly force the fragile woman to her knees and leave her open for the blade of his halberd. A mechanism of destruction had geared into full throttle, and there was little that could stop it.

“Utterly inferior…” Damion thought with a snarl as he aimed to suppress any thought of being physically attracted to the innocent being in crimson, “ – Nothing more.”

[Christina Bredith]

Christina couldn’t help but curl her lip a little when she saw Damion elegantly leap right over her Sonic Sable. She should have expected such a maneuver from someone with a weapon like a halberd, but without having fought any opponents who wielded such weapons before, it would have been difficult for her to know its exact capabilities. Even so, the woman didn’t look terribly dismayed. Her prediction was very quickly coming true: this was turning out to be a lot of fun. The only thing better than being wrapped up in a chaotic battle was being wrapped up in a chaotic battle with people watching and cheering from the sidelines. How cool was that?

Not cool enough to break Christina’s focus, at least. Even as her energy blast whipped up a sandstorm in its wake, her silver eyes were aimed much higher than that, locked on the armoured Damion as he soared through the air. His suit of mail glinted in the light, but not nearly enough to divert Christina’s determined gaze. In the span of a few moments he was up, over the blast, and on his way back down again. His taunt merely caused the woman to smirk; she planted the tip of her blade against the ground, seeming to let down her guard, and responded to him by imitating a very obvious, very snobby British accent: “Oh, don’t you, now? Well that is a terrible shame! I had rather hoped it would last more than one minute. Maybe even two!”

To all ears, it would have sounded like Christina was enjoying this way too much. Her battle stance was lax, her expression was amused and unfocused, and her grip on Rosebite’s hilt was practically nonexistent. These mistakes would have cost any normal warrior the battle in an instant, especially against an opponent as superior as Damion. Christina, however, was no normal warrior. She didn’t need a very clear view of her foe’s movements, because she already knew how she would dodge them. The only thing she needed was a rough idea of where the attack was coming from, and then she would be able to react appropriately. Speed was no obstacle, nor was direction. Despite her lackadaisical attitude, she had actually planned her escape down to the very last muscular twitch.

Damion closed that last few feet between them, and Christina blew him a kiss through the swirling sands, accompanied by a wink. “Better luck next time, babe.” As soon as he lunged forward with a thrust of his halberd, the woman was already in motion. However, there was no movement to either side when she dodged, nor did she step back. For that matter, she didn’t parry the halberd by forcing it to one side or the other, either. Those would have been the obvious counters, but Christina knew that Damion would have prepared for them all, as any seasoned knight would. Instead, there was only the tell-tale flash of silver, orange, and then blue, followed by a screeching sonic boom that rumbled forth in all directions from where she once stood. Christina herself was already high in the air, soaring towards the cage’s roof as a result of the sonic blast: she had used its exploding force to propel her skyward by pointing it down at the ground, and at a slight angle to provide more distance from her foe. Within moments, she was hanging from the roof of the cage with one hand, the rest of her body dangling like a child on a set of monkey bars. A grin of thrilled amusement turned up her lips and revealed the white teeth behind them.

But Christina was not content to just avoid Damion all day. This was a battle, not a dance contest! From her lofty vantage point, she locked her gaze upon the silhouette of her foe, still caught in what little remained of the sandstorm her energy blasts had summoned. Widening her grin, Christina swung Rosebite again, shouted the command, and watched a blade of concussive energy scream through the warm air as it chased its target.

[Arsenic Ruin]

It was a new move; he had just attempted, and his weight shifted forward too much. Leaving his knee exposed for the next strike his eyes widened as he realized his mistake. Mouth growing dry as he struggled mentally to figure out his next plan of action, the hand closed in fast. Arsenic tried not to panic as the hand struck the inner part of his thigh, exactly as his body finished the turn. But it was quite difficult as he considered the position he was put in. Then it clicked, after he carefully considered the force of the hand if he could alter his weight he could counter act with a second spin.


Come on body do your stuff…




With much effort and the rightly timed movements he probably could pull it off. The hand struck, not hard but just enough to put his knee outward in the opposite direction. He grinned inwardly but he wasn’t out of the clear yet, though the strike did hurt a tad bit which did spark a minor wince. Following with the strike he attempted to move out of the way of the kick, which didn’t happen as he planned and was undoubtedly struck by the second attack as well. That only put him in a spot more pain as he hit the ground. His step faltered, as he then after recovering his balance readied his weapon.




Ugh…


Wind prickled at the back of his neck, though he dare not turn to see the danger behind him. Though what he considered doing would be a bit more reckless than your average attack. So he followed through with it. “Life is about new experiences, and taking risks.” He thought to himself. The young knight sprinted forward, and cut in diagonal approach towards the cage of steel mesh and links, pushing from the ground sword held outward, to prevent self harm.

The balls of Arsenic’s feet pressed against the wire frame, bending his knees to spring himself backwards. Altering his rotating force by making himself top heavy, and flipped backwards just as the wind based attack was nearer him, and his wall ridden opponent. He passed through the wall of sand with his eyes screwed shut, his timing was off by a half a second. As for when he landed? It was as rough as the land he made after the double attack. A slip of air pulled under his foot as he dropped to his butt and grunted.

One hand pressed to the ground the other held his weapon in front of him, and then came the stand. He stood not even bothering to brush himself off, holding the weapon forward with one hand as he struggled to see with the wall of sand that blocked his vision. So he kept his wits about him, and held his weapon at the ready stepping backward ever so daintily.

But as the screech spread through the cage his knees quivered, his thoughts broke and he almost collapsed. His weapon only gripped tighter as he closed one eye from the wrought noise, he dug his weapon into the ground. As the force that seemed to create more wind and sand build up only caused him to stagger forward, with gritted teeth his equilibrium had been thrown. And he took a slight dip to the right before he scooped the weapon up, pointed it to where he thought saw his opponents outline and prepared himself.

[Damion Shargath]

A shattering blast emitted from the ground before Damion and left behind a lesser crater. Smaller stoned and chunks of dirt rained down all about. He wondered if the woman had imploded, most likely not. The halberdier glanced around from the corner of his eyes, his body still in full motion. There was nothing to be found, not a single shard of her. He couldn’t seem to spot his nimble adverse anywhere. Wondering where she had gone, he finally dared a glance skywards. An expression of anger and direness swiped across the steel clad protagonist’s face. The woman hung monkey-like from the top restraining bars of the cage, her sword wavering in the air below. This wasn’t what busied the halberdier though for once again the woman cried out loud the flowery name which caused her weapon to unleash another such crescent wind blast.

“Can’t you ever think of something else!?” Damion shouted as the paranormal feature was closing in with a screaming ingredient, “Stop stalling your death. It will come inevitably sooner or later today, so what difference will it make? No one grieves for the inferior.”

Damion’s current status of motion and the blast coming from above gave him many possibilities and options to dodge. He decided for his left. Thus, with a straight kick of his right foot he lunged leftwards as the sonic beam crushed into the floor at his prior position. The explosion threw up another cloud of dust, much larger than the others were due to the immediate impact of the attack. Damion peered from the shrouding clouds upwards, focusing the position of the dangling blonde woman.

“Damnations! This heat is unbearable!” Damion boomed with his head cocked slightly over his shoulder.

His plan was to attract the attention of his ally, hoping that he had the time to attend Damion’s bidding. If Molotov would glance over, see the woman dangling from the ceiling, and connect this with Damion’s complaint about the temperature he would surely understand. It shouldn’t take the mutant long to then fire another icicle in the direction of the blonde lady. This of course would force her to lower herself back to the ground where Damion would have all the time in the world to pick her right out of flight with his pole weapon. This was of course unless she preferred being inhumanely impaled upon an icy murder instrument.

Surely, Damion could have waited for the woman to lower herself but he simply did not possess the required patience. His eyes twitched with vexation, his hands quivered with anxiousness, his heart jumped with a lust for blood. The armored feet of the combatant bobbed up and down, ready to break from their habit and burst into a sprint. As soon as the woman would be falling back down to earth, Damion intended to thrust his halberd relentlessly at her body. He would not let her descend with peaceful lineaments; his desire was to spray the woman’s blood across the dry earth below, his desire was to feed the insects that scurried beyond with her innards, his desire was peer into her eyes as all life sifted from her body. Not to mention that she had less than a chance to evade anything in mid flight, additionally a halberd is a two sided weapon – if you deflect one side, the other will rush towards you bluntly.

His intentions had gone from the malignant directly to the downright evil. His thoughts went from those fighting affection to the straight forward hateful. There was nothing he longed more for than to run the blade of his halberd through the body of his antagonist. The halberd wielding warrior seemed all but sane, his change of moods was comparable with that of one who suffered catatonia. If one was ever to possess the ability of reading a mind, and would dare to enter Damion Shargath’s, they would not return fair-minded from their venture.

[Molotov]

Kill or be killed didn’t seem to sit well for Molotov. While it was the nature of things on Althanas, the mutant always felt like he’d had the choice. He didn’t want to kill in defense, but out of desire, out of a need. Now in the Cell, he wasn’t even fighting his choice of targets. Killing a young paladin wouldn’t be particularly impressive to anyone on Althanas, and the mutant had come in the tournament to make an impression before anything else. All his reasons to fight were lost in this battle, but he still had to fight, just because the rules that governed men in the situation demanded it.

However, Molotov would have probably fought this challenger regardless. There was a certain appeal to attacking a knight, especially when the other option was a defenseless girl. A knight was the kind of person that Molotov wanted to destroy on principle alone. It wasn’t just the fact that he was an outlaw in Corone, but the fact that such people just seemed so full of themselves. “He’s just another ponce,” Molotov sneered to himself. “Thinks he’s important but could get beat by bloody schoolgirls.”

Then, Molotov’s body hit the back of the chain. The steel had little give, and the mutant’s body cringed at the impact. Still, it was a good way of getting space, save for the fact that this knight was more bloodthirsty than most. “Bloody hell,” Molotov thought. “What happened to the damned predictability of these sods. I haven’t yet heard that trite old speech about good over evil and justice and all that rot…”

Now, the knight tried something cute against the wall of the cage. Molotov would have tried to grab at his opponent’s shin had it not been for the blast that was coming towards them. The mutant pulled away, knowing that was the only play he had at the moment. In the Cell, endurance mattered just as much as causing damage, and Molotov was reluctant to take a powerful blast just to do a bit of damage. Thus, he pulled away, took a few steps back and took a quick glance at his ally’s situation before turning his attention back to the young knight.

“Time to bloody kill two birds with one stone…” Molotov said aloud, as if to let his ally know of his plans. “Or one bird… and then one ponce…” He took a snide look towards the young knight who was pointing a weapon at him and began to walk away, moving in the direction of his ally though his movement bordered the cage.

Suddenly, the air above the cage let out a loud crack, and a torrential rain began to flow throughout the cage. The mutant figured that would knock the girl down back into the sand, perhaps with a broken bone to boot. With regards to the knight, Molotov figured that the rain would at least bide him a bit of time.

“Bloody hell,” Molotov muttered, addressing his more immediate foe. Whatever happened to the blonde would happen; the mutant could have cared less at the moment. Given how many other concerns he had, Molotov couldn’t offer much more help to his ally. The rain would likely help them both, it would keep Molotov’s opponent at bay for a few seconds, and deliver the woman to his ally. The mutant’s cloak gave him an advantage, it kept his sight unaltered despite the storm.

However, Molotov knew that mere rain wouldn’t end the knight’s chase of him. “Those buggers are too bloody persistent for that,” the mutant recalled. With his rod ready to block any attack coming his way, the mutant thought it best to try a few mind games.

“So… ponce, you really think that bird’s gonna love you after what you did for her? She won’t, she’s in the Cell to advance, not to play some sodding dating game…” the mutant began. “And she’s probably going to bloody die now anyways… care to save her?”

[Christina Bredith]

The frustration in Damion’s eyes was obvious, and it may as well have been candy to Christina for the grin it was bringing to her face. She was getting on the halberdier’s last nerve. She knew it. She loved it. There was nothing better than watching an obviously more experienced opponent struggle like a fish out of water against a foe he should have been able to smite almost instantly. And Christina was aware that, in a head-to-head battle of weapons, she would have lost quite quickly to him. Luckily, she knew very well that there was much more to a battle than physical strength or even experience. Intelligence and cunning were also key ingredients, both of which she had aplenty.

“Complain when you can actually hit me, sweetheart!” she called back in an amused tone, doing her best to lift her voice above the sonic boom. Damion’s crazed frenzy did not appear to faze her at all; and why should it? In a less carefully-sanctioned battle, she might actually have to worry about death by the blade of his halberd. In the Cell, however, Christina knew that permanent harm was nothing more than a dream the competitors wished upon one another. Let the cutie have his row, Christina thought to herself with a smile. It doesn’t bother me either way.

Just a few moments after her sonic blade slammed into the cage’s sandy floor, Christina’s fingers began to feel wet. Although she was certain it was just a hallucination, she could swear she felt the pitter-patter of raindrops on the hand that gripped the steel bars above her. Then, just as quickly as that feeling came on, it intensified: she was caught in a torrential rainstorm that had appeared out of nowhere. “Ooooh, my hair!” the woman whined to herself; her golden locks were already dark and damp from the falling water. More importantly, she realized that this would put her in a difficult position. Although she could continue to hang on pretty easily, the rain would make moving quite difficult, as the bars around her were now slippery. “So that’s their plan, huh?”

Christina had to admit, Damion’s and Molotov’s teamwork was fearsome. It was as though they thought on the same wavelength, and without even being direct in what they wanted from each other, they knew. When one needed something, the other came running, and they never so much as hinted at what they were planning. Symbiosis like that made them a dangerous team, but Christina couldn’t help intriguing herself with the fact that it would not last forever. That teamwork will carry you far, she knew, but how well will you do when one of you snaps?

The gears in her mind were already in motion as the rain poured down. One thing about it was obvious: the ground would very quickly become slippery and wet, making footing shaky at best, which meant that large leaps via her Sonic Sable would be dangerous. It didn’t matter much, though. Christina knew that Damion and Molotov would gradually start expecting leaps like that, and they would take them into account. She could still use that to her advantage, though. Make them think I’m a one trick pony, and then show them the second.

The woman had held on for as long as she could, but now was the time to move again. She loosened her grip on the bars just slightly, in order to cause her body to drop an inch or so. That would have baited the hook for Damion; from Christina’s current grip, there was no way she could climb back up again without using her other hand, which was currently holding Rosebite in a more secure backhanded grip, with the blade pointed behind her, in order to brace for her fall. String him along… She dropped! Her hand let go completely, and quickly the woman began to fall through the air like an angel from heaven. Damion was, of course, ready to make his strike as soon as she got close enough. That was when another grin came to Christina’s lips. …and leave him dazed! “Scream, Rosebite!”

Another burst of blue energy fired out from the sword’s tip, which was pointed down and at an angle of about thirty degrees from parallel. This propelled her slightly upward again, but mostly forward, and her body traced an arc through the air as she sailed right over Damion. Shifting her weight to her upper torso, Christina flipped and spun as best she could. Eleven years of gymnastics since the age of four… I never thought that would come in handy. Even with that training, the fall was not painless: Christina grunted as she landed, slightly hunched over with the fingers of one hand dusting against the floor. The damage wasn’t unbearable, though, as she had made sure not to propel herself too high before falling back down again. These energy blasts are really wearing down my energy, too, she realized as she landed. I didn’t realize they would have such an effect.

It would still take Christina a moment to regroup. She didn’t appear worried, because she knew from this point at least she had some share in the control of the battle. She wasn’t helpless as she fell anymore; she was flat-footed and fully aware of her opponent’s location. Her face was still fixed in a grin, although it was showing signs of fatigue this time. Maybe she would get pummeled here. But what better way to do so than looking into the eyes of a man who couldn’t even defeat his own frustration, caused by nothing more than an “inferior”?

[Damion Shargath]

Damion grinned, he knew his words had been comprehended by his comrade in one way – or the better even. What existed between the two went beyond the dimensions of a normal alliance. Molotov and Damion created the perfect synergy, brilliant alone, excelling together.

It began to rain, a momentum of pleasure jolted through Damion’s body. The spellbound precipitation summoned by his ally almost instantly caused the unnerving dust to clear away. Sadly the dust was not the only unnerving thing in the halberdiers immediate proximity. He smirked as the woman tried to bait him, wriggling herself loose from the ceiling like a worm from a fishing hook. However it showed no effect, he could estimate all to well what was to follow. With a sigh he confirmed his assumptions. There seemed to be no end to the atrociously redundant style of combat that the blonde woman portrayed. With a scream emitting from her grinning grimace she unleashed another of the “rosebites”, or so she called them.

Damion’s mouth dropped limply at one side, his eyes falling halfway shut in a comical manner, “Here we go…again…”.

Having muttered the introductory words of what was now to occur de novo, the halberdier dove to his left. The beam thrashed unto the floor, spraying mud all about. Shortly after the damp brown flooring had been cast into the air it mingled with the falling rain, creating some sort of brownish translucent curtain in its corner of the cage. After a menial account of seconds the first few rows of the amphitheater were now bedraggled with brown spots.

Though this chaotic display of what must have at least seemed like a heated battle only spiked them up a little more. Most of the spectator’s now felt as if they were right in the middle of this bout, enduring the same hardship as the contestants. The was nothing better the host of this tournament could have hoped for, a fight as coordinated and an audience it amused. Due to the clandestine boring twist this battle had taken, the disappointed belligerent couldn’t help but lighten himself up a little by performing a pretentious trick. With a role through the mud that followed his evasive diving maneuver, it was once again all made more spectacular than it really was. Almost immediately after he jumped to his feet, his armor soiled, he scanned the arena for his passionately pathetic adversary. His eyes then fell upon the woman who was down on her knees obviously breathing hard. A mocking grin drew itself across the misanthrope’s visage as he observed his fatigued opponent from behind.

“This is…this is really hilarious!” Damion boomed, hysterically laughing at the top of his lungs, “You’re already showing the first signs of exertion, although I haven’t directly attacked you but a single time!?”

Damion lunged himself forth, his acrimony tainted with mockery. In his go the heavy rain drops clattered unto his armor as his feet dug further into the softening ground with each step. However nothing slowed his charge, the woman would lastly be drawn into his bloody wake as yet another victim of his violent demeanor. Damion had not much to fear, in the worst case he would yet have to dodge another of the sorcerous beams emitting from her sword. The blond haired female had proven a sufficient amount of times that she was not adept at handling her weaponry. At the rate she was overusing this feature it would not take her long to ware herself out completely and the halberdier still seemed to have an untouched spring of energy within.

Practically right behind his prey, Damion brought the blade of his halberd diagonally up from his left. Would the woman remain in her current position she would be halved. Given the unlikely option that she would attempt to block his strike…well, it was her only chance. Anything else would cost her the loss of a limb, at least. She could of course attempt to roll forwards, then again just to end up with a halberd protruding her breast. Would she jolt to the said, as left was inevitable, the halberdier would simply correct the aim of his halberd within less than a second. Thus, to brace for such situations, Damion had reached for the upper section of his halberd with his left. This grip increased precision and maneuverability greatly, just what he would need for this close quarters situation.

[Christina Bredith]

Christina could barely hear the cheering of the crowd, even as the splashing of mud from her Sonic Sable covered the first rows in filth and drove them into an excited frenzy. To be more precise, she could hear the cheering, but it was the furthest thing from her mind. Right now, the woman was focused on the battle at hand, between her and the halberd-wielding knight. Even she knew it was drawing to a close now. Her dodging was proving to be an effective method, but those blasts were draining her energy more and more quickly, and she knew she needed to conserve it for actual combat as much as she could. Even then, he was a good deal stronger than she was, and faster to boot. Maybe it was a losing battle for her now.

If that was the case, Christina didn’t show it. Her face was still smug and pretty, despite being soaked with water. Her golden hair clung to her face and shoulders as a result of the downpour, but it couldn’t possibly mask those bright silver eyes or confident red lips. At Damion’s laughter, one corner of the woman’s mouth simply tugged upwards into a smirk. “Not exertion,” she spoke breathlessly, as though she were pretending to seduce him. “You just make me so hot.” With one hand pressed lightly against her upper chest, she certainly looked the part of a woman whose heart was all aflutter. In reality, of course, sexual tension was the last thing on her mind. Damion may have been cute, but sadistic, weapon-wielding maniacs weren’t really her biggest turn-on. Besides, he hadn’t been able to hit her so far; what did that say about him?

Despite all their talk, Christina was fully aware of her opponent’s position and his movements. Having turned in the air in order to avoid having to do so from a vulnerable position on the ground, she was able to follow his movements pretty easily through the falling rain. At least it was better than trying to see through the dust clouds that had been kicked up earlier; the rain mixing with the dirt to make mud would prevent that from being a problem again. She watched the halberdier as he approached, rolling through the mud and charging ever closer. Even though she could see him shift his grip on the weapon, it was difficult for Christina to know precisely what that meant, because she was unfamiliar with the fighting style. It didn’t matter. She had to parry, and strike back. If she was going to go down, she would go down fighting.

But as before, Christina was not stupid. She was orchestrating her part of the battle every step of the way, up to and including this very moment. There was only so much she could effectively plan, of course, considering her lack of telepathic abilities, but in the end Damion’s exact actions were irrelevant. The plan was simple: exhaust one tactic to the point of redundancy, make the opponent think it’s all you have, lead them into overconfidence, and then…

The halberd struck from Christina’s lower right. This time, she would not dodge. She merely grinned instead. And then surprise them. The woman swung Rosebite hard to her right, holding it low and using the flat of the blade to deflect Damion’s weapon. She braced the guard with her other wrist in order to give herself some added support against his superior strength. Even so, she slid an inch or two to the left as a result of the poor traction. It wasn’t enough to stop her, though. Christina decided not to force the halberd away – giving it some distance would just allow it to build up more momentum for another strike sooner. All she needed to do was stop its movement cold, and then strike fast and hard. Most of her opponent’s body was covered in impressive armor, but she needed to feel no shame in attacking his more vulnerable face. Christina’s arm lashed forward like a striking viper, and even before Damion could react she was planning the next move in advance.

The game was drawing to a close, but who would make checkmate?

[Arsenic Ruin]

Rain.


The water pelted against his head, hair soggy and drooping cascading over his eyes. His lips pursing from frustration, as he blew upwards. A wet clump hardly rose before smacking him back in the face. Soon he gave in his left hand ran through his hair, to slick it his face. The pitter-patter of droplets on his armor chimed out in their own song, as a wall of water seemed to be the separating structure between the combatants and their audience. It didn’t make this squire much difference, nor did it seem to call away from anyone else in the ring. Mud flecked onto his skin from the impact of the sonic burst against the ground, which shuddered from the force.


With his right hand he re-gripped his weapon, holding the blade backwards to run it parallel to his elbow. His stance deepened, weight centering to keep his balance, knees bending for support, arms held slightly outward grunt. The rain obstructed his view, but not to the point where he couldn’t make out his opponent. But his confidence swelled he actually was holding his own, but while relish in his own accomplishment he thought about the woman he had attempted to save moments earlier, as did Molotov.


“So… ponce, you really think that bird’s gonna love you after what you did for her? She won’t, she’s in the Cell to advance, not to play some sodding dating game…” the mutant chimed. “And she’s probably going to bloody die now anyways… care to save her?”


Arsenic cringed, but he knew from the lackluster sonic attack that, or at least he hoped that she was ok. It wasn’t his concern now, not while Molotov stood not even 10 feet away from him. To expose his back would not be the better of two strategies, besides that there was nothing else to decide on. His idea was to throw his opponent off balance but the wall was to far to jack knife, and the arena was covered in mud. The gritty grimy substance that was a result of to much water mixed with dirt. Any amount of water as a matter of fact. His lips curled as he had a moment of enlightenment.


Self safety? Or anothers?


Shifting his weight forward, he clambered forwards across the mud-covered grounds; viciously Arsenic twisted himself from right to left. His right foot dragging flat against the slick surface, sending a small wave of mud to act as his own wall which would be aimed at his opponents eyes but it would fall short, and drop headed for Molotov waist. As the wave raised so did Arsenic’s sword, from the way he held the weapon it looked as if he were sending a haymaker to Molotov’s face, at the last minute flicking the blade around to the side of the mutants face.

A simple attack, if connected would deliver that fatal blow, if his opponent moved back he would just thrust the blade towards Molotov’s chest. Even still the weapon moved with unmatched grace, and the grip tightened on the hilt as it drew nearer to Molotov.

[Molotov]

Had Molotov’s attention not been focused on creating rain, he would have had no trouble blocking the attack from the young squire. However, the mutant had overestimated both the effect of his rain and his biting words, Arsenic’s blade was nearly upon his face by the time the mutant could move. Still, Molotov managed to jerk his neck, his back too sore and unwilling from the earlier attack to be much good. The sword sliced right into his check, drawing blood but providing what was only a shallow gash. Still the mutant cringed. He took a few heavy breaths and brought up his rod just in time to meet the squire’s sword before any more damage could be done.

The rain stopped. Molotov no longer cared to devote the concentration needed to maintain it. It had served its use anyways. The blonde was down from the ceiling and there were enough puddles in the sand that the mutant now had water to use at his convenience. However, at that moment, when he had been bloodied by nothing more than a child, he began to wonder if his chances of regaining his notoriety in the cell were quickly slipping away.

“Bloody careless…” he hissed at himself, wondering how much it would pain him to talk. “How many sodded criminals get beaten by some bloody ponce straight out of training school?” Most wounds, the mutant was able to cure his pain and stop the bleeding early, but the fact that this cut would be exacerbated every time he spoke made him particularly nervous about it. Hidden under his cloak, the mutant wondered now if he could even afford to take it off now to reveal his identity. He wouldn’t want the first real glimpse Althanas got of him to be an image of him bloodied by a foolish kid.

Molotov grunted. While he couldn’t be sure, he imagined himself a bit stronger than his opponent. Even if he wasn’t, the mutant was certain that he was at least smarter. There should have been no reason that someone like this squire could draw blood from him so easily. Molotov knew his problem, he’d entered the cage too bogged down with feelings, too many thoughts that were otherwise irrelevant. He had nothing to fear, he now realized. Every last person who’d entered the cage most likely deserved to die. They had ended up here for a reason, and in cases like the squire, that reason was nothing more than foolishness.

“No bloody second strike for you,” Molotov said, as he held his rod like it was a sword and pushed back against his opponent’s weapon. “This is almost over, and I’m just going to laugh soon. Your girlie’s almost dead, then my friend will be coming… what are you going to do then sod? Run? cry?”

Every word had twinged a little bit as Molotov spoke them, but he knew his voice was his best weapon against a knight. People who served ideals were so easily caught up in the trappings of their ideologies that a simple bit of cheek from a nonbeliever could create an incredible amount of anger. Hoping that would cause a second’s pause, Molotov brought his right leg up towards the squire’s stomach, hoping to knock his annoying obstacle back onto the ground.

Just for good measure, Molotov combined his kick with blowing freezing cold ice right into the squire’s innocent looking face.

[Arsenic Ruin]

The sword nicked against his opponents face, even if slightly it was pleasing. Blood drew a crimson splatter against the edge of his sword, his lips curled until the moment when the rod was placed against the weapon, his opponent dipped backward further than he expected, which cause teeter. He hoped to use the swords dig into Molotov’s face for balance. The block was unexpected, but the sword struck the rod briefly of course before the squire pulled the weapon across the surface continuing with the motions of the swing.

Upper torso bending diagonally forwards as he completed his turn then stepped back and to the right slightly. The kick felt nothing but air but the ice was somewhat unexpected, grazing against his own cheek. Pain and prickling cold feeling bubbled to the surface but that didn't prevent, his eyes from shifting over to where the blond combatant and the halberdier followed through with the dance of death. While he himself did do battle with the water machinist or so he assumed from the previous displays. But for the moment his attention was pulled away, forced into combat with one such as this it would prove troublesome if he broke away to save one who could obviously take care of themselves.


“No bloody second strike for you, this is almost over, and I’m just going to laugh soon. Your girlie’s almost dead, then my friend will be coming… what are you going to do then sod? Run? Cry?”


He snapped his eyes back towards the cloaked figure that obstructed his attacks. Arsenic wasn’t flustered; it was a playful jab something he had to become use to. For to make an attack in anger was to attack blindly and allow your opponent the upper hand, so Arsenic only smiled. He already established that the woman like the others in this cage would die, or be gravely wounded so he had made a sort of peace with himself. Even though the thought of someone in pain did cause him sigh. He composed himself before he readied his sword again.

So he decided at that moment to play this word game.


“I don’t plan to do either, and if she dies then she fought to the end.”


As he spoke he noticed his cheek had lost some feeling. But pushed forward regardless, and thought nothing of it, his weapon held out from his side, eyes narrowed on his target. He spun, dropping into a squat before bringing his weapon cross towards Molotov’s shins. So that if the blade missed he was able strike the middle of his opponents body by rising into the air, starting just above the pelvic area and ended at his face. The momentum that was put into the spin strike; was carried to the strike so even if it was blocked his opponents body was left open.

[Molotov]

As Molotov saw the squire’s counter, he would have laughed out loud had speaking not been so difficult. All the adrenaline and fear that had begun to pulse through is body almost immediately faded away. “And to believe I almost thought you might be a challenge for me,” Molotov snickered to himself. The mutant kept this snide remark silent, only because of the injury to his face. Otherwise, he would have most assuredly said had it out loud. From the squire’s retorts, Molotov could tell he was dealing with a boy without much experience in these matters. The mutant had known it was only a matter of time before he’d cajoled the squire into doing something stupid, and now he’d had his guarantee.

First, the squire had gone into a needless spin. The attack was aimed for the shins, and Molotov knew well enough that if he dodged it by a jump he might be in for a bit of trouble. The ground was uneven, and with his opponent down low, he would be in a dangerous position when he landed. Instead, he stomped down upon the blade, bringing his foot up just enough so that he would dodge the initial attack and then catch the blade underneath him.

Molotov’s eyes glowed with pleasure. He tore off his hood and sunglasses, revealing his brightly colored mohawk and icy cool eyes. There was a collective gasp from the audience, people who Molotov had been paying limited attention to until that point. Now he chuckled, as he could imagine what was going through their heads. “They’re wondering what’s next for me after this,” Molotov knew. “And bloody how its going to effect each and every one of their sodded useless lives…” He didn’t doubt already that one or two of the nobles in the audience were already planning to kill him, and that made the mutant snicker with glee.

He may have been gone, but he was not forgotten. His spirits raised and he couldn’t help but speak, even though the injury to his face had spread blood down all over his neck.

“You should have just fought the blonde…” Molotov said as he pulled back on his tungsten rod. “She probably would have fallen for a two bit attack like that.”

He chuckled, and then lashed the rod straight for the foolish squire’s temple.

[Arsenic Ruin]

Flip it to first.

Where are we? Oh right my attack…


Well the sword was sailing, gallantly forward towards the shins of my opponent. Victory was a taste to savor in moments like these. Though obviously it was a careless move I whole heartedly believed that it would land. But sadly it wasn’t so, the weapon bit the ground a bit too much maybe. Or the angle was off by a half an inch, or it could have been that the swing was to slow. I couldn’t tell it all felt perfect to me. I had my three seconds in heaven. My thoughts of grandeur nothing more than a delusion, falsified to make me feel comfortable in such a ruthless setting. At any rate I have to adapt to this situation, no matter what the pit falls lay within the supposed perfect works of combat knowledge. The application was where I needed to excel.

My opponent jumped, the cloak swirling around his body rising slightly giving way to the clothing that lay beneath it. Nothing clear just a mesh and blur of colors. The fluidity of his movements was astonishing, borderline breath taking. His feet plant firmly on the blade of my weapon pinning it down into the wet ground dirtying it. The gall of such actions usually would make me upset, but I had not the time to react in such away. I allowed a brief glance at his shadow, there was a shift in his pole arm but any move would be too late. Even with the lucky glance at the shadow, there was still the impeding shadow that was closing in on my face. So with a last minute lunge I rose on the balls of my feet, raising my shoulder into striking position, hoping the iron plate would take the brunt of the attack.

As luck would have it, the iron with stood the initial force, giving me working room as my momentum was shifted backwards. Maneuvering myself at close proximity towards the knees of my opponent, with my opposite shoulder at this distance with would at least give me some working room with the sword. Whose handle I had relinquished in sacrifice for this break neck movement, my hands moving outward to wrap around my opponents legs to grapple him, if I didn’t connect at least I would get the sword from under his foot.

My armor was dented, and all that was left to work with was getting my opponent down and out. Though even with the force block provided, my arm throbbed as I moved. Giving me a split second hesitation in my actions moving towards the grapple; dread filling me as I thought of failure. Arsenic pull yourself together man it isn’t going to be that bad, and with that thought I continued on the same track.

[Molotov]

Had the mutant realized that the squire was going to withstand his blow, then he might have been prepared for the grapple. As it was, Molotov fell to the ground with the squire on top of him, hitting the sandy ground with a wet thud as he landed once again on his back.

“Bollocks!” the mutant exclaimed as he landed, desperately wishing that for the moment he had something sharp with which to finish off the squire. He had sworn off bladed weapons for fear of the effects spilling blood would have on him, but now he just wanted some way to be able to kill the menace that had grappled him down to the ground.

Taking a deep exhale, Molotov knew he could settle the battle quickly now. Once again, he blew ice straight into the face of the squire. Hoping that the ice would provide enough of a distraction as he prepared to finish off the battle, the mutant held one hand out to rearm himself. Everything in the battle had faded, save for this young knight. At that moment, Molotov might have not even remembered who his alliance partner was. A small jagged piece of ice began to form in the mutant’s left hand, made from the water that had fallen thanks to the earlier barrage of rain.

“Bloody time to end this,” Molotov muttered through gritted teeth. He held out his other hand, ready to block any attack coming his way with his spiked bracelet and then finish off his opponent quickly with the ice dagger he had just created.

The mutant was a bit surprised he was thinking so quickly with everything that had happened, it seemed like he should have been bogged down with thought. Every last thought that was rushing through his head; even lyrics to songs for which he couldn’t remember the tune.

[Arsenic Ruin]

HAHA! Victory is mine!



My hands wrapped around Molotov’s legs taking him down, the weight shift was dramatic, and at the same moment I pushed off to the right allowing my opponent to fall alone. Scrambling sideways for my weapon, but sadly that course of action was too late. Catching a face full of snow, though by tilting my head back I was able to remove the majority of the damage, I was still rendered mentally unable to continue. The freezing cold apprehending my face, freezing my jaw into a standstill grin, eyes half closed as I try to protect what I can from the biting cold. Body arching backward striking the moistened sand, pain following the cool burst I felt it all going black.

Vision skewed by a fragmented blue, my puzzled contorted expression only further proof of the off guard attack. Hands scrambling against the sand as I propped myself up, though the heat was oppressing, and my breathing would soon be cut off, I couldn’t manage to find a way to remove the ice from my face. The bugger rendered me almost blind, what I could see was disjointed, or followed by that mental “Objects may be closer than they seem” sign. I patted the ground like a blind man looking for his cane struggling to come to grips with my weapon.


A blind man with a sword...



I held my breath, for the duration, standing up shaking it was all I could do to keep myself from completely blacking out. But to no avail time was closing in on me, with no air my face discolored. Pain filled my lungs, and in a desperate attempt for freedom I brought the pommel of my sword to the surface of the ice. Striking it moments to late, as my body capsized forward. Hitting the sand face first and slipping into unconsciousness. I was to far gone in the abyss of darkness, my gut wrenched as I was called to press on but I couldn’t muster the strength.

The crowd roared in my ears, and the lights dimmed. The spotlight was removed from myself the newcomer, and placed elsewhere. From the hit on the ground there was a crack, where air managed to seep through keeping me from biting the big one. But I was already sleeping like a baby, maybe next time folks. The grip loosened on my trusty weapon, allowing it to fall parallel to myself.

[Molotov]

Molotov snickered quietly. Everything had finally fallen into place. It had been a while, he had been nervous some, but he was going to defeat the squire. A heady rush of superiority filled the mutant’s blood as his fingers danced upon the jagged piece of ice in his hands. Molotov had known these emotions before, the ones that surged through his body right before victory. These were the thoughts that made him feel not valiant, but superior. The smile on his face was mostly relieved and a little part deranged as he sat up, and his icy blue eyes looked on at the young squire without any real sense of mercy or compassion.

“This is it…” Molotov thought. “The moment this bloody wanker has made you wait forever for…” The giddy feeling drowned out every other thought within Molotov’s brain, and as the squire fell down in the sand, the mutant wondered if the boy would bother to get up.

“Kind of tough for you, eh?” Molotov asked snidely as he picked himself up. “You didn’t bloody think stepping in for the bird wouldn’t be costly, did you really you wanker?”

He laughed hollowly. The mutant could barely remember the way he had felt when he’d first entered into the cell, his fears of atrocities had felt so realistic back then, so incredibly vivid that they were almost solid matter of their own. Now, all his fears seemed almost trite, the songs that he’d sung nervously an act of utter foolishness. He had nothing to fear from power, nothing to fear from winning the cell.

Already, Molotov could tell from the collective groan of the audience that they were disappointed he had prevailed. The mutant spun his little piece of ice around in his hand and soaked in everyone else’s disdain. Molotov smiled, for he had almost forgotten how deliciously refreshing it felt to be reviled by everyone he hated.

With his short-time nemesis now vanquished, Molotov kicked at the squire’s flank to turn the unconscious corpse over. The mutant snickered, and the crowd gasped. Waiting only for dramatic emphasis, Molotov held up the spike, ready to shove it straight into the heart of the squire, before he suddenly hesitated. The spike fell from his hand, as he remembered everything that had happened in the monasteries of Shanleh.

“You can kill, but let it be for others,” the monastery’s head monk had instructed Molotov. “If you kill for yourself, you will find your regrets will soon follow you again… Do well in the tournaments, but always think of others.”

The mutant blinked. He looked at the body, and now Molotov couldn’t help but to see something completely different in the squire who had just been a grating thorn in his side. No longer was Molotov dealing with an impertinent little boy whose dreams were too big for his swordsmanship but a vanquished foe that had fallen up short because of youth. The mutant sighed. There was considerably more honor in the latter. If he were to kill the unconscious squire, it would be an act of barbarity, something that would haunt Molotov for the rest of his life.

Molotov could have killed the boy, but it wasn’t worth the cost. There was no way he could rationalize it, no way that it would be anything more than the kinds of acts of wanton disregard for human life that he had promised that he was going to surrender. The fine line between this cage and the outside world was going blurrier, there were too many of the same variables inside and without. Pretentious knights, overwhelming desire, and the unbridled vengeance within him that Molotov just couldn’t erase were all parts of both worlds.

With his hands shaking, Molotov began to regroup. There was a bit more battling still going on in the Cell, though the mutant doubted much of it would effect him anymore. Everyone else seemed too tired to bother, especially when his injuries were only superficial. Molotov’s natural healing abilities were beginning to take care of them as well. “You won,” Molotov thought aloud, congratulating himself for his accomplishments. “You’ve taken your licks, gave a few knocks back, now sit and bloody enjoy yourself, now won’t you?”

The mutant stuffed the cigarette his ally had given him into his mouth. “Salvic Superior…” he observed appreciatively. “Bloody deserved.”

With that, Molotov began to hum another song.

(Bunny approved. Also, I'm assuming based on recent post trends, no one else will be posting. Hence I've offered a conclusion)

[Damion Shargath]

Strings of Damion’s hair clung wetly to his forehead whilst others danced up and down as he moved. Sprinkles of mud trickled from his armor, washed away by the sorcerous downpour. With the speed he was descending upon his foe it was inevitable that his weapon would strike something. Had he not been pre-occupied with lashing his blade at his beauteous opponent, the sickeningly loathsome man had probably laughed out loud or spat another degrading remark. With a half-hearted grunt he then threw a pint more force into his attack. To his astonishment the blonde sword mistress had managed to parry his attack just in time. All to his satisfaction, for it was not a severing wound he aimed for but far more a bludgeoned cavity.

Steel clashed and sparks flew, newly soiling mud was tossed and water droplets spattered about. Both contenders had now definitively engaged in a textbook close combat situation. It was clear that both the halberdier as the sword mistress were somewhat confident in their doing. They shared the same grin, one with a mocking demeanor, a smug crack across either of their faces. Whilst the woman’s current emotions and thoughts were unknown to the vile tempered man, he knew nonetheless that her coaxing gestures had been all but factual. As for Damion’s evaluation of her behavior, she was simply trying to conceal her fatigue. An additional thing of which the armor cast man was sure, was the soon end of this bout. The woman had performed a most impressive spin to counter-claim the offensive. Yet instead of following up with another of the magical blasts she lastly broke from her habit and commenced her counter-attack with a lucid thrust of her blade. She would soon find, to her own dismay, that Damion had been prepared for such an attack. Had she continued with her “usual” tactics, the blast force of such an attack would have probably torn them both to smithereens judging from the halberdier’s immediate proximity to her own body. Those at least were the pole wielders conclusions.

“Now you die…” Damion withdrew the blade of his weapon slightly, observing his adversaries blade thrusting forth, “…accept defeat, it is less painful!”

The steel grinded as it rubbed from each other, the tip of the sword mistresses’ weapon rushing bluntly forth. The grip the halberdier had affixed on his weapon would now extend to its full capacity. Immediately Damion snapped the battered blade of his weapon back behind his left, accompanied derogative expression.
Bringing back one side of the weapon also meant the other would rush forth at the same time. The woman’s blade would undoubtedly deflect from the mid section of his halberd and shoot aimlessly into the air, it was a sole question of time. Simultaneously the butt of his halberd rushed straight to the soaked head of Damion’s exhausted opponent. There was not a single possibility for the woman to dodge now, she could only hope for the best and pray that Damion’s attack would not split her skull.

Everything around Damion became dull, the berserk roaring of the crowd, the pattering of the rain, the squishing steps of his feet, the clashing of steel, it disappeared. Objects at the corners of his eyes became shadowy, hazy, up to undecipherable. His entire focus was now upon the woman, there was no chance for escape. His strength excelled that of the norm, as did his reflexes and his speed. Her sword would be deflected in a manner that it would simply twist further into her palm, she would have to submit to the pull of her weapon and lose control of her posture. There was truly no chance for escape now, the halberd’s rear would strike her down from the right.

[Christina Bredith]

Even during the few moments that their clash lasted, Christina could tell that Damion was superior. She had already ascertained that his speed was impressive; he had shown that throughout the round. She was fast, too, but it was primarily her quick-thinking that had kept her alive. Right now it was his strength that was tested, and it passed with flying colours. Her arm was already tingling, a sure sign that numbness was imminent. It was immediately all too obvious why she had not been fighting Damion head-to-head for the first part of the battle – she didn’t stand a chance against his strength. Even so, Christina knew that strength was only one part of the equation. She was relying on her speed to catch him unawares and end the battle in one swift stroke.

As it happened, though, her speed was not enough to win this battle. The woman’s silver eyes widened briefly as Damion’s halberd spun around his body to his left. It came around again from hers, brushing Rosebite aside at the last minute. Christina mentally cursed her poor fortune. Just one more second, one more blasted second, and she would have properly aerated her opponent’s face. Everything was happening so fast now, though; too fast, too fast! Christina could hardly keep up with everything. Her blade was deflected, and then – suddenly the left side of her head was burning! Damion had said something to her, but what? She had heard it, but couldn’t process it. Right now the only thing her brain could comprehend was pain.

When the initial wave of searing heat subsided, Christina’s brain began to flicker back to life. She was already on the ground, her right side and her back covered in mud, and the left side of her head was throbbing – nay, screaming with pain. Like a shorted computer struggling to find life once again, she began to recall the events of the past few moments. One by one the memories began to piece themselves together. Her blade had been deflected by the shaft of Damion’s halberd; that was the last truly clear memory she had before being knocked out. And then… yes, the throbbing indicated that he had continued to swing the weapon, crashing it into the left side of her head, using her own imbalance against her. Clever bastard. Christina had landed hard on her side, and then her body rolled onto its back automatically. Her thoughts were strained, but they were thoughts nevertheless. She was alive, but for how long? The woman had never been in so much pain; she had no way of knowing. The pain was subsiding in some parts of her body. Was that a good sign or a bad one?

Christina was aware of one thing, however: her opponent was still there, standing right near where her body had fallen. She might still have had enough energy for one more attack… just one. Would it be enough? Would it be too much for her body to handle? It was quite a gamble, that much was certain. Death was an impossibility here; the monks presiding over the tournament made it so. She could still go out with a bang. What more could Damion really do to her? Kill her? The thought brought an amused but extremely fatigued smile to Christina’s face. Rosebite’s tip was already pointed in Damion’s direction; she didn’t even have to move it. As her head rolled back to look up towards the ceiling of the cage, Christina’s ruby lips parted, and a breathless voice ushered forth. “Scream…”

Her blade had considerably more life and zest than she did. The silver gem flared to life one last time, and even through the mud its orange rune sparkled. One more blast of concentrated blue energy ripped forth, directly along the ground towards Damion, tearing a swath through the wet dirt. The counter-force of the blast rolled Christina’s body to the left, covering her completely in mud until she slammed into the opposite wall of the cage. She would never be sure whether the attack had hit Damion, because by the time her roll was impeded, Christina’s consciousness was already fading into the darkness.

Was this what it felt like… mom? He was right. It is painless…

[Ther]

Advancing: Molotov, Christina, Arsenic Ruin

Molotov -
Introduction: 7
Setting: 4
Character: 7
Dialogue: 5
Rising Action: 6
Climax: 5
Conclusion: 4
Strategy: 5
Writing Style: 5
Wild Card: 6
Total: 54/100

Damion Shargath -
Introduction: 5
Setting: 4
Character: 6
Dialogue: 4
Rising Action: 6
Climax: 3
Conclusion: 0
Strategy: 6
Writing Style: 5
Wild Card: 7
Total: 46/100

Arsenic Ruin -
Introduction: 5
Setting: 4
Character: 6
Dialogue: 5
Rising Action: 5
Climax: 6
Conclusion: 3
Strategy: 4
Writing Style: 5
Wild Card: 5
Total: 48/100

Christina Bredith -
Introduction: 7
Setting: 6
Character: 5
Dialogue: 5
Rising Action: 5
Climax: 4
Conclusion: 0
Strategy: 6
Writing Style: 7
Wild Card: 5
Total: 50/100

Zieg gets 60 EXP
Udrik gets 60 EXP
Slayer gets 50 EXP.

[Ther]

Christina Bredith gets 2,250 EXP and 300 GP. Raises to Level 1.

Molotov gets 2,250 EXP and 300 GP.

Arsenic Ruin gets 2,250 EXP and 300 GP. Raises to Level 1.

Damion Shargath gets 675 EXP and 100 GP.

EXP added for all others as well.