Cage Number Two

[Ther]

(Roster:

Rheawien
Zerith
Walter
Serilliant
Izvilvin
Krugor
Falcon Darkflight
Witchblade)

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!”

[Izvilvin]

The roar of the crowd didn't help Izvilvin to calm his nerves. The Drow, dressed in a sleeveless linen shirt of black and thin, light cloth pants-- also black-- had his toned black arms crossed over his chest as his eyes stared listlessly at the floor of the cell. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot, disturbing the thin layer of sand that covered the concrete base, but he just couldn't help the tendency. The feeling of the crowd's roar was a sensation beyond anything he'd ever experienced. And though Izvilvin was very much outside, he couldn't have felt more trapped.

The attention reminded him vaguely of his days training under the harsh hand of Ryld Zauvirr, the short haired instructor of the military recruits in Alerar. The Drow felt as if once again he was the center of attention, as he struggled to prove his ability. If there was any place he could do such a thing, it was in The Cell.

Izvilvin looked up and searched the cell with his eyes as a young human began to speak. The crowd's volume died down as the boy's voice rung out, amplified by some magic, Izvilvin supposed. He could see Rheawien, the delightful human woman who had become a good ally to him. The Drow figured that a free-for-all melee was exactly what the name suggested, yet hoped he could form a quick alliance with the female warrior to ensure each other's safety.

As for Witchblade, Izvilvin wasn't sure how they stood. His experience with the odd telepathic woman had left him confused about their relationship. They were on good terms, but in the Cell, did that really matter?

The monks of the Citadel had been insistent that he join the tournament after his long streak of battles within their establishment. Izvilvin showed promise in his skills, a fact that one particular monk was looking to exploit, betting big on the lithe Drow after encouraging him to enter the tournament. Of course Izvilvin didn't know that's what had happened. There was still so little about this world outside of Alerar that he understood.

The young human ended his speech with a powerful word, spurring the audience into a roar louder than any collective sound they had made up to that point. This was the cue to begin, and Izvilvin knew it.

Drawing two of his heavy iron sai, the Drow shook away the nerves and focused on the task at hand, stepping slowly to the center of the Cell. He turned and carefully eyed the other combatants, taking a measure of the ones he had not yet met. The lavender orbs fell upon Rheawien for a split second longer than the others, but there was softness there; he did not want to fight her.

Prepared to shift to his toes at any moment so as not to be caught flat-footed, Izvilvin raised a sai to shoulder level and waited, patiently, for the first spark of battle to ignite. The crowd was a nothing but a dull buzz in the back of his skull for the time being, blanketed by his focus.

[Rheawien]

Rheawien was already in a dour mood even before the announcer started to address them in a rather pompous manner, but when his little presentation speech was done, she was fuming. “Today we will see competitors from all over Althanas” mister Mendan Kinnity spoke from his elevated platform. “...men from as far as Salvar and men from exotic Fallien...” Men this and men that, as if this was a pissing contest where the men were dominant and the women would be better of at home, washing socks and taking care of their bastard children. Rheawien came here to compete with her peers, to cross blades with the best that Althanas has to offer, but now she decided she wouldn’t just aim to put up a good fight. Now she wanted to win.

This, unfortunately, sent the white-haired female even more wayward from what she was supposed to do in this tournament. The truth was that Rhea was in trouble, and it was the kind that got people killed in the darkness of some back alley. Her debts at the local shylocks started to go through the roof, and with the destruction of the Brotherhood she had no money influx that could tip the scales the other way. So she made a deal, or rather a deal was forced upon her. Instead of winding up at the bottom of the sea with a millstone tied to her neck, the loansharks came up with a proposition. She was to enter the Cell and the get obliterated in the first round by the weakest opponent in the cage. They would bet their money on her failure, earn a hefty sum and she would get a clean slate. It was that easy.

Only it wasn’t. They told Rheawien to bend over and she had too much steel in her backbone to do just that. People always talked about male pride, how stubborn it was, how unyielding it could get, but women had that same bone running through their body. Some got their browbeaten by the society, some were too afraid of the consequences that might transpire if they stretched their own, but some – like Rhea – refused to bow down. Even if the noose was so close to her neck that she could feel it biting into the soft skin of her pale neck. There would be no backing out, no throwing in the towel, no free rides for those that stood in her way. What awaited her once the carnage inside her cell was done was something she would deal with when time for it came. Right now she would stand against them all and make them bow before her. Alive or dead, it mattered little to the half-elf.

For the time being though, Rheawien kept her anger in check, allowing it to display itself only in a form of a thick frown above her keen eyes. Her back was propped against the steel mesh, the metal upon the bare skin of her back a comforting cool sensation. She had no bitter thoughts about the cage in which she were coffined with seven others; they were, after all, nothing more then beasts. In many ways, the thirty-two contestants that applied for the Cell were no better then mutts that were about to participate in dogfights. And such things had to be restrained, had to be put behind bars so they wouldn’t hurt the poor innocent folk that only came here for a bit of fun. Yellowbellied bloodthirsty scum as far as she was concerned, all of them in the audience, the portentous bard announcer included. People that had no guts to take a blade in their own hands and shove it into someone’s chest shouldn’t be allowed to see the blood and the anguish and the desperate empty gaze of a dying warrior.

But that was what they would get today and she was eager to be the one spreading death to the other seven like candy. On the two belts that stood crisscrossed at her curvaceous waist, three glaives were waiting to be tested in combat for the first time. Accompanied by a pair of swords that stood safely strapped to her back and a dagger at her waist, Rheawien was an image of somebody who was most definitely ready to wreak havoc and who most definitely wouldn’t take a fall. In her hand was a confirmation to that, a wordless statement of her determination that borderlined with domination; a leather whip neatly rolled in her itchy fingers.

Despite her anger that culminated with the introduction speech though, Rhea wasn’t a nitwit when it came to combat. Stepping in the middle of the cage was pretty much the same as placing a target sign on your back, with seven opponents more then eager to hit the bull’s eye with something sharp and pointy. So when the announcement was done and the auditorium roared like a beast hungry for slaughter, she remained stationary. Letho was a bullheaded brute that would charge in like a buffalo and take them all out in one sweep. Unlike him, Rheawien knew of terms like finesse and subtlety, and she knew when the situation required their usage. Let them move first. Let them make a mistake. And she would make them sorry for doing so.

However, the first one to do this was the only combatant that Rhea was acquainted with; a drow warrior named Izvilvin. They were allies once upon a time in the desert realm of Fallien, even rather peculiar bedfellows. Could they be the former today? Rheawien was reluctant in answering that question. If they fought side by side and conquered the cage, they would still have to face-off at the end. Murdering a stranger in cold blood was one thing. Murdering a friend was another, much more grievous thing, competition or no competition. Could she do it?

“Izvilvin.” she shouted towards the drow, pushing against the cage wall with he back and taking a pair of deliberately slow steps forwards. Could she kill him when the time came?

“You and me...” the half-elf continued, her finger pointing at Izvilvin then at herself. She knew that he couldn’t understand her, but her sign language improved drastically during the ordeal they went through in Fallien. Her fingers next made a circle around the cage, pointing at the remaining six combatants. “...against the rest?”

Rheawien’s acrimony told her that she could finish him when the time would come. Whether or not that was the truth was something the following minutes would answer.

[Falcon Darkflight]

Canen Darkflight closed his eyes, slipping into a preoccupied silence as the crowd's rumblings shook the very foundations of the amphitheatre. Had it really been a month since he had left Lyridia, it's deepwater urchin beds, and the reclusive life he had cultivated for two years behind? Something like that, he guessed. So much mental and physical distance had been traversed since then and now, it was sometimes hard to keep track. There had been the quiet, sad sailing home from the island of Lornius upon a lowly merchant ship, his meeting with Raelyse, the formal resignation from the position of Grand Commodore. There had been a number of reservations and doubts about his ability to compete at the highest level, a two way street of affairs filled with potholes, cracks and inevitable internal collisions that had thrown his esteem into disarray. Only his fidelity to the commitment of self preservation and determination to succeed had overcome his second thoughts about raising his blade to another living thing again for whatever reason.

All of this had preceded his entry to The Cell, a severe, dangerous tournament populated by equally severe, dangerous contestants whose antagonism towards him he knew would be relentless and merciless. Although the contestants he was facing today, such as his most recent acquaintances Izvilvin the Drow and Zerith, were hardly indignant warriors they would bristle the front line of assault and wouldn't view Canen in any friendly light, and would certaintly let him know it as fully as possible and at every opportune moment. That didn't matter though. The reception Canen was going to give his 'acquaintances' was hardly going to consist of a hug and the offer of a friendly drink. After the embarrassment he had suffered in Lornius, and the weeks afterwards enduring relentless critiscm from all ranges of people, he was ready to redeem himself here today with extreme prejudice.

He admitted he knew little of Kinnidy, who had given a rousing speech to his crowd, and wondered why it was his decision to host this tournament but he still found himself caught up in the poetry of his words. The excitement that buzzed like a streak of lightning in the theatre somewhat complimented the feeling of anticipation, of anxiety that each of the contestants would now be feeling, and the line "words find glory only in partnership with deeds" could not have suited this situation any better.

"Hear me, people of Radasanth..." He exclaimed to the crowd from within the cage, glancing out from beneath the veil of steel mesh to the excited faces surrounding him. "I am Canen Darkflight, the former Grand Commodore of the Grander's Order."

The crowd listened expectantly, and the rest of the cage's occupants mostly followed their own reactions.

"Once, I considered myself the liberator of evil, a warrior of the free. I fought alongisde many fallen brothers, I led the Red Dragons who eventually defeated the Castigar rule. But today, before you, is a weakened man..."

He continued, clenching his fists. "But as the good Mr Kinnidy put it, words find glory only partnership with deeds...I, Canen, the last Nocturn alive to compete today, will fight to the death to redeem my honour. I want to dedicate this match to two special people, the Silvets who made me realise that there is more to life than brutality and hostility, dispair and greed...Kaiser and Kaiserin Nightwind. My true..."

Another pause followed. Canen momentarily flinched, choking back the flooding memories of his missing best friend and his daughter.

"My true friends. So now, I stand before the people of Radasanth asking to be redeemed, and I shall find my glory here. I can feel myself changing...changing for the better. And I intend to uphold the memory of a friend who would have given his life for peace and honour, and the living legacy of his daughter..." His tone staggered, sounding almost tearful as his emerald eyes trailed off into the curious stares of the audience.

Bright sequins of torchlight around the theatre helped add to the rare emotional display by the Nocturn as he unsheathed The Valiance from its ivory sheath strapped to his back, levelling the sword point at the infamous Izvilvin from the far side of the cage. He was now of a mind to enjoy this challenge, sadness turning quickly to desire, weakness slowly metamorphasising into strength. He was drawing on every internal source of energy to drive him to a victory that would not soon be forgotten.

He was, finally, ready.

[Witchblade]

It had been countless years since she’d last seen the inside of a stadium, countless years since she’d last participated in a tournament. She’d lost that one but it was so long ago she could barely even recall what had happened, she couldn’t even recall who she had lost it to. The inside of the Citadel was not a place for her like so many of the bloodthirsty ‘warriors’ of Althanas liked to call it their home, though she craved the blood of humans upon the blades of her weapons she tried to control The Malice within her and not let it turn her into a mindless killer. After all, one cannot enjoy the killing once they are mindless.

With her eyes closed against the sight of the multitude of bodies crammed into the stadium, Witch was mainly focused on keeping her sensitive hearing to a level that didn’t give her a headache. The announcer was babbling on and on about stuff she really didn’t care about, she was here to fight not listen to the pointless words of humans. The one thing that did piss her off though was his continual mention of the word men. She’d been put on the backburner plenty of times before because someone thought her an innocent little woman who couldn’t fight worth a damn. Of course, those were the people who lived the shortest but as of right now she couldn’t attack the announcer, perhaps once she broke out of the cage she’d give him a run for his money.

When the speech finished and the noise in the stadium reached a deafening level Witch slowly cracked her eyes open, giving them time to adjust to the light. She didn’t have her cloak and her hood to protect her against the sun, not that she really needed protection from it she just found it annoying. She’d thought that the material would get in her way and she’d also left Daegun behind. The young dragon wasn’t old enough to be thrown into the melee of a battle and she didn’t want him to get hurt. So before a crowd of a few thousand people Witchblade leaned against the steel mesh of the cage she was locked in, the two daggers in the small of her back digging into the skin from the pressure. She didn’t care.

To her the crowd didn’t exist. They were but a background to this battle, a dance of eight warriors against each other and everyone. They played no part, only a distraction. As one of the participants in the cell addressed the crowd the Half-ling glanced at her other competitors. She only recognized one person, Izvilvin. She’d met the Drow not too long ago in Salvar and though they’d started off on rough terrain she could call him an ally she just wasn’t too sure where she stood in his mind. The only other female in the cell was addressing him with words and with her hands, probably her only way of communicating with him and it seemed like she wanted to partner up with him against everyone else.

She didn’t want to hurt the Drow she liked his company but she didn’t see any other way around it. She was in a tournament where one fought and perhaps even killed the other competitors. If she was lucky someone else would take him out before she was forced to. However, when the annoying human who was addressing the crowd stopped speaking Witch watched him pull his weapon and level it at Izvilvin. Her eyes narrowed, and she coolly stepped away from the mesh wall. Even with all she’d said to herself before hand about the tournament and someone else taking him out before she was forced to she couldn’t help her actions. He was an ally and the only ally she’d had in a long time. Everyone else she’d ever known on Althanas had seemingly gone to the wind and disappeared and now the one person she did know had a blade pointed at him. Witch couldn’t help but protect him, it was what she did when she considered someone an ally even if he didn’t need it or want it.

Stepping between the human and Izvilvin, Witch reached behind her and removed her mythril dagger from its sheathe. The familiar sound of ringing metal, the familiar feel of worn leather in her calloused hand and the familiar lust rising in her blood to kill. Her lips, though sown together, curved into a smirk as she looked over her newly chosen opponent. She didn’t make assumptions of him, she didn’t know whether or not he would be an easy kill she was just going to enjoy this to its fullest.

[Falcon Darkflight]

The metal mesh rattling with the force of the crowd's cheering, Canen stepped forward towards his new opponent. This female, who had pretty much been a part of the scenery compared to most of the other competitors he had been locked up in the cage with, had paced forward to stand between himself and the Drow, as if protecting him from the threat of The Valiance's point parallel with Izvilvin's form at the far end of the cage. There was, he quietly observed, a number of people who seemed ready to throw themselves into the frey for the Drow warrior, either out of friendship or blind cowardace. It would be a mistake on their part to over indulge such a bond for too long in such a tenacious tournament, and Canen was rather hoping they would soon find that little fact out the hard way to make his own life a little easier. It did not pay dividends to be the universal enemy in this state of affairs.

"Oho.." He said in a serious tone, sharpening his eyes into a glare "...so it's like that, is it? You would block the path of an enemy you don't even care to know to save the skin of another enemy? Perhaps you have forgotten your position here..."

Canen gestured an open palm outwards to the warriors standing in their various positions, some of them shuffling from side to side cautiously, but each of them paranoid of the other.

"Each of these men and women are here for the same thing. I would bet that each and every one of those same men and women want to win this event, as do I. How long do you think your petty and fragile alliance will last here? Until the time where Izvilvin decides you have served your purpose...that's when."

The corner of his black lips turned up slightly at the corners as his cautious pacing became slightly quicker. He danced slowly from side to side in a ballroom manner, picturesque of a midnight waltz, yet as un-nerving as the silent creep of a black widow spider until his form finished the movement to the woman's left side, only a couple of metres distance between them. He noticed through the corner of his eye her daggers, calculated her estimated reach and stopped dead, as if there had been an invisible wall dividing the two. He stood not a toe over the line of his calculated area.

"And you know what they say..." He dropped his voice to nearly a whisper, barely audible over the background noise of the crowd. "Fools..die young."

As if the end of the sentance had triggered a massive chemical reaction inside the black garbed body of the Nocturn, Canen roared into life, accompanied by the roar of the crowd as the first assault got underway. His strong arms pounded into action, clasping the hilt of The Valiance and arcing it from his nearside right to left, a vicious swing that was aimed specifically at the woman's left shoulder. The edge of the blade sparkled momentarily in what light was available and Canen's creased brow turned into a sickly smile.

Fools die young. A lesson you should never forget.

[Izvilvin]

Something broke through the droning noise. It was Rheawien, calling out to him. Izvilvin turned his head just enough to look at her, watch her motions and nod his head in silent agreement. The fact that she was thinking the same way as him brought a smile to his face.

The Drow turned back to observe a human man -- Canen, he remembered -- as he addressed the crowd. Izvilvin found it to be a surprisingly long-winded speech given the circumstances, and was shocked as the audience actually silenced themselves to listen to the babble. Weren't they here to witness war? And they were satisfied by this speech?

The two had worked together in the desert of Fallien not long ago, on a journey for Step to attain a staff of some ancient power. Then, Izvilvin had developed a slight distaste for the human, but now it had grown to become a great annoyance. The Drow was not opposed to answering the challenge posed by Canen's pointing blade.

But before he could take a step, Witchblade whisked between Izvilvin and his likely adversary, drawing a shining dagger of magnificent metal from behind her back. She was defending him. His face lit up with the realization.

Had he the ability to comprehend the man's words, Izvilvin would have simply marveled at how inaccurate Canen's assumptions of him were. But that was the stigma which followed him, being a drow elf. His kind were greatly evil by nature, and so he was associated with that evil, regardless of the fact that Izvilvin had many more good tendencies than bad.

Then, like a flash, the beginnings of battle erupted as Canen brought his sword to bear, attacking one of Izvilvin's only worldly acquaintances. Pure instinct spurred the Drow into a run, dashing past Witchblade altogether to aid her against the huge human. Both sai flashed quickly, two brutal swipes intended to rip the innards from Canen's stomach, then Izvilvin was beyond them both, turning to face Canen's back so that he and Witchblade would have the man pincered.

"Udos shlu'ta uxxahuu d' usstan queelas!" He called to Witchblade, knowing full well that her psychic abilities would deceifer what he was trying to get across. "Nindol shlu'ta doera natha xonathull tu'fyr udos llar!"

The idea was to eliminate Canen with all speed, then focus on the other combatants, leaving just Izvilvin, Rheawien and Witchblade to battle to the finish. The Drow had no problem with fighting his friends as long as it was in the interest of contest, but to ensure one of them winning, teamwork was necessary to eliminate the others.

Honorable it was not, but Izvilvin couldn't care less.

[Walter]

One of the unknowns in the second cage was a scrawny, ragged-looking man with tangled black hair and dark eyes. Jon Walter wasn't physically impressive, and he had almost no weapons to speak of. While some crazy white-haired bitch was loaded for bear, all Jon had on him was a knife. One knife. What goddamned reason did he have to be in the Cell, surrounded by seasoned warriors?

Seasoned freaks was more like it. Once Jon had been situated in the mesh cage with the other fighters, it didn't take him long to figure out he was in a coop full of nuts. Women! Pointy-eared mutants! Skeletons! It was enough to make Jon sick, all this Cell was about was pitting deformities against eachother. After all, Jon was hardly normal either. But that's why he'd signed up in the first place.

No matter what happened, Jon Walter would be the last man standing. That's all that mattered to him in the end. It didn't matter how strong any of these freaks were; in the end, he'd be standing on their fucking graves.

*****

The fight was off to a slow start. The announcer and the crowd were too damn loud for Jon, and he wanted to yell back at the cheering people of Radasanth to shut their yaps. The noise was distracting; it made working up the necessary blood lust difficult. And Jon didn't even want to get started on that announcement; he heard 'mercy,' 'honor' and 'glory,' but didn't buy into any of it. This was going to be a fight. He knew best that those usually involved pain, blood and death. Where was the honor in that?

Jon had no idea that anyone was planning on teaming-up; the idea hadn't even occurred to him. He preferred the idea of the free-for-all anyway. He ignored the white-haired lady and her drow friend while they signalled to each other. His attention instead was captured by Canen Assflight, whatever his name was. The man's speech was stirring, all right. It made Walter want to wipe all that talk of honor off his face. And here he was, in the Cell, about to do just that.

Somebody got to it before him. First some stitch-lipped broad and then the dark-skinned freak he'd spotted before. Jon wasn't going to let them have the satisfaction of ganging up on Assflight, he decided. While the drow was turned to flank his target, his unarmored back was completely exposed. Jon decided it was time for him to start fighting.

He ran across the flat, enclosed space, feeling uncomfortably warm as his blood began to boil beneath his skin. That was the feeling of the rage, and it was the only other edge Jon would have. He'd jump on the drow's back and show no mercy as he stabbed into that dark flesh, wild like an animal. Whipping out his knife, Jon Walter was about to get the drop on one of the Cell's mighty warriors.

[Rheawien]

That was what she got for trying to make an alliance with a man. Even though Izvilvin seemed to respond to her proposal affirmatively, nodding his head mutely and even offering a meek smile, he proceeded to join forces with another female. Another female that wanted to be the alpha female of this cell. And Rheawien would have none of it. The imposing woman stood between the drow and another man that flapped his gums, trying to make himself more important then he really was and succeeding only in making a larger ass out of himself. Men and their speeches. Mendan Kinnity did one, this black haired bastard did one and she was becoming more and more certain that Izvilvin would make one if anybody understood what the hell he was talking about.

To hell with coalitions and treacherous allies. No reason to play it the nice way, no reason to play it any other way but the bloody one. Rheawien put away her whip, tucking it into her belt before her hands produced a pair of damascus glaives, shined to perfection and glistening menacingly. She wasn’t a very good shot with them, but thanks to her improving telekinetic powers, she didn’t have to be. Regardless of how awry her throw might prove to be, she could correct it, direct it and made it find its new home in the flesh of her opponents.

However, before she got a chance to fling her pair of projectiles, another man stepped into the fray. With his attire tattered and worn, and his black hair tousled and unkempt, he looked like a genuine bum to Rhea. His entry and initial attack only further confirmed her assessment since he charged from behind with nothing but a knife in his hands, aiming at Izvilvin’s back. Rheawien, whose sentiments towards the drow quelled rather rapidly once he picked the other female as his sidekick, opted against stopping this backstabbing attack. Instead she waited for the hobo-looking man to finish with his infuriated strike, her hand merely slipping towards the holster at her hip to produce another glaive.

Three glaives. Three men. And then she would show that bitch what real combat was all about. The pale hands of the half-elf rifled the three glaives in rapid succession, sending them towards three separate targets rather sloppily. But the second all the departed from her fingers, the forefinger of her left hand joined the middle finger, producing a telekinetic hold over the three projectiles. They sailed through the air at blistering speed, spinning with a high-pitched wheezing sound. The first was aimed at the swordsman’s right shoulder. The second one went for the bum’s lower back. The third one went for Izvilvin’s neck.

Nobody double-crossed her.

***

The crowd cheered raucously once the white-haired woman joined the heat of the battle, their roaring screams welcoming each thrown glaive with a deafening hoot. Only two figures sat still, though their anxiousness seemed to be seeping through their very pores, displayed in the unrest of their feet, in the jittery movement of their itchy fingers. The one on the right, a voluminous fellow with a bald bead and a nose as red as a pepper, looked at his companion in dismay.

“A-Are you sure she’s taking the fall, boss?” he asked, his eyes darting from the cage to the scrawny face with a pointy nose that sat beside him. The gray haired man didn’t get his keen azure eyes off the battle below as he responded.

“Yes. She can’t be stupid enough not to.”

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin didn't even have time to see if his weapons had done any damage. He'd heard the scuttling of the man behind him, but had become aware of the approach too late to avoid the man's onslaught. The Drow nearly buckled under the weight of the man, who literally leapt onto his back and hung there. To his horror, Izvilvin felt the cold steel of a blade plunging deep into his shoulder blade.

A roar of intense pain escaped him as flesh was pierced, but even in the wake of the sudden attack, Izvilvin had the sense to drop one of his sai and reach back, grabbing the wrist of the man before he could do any more damage. He wasn't much bigger than Izvilvin, so it wasn't particularly difficult to ignore the pain in his shoulder and flip the ragged bum over onto his back.

The crowd roared like ravenous vampires at the sight of Izvilvin's blood, savages for the thrill of the fight. The battle had started out slow, but blood had been spilled only a moment into the fight, sparking a chorus of cheers. No one seemed to mind that the attack had been from behind and rather shamefully accomplished. Already loud bets were being called out, as spectators began to wager on Izvilvin being the first combatant to die.

The Drow staggered backward, away from the man and his own fallen sai, and reached back to lay a hand on the wound. Blood stained his palm, bringing a sneer to the usually placid face of the warrior. The pain was immense, almost paralyzing, though Izvilvin tried his best to deal with it. The shock of being stabbed, more than anything, was what had him so off balance.

Something caught his eye, demanding his attention and commanding his composure to return. Izvilvin threw up his weapon, deflecting the glaive aside before it could carve through him. His eyes, wide with shock, went straight to Rheawien. He knew she carried those particular weapons with her, but why would she attack him?

He watched her for a moment, a flurry of different emotions overtaking him as he studied her face. Eventually he tore his eyes away. If Rheawien wanted to betray him, he wasn't going to make it an easy decision for her by returning the attack. Besides, perhaps it had all been an accident.

For now, he had this man to deal with. Izvilvin felt like an idiot for letting him get in an easy attack, but he would fight through the pain and make sure his mobility was not hindered. He replaced the dropped sai with another one from his belt and beckoned the man to fight him face-to-face. The Drow would pay him back in spades.

[Serilliant]

At the tip of a descending staff stood a tine of solid mythril. Its form was flaccid, gripped uneasily by a frail nobleman foolishly lusting for the thrills of past adventures. The man's gaze that skipped apprehensively down the shaft of his weapon and a short distance across the floor of the arena landed upon the forms of men and women twisted in combat. It was a sound strategy, he had imagined, to keep sidelined, back pressed tightly to the mesh of the enclosure with lance erect and primed to be brandished to fend off any who may approach. In his head was pictured a grandiose figure clad in robes of brilliant azure with weapon readied. But in the eyes of the rabid observers stood an emasculated form in haughty attire with nothing more than a slack strut.

****

It was on the bow of his sailing vessel two days prior to the start of the tournament that a member of his crew asked of him, "Serilliant, why risk your life in a cage of strangers when you have nothing to prove?" He pondered that question for a few moments, and after drawing deep a breath of sea air responded, "because it's not the aristocrats I want to please anymore; it's the warriors and the adventurers who refuse to take me seriously. I once slew a hydra, and now the best I'm known for is a brand of mercantilism. It's not who I am." With that, he drew in one more shallow breath before turning away from the sailor and retiring to his bedchambers.

That night, he dreamed of the Cell. He toyed with images of a giant clad only in a sheepskin draped precariously around his waist. The monster's one single eye was fixed fearlessly upon him. Over its horned head it raised a spiked club doused in the blood, sinew, and flesh of his competitors. The crowd cheered wildly as it lurched closer. Serilliant looked to his right and spotted his sword thrown violently to the side of the arena. It had broken. He looked down and could see his armor pierced, a lance driven cruelly into his gut. He looked back up again and the beast was bringing down his cudgel. Right before the abominable impact, Serilliant awoke.

****

There were no giants of men in this arena now. The feeling of the dream's ominousness persisted, however. He watched a cruel female half-elf as he released three projectiles on three approaching men. For a moment, Serilliant saw her with one eye. When he blinked, the image was gone. He hoisted his partisan more defiantly now, and kept it tuned in the direction of that woman. His eyes darted untrustingly around the arena, looking for an approaching attacker hidden in the shadows. He felt increasing pressure on his back as he pressed harder into the mesh walls, fighting to take in as much of the scene as possible. Unrecognized faces adorned the bodies of all those around him, and Serilliant surveyed their scabbards for any sign of weapons capable of outreaching his. With lance fully erect, the young nobleman held steady, hoping to escape notice and relying on the length of his weapon to keep any potential attacker at bay.

This game was not one of killing, but one of survival.

[Witchblade]

The human was long winded. All he did was talk and for a moment the half-ling wondered if stepping between him and Izvilvin had been a good idea. If this kept up she wasn’t going to get any kind of battling in, all she was going to do was die the horrible death of being talked to death, which was not appealing. If she was going to go down, which wasn’t going to be anytime soon, it was not going to be pretty and it was not going to be so calm. It was going to be on a battlefield nothing the likes of this and definitely not for the entertainment of the human’s below her. Humans she would love to kill right now, especially with all their noise.

Witch didn’t bother to respond to the human, she knew Izvilvin and he was her ally, though she wouldn’t say she trusted him. She never trusted anyone she was just fiercely protective of anyone who she considered an ally. Whatever this human thought he knew she didn’t care, she did care however when his blade suddenly moved from his side. It was a quick attack, or was supposed to be but she stepped out of the way just in time to see Izvilvin run past her and attempt to slice open the human’s stomach, a move she preferred greatly when fighting since no one ever died quickly from it.

When he started talking to her in Drow she opened her senses and invaded his head understanding everything he was telling her. However once the Drow was finished one of the other human competitor’s snuck up behind him Witchblade didn’t have enough time to react.

”Izvilvin, look out!”

She wasn’t used to assaults like this where competitors came at you from every angle and neither was Izvilvin it seemed, he didn’t react quickly enough and the human stabbed him in the shoulder. Her first instinct was to run over and heal him but they were in a melee and her healing took too long and she knew that eventually Izvilvin could be one of her opponents, why give him a helping hand? If they had to fight in the end then so be it, she knew he understood this was a tournament setting and so did she, though she would prefer it another way she could handle it and him.

It was at this moment that the only other female in the cage launched her attack and Witch watched Izvilvin deflect it, she also watched the emotions cross his face and didn’t delve into his head to find out what was going on in there. The female had clearly done something to double cross him but she didn’t care.
Taking out her Titanium dagger, Witch approached the man who had attacked Izvilvin from behind.

”Izzy, you distract him from the front I’ll pay back the attack in kind.”

She knew he probably wanted to do it himself but she didn’t care. Stepping up quietly behind the man, Witch tightened her grip on the rough leather of her mythril dagger, a sinister grin flitting over her face as she attempted to bury the dagger to the hilt in the man’s back.

[Falcon Darkflight]

Canen swallowed hard as he felt The Valiance cut through nothing but air, the force of his swing staggering him out of position almost into a clumsy stumble to the left. He felt his feet shuffle below him, slipping on the stony dirt as if it were like ice, his female opponent sharp enough to use her wits and evade the fierce attack, but now the Nocturn had another problem. Izvilvin, the Drow with which he had journeyed to Fallien with and encountered the Nomad of the Desert Palace, had rushed to Canen's blindside with a great deal of speed and had launched a merciless assault of his own. As one of the Sai's penetrated the pale white skin on Canen's waist, everything seemed to slow down a great deal. The crowd's faces melded into a river of pale liquid, the torchlight simply specks of yellow and gold amongst an ocean of stone and flesh. The pain slowly crawled up his spine and into his brain like a vine of creeper, grasping him suddenly and coldly, and the black liquid of his bloodstream trickled in pungent forks over the surface of the open wound.

Izvilvin was anything but weak, and the force of the attack coupled with Canen's own misbalance was enough to launch him awkwardly against the side of the steel meshing, and bring the Nocturn to ground in a crumpled heap. As he raised his head up from the dirt he saw a watery, blurred ocean of chaos in front of him. Izvilvin had been attacked from behind, and the bitch he had tried to attack was pouring every ounce of effort into defending him. He just couldn't understand it.

Are they so unconfident in their own abilities that they have to depend on each other for survival here?

The cold steel mesh touched the side of his face as he lolled his head back, the cool touch sucking him back into real time. Since his wounding, no one had rushed to take advantage, to get an easy kill. No one had hardly even noticed him fall. Did they deem him unworthy of battle? Was he not even considered a threat? To suffer to deliberation of warriors such as these was an insult he couldn't forgive.

I remember this feeling. Is it the same hate? That familiar Abhorrence?

He slowly clawed his right hand at the honeycombed mesh and used the leverage to pull himself back onto his vertical base, locking his fingers around the hilt of The Valiance slowly and sheathing it into its ivory case on his back, the dull sound of scraping metal completely drowned out by a wave of cheers. By now, the woman whom had stepped in his path had made the mistake of turning her back on him to face another, one he did not recognise, and Canen sought to take the opportunity before it faded. He raised his free right hand into the air and let out a deep sigh, focusing every energy into his arm as he swirled it round, flicking the wrist in a circular motion as the temperature around him plummeted below freezing. Small and thin glistening particles of ice swirled in a majestic dust, colliding with one another to form a cloud of six inch long needles of frozen vapour, and finally remained in stasis a metre in front of their summoner.

Now...I will show you pain. The true, undeniable definition of writhing agony!

The Nocturn, now back to his feet, thrust his palm forward commandingly and the cloud of ice needles thrust forward towards Witch's back, magically propelled by his reserves of inner power. Their razor sharp points shimmered in the light as they shot through the air towards their seemingly defenceless target, whistling in a high pitched drone.

[Walter]

STAB
"tch..."
"Agh!"
FWUMP

It happened faster than Jon could react. He'd stabbed the black-skinned bastard just like he'd planned, and he was sure the drow would be feeling that one until the Cell was over. But the pointy-eared fucker had thrown him off and into the dirt. The glaive that had been aimed for Jon's backside whizzed by harmlessly. He wasn't even aware the crazy bitch had tried to pull something. Keeping his focus where it was at, the scoundrel rolled off his back. Jon wasn't about to let the mutant stab him while he was down.

Jon's left hand brushed against something. Groping the ground, Jon folded his fingers around another weapon; a sai. It had a good solid weight, and he picked it up as he rose from the ground. Straight across from him was the drow, and the look in its eyes said everything. The dark elf wanted Jon to bring it on. Jon cocked his knife-holding arm back. Y'want s'more, huh?! he thought, as his body heated up from the inside. He was going to show that cocky sonovabitch he-

STAB

There was a dagger in Jon's back. His eyes flew open and the wind was forced from his lungs. That stitch-lipped broad had shanked him when he wasn't looking! That bitch! Jon's cheeks flushed in inexplicable humiliation, even as he tried to look past the pain. Almost never, throughout the course of Jon's immortal life, had he been stabbed by a woman.

Without even thinking about it, all of Jon's attention had turned to the half-vampire freak behind him. He didn't consider that the drow was still on his other side; this was the tactical disadvantage of being flanked. Jon sucked in a lungful of air, snarling as he spun around. He bent his neck forward and rushed the girl, intending to slice into her with one of his two weapons. There was no way Jon could know she was being attacked from behind, and that didn't matter either. His rage had settled into the arena, and everything Jon saw was tinted red.

[Izvilvin]

Coming into the cell, Izvilvin had originally thought it would be less chaotic and he would be able to face one fighter at a time, moving at his own pace and keeping composed. But since the beginning of the hectic battle, he had been in the center of a whirlwind of steel, attacked from every possibly direction. It had only been a few moments! He could have prepared better for this, and he knew it, feeling foolish. For now, he would simply rely on his instincts, hoping they would be enough to save his life another dozen times on his way to victory.

The shoulder wound was not as bad as he'd first feared. The pain was excruciating to say the least, but Izvilvin was only hindered by sharp burning sensations as he moved that particular arm, and by some miracle, it did not effect the movement of the limb. It could have been much, much worse, but his quick response to the attack had saved him.

No less excited was the crowd, even if the Drow was still up and fighting. He had been wounded, which meant to many observers that their sacks would soon bulge with more gold. A chant of "kill the drow!" had broken out in some sections of the audience, and if Izvilvin could understand it, it might have thrown him off.

A tingling sensation poked at his forehead, and he heard the voice of Witchblade in his mind as she used her psychic abilities to communicate. He nodded without shifting his eyes from Jon, agreeing with her idea without surrendering to the man that they were working together.

But something in the air stirred, disturbing his senses in some metaphysical way he could not quite grasp.

Izvilvin had seen invocation magic performed perhaps thrice in his life. In Alerar, most magic he learned of was glyph and enchantment-based, few wizards chose to summon particles of the elements to do their dirty work. So it was with some surprise that he observed Canen in his peripheral vision, creating some strange coldness Izvilvin could feel even from this distance. To the Drow's surprise, needles of ice came into existence and whistled through the air toward the back of his mute ally.

"Faer!" He cried to Witchblade, the Drow word for magic. It was all that he could think to say as he charged forward after Jon, who darted at the psychic woman just as the spell was evoked. The man had burst into a run a mere moment after scooping up his bloodied sai.

The bastard back-stabber was looking to trap her between himself and the spell, a rather cunning tactic if it hadn't been completely accidental. Izvilvin himself would have employed the same maneuver were he in the same situation. But unlike him, Jon had a Drow charging behind him to even the odds.

He wanted to throw a sai with all force, but the idea of missing and hitting Witchblade instead stilled his anxious hand. Izvilvin did not get to him in time to stop the immortal's attack, and he cursed himself for it. Rheawien was not his immediate concern, but she was in the back of his mind, a lingering thought that made it hard for the Drow to focus.

[Rheawien]

“See? She’s just playing around a little bit. Trying to make it look good.” the sallow-skinned loanshark spoke again, his stone-cold face breaking into a smirk as three spinning projectiles missed their intended targets and the mass sighed in unison. But only for a brief moment, because the four in the middle of the cage were already going at it again tooth and nail, and there was chance of drawn blood yet.

“Uhm... I’m not so sure boss. She-She seems pretty pissed off.” the fat blob at the usurer’s flank muttered, his hands holding to the brass banister as he strained his eyes to peer further into the cage.

***

Her deadly trio missed despite her telekinetic attempt to guide them immaculately. Some were evaded by pure chance, some by deft dodging, but in the end the three spinning missiles whistled by the three men harmlessly. Rheawien wasn’t terribly surprised by the lack of concrete result. Her homing method was still in the early phases of training and as such far from foolproof. It was an immense strain on her mind to control even one object, let alone moving three in sync, and during such times her focus had to be at its best. Unfortunately, with thousands of nitwits screaming up on the platforms and seven foes that were (or would eventually be) out to get her, her concentration wasn’t at its peak. Not by a long shot. And especially not when she got back-stabbed at the very beginning.

Still, there was plenty enough for her to recall her glaives. The three damascus weapon stopped their revolving in mid air once they missed the three men, then reversed their trajectory and hovered back towards the half-elf. The battle between the four raged on, unhinged, no better then a bar fight by Rhea’s reckoning, with treacherous attacks coming from behind at regular basis. She could’ve joined in, get even more chaos into an already helter-skelter strife, but her mind reiterated that she had to play it smart. Let them wear themselves out by taking on multiple opponents at once. Let them be Letho with his head-on tactics – or rather lack thereof – and rigid battle plans. Once they’re done with each other, she’d pick up the pieces and dispatch of her would-be dispatchers.

By the time the three glaives returned to her side and were now levitating above her head like a trio of oversized hornets, the white-haired woman noticed another combatant. Clad in what looked like a lofty merchant attire, the man looked terribly out of place, a prissy nobleman that lost his way to his manor up in the Government district and wound up in the cage. If it weren’t for the majestic polearm in her feeble wan hands, Rheawien would have mistaken him for the Cell official or something akin to that (though she severely lacked knowledge on whether or not there was supposed to be one within the cage). However, the lance made it clear that this particular spoiled richboy came to compete.

Rhea smirked rather cynically. She hated pompous royalty and their holier-then-thou demeanor.

She left the four to whatever fate had in store for them – making a clear mental note to kill that black-haired bitch if she’s the last one standing – and walked towards the peculiar combatant. Her steps were precarious, intentionally feminine, her hips swaying gently as the three glaives fell behind her back and out of sight. Her left hand still had a telekinetic hold over them, but the power needed to control them was dissipating from her every second. Rhea knew that she had to launch them soon or she would spend too much energy on wielding them.

“Excuse me, sir. You seem rather out of place.” Rheawien spoke to the man, her voice callous, but her smirk was on like an omen. “Maybe I can put you into the right one.”

Her two fingers made a minute, unseeable motion and the three glaives sprung from behind her, one passing by her each side and the third one emerging above their head. The spun again, the sound that was now quite dulcet to the half-elf, and then darted towards the nobleman.

[Krugor]

“Flowers!”

Krugor cried out in a child-like happiness, like a mere infant who first witnessed the loving warmth of a mother. “Pretty flowers!” he cried out again, smiling from head to toe.
The skeleton lay on the ground of the steel cage rolling around in the dirty, yet not really uncomfortable sand. He had his arms covered around his own body and his eyes were tightly closed. The illusionary effects of the famous Gnork mushroom he cooked yesterday hadn’t gone away yet.

“Go away! My flowers!” he said suddenly, changing the sound of his voice to a lesser degree of happiness. The euphoric state of before slowly left his body. Bones started to rattle in their sockets once again as Krugor carefully opened his eyes and tried to get up.

Placing his hands beneath his shoulders and pushing himself upwards he shook his head and took a look at his surroundings. Where was he? He couldn’t quite figure out what was going on. Though it was clear that the place, wherever it was, was really crowded. The undead could hear lots of voices; screaming, roaring and cheering. He rubbed his empty eye sockets, but all he could see was a bright green glow, as if he was looking through sunglasses. Rubbing his eyes again he could swear there were some elephants near him. Krugor could only distinct really vague figures in his surroundings, for the bright glow that seemed to cover everything like a big, warm green blanket, hindering his vision. “Little elephant!” he said, pointing at the figure in front of him; “you took my flowers!”

Clearly not fully aware of what he was doing he sped towards the person in front of him. Waving his hands in the air he raced to the figure, not really knowing if he was closing in or not. But as if he just saw a ghost he instantly stopped. His lower jaw bone literally dropped to the floor as he bended his head a little. Krugor made some crazy noises, much like a man being chocked to death. Realising he lost his jaw he bended over to pick it up. “You’re no mean elephant” the undead said, while reattaching his jaw. “You’re a cute little fat elephant!” he screamed at the woman in front of him, slowly falling back into the careless euphoric state he was in before. Krugor raised both his arms up in an attempt to hug the person. Smiling he stepped forward. “Let me hug you, fatty!” he said in soothing voice, the tip of his tongue revealing through the side of his lips.

Little did he know that there was no elephant. Or even something similar. Though that little fact finally became very clear to him as he stood next to the former “elephant”. The elf like face of a woman became apparent through his blurry vision as he walked up very closely. “Wait. What?” Krugor scratched his pointy, boned fingers over his bald skull, closing his eyes to only leave a small opening for him to look through. He looked intensely at the female in front of him. The person became more and more clear, until he could suddenly see the white-haired elf in front of him, throwing several glaives at other vague figures around her. “Fatty?” he asked confused.

[Serilliant]

The shadow was a dubious ally, prone to betrayal and quick to compromise the defenses of those who sought refuge. It had taken only moments for the shadows to recede and expose the vulnerable Serilliant. He spotted the approach of his assailant rapidly. The woman seemed to taunt him with her femininity, letting three bladed projectiles dance untouched gracefully around her. As they floated, Serilliant's eyes shifted cautiously between each before arriving back at the face of the young woman, and then back to the weapons. His partisan stood straight out from his form as if a tumescent appendage and pointed threateningly at his aggressor. He waited patiently for the emergence of another weapon, figuring the three spinning glaives to be nothing more than showmanship.

And then, as if commanded by the force of pure will, the bladed triad cut through the air toward Serilliant. The attack was sudden, and the reflexes of the faux nobleman forced his body into a slight crouch. With eyes pressed tightly closed, he attempted to duck away from the assault of the first projectile. It cut into the mesh harmlessly but dangerously close to his right temple. The second was, by stroke of luck, deflected by the mythril tip of his lance. Certainly, the blessing of the great white goddess Bes was certainly on Serilliant this day. The third ran itself into the solid prevalida of his breastplate, clanging triumphantly and prompting a thunder of cheers from onlookers, but doing scant damage save for an unattractive scratch on its polished surface.

The assault left Serilliant momentarily breathless, and he eyed the glaive that had fallen to the Cell floor after making contact with his armor. The dull scratch was directly over his heart. Seeing its location caused the man to draw in an abbreviated puff of air as his grip loosened slightly. His gaze ascended to meet the eyes of the attacking woman and, fearing follow-up, he forced himself back to awareness and pleaded with his body to formulate a counterattack.

His subordinate hand left the shaft of his spear and was raised, outstretched, at shoulder height. Serilliant focused on building a bolt of mental energies in the palm of his extended hand. A tiny pocket of air began to grow more dense at his command and with the strength he could muster, Serilliant willed it outward toward the form of the young woman. Supposing that the woman possessed the strength of average human lasses, the energies should have been enough to render her slightly off balance in preparation for his next attack. Assuming her to be a seasoned warrior, Serilliant knew that this may be his only chance to take the upper hand before her superior experience overwhelmed him. Trusting the strength of his metal energies, he then stepped forward, partisan poised, and ready to thrust into her prone body.

[Rheawien]

Rheawien barely had enough time to witness her attacks failing yet again when she was blindsided by another combatant. A very peculiar combatant. He – or rather it – looked like something that ought to be six-feet under and pushing a fair amount of daisies instead of scurrying around the cage and attempting to... hug her? And what did it call her? An elephant? A fat elephant? The thing was clearly out of its mind... Well, if it actually had a mind inside that bony head. Given his current demeanor, Rhea reckoned that what little gray matter the thing might’ve had prior to its death became maggot food a long time ago. After all, he called her fat. Rheawien maybe didn’t work out every day, but elven panache was more then prominent in her curves.

“What the... Get away from me, thing!” the half-elf shouted, and for good measure – Fatty the wretched undead minion dubbed her?! – she fired a sideward kick with her right leg. It was aimed towards the skeleton’s crotch, an instinctive, anti-men assault that The Bitch perfected as of late, and only when it was done it occurred to Rhea that there might be no equipment down there to hurt. Her pride and vanity wanted to add some smarmy remark how telling the women that they are fat animals wasn’t a nice thing to do, but her mentations were curtailed before they became something coherent.

It was a shove that broke her train of thought, an unseen force that originated from the noble spear wielder. It was by no means dangerously forceful, but given the fact that Rheawien still recovered from the lesson she was kicking into the skeleton, it sent her stumbling backwards. Her arms were flinging at her sides, feebly trying to regain the balance she was robbed off. The follow-up came instantly. The spear was thrust at her, aimed to kill and it would probably succeed in that intention if a lesser woman stumbled backwards. Rhea, however, had a cat-like reflexes and an attack that would usually impale her throat like a sausage grazed her skin as she jerked his body sideways, rotating her torso at the very last moment. Blood trickled down her pale skin, descending down her collar bone and disappearing in the depths of her cleavage. A round of cheers exploded through the arena at the sight of drawn blood. And Rheawien was pissed for not being the one who drew it.

Her retribution was swift and relentless. The two hands moved in perfect sync, their movement fluid and resolute as they were guided to her weapons. Her left seized the dagger at her hip. Her right reached above her shoulder and wrapped around the titanium katana. A split second delay. Rhea smirked.

The smaller of the two blades moved first, unsheathed and slashed sideways in a single move that aimed to push the partisan sideways. Whether the two weapons clashed or she struck nothing was irrelevant because her katana came from above, preceded by the smooth sound of the metal blade leaving the scabbard. The slash was aimed to return the favor, immaculately diving towards the base of the nobleman’s neck.

[Krugor]

Krugor’s attempt to cuddle with Rheawien was ended with a hard kick in the genital area. It didn’t hit his groin, nor would it matter if it did, for the skeleton had lost all external signs of manliness long ago. It did, however, hit the undead’s pelvis. The strength of blow immediately dislocated the bone, forcing it to bend slightly backwards. As a result of this the bones of his right leg slowly raised up, making his left a bit longer. Krugor now walked totally crooked, with two legs not the same height anymore.

He was about to ask the woman why she just did that, confused about how such a friendly mammal could make such a dishonorable attack. But it never came to that for Rheawien got attacked by, what seemed like, a spear soaring by. Krugor held his breath as she rotated gracefully around the weapon, preventing it from killing her. He sighed in relief when she was safe. “Good work, elephant” he said. The illusion took him in it’s grasp fully once again as the woman moved farther away from him, for refusing to pay anymore attention at him the elf sped towards her attacker.

The skeleton watched the situation unfold as he tried hard to keep himself standing. He was still drugged and the entire area seemed to rotate wildly. It felt like he was floating on the ocean, like a horseback ride with some minor nausea discomfort. Krugor stumbled after the elf, not moving that fast, for it was really hard to walk around with a dislocated pelvis and one leg now longer than the other. And if that wasn’t enough, the blurry green perception of his surroundings still hadn’t gone away, in fact, it seemed like they grew stronger as his beloved mammal got attacked. He now leaned somewhat sideways and wobbled a bit as he moved to the attacker of his elephant. “Find your own!” he screamed at the figure.

Krugor grabbed the steel pot from his rucksack in one quick motion and raised it up high. Aiming for the man’s head he slammed it down vertically. But without any warning the skeleton’s body snapped the pelvis back into place, forcing Krugor to fall over with rude force. Mumbling he lay on the ground, watching everything move on without him interfering. He picked up the pot laying next to him and threw it with all his might, as if it was a last attempt to save his animal from getting killed. “Go, go cooking pot!” he yelled as he threw the thing towards the battling couple, not really knowing which one of the two it would hit.

After this he forced himself on his feet again and took the slender yew staff, that was attached to his backpack. Leaning heavily on the piece of wood, still feeling quite some pain from his bones snapping in and out of place, he looked intensely around the cage again, getting easily distracted from the battle in front of him. Several other figures where now more apparent and Krugor softly chuckled to himself. “So many animals here. Maybe I should cook them something nice.”

[Witchblade]

The blade slid cleanly into the back of the human before her, he hadn’t even sensed or heard her approach. She loved the shock that went through his body, she could feel it, she could sense it and it reminded her of one of the reasons why she loved battling so much. The rush of adrenaline through blood, the clashing of steel, that tiny thought in the back of ones mind that this may be the last, the last of anything and everything. She loved it all.

Sliding the blade from the back of the human, Witch smiled at her handiwork. The cool steel covered and glistening in his blood and dripping from the ends of it, there was no scream of pain and that saddened the half-ling however she would have plenty of cries in this tournament to settle her bloodlust. She could hear the scream of her own in the back of her mind, steadily growing louder and forced into the forefront of her thoughts. She pushed mentqally against it, returning The Malice to the corners and darkers reccesses of her mind that even she kenw nothing about.

If The Malice got a hold of her during this tournament, the amount of damage she could do before someone was able to stop her could be devastating. Powers kept in check could be unleashed and The Malice did not descriminate against anyone she called an 'ally', they would all be killed and she would be locked within her own mind unable to do anything. Then, there was of course the fact that anyone trying to stop her would not nicely knock her unconscious but kill her and she was not yet ready for that journey of her life. Dying was going to be a great adventure when it finally happened to her but right now this was an even greater adventure and she wasn’t through with it yet.

As the human began to turn towards her, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end and Witch had the distinct feeling of growing magic behind her. The thought was verified when Izvilvin yelled a warning at her and rushing forward though she knew he would not make it in time to help, not that it mattered. With the human’s attack on her, Witch stopped her Titanium dagger hearing the metal clang against the floor of the cage. She wrapped her fingers around the wrist of the human and twisted and pulled him in close at the same time. She spun him around, jamming his hand up into the small of his back, which was not against her front, then quickly turned to two of them towards the ice attack. If this work right then the entire force of Canen’s magic wouldn’t even touch her, but would instead hit her knew human shield.

[Serilliant]

Serilliant felt resistance as the force of air he conjured met the tense body of his opponent. Just as one might experience when physically shoving a foe, the sensation of mental struggle was readily apparent to those with psionic abilities. Moments into the push, Serilliant felt his enemy succumb to its compulsion, and she stumbled backward slightly. Realizing an opening, he thrust the brandished polearm at her maw, hoping the brutality of the kill would be enough to ward off any other would-be assailants.

Her intuition was as sharp as a shiv, however, and with a twist she averted the partisan's deadly path. Serilliant felt almost no resistance as the keen mythril blade slid along her collarbone, opening a small gash and tainting the bluish metal with a red hue. Realizing immediately that the mark was missed, he quickly tried to halt the momentum of the attack and recoil for a second strike. Before it could be done, however, light flashed into Serilliant's eyes from twin blades unsheathed and made to expose their cruel, stinging edges. Deciding immediately to abandon a second attack and move to a defensive position, he dropped his dominant hand from the lance's shaft to regain his balance. Before he could be of steady foot, however, the delicate albeit seasoned female made her strike.

A smaller blade, presumably some kind of dagger, embedded itself into a notch on the spear in which wooden shaft and metal tip met and began to force it away. With only one of Serilliant's hands on the weapon, it was easily wrenched away and tumbled unceremoniously to the Cell's floor. The wood collided first sending a dull, reverberating thud through the arena followed by a sharp metallic clang as the blade followed suit. A second chime came almost immediately after the first as if to herald a new arrival. That sound was generated by a curious yet perfectly normal cooking pot that had somehow found its way into the battlefield. The sudden unexpected noise lured Serilliant's attention, as well as the eyes of several onlookers. Both pot and partisan were easily within grasping range, and the man pondered for precious moments whether to rearm himself with his trusty polearm when his attention was rapidly returned to the half-elvan woman now making a second assault.

Those eyes that had been distracted quickly regretted their decision as they spotted a cherry blemish on the shoulder and right bicep of Serilliant's breastplate. An unseen katana had ruthlessly split the air to make contact with the disarmed man's nape. The twist that he had been forced into as a result of his lost weapon became a lifesaving endeavor as the sword narrowly missed Serilliant's head and met instead with collar of his armor. The unfeeling edge of the blade would not be satisfied with failure to feel of blood, however, and still managed to find an exposed trapezius between the plates of the prevalida shoulder. The cut was clean but painful, and Serilliant fell back onto his knees as blood splashed dramatically onto his cheek and forearm as the katana was withdrawn. His shoulder began to grow damp as the gash filled the inside of his armor, and a tiny tributary made its way down his arm, onto his hand, and into the larger puddle formed by both he and his opponent's wounds.

Serilliant knew that he was exposed and vulnerable. His mind turned away from his laceration and toward the schiavona in his scabbard. Summoning his mental energies once again, he willed the weapon from its sheath. Resting the weight of his upper body on his right arm that now reached to the floor, Serilliant grabbed the hilt of his sword and drew it out, flourishing its long blade and preparing to parry any other incoming attack.

From his knees, he knew that his advantage was lost, but concentrated on diverting whatever future blow may descend to give him, then, enough time to return to his feet and repay the wound. The young lass was a capable foe indeed, but in the end, she was still only a woman.

[Walter]

Jon ran across the dirt, nearly blind with rage. All that he could see was the stitch-lipped bitch, and all that Jon wanted to see was his knife plunged deep into her. He ignored everything else, even the stab wound that was bleeding through his stained, greasy tunic. This was the state of mind in which all men make their worst mistakes.

She'd grabbed him. Right when Jon had been close enough to hit her, the damn broad had dropped her dagger and caught Jon's knife hand with a solid grip. And then he was being pulled. The bum didn't even notice; he'd been trying to get close to the half-vampire, and now he was. His knife-hand was no good, so he thrust his free hand, the one with the sai, into the freak as hard as he could. Jon couldn't tell whether or not he hit anything, because the next moment he was spinning around and thrashing.

With far more skill than Jon could claim, the witch twisted his arm behind his back and pushed up. Having died once or twenty times, Jon was used to pain, but it had been a while since he'd felt his bones being forced to move in ways they shouldn't. The strain was intense, and all Jon could do was thrash against the grip of the woman holding him. She was staying away from his sai hand.
"LEGGO!" he shouted, spittle flying from his red face. And then he found himself looking at what was ahead.

Oh, shit. A cloud of blue-white crystals flying toward him. Tiny ice needles that would shred him apart. And he'd just become the bitch's meat-shield.

Oh, shit. Jon bit down on his tongue, trying again to break free of the lock. But there was no time to move, even if he could dislocate his limbs or vanish in a puff of smoke. He didn't have enough time to think.

"Oh SHIT!"

FWOOSH, the wind swept through Jon, and his body was pierced by hundreds of tiny needles of ice. Tiny wounds opened across his chest, some in his face, some in his throat. Some needles dove between his ribs, and plunged through whatever vital organs they happened to be near. These ice needles would melt of course, but not before their damage was done. When the storm of a split-second was over, Jon's body looked like a bloody honeycombed network of entry wounds. He screamed in pain.

Jon would recover from this. He always managed to. But the bleeding was bad, and his body felt like it was on fire from the inside-out. Goin' fixya fuddiss, bitch... Jon felt himself thinking. While still standing, whether or not he was in Witchblade's grip anymore, his vision clouded over and his thoughts became black. Here't comes... Jon collapsed, nothing more than a heavy weight of flesh.

[Witchblade]

A sick, twisted, sinister laugh boiled up from the throat of the half-ling, escaping through her somewhat stitched yet parted lips. She was covered in the blood of the human in front of her and it smelt glorious with every breath she drew through her nostrils. Heck, she could even taste it on her tongue and though a half-ling she may be, she didn’t drink blood but this was still glorious.

The human had taken most of the attack; a few small shards of the ice crystals had escaped her human shield and grazed her skin, one in particular cutting across her cheek where a long line of dark blue blood was flowing down her face. The wound was small, all the shards that the human hadn’t protected her from were small and the cuts were already healing. She could feel the pull of skin over the area, the forming of new cells and the healing as it quickened along on wounds like mosquito bites.

When the human she was holding became nothing more than dead weight in her hand, Witch let him go and watched him fall to the sand covered cage floor below her. Exactly where a human should stay, at her feet. He wasn’t dead, oh no, she could hear the beating of his heart, he was just unconscious and bleeding rather heavily, not that she cared. She did care abut the increasing noise in the stadium though, as the human’s body touched the ground the crowd started growing wild, screaming yelling, calling for more blood to be spilt this day. People thought she was ruthless, they thought her a heartless killer, yet they were the ones cheering along to her victory over this man, whom she’d barely laid a hand on.

“Perfect, absolutely perfect…”

In avoiding one attack she had taken out one of her opponents.

Glancing from the prone position of ‘unconscious human number one’, Witch looked over to ‘still standing human number two’. The one who had fired the magic attack at her in the first place, the one who thought he could get away with it and the one who assumed something like that could actually kill her. Oh, if the human wanted magic, she’d give him magic.

Bending down, Witch grabbed the handle of her Titanium dagger, the worn leather having gone slightly cool without her fingers wrapped around it. Witch did not know much in the way of magic and one of them was too powerful and too draining to use in this situation, she would most likely end up unconscious however the other one was nothing special, still it was fun to play with.

Walking over the human in front of her, Witchblade approached Canen, both her daggers at the ready. Conjuring up her magic, Witch whispered the one word to seal the excitement of the particles dancing around her hands, still holding their daggers.

“Ambross…” Her lips parting only slightly to speak the simple word and not have the stitching tear into her flesh.

Immediately her hands were engulfed in blue flames that did not burn her, in fact all she could feel was a gentle warmth flowing over her skin. Still walking towards Canen, Witch directed the magic to cover the blades her daggers. Within range of the annoying pest before her, Witch slashed at him with her left arm, coming from his hip up to his shoulder, then she flipped her blade around and slashed downwards with the same hand, attempting to stab straight into his throat. Her other hand coming in for the real attack, the one that the others were meant to distract him from and going straight for his bellybutton in an attempt to slide through flesh and then rip out at the waist.

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin shielded himself with both arms as the magic struck, in fear that some ice shrapnel would somehow leap over the two in front of him. When a moment passed, the Drow observed Witchblade standing in triumph and the cowardly human collapsing to the ground. He was shocked to see that Witchblade was able to divert the attack to the backstabber, but was gladdened by it was well.

The woman walked off to continue combat elsewhere, but Izvilvin remained where he was, looking down upon the fallen man who had brought the painful wound to his back. The crowd screamed for blood, screamed for more destruction, and he could feel their enthusiasm coursing through his body. The Drow thought to make sure he was dead, driving a sai into the back of his neck, but decided against it.

He took a quick survey of the arena, those perceptive lavender eyes taking in the surrounding combatants and anything else of note. Izvilvin thought to help Rheawien, who was engaged with a skeletal monster at one point, then a normal-looking human man. The skeletal creature seemed to follow her around, which raised some ire in the Drow for some reason he didn't understand.

With haste, Izvilvin broke into a run toward the creature.

His feet pounded against the steel, the thin layer of sand doing an admirable job of softening his steps despite how furious his approach was. He came from the skeleton's side, leaping high into the air and driving his sai forward butt-first, to try and smash through the creature's skull. The prongs of his weapons would likely do no good against a beast of bones, but the handle could likely induce some kind of trauma to its cranium.

Hopefully, it had a brain.

[Rheawien]

She finally drew blood, but not without difficulties. Even though her dagger achieved its duty faultlessly, preparing the man for a swift execution, her katana met significant resistance on its path to a clean cut. The bastard wore armor, and a remarkably impregnable one at that, her blade sliding down the metal surface until it reached the nook between plates that led her to living tissue. This gave birth to twofold results. Her foe lost his footing due to the pain and the gore, his lance clattering at his flank, and that was good. What wasn’t was the chip that was missing on the perfect cutting edge of her blood-coated weapon. It by no means rendered the katana unusable, but it was a mar that only added several degrees to the downwards slope down which this whole Cell hassle was going. The idiotic speech, the treachery, the cooky undead, the irksome cut at the side of her neck that even now pulsated with just enough prominence to break her every attempt at inviolable concentration... It was all going downhill. But given the fact that Rheawien approached the cage battle with enough cockiness for five combatants, it came as no surprise that she wasn’t able to just amble through her Cell leisurely.

The recognition of the chipped blade disabled her from a follow-up and that consequently wasn’t such a bad course of action. The man before her was down but not out, and his saber was unsheathed momentarily, held defensively as his emerald eyes stood locked on Rhea. Next to them, obviously unaware of either what was going on or where it was, the skeleton persisted with its ramblings, its bony feet on the ground, but its empty head floating in a world of its own. Rheawien was unable to determine whether this was an immaculate ruse or was the thing really a few cards short of a full deck. However, given the fact that they were all here with the sole purpose to see the other die for the pleasure of the crowd, she decided not to take any chances.

With her nicked katana still in her right hand, her left returned the dagger to the scabbard at her hip and replaced the small blade with a whip. The half-elf had no peculiar prowess with the squiggly weapon, but she had no intention to snap the wretched thing like an animal trainer in a circus. Instead, she let it unroll at her side before she swung it in a wide horizontal arc, sending it whistling above the nobleman harmlessly before proceeding towards the skeleton. Rheawien’s initial idea was to wrap the whip around the thing’s leg and give it a good yank, hopefully dislocating the rattling bones once again. However, halfway through her swing, a familiar dark-skinned figure came into picture. Charging like a bull, Izvilvin leapt at the skeleton with an intention to bash its skull. Rhea was surprised by this intervention, but not surprised enough to be unable to withdraw her whiplash. But she let it slide. She let it slide and even lifted it at the last moment to hit the drow instead. Nobody double-crossed her.

“Go fight with your witch!” she said in a bitter tone, regarding the dark elf with a frowning gaze before withdrawing her whip.

Her momentum was gone now, murdered by the bludgeoning appearance of Izvilvin, but she could still launch a hopeful attack at the nobleman. In her right the titanium blade glistened eerily, the cold metal now coated with both the blood and a faint translucent aura. Even though unseen to naked eye, it was her inner energy that coursed through the blade now like a current, substantially strengthening the metal to what would hopefully be enough to defeat the opposition of the armor. Now all that remained for Rhea to do was land another hit and proceed to dispatch the rest. Izvilvin included.

Her whip was once again in motion, swung in a similar manner, only this time it was the man’s blade that was the target instead of a bony leg. It was a move that had deceit and distraction as its prime goal. If it connected successfully, it could enable Rheawien to yank the weapon from the hands of her adversary. If not, it was still an effort that would attract at least some of the man’s attention. Perhaps just enough for him to remain blind to the thrust of her enhanced katana that aimed for the center of the chestplate beneath which was her ultimate goal – the heart.

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin would not get a chance to finish the strike. Rheawien's whip lashed at him like a striking hawk, catching his right eye with its titanium fortified tip. He twisted in midair, dropping both weapons and throwing his hands up to grab at his face. The Drow landed hard and awkward on his feet, but twisted an ankle, tipping over to land on his behind. He screamed out as blood poured over his black fingers, bringing an excited roar from those in the crowd who were close enough to witness it.

His good eye moved to observe Rheawien, turned and facing the other man. The glaive had not been a mistake, he knew that now. The Drow had heard her voice after being hit, though of course he couldn't understand her. Never before had he so wished to speak the common tongue, to know what she said and reply accordingly, or to apologize for whatever he'd done, or to simply understand her sudden desire to hurt him.

But for now, he did not know. All he knew for sure was that his anger consumed him, like flames about a burning tree; it was all he knew at that moment. He could feel the contents of his eye in his hand, but did not want to expose it and feel the blood pour out of his socket. It was a horrifying feeling, far worse than any experience he'd ever been put through.

And yet he stood up. He would not, could not attack Rheawien. If he had done something to turn such a close ally against him, perhaps he deserved the pain. He was not capable of betrayal against a friend, no... He had experienced that before, and didn't wish it upon anyone.

So Izvilvin faced Krugor, drawing the final two sai from the back of his belt. He was shaking, one of his eyes was blind and half destroyed, a bloody mess in the corner of his face, not to mention that he was still in shock. The impact of the whip had numbed half of his face. All he could do was fight on, hoping the feeling would pass in some small way.

He beckoned the skeleton to fight him, waving a sai to signify the challenge. The loss of an eye had wrecked his depth perception, but Izvilvin would not dare quit yet. There was too much to prove now. Not to the audience, and not to Rheawien or Witchblade, but to himself.

[Falcon Darkflight]

Canen had watched with a certain satisfaction as his magical assault proved effective against at least one of the combatants, watching with a sickly smile as that irritating woman held the knife wielder in front of her to absorb the full force of the attack. Each needle pierced the flesh with a stomach turning thwack!, the razor fragments of ice cutting through the skin and tissue like a butcher cutting through a joint with a cleaver. However, as the blue and white particles faded into non existence, the Nocturn's eyes narrowed and locked undeviatingly onto his approaching female adversary.

He had no sooner grown convinced that she was going to unleash something painful upon him than the mysterious blue flames of her magic enveloped and twisted around the blades of her daggers, swirling with a bitter and vengeful aura around their hosts. Canen unsheathed The Valiance quickly; he was too experienced in close quarter combat to let himself be bested by a dagger wielder, no matter how strong she thought she was. His reach with the one and a half metre long, thin and razor edged broadsword would give him that slight edge unless she got in too close.

The first attack was textbook and anticipated. Canen saw the tense muscles of his opponent react in the left arm, and quickly brought in the volak blade of his weapon from his right side in a diagonal arc, tipping away the attack before it could do any damage. The clang of the clashing of metal echoed momentarily throughtout the ampitheatre before drowning in the wave of cheers from the electrified crowd. His right hand still tightly balled by his side, the left locked onto the hilt of his weapon, Canen suddenly snapped forward, clasping his strong free hand around Witch's right wrist, locking the grip tightly and preventing her from attacking a second time.

Canen knew the bright blue flames would cause him pain, but had determined that the burns he would obtain from guarding against her attack were little compared to the writhing agony he would face at the daggers point. He clenched the wrist tighter, biting his bottom lip at the sheer intensity of the numbing, cold burns on his hand.

He had been subjected to such suprises before, but he was taken aback by the sheer amount of strength it had taken to subdue her arm. She was clearly no weakling, and all of a sudden, a feeling of mutual respect coursed through his pained body.

"It seems I was wrong about you..." He said, wincing in pain as the grapple continued, "...you're no weakling after all. But don't think for one moment I will let you get past me..."

With momentum finally on his side, he placed a firm boot into the chest of his adversary and released the deadlock grip on her right wrist, sending her crashing to the floor. As her body skidded slightly across the dirt, the Nocturn, still bleeding a stream of pure black liquid from his painful wound, raised out his palms. The vile, cellophane like material of his patented Black Widow spell spanned out like a dark net, attempting to ensnare Witch in it's deadly, paralysing grasp. If she didn't have her wits about her, she would be in a lot of trouble.

"On the floor. That is where your place is here. Now, show me what you have got!"

[Serilliant]

The crowd responded to something, but it was unclear what. They roared gloriously, but the sound somehow seemed to be coming from somewhere further away. It was as if the entirety of the ruckus was being heard from under water. It took only moments for the cheering to become so far away that it was drowned out by a beating pulse and huffing breath; the only two sounds that could be heard in Serilliant's ears.

The breathing quickened.

His eyes looked around desperately for the source of the sudden muffling. Perhaps the crowd had just willingly fallen silent? They appeared to be cheering still, but in slow motion and noiselessly. He turned and looked straight ahead, surprised to see a disappearing horizon replaced with a vision of the ceiling of the Cell's arena. He felt his back fall against something – the floor, perhaps, or a wall – and heard one quick clinging sound as if armor had struck solid ground. Then the sound was gone, faded to where the crowd had gone.

But the sound of the pulse quickened.

Serilliant's eyes were drawn downward to the source of a strange feeling in his chest. His armor appeared to him to be damaged. A weapon had pierced the breast of the mail superficially, but was still lodged between its plates. The blade looked wicked emerging through the gash, but there had been no feeling of penetrated flesh, so its edge must have met nothing of his chest. The weight of the armor felt so encumbering on his lungs, though, and it made breathing hard. He realized his position was prone and vulnerable, and with the discomfort of his breastplate, he knew he must get to his feet quickly if he were to escape the onslaught of the female half-elf. He shifted, but found his body not complying with his wishes. His arms would not even move. The sensation evoked panic, but his chest failed to heave.

The breathing slowly stopped.

From the cracks in his armor where the blade had cut flowed a river of blood. It tainted the reflective surface of the polished prevalida in a neat line as it traced the delicate curves until it hit the ground. The blood kept coming and stained the ground. The weapon turned red. Serilliant could feel his grip on his sword weaken until it fell helplessly from his hand. He tried to keep hold of it, but his fingers simply would not let him. He felt himself blink several times, trying to clear the obtrusive darkness that started to shroud his vision. He strained to watch as the blood poured out of his armor and down his abdomen and to the floor. It became gradually harder and harder to see with each blink until it seemed that the image itself was all a figment of a tired dream. It must have been a dream, in fact. The feeling that had been so dominant among all of this was the pounding of Serilliant's heart against his breastplate. And now that sensation was starting to fade away. It had to be a dream. And now he was waking up. His eyes closed.

And the sound of the pulse slowly died.

[Krugor]

Krugor hadn’t even seen the mysterious figure charging for him when his elephant suddenly pulled out a whip and hit it in the face. Hard. Completely frozen he watched the two battling. He couldn’t move a muscle or even breathe as he realised how close his attacker had been. If it weren’t for Rheawien he would probably be dead, or at least horribly disfigured. Clinging to his staff in panic he now entered a state of hyperventilating. Heavily breathing and looking around manically he tried to see if there wasn’t anyone else trying to get to him. How could they do this to him? He even wanted to cook them something nice.

“You’re not nice!” he screamed at the dark figure that attacked him. Krugor couldn’t quite grasp what sort of creature it was but it didn’t matter either. It was rude of him to attempt to slice of his head. The skeleton grabbed his staff in one hand now and raised up in front of him, facing the aggressor. Then he held it horizontal in front of his chest with his other hand covering his face. He took a deep breath.

Then suddenly he spun around 360 degrees and pointed the staff at Izvilvin. The mushroom that decorated the staff at it’s tip fell off and after a little bump it lay still on the ground. But not for long as it slowly started to grow. And grow, and grow. It didn’t stop growing until it was at least the size of a horse. The giant mushroom shook a little, then charged straight forward to the Drow. Moving at an extremely quick pace the massive thing clearly had the intention of taking down the man once and for all.

But as Krugor watched his beloved decoration do its mad charging he could feel something was wrong. It didn’t feel like the other times. Did something went wrong? The mushroom now looked much more aggressive and for a minute Krugor thought it would smash right through the cage if it kept up this pace. But that wouldn’t be possible for the thing always acted like a ball and even if it would miss his target it would probably just bounce back.

Bounce back? Krugor suddenly realised I need to get the hell out of here! As fast as the wreckage that he called his body would take him he moved away. Looking around desperately for a place that would be safe it slowly sunk into him. I’m in a cage!

There would be no place to hide and if the mushroom didn’t hit the Drow it would be a dangerous situation for everyone in the cage, for there was no way to control the thing after that. Krugor grabbed an iron spoon from his cooking set and faced his former attacker once again. It might be his last chance for things would get hectic the longer he waited. He charged forward, spoon in front of him. Slashing it sideways as if the tableware was a sword he yelled; “I’m going to smash you!”

[Izvilvin]

The Drow was panting heavily, still getting used to this new vision he had to endure. Everything was just slightly farther to the right than his one eye showed him. Compensating for the shift was not only annoying, but very troublesome under the circumstances of battle. The right side of his face throbbed with each beat of his heart, sending a coursing pain through his broken eye.

Yet he stood strong, weapons shaking slightly in his strong hands. The skeleton had evidently decided to face him, speaking some words that were lost to Izvilvin's foreign ears. Even if he were capable, the Drow doubted he could have mustered the fortitude to answer whatever taunt or declaration was sent his way, so wounded was his spirit.

From the staff of the monster fell a small mushroom, which Izvilvin first had declared a simple ornament. It was a great surprise to see the decoration expand and grow to look something like one of Alerar's own Hiran Kuttran, the giant mushrooms that grew next to some mountains. This fungus, however, came forward with great speed, looking to hammer the comparitively small Drow against the side of the steel cell.

Izvilvin did the only thing he had time to do, leaping to his right to avoid the bouncing mushroom. He landed hard on his wounded shoulder, wincing with the impact, but forced himself up without any further hesitation. He witnessed with surprise as the mushroom hit the cell wall, then bounced back, toward the one who had conjured it in the first place.

Were the situation different, Izvilvin might have smiled, even laughed. But his heart was wounded from the betrayal of Rheawien. There could be no doubt now that she had struck him on purpose.

Refusing to stay disheartened, Izvilvin took a moment to lean against the steel mesh, observing the others in battle. Perhaps he could regain some of his strength with a bit of rest, perhaps not, but the blood had caked on his back and his eye was pulsing in agony. The will to fight was leaving him. The broken Drow simply gasped for air.

[Witchblade]

He had guts grabbing her wrist like that to block her attack and she knew it had to hurt him. These flames only played nicely with her and no one else. However, the fact that it was hurting him did nothing to stop the bile from rising into her throat knowing that his skin was touching her skin. She hated it when anyone touched her, in fact most of the time when people touched her she went through painful episodes that usually resulted in her losing a little bit more of her sanity, thankfully that never seemed to happen when someone touched her hands. The exception, she could grab people with her bare hands but if they touched her anywhere else she was in big trouble.

As his foot was shoved against her chest, Witch grunted with the force of being pushed backwards, hard sole digging into yielding, soft flesh to the breastbone and pressing against in painfully. He shoved against her chest hard, letting go of her wrist at the same time she stumbled backwards, off balance but she knew this had been coming. To keep herself from falling flat on her ass, Witch bent backwards, hands touching the sand and feeling the metal beneath it, her feet pushing off the ground and coming up and around to land safely on the other side. Her hands reclaimed the daggers beneath them as she pushed herself back up into a standing position.

Her immediate reaction was to charge straight forward to her enemy but she felt that familiar presence of magic, the excitement of particles in the air, that energy and she could see the web like substance he was creating. He seemed to have a fondness for magic and seeing how powerful his last spell had been on the human Witch was not taking a chance and rushing him, instead she smirked in his direction and used her telepathy to probe into his head finding out exactly what the spell did to anyone it touched.

It was indeed interesting and a smart tactic, she wondered if her body would be able to heal the paralysis quickly but she wasn’t willing to take the chance.

Moving one hand behind her back, Witch sheathed the dagger and began to draw dark energies towards her palm. She was going to use her Shadow Flare; only she wasn’t going to allow it to power up, all she wanted was one small ball of dark energy. Flipping the Mythril dagger she still possessed in her left hand around, Witch charged at her enemy, soles digging and sliding against the sand, which provided horrible traction, she made due. Once she was close enough she brought out her right hand and shot the black ball of energy towards Canen, so dark was it that it seemed to absorb all light around it making itself a void.

She didn’t aim for him though; instead she’d carefully aimed at the cage floor right by his feet. Once the energy touched the floor it would expand to encompass an area of four feet and once the energy dissipated there would be a large hole there and hopefully Canen would have fallen though it.

[Falcon Darkflight]

Canen Darkflight had been thrust into a defensive role from what should have been a nicely timed counterattack, and as he pondered the prowess of his agile opponent he had wondered just how she had managed to evade his grasp. His physical grappling skills, he admitted, were a burden upon him after his wounding at the point of Izvilvin's Sai strike earlier, and the Nocturn could understand how she had been able to prevent her tumble. What he couldn't understand was how she had anticipated his Black Widow attack: although it was magically enhanced, it gave off far less magical resonance than his other spells.

"How the hell...?!" He exclaimed, panting for breath as the implications of his wounds starting to take greater effect.

He was about to reach for the hilt of The Valiance when the air in front of him pulsed and hummed in a wave of sickening vibrations. Shrill, horrid vibrations that seemed to attack the lining of his stomach in the same way that a concussive punch to the gut might of done, the ill feeling spreading into his wound like an infection. An expression of horror spread quickly over his face as he watched his opponent dash at him from her now upright position, a small orb of black material lining the palm of her hand, very similar in appearance to his own Dark Matter spell that he frequented upon his most despised enemies.

He had to act, or he was going to die a lonely, cold death in a cage like a dog. The sleeves and the torso of his attire was moist with blood from his injuries, his rapid movements worsening the bleeding somewhat. Any hold-up now would almost certainly end his tournament in tears.

Making a serious effort to ignore the pain, he raised his right hand towards the charging female, the lead protagonist in his Cell campaign so far, and his arm began to throb with the pounding of magical particles racing to the tips of his bony white fingers. The formation of the outer shell of the Dark Matter orb was quick and effective, a technique he had been honing for a long time since his Lornius defeat and it was only mere seconds before the cannonball size sphere of pulsating black matter rotated in his palm, pounding and sparking with electrical activity. The burns that he had endured whilst grasping the skin of his opponent suddenly numbed due to the gravitational effect of his spell, and instead went from a sharp, stinging pain to a cool tingling sensation.

Witch was only several yards away now, and with a sound akin to the striking of a kettle drum, released her attack towards the Nocturn.

His opportunity was here.

With a mighty, pain fuelled roar the Nocturn slammed his right palm forwards with every bit of energy he had in his body, each droplet fuelling his ever expanding abhorrence for his growing number of failures. The Dark Matter orb span straight out of its caster's hand and careered with great force into the opposing sphere of dark energy, colliding in mid air with its vile counterpart in a vicious implosion. A cloud of translucent, electrified anti-matter suddenly enveloped a four metre radius, snaring Canen and Witch in its blast. The Nocturn shut his eyes quickly as the concussive wave of power swept over and through him, further rupturing his Sai wound and sending him skidding across the floor of the cage, slamming his unprotected skull harshly into the steel corner support strut. A gush of pure, jet black blood matted his tangled hair and soaked his face, making him look like the very spit of hell itself.

As he lay there, his vision blurred almost into white noise, his hearing impaired by the ringing of the impact, he clasped a hand onto the corner of the honeycombed mesh and tried to pull himself to his feet, pondering with a confused mind the fate of his opponent...he was temporarily stunned, but he was still holding on. Just.

[Krugor]

Quickly the skeleton skidded to a stop as the athletic Drow dodged the charging mushroom. Bouncing hard on the side of the cage it came flying back and Krugor had to act fast. As the thing came rushing towards he held the spoon up in front of him and just when the mushroom was about to slam into Krugor he hit the thing as hard as he could, the steel spoon even bending a little. It immediately continued its way, though now on a different course. Speeding across the cell’s floor the mushroom made its way towards Rheawien, Krugor’s beloved elephant.

But was it really an elephant? Krugor questioned his actions out loud as the intoxication slowly left his body. The green haze that once seemed to cover everything had fallen off him as if someone harshly yanked your sheet away after a good night sleep. The rising action and pumping adrenaline probably drove it away. Looking around in awe he saw that his former love was in fact a woman, Krugor hadn’t been mistaken when he was close to her a few minutes ago. And the person battling with him now was some sort of dark Elf, and heavily beaten at that.

All sorts of thoughts raced through his mind now. What did I do? What should I do now? In doubt he stood there, watching his creation speeding towards the battling woman. Suddenly he screamed at her; “I’m sorry, miss! I thought you were an elephant! Please watch out for my mushroom!” Krugor rubbed his cheek as he giggled at the thought that he never ever dreamed of saying such a thing.

He then faced the Drow again. Gracefully sliding across the dirt he made his way next to him. Standing right there with his former enemy he held up his hand. “I’m sorry, sir. I thought you wanted to hurt my elephant but now I know that the elephant is just some woman.” He smiled at Izvilvin. “Maybe a bit overweight” Krugor softly mumbled. “Anyway,” he continued, now a bit louder “I hope you can forgive me. Friends?”

Krugor knew that he was in a tough situation. Being drugged made everything more acceptable but now he realised that if he didn’t made some friends he was going to be killed very soon. It was a miracle that he survived as long as he did, running around like a headless chicken.

He placed the bended spoon back in it’s holder, with the other iron tableware. But he also pulled out a slender, shiny knife. Freshly sharpened for luxurious dinners he waved in the air, the sun blistering on the iron. “Let’s draw some blood” he smiled at Izvilvin.

[Witchblade]

As Canen’s energy collided with her own, Witch raised her arms in front of her face, shielding herself from the force of the blast. Her feet ground into the sand and the metal lying beneath it, soles sliding and grinding against the small pieces of earth. The wave increased in power for a fraction longer, Witch lost her footing as it slammed into her, sending her flying onto her back then rolling once, twice, three times until she slammed up against the metal messing of the cage’s wall.

Snarling as sharp metal dug into her skin, Witch was finally relieved when the energy surged stopped and the force holding her pinned against the wall ceased. Her shoulder had hit it pretty hard and the resulting force had split open flesh, sending lines of dark blue blood down her shoulder blade and back. It wasn’t bad, in fact rolling her shoulder she still had pretty good use of her left arm but it was definitely going to be annoying and Witch hated annoying.

Shaking her head, Witch slowly pulled herself to a standing position, being thrown around by the blast had certainly knocked a few too many screws loose upstairs but it didn’t take long for her senses to return to her. And with the return of those came the assault of the noise from the crowd, screaming and yelling, probably not even knowing what had just occurred. They didn’t care, something had happened and someone was hurt. Looking across the expanse of the cage Witch saw Canen sprawled against the opposite wall, black blood pouring from a wound inflected by his own attack, or defence, she wasn’t sure. Next time he should have thought more carefully before colliding two dark energies together, after all, she’d been left relatively unscathed while he was in some serious pain right now, all the better for her though.

Now the arrogant little bastard was going to learn never to under estimate his enemy, especially a woman.

Walking forward, Witch retrieved her Mythril dagger, she’d dropped it at some point during her rolling adventure on the cage floor—which had left her back rather bruised and sore—and returned it to it’s sheathe. In the area where the two dark energies had collided now lay a hole in the bottom of the cage, to which sand was slowly leaking through. It was just less than three meters in diameter but Witch skirted it, not wanting to leave this environment yet, she’d use that strategy to her advantage later.

Forming another ball of dark energy in her palm, Witch continued to approach the fallen ‘warrior’, who seemed to be still out of sorts due to the hit to his head. Smirking, Witch stopped a few meters away from him and threw her second attack straight at him. No point in aiming for the ground this time, she was planning on taking him out while he was still down and couldn’t get back up.

[Falcon Darkflight]

After a few moments, the watery blur of the caged surroundings settled, no longer vibrating left to right in a tremor like fashion. Several yards to Canen's left, the lights of the torches surrounding the perimeter of the ampitheatre caught his eye, the single westerly wall lined with rows and rows of trembling figures waving banners and screaming profanities usually unheard of in Corone. However, it wasn't long before his attention reverted back to his own situation: his limp, unflung arms were spattered with patches of dark liquid from his head and waist wounds, the material of his sleeves stenching of blood and ripped flesh where the cuts he had sustained had gushed uncontrollably for a while, before sealing themselves off by clotting.

Canen looked away from the cloth, moving his gaze out along the perimiter fence where the others were battling for their lives, dark blurs against the deeper darkness of the arena. He had stepped into the cell with a minute by minute plan, a pre-prepared itemised list of tactics to which he would have adhered to had it not been for that woman. That loathsome, interfering woman.

Then, as he recalled his plan into the forefront of his mind, he realised his mistake. It dawned on Canen for the first time that the whole reason for his failings had been that he had tried to anctipate events before they had happened. He had already set himself at a disadvantage before he had begun, because he expected the improbable. Because of this he had deviated from his usual style of fighting and had become horribly, terribly predictable, evident in the fact he was lying in a pool of his own blood, wounded and about to be eradicated by his antagonist.

He inhaled to clear his head, then grasped a handful of the dry, arid soil from underneath him, clenching it tightly in frustration.

Get up...

The voice rang round his head, rapping against the inside of his skull like a drum. A ferocious, familiar drum.

Get up...Canen

The voice spoke again, it's tone becoming more and more familiar as shape came to the deep booming. Canen looked around, confused. He could hear...that...voice....the voice of his brother.

It couldn't be.

..........Gideon!

Canen eyed the femlae in front of him, who had recovered from the blast of the collision of dark energies and was approaching him again. In her palm he noticed that familiar black orb, the same one she had used before, raised level with his crumpled body. It seemed to scream at him, torturing his mind, reminding him he was still perishable and by no means invincible. Witch, bruised and broken, was intending to end this once and for all, and Canen knew it.

Canen, you do not have to fall. Do not succomb to the pain. Do not give in to your enemies, and show them no mercy! Each of your opponents is no different from the Haicheyanne that razed our lands to the ground, burned our children and women. Their intention was to end your life, strip you of your pride and dignity. Here today, the cage has you imprisoned. Your enemy wishes to end your life, strip you bare in front of the very people you once protected. Do not allow them to degrade you! You, oh sweet Canen, are the only hope I have! Eour lest entriniion!

Canen pictured Gideon's young, handsome face dance in front of him momentarily, for a second replacing the face of his enraged adversary, before fading into the sea of spectators in the background. He found himself sucked back into the event horizon, back into real time, and began to struggle. His arms flailed lightly as the Nocturn's clawed, bloodied hands clenched the hived mesh and pulled on it violently, bringing him back to his feet in an awe inspriring feat of willpower as the mesh clattered and rattled.

He could not ignore the guideposts of his own experience, and commanding a partisan unit in Alerar, Erebus and Karak had taught him plenty. The dark orb still in the grasp of its castor, Canen used every reserve of energy he had left in his broken and battered body to vault forward on the break, unsheathing his mighty Valiance sword mid-dash, and thrust its powerful blade in a downward arc towards Witch's magic arm. His cry could have shaken the very heavens themselves, the blood of Nocturnis itself running in lurid forks over his face and down his attire, soaking both his clothes and his soul.

"I WILL NOT ALLOW MYSELF TO BE ERADICATED BY THE LIKES YOU YOU! THIS IS FOR YOU, BROTHER!!!"

[Witchblade]

He was slowly pushing himself to his feet, struggling under the weight of his own body and it put a smile on her face. There was still fight in her adversary and things could get interesting rather quickly. Good, things had been a little on the boring side, predictable moves, predictable outcomes, she could only hope that Canen was not up for some real fighting. After all, what was the point of joining a tournament and being stuck in a cage with seven other people if one of them didn’t give her a run for her money? She’d be disappointed, yes she’d get in some practice on rusty skills since she hadn’t fought anyone in a while, but she wanted a challenge. She wanted, blood, sweat, tears, broken bones and bruised skin, she wanted it all even if they were her broken bones, even if it was her blood, then it would have been a great fight. Losing was nothing big to her, neither was winning, it was the battled that mattered, not the outcome.

As he pulled his swords from his sheath and attempted to attack her arm, Witch shook her head. He was getting ahead of himself, he wasn’t assessing her, he wasn’t looking! She made no move to take her arm out of harms way, in fact her only tensed her muscles and readied herself for the blow, bringing her arm up higher and smiling at his sword crashed against it, metal hitting metal for his was not strong enough to break through the Titanium plating she had there.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, little fly on the wall.” It was said inside of his head for it was painful to speak otherwise and she wondered if the surprise of it would give him pause and just enough time for her to attack. To further interfere with his mental stability Witch pushed through his mind to find painful memories of his past, scars that never healed about some war and some race she didn’t care about. With a little bit of a push she shoved them to the forefront of his thoughts, whether or not he wanted to he was now going to revisit all of his Nocturnian memories about how he was the only one left alive and everyone else was dead, or crazy, and mad and soon going to be dead.

She didn’t know if it would do anything to affect him, most people gave pause when memories involuntarily surfaced, especially painful ones but she didn’t know how it would affect this man. Either way, with his attack now blocked, Witch used her strength to push away at his sword, the sound of the two metals scraping against one another until she gave it a final thrust. With Canen off balance, Witch grabbed the collar of his shirt and stepped forward, her foot reaching out to rest behind his leg she pushed him back with her hand and hit him in the back of his knee with her foot at the same time, sending him sprawling to the ground. Letting go of his shirt, Witch thrust her hand out, the black ball of energy still carefully centred between her fingertips yet never touching aiming directly for his gut.

[Falcon Darkflight]

A feeling rushed back through his body, coursing all over his skin and making the flesh creep as Canen breathed heavily and felt the wrench of the female's feet knocking the back of his knees, sending him crashing to the floor again in a crumpled heap. Even as the pain of his wounds once again shot up his side in a sharp bolt, he had not felt this way since he had felt his hands turn white, his knuckles protrude up like horrid sores as he attempted to hold on to his towering sword, back at the city of Nocturnis as he was led away by his brother Gideon on their final night fighting the Haicheyanne.

"What is your name?"

Canen looked up through his mass of blooded, knotted hair as he tumbled to the floor, his ever persistant female standing over him with the deathly cold orb of shadow. He had been made to remember those other of his cadre having tied trinkets and charms into some of his locks and strands, and then noticed, rather to his surprise, that many of them still swung and clattered around his head. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, knowing that their cultural significance would only fuel his utter, uncontrollable rage. Suddenly, as if forced, as if called forth from the recesses of his brain, visions of his past, slowly, painfully, started to overtake him.

"Your murdering bastards killed my mother before she could name me," droned Canen, altering the pitch and intonation of his voice not once from the first word to the last.

"Tell me, please. How many of your kind do you believe have knelt where you now kneel? I have heard this reply many hundreds of times. I know that it is common practice of your little resistance force. It is conduct and conduct alone. You cannot surely tell me that the Haicheyanne stormed your forest before a single one of you was named? Your name is Canen Darkflight, son of Maxmillian. Don’t fool yourself into thinking I know nothing of your little operations over the past ten years. It insults the image I grudgingly, most sickeningly bear of you..."

Canen sank once more with a disenchanted breath. He seemed to collapse entirely inside, not exactly at the words of his tormentor, but more at the implications of his question. The demon was right. Hundreds would have knelt here, or somewhere much less civilized. Oh how he begged now to be in some soaking wet, dark cell. How he begged to be away from the old whisky decanters, the oak furniture and the heavy silk curtains of this dark palace and its trespassing occupants. He pleaded in his mind for the thud of a heavy baton across his shoulder or face, the lash of a barbed whip upon his naked back; anything but this. It didn't draw this hateful spew of truth that began to surge into his consciousness. The truth did not make one truly see that hope was, in fact, nowhere in sight, but that it was truly, truly lost. He summoned some strength to talk, if only in order not to be silenced.

"I am. My master Armedis named me. My mother was killed in the fires of the last remenants of Nocturnis. You know this, and therefore know that I do not lie. Had I lied or told the truth, in any case, what difference would it make?"

Canen had been at the depths of his endurance for nearly half an hour before Witch had made her first true, unforgivable mistake. He could feel the world slipping away. He was trying to hold onto it, trying desperately, but it was loose and runny around the edges like melting butter, and out beyond where it waned off into formlessness he could sense a horrible black mass waiting to swallow it all up. Canen knew what was happening to him as he rolled around on the floor wildly, clutching his head in an agonising display of inbalance. It was blood loss, it was traumatic shock, it was how it felt to be consumed by complete and utter hatred.

The world was slipping away, and though he preferred it didn't, the choice didn't seem to be within his making.

Canen breathed hard through his mouth and coughed a thick liquidy sound that admittedly frightened him a little, the air feeling too cold entering his lungs, althought the pain had receeded a little. He saw the woman who had fought him from the blurred corners of his vision. He had held her off for as long as he could, exhausting his wounded body and sword arm. Now, he wasn't even sure if the weapon was still in his grasp.

The Nocturn took another breath, and managed to lift his cheek off of the arena's dusty floor. Its grooves had marked his cheek with smears off his own blood. He could feel the rumblings, the inner stirrings of a familiar chemical reaction, his veins pumping with adrenaline so much that his muscles ached and pounded with every passing second. His limbs started to tremble violently, as if having a fit, and the sickening sound of tearing skin filled the arena. In an instant, a pair of blood soaked, ripped black wings unfurled from the Nocturn's shoulder blades, the very bone shattering underneath with the sheer force of the transformation.

The splinters of white fragmented and scattered in a stomach wrenching display over the gore-soaked earth where Canen lay, but as the pieces of bone came to a standstill, the Nocturn slowly got on to one knee, wrapped in his feathery, oil black wings.

"TSAOYUS VENITHEM, NOSOU DRI FENTIOS" The beast that Canen had became screamed, speaking not in the common language but instead in his native Khaian tongue. Its eyes, no longer emerald green but completely ink black, locked onto the female ahead of him whilst the new wounds from his sprouted wings gushed heavy torrents of black liquid.

The beast, still humanoid bar the protruding wings, shivered on one knee as the final fragments of Canen's anger settled into its new manifestation.

Icarus Nocturnia

[Please note: this transformation does not alter Canen's power, give him any extra abilities or heal his injuries, but instead causes him to enter a state of beserk. If there are any problems with this please let me know via pm. ]

[Witchblade]

Her attack was lost in the flailing of Canen, his arm knocking hers away and sending the ball of energy flying for a few feet before impacting the wall of the cage, creating a four-foot hole in it. She didn’t really know what was happening to the man, all she did know was that he was in a lot of internal pain and that perhaps surfacing his memories had not been such a good idea. However, the moment Witch saw the wings sprouting from Canen’s back she knew she’d done the right thing. She’d unleashed something she’d been waiting for, for quite some time, a good fight. At least, that’s what she was hoping this would turn into, he more or less looked very pissed off, she could tell his power hadn’t risen any and none of his wounds were healing but still, anger was a powerful motive for fighting and could make a person fight really well or really, really bad.

Speaking of wounds, the one on her cheeks\ had long since healed and Witch wiped away at the still wet blood, the fact that sweat was trickling down from her brow prevented the blood was clotting over. The gash on her shoulder was healing too, but it was deeper and would take her body longer. The bleeding had stopped and new cells were forming, the only time she felt pain from it was when she moved skin in that area, which was basically anytime she moved her left arm so she dealt with it. Pain was nothing new to her.

“Now this is definitely interesting, you certainly have become a little fly now haven’t you? I think we should take this outside…”

Grinning from ear to ear, with a look of pure bloodlust in her eyes, Witch turned away from Canen and ran towards the hole her energy had made in the metal meshing. Her eyes glanced to the dirt floor of the stadium at least twenty feet below them, which gave her plenty of time. Diving head first out of the hole, Witch could hear the silencing of the crowd in the stadium as they watched her plummet to the ground, perhaps waiting for that sickening pop as she impacted the dirt. But it was never going to happen.

The flesh on her shoulder blades began to split and tear as a set of black demonic type wings sprouted through. Blue blood trailing down her back and coating what was left of the back of her shirt. The wings were ripped and torn in the ends as if they had been through one too many battles and a sharp piece of bone protruded from the top end.

Flapping her wings—an appendage she hadn’t used in a long time—sent blood flying off in all directions. As she picked up speed she began to level off and finally a few feet before she hit the ground Witch was soaring back up into the open sky. The crowd was momentarily stunned, barely a sound came from them and for once her sensitive hearing was given a break. She didn’t know how long it would last though, probably until someone started spilling blood again. Turning herself to face the cage, Witch waited for her opponent to emerge, hoping his wings weren’t just for show and that he could actually use them.

[Falcon Darkflight]

The earth of the cage floor was slick with a lurid concoction of black, blue and beige below Canen's feet as he watched his opponent swan dive out of the steel mesh arena, appearing to be lost to gravity. Whilst the crowd fell into a sickly silence, almost a shocked muteness that gripped and changed the atmosphere of the theatre from an electrified room to an awed one, he paced slowly towards the hive like wiring and peered down, the blood flow from his wounds finally starting to clot and the gushing temporarily subdued. The ground below him was silent, nothing appeared to move amid the shadow of the floor, nor did there appear any motion to the outer of the opposing sides of the arena. As he raked a clawed hand down the steel netting slowly, Canen's murky black eyes did not move from where the woman had exited the cage.

He was not convinced she had plummeted to her death.

Then, rising as gracefully as a bald eagle on an updraft, the winged form of Witch soared up and twirled into the air, hovering roughly ten metres away from the side of the cage. Spatters of her inky blue blood dripped from the new appendages and sprayed the side of the mesh for three consecutive flaps, before keeping her steady in the air, awaiting for her opponent to follow.

"TYRU NOS MORTE" The beasts' shrill, deep voice growled as his right hand clasped the mesh so tightly that the wire scoured deep impressions into his palm, a honeycombed black wound appearing in the pit of his hand. He released his grip on the corten steel, and took a few paces back, careful to check that he wasn't about to be blindsided by another of the cage's occupants whilst his back was turned. Canen tucked in his wings until they appeared nothing more than isosceles triangles, powered his legs over the dirt and launched out of the cage with tremendous force, unfurling his feathery, oil-slick black wings mid dive.

His long outspread wings a serrate outline against the backdrop of the lantern lit arena, the untinged blackness of their feathers contrasting so strikingly with his pale skin they seemed almost void-like in contrast, Canen dived for a couple of metres and used the momentum to soar up to Witch's right. A couple of powerful, driving flaps ensured that the Nocturn remained in a hovering position only five or so metres away from his target, and he remained still.

"TYRU NOS MORTE" He repeated in a booming tone. "TYRU NOS MORTE A VEHEMETI"

His speech was delivered with an almost operatic force, the tone deep but monotonous. Although the words bore no meaning to anyone but himself, translating only as 'Messenger of the Black' in broken Khaian phrase, there seemed to be an element of power in them. Something underlying.

Suddenly, he turned a hundred and eighty degrees, and with a pulsating flap of his black, gore soaked wings made for the side of the steel meshing, perching perfectly a metre from the top. His hand clamped onto the wire and the Nocturn clambered the final metre, log rolling on top of the cage. As he regained his vertical balance he could see Witch darting from left to right, trying to catch a glimpse of what he was getting up to, what he was planning.

His face remained locked in a frown. The familiar, frigid cold air started to settle around him once again, but this time the excitement of particles in the air was different, somewhat subdued, suppressed. As vapour in the air was harnessed and frozen, the particles of ice collided and fused quicker than usual, creating not a cloud of needles as before but instead five large icicles that levitated in the magical propulsion Canen was controlling, each almost a half metre in length from base to tip. They glimmered in what light was available, twisting and rotating on an invisible axis around the Nocturn's feathery wings and ghostly white body. With a tremendous push of his magical power, three of the five icicles propelled through the air quickly like razor sharp darts, aiming specifically for Witch's left and right wings, the final one aimed directly for her face.

"TYRU NOS MORTE A VEHEMETI, IRA ESTUANTSTUN DOS TREA"

[Krugor]

There he stood. Pondering his actions in the middle of battlefield. All around him the fighting continued as if nothing happened. But Krugor knew better. He had just made an ass out of himself by entering a tournament intoxicated. It didn’t really matter though, for things would soon change. The skeleton would correct his mistakes, he would enter the fighting clear minded and with only one goal; to be the winner.

These thoughts and dreams of becoming a winner were fuelled by Izvilvin, who didn’t respond to his offer for friendship. In fact, it seemed like the Drow did not understood what was said. Either it was stupid or just acted stupid. Little did Krugor know that the man couldn’t speak his language. Twirling the shiny knife between his fingers, going from between his thumb and index finger all the way down to his pinkie and back up again, as if it rolled along all his fingers, he smiled at Izvilvin. He knew he had made a mistake by offering his friendship, for the Drow was one of the contestants in the cage that was heavily wounded. It seemed as if one of his eyes got hurt from the attack by Rheawien. This will make a nice start, Krugor thought to himself.

Without hesitation he charged forward. The knife tightly clenched in his fist. Krugor made a slight jump to lift him from the ground, and when he lost momentum he raised up the knife and slammed it downwards, aiming for the elf’s neck, hoping to, at least, slash a few arteries.
Not wasting any time he quickly made a fist out of his left hand and threw a punch at the man’s face. Krugor knew he would stand little change against such opponent if he didn’t use the element of surprise. Hopefully the Drow would be startled by his sudden change of attitude. Offering friendship first and then slicing his throat the skeleton thought to himself He couldn’t have possibly seen that coming. Krugor couldn’t help but smirk at the thought.

[Witchblade]

Her assumption was wrong; the battle was not going to get interesting from here on out. Though her opponent had wings he didn’t take to the skies like she did. Why else would she lure him out here if not to battle mid air? But no, he wasn’t getting the hint, in fact, instead of even really using his wings he just perched himself on top of the cage and proceeded to attack her with that damn ice attack again, only this time instead of a lot of little icicles, there were five large icicles. And what was up with the words he kept spewing over and over again, she didn’t understand the language but it was easy to get it translated sifting through his head. It still didn’t make sense.

Oh yeah, she had one really creative opponent all right.

As he continued to power up his move, she contemplated what to do. She could easily dodged in mid air, which was why his tactic was stupid, or she could try to melt the icicles with Ambross, though that might not work. The one thing she didn’t want to do was launch more black energy at him, though it was really her strongest attack when put in its Shadow Flare form, she preferred not to do the same thing over and over again. So let’s see, two daggers, ten throwing knives, staff, claws and of course herself because she was a walking, no scratch that, flying weapon. So what to do, what to do?

Witch wasn’t given any more time to idly sit there and think about her, Canen launched his attack at her, three flying icicles coming straight towards her, one of them in particular seemed to be heading straight for her face. But she wasn’t worried. Folding her wings close to her back, Witch dropped out of her floating position and raced towards the ground, the icicles flew passed where she had been flying. Flapping her wings she speed along until she was hidden underneath the cage. From Canen’s vantage point above he wouldn’t be able to see where she was, where she went or where she was coming from, although natural assumption would be she was underneath him she didn’t know how smart this guy was.

Coming up behind him would be predictable and Witch didn’t know what way Canen would be facing since he’d probably start looking for her. So what the Hell, she’d just go all out and attack him from whatever side she ended up coming out at. Picking one, Witch flapped her wings and speed along the side of the cage and up the top, removing two throwing knives from her belt at the same time she threw them in Canen’s direction. Changing her direction when a quick rotate of her body and her wings, Witch sent herself speeding towards him feet first, attempt to knock some real sense into the fighter.

[Falcon Darkflight]

Canen opened out his injured palm, retaining control of the clumsy, failed icicles he had unleashed against the winged pest who was so keen on destroying him, and snarled with contemptuous malice. They rejoined the other two ice missles in orbit around his wounded body and as the last one fell into place, the Nocturn started to pace carefully around the edges of the cage, searching for telltale signs of his opponent. What angered him most, even as powerless as he was with his rarely used wings, and despite being armed for battle, not a single one of his attacks had worked. Witch, through her actions, clearly deemed him not worthy of battle, and to suffer the deliberation of a tormentor as despicable and amoral made him burn inside with a blinding fury.

After what seemed like an age, Canen spotted movement, a quickly passing shadow mometarily flicking by the base of the caged arena. He was now adamant that if he could do only one thing within his power, it would be to bear the great burden of his wounds as far as he could. He would die at the hands of his adversary before he’d let go of his chance. Witch seemed to lunge with grace and ease through the cover of the thick darkness below, and then ushered herself to the top of the cage to face the Nocturn in front of her, but Canen, with his icicles at the ready, was waiting for her.

"GYRTTER NOS MORTES!" He roared as two throwing knives soared towards him, cutting through the air with little resistance. He motioned a commanding hand to two of his icicles and propelled them at speed towards the blades, one of them veering off course and clattering into the side of the cage as the ice missle struck it side on. The other icicle missed its target completely, smashing into tiny cold fragments on the arena floor twenty feet below him, and the point of the dagger it had been aimed it slid cooley into the flesh of Canen's left wing. He roared in pain as the cool metal cutting edges sheared through the feathers and into the skin, the hilt protruding horribly and blade twisted well in.

All around him, cheers rang out across the concrete parapet within the confines of the theatre. The humming of the crowd surrounded him, churning the air into a stomach turning hummingbird sonnet, and Canen saw his own satisfaction drifting away before his eyes. This was no longer a battle of honour. This was not a fight between gentlemen and gentlewomen. For him, this was a struggle for survival. The very setting, the very situation and venue was a shrewd place to play out the script for the story of his life. Here, in this arena, he would discover himself.

The assault wasn't over yet. As he reeled from the knife projectile, just keeping his icicles under his control, Witch had started a flying body tackle towards him at great speed, feet first. As he stumbled onto his back he thrust both of his arms forward quickly, his wounded and healthy wing supporting his weight on the roof of the cage, and flung all four remaining icicles at her in a twisting circle, each one propelled with the fury that she had forced him to unleash.

He had dressed, as if being the sole bearer of his people's legacy; in the relics of the Khaians, swathed in age old tunics and clothes salvaged from the forest itself. Now, on the top of this steel cell, he found himself smeared in his own blood, wounded and pushed to the edge and wondered if he was about to become a martyr for his cause as well.

[Rheawien]

The fat sidekick of the elderly gent that sat nervously in the elated crowd didn’t speak anymore, not after getting hit across the mouth for stating the obvious. And it was obvious that Rheawien wasn’t taking a dive, that she came to compete with a firm intention to win. When he made a rather simple remark about it, he realized that it was obvious enough for his boss to acknowledge it as well because his face got a complimentary backhanded slap. So the big lug just sat there, leant forwards on the fence of the auditorium and listening to the muttering of his employer.

“She can’t be that stupid.” the dry broken lips of the wrinkly-faced man pronounced, the whisper lost in the roar of the mass. “Fall, bitch!”

Once a gigantic mushroom ricocheted of the steel mesh and came scudding at her, it seemed that she would be forced to do just that.

***

Even if her attack succeeded in producing some noteworthy results, Rheawien never got a chance to witness them. Before her lethal skewering move was even done, the befuddled undead was bawling something once again. Something about her being an elephant (yet again) and to watch out for its...mushroom? The thing clearly had a few screws loose and she was pretty certain that the gray matter in that skull turned into mush some time ago. However, while at first she took all the idiotic blabbering in stride, it was a joke that got stale in a hurry and turned into nothing but an annoyance. She would have to eliminate all distractions if she wanted to conquer this cage and she did want to conquer it, skeleton included.

“You’re really getting on my...” Rheawien wanted to finish with nerves, but by the time she turned away from the nobleman and scanned the cage for the galling undead, she noticed what it was warning her about. The mushroom was indeed darting straight towards her and it wouldn’t have been such a troublesome issue if the thing wasn’t some seven feet in diameter. Rhea’s last thought, before getting struck by the gigantic fungus, was: “Where the hell did that thing come from?”

And they she was bludgeoned by the mushroom.

The uncannily large thing struck like a rubber hammer, propelling her in a tall arch through mid air and setting her on an impact course with the steely wall. Much to the pleasure of both the crowd and the sallow-skinned loanshark, of course. To add insult to injury, she was flying towards the wall headfirst, on route to become something akin to a splattered bug. The flung half-elf had about half a second worth of coherent thinking in mid-flight and it was enough for her to ascertain her situation and realize that if she didn’t react, it was game over. She loses. They win.

Not going to happen.

Rheawien’s hands still clutched to her weapons – it was the first lesson that her mother taught her, to never let go of her weapons regardless of how badly you’re beaten. While her sword wasn’t terribly useful in the situation where the wall was coming at her double time, her whip could be put to good use. If she was lucky, that was. And there was only one way to find out.

Rhea swung her whip desperately, hoping her flight got the ceiling of the cage within the reach of her leathery weapon. As it turned out, the rubbery mushroom did a good job at bouncing her lithe body in both length and height, allowing the tip of her whip to wrap around the metal mesh above. The result nearly dislocated Rheawien’s shoulder. She clutched to the whip handle tight and as it became as taut as a guitar wire, it changed the trajectory of her flight, sending her body towards the roof. A bit too fast though. Despite her acrobatics, her body still struck the ceiling with enough force to knock most of the air out of her lungs, but her hand held on to the weapon and before long she was like a pendulum, swinging above the other combatants.

“Wretched thing. I’ll show you.” Rhea thought as she slowly lost the momentum, slowing her dangling motion and looking at the drow and the undead. Her breathing was shallow and hasty, but it normalized gradually. “I’ll show you both.”

Her katana still glimmered faintly in her other hand and Rhea decided to finally put it to good use. Her body moved as if she was sitting on a swing, regaining some of the rocking momentum. Once she had just enough of it for her descent to land directly on top of the uncanny pair below, her left let go of the whip. The landing was bound to be mighty painful, regardless if she landed on the ground or on one of the two, but she had a chance to kill both annoying flies with one chancy move. Her feet were aimed to crush the skeleton from above while her blade swung at Izvilvin’s shoulder.

[Walter]

Jon opened his eyes. He hadn't died yet. The spell had dissipated minutes ago, but he could still feel those shards of ice pricking his insides, twisting like needles through his muscles and veins. The man breathed in harsh rasps, and blood was running from his mouth and nose. No doubt about it, he was still alive.

Dammit, why couldn't they have killed him? Jon was an immortal. As soon as he died, he'd be all set to get up again. That was his trumpcard. That was how he planned to tapdance on the bodies as the Cell came to a bloody close. Instead, he was lying in a mound of blood and dirt while every freakin' idgit in the audience hollered like it was the greatest thing in the world.

Fuck you! Come down here and try this, lessee how YOU like it! Jon spat in his thoughts, bitterly biting through the pain. It felt like his insides were strung into thick, gory knots, and it was hard to do anything but think.

There was still strength in the man's ravaged body. Even though his throat was torn and his chest was in pieces, coated in blood, his arms had only been pierced a few times. He could feel the trickle of blood flowing down his arms, and knew that his muscles weren't useless just yet. Maybe, Jon thought, there was strength enough for one more stab. The knife and the sai were still in his hands, fused there by his deathgrip. Maybe...

Jon moved. This turned out to be a mistake. Blinding, white-hot agony ripped through his body as every single pinprick wound ripped a little wider, and the bleeding started again. He didn't even have the strength to scream, so Jon clamped his teeth shut, and tensed every muscle in his face in frustration. A few of the tears in his cheeks ripped a little wider, prompting another shudder of rage. He halted in his tracks.

The knife was still in his hand. It took the injured man a second to realize his options. He carefully, deliberately brought the knife to his throat. He could feel holes in his right arm, torn muscles that wouldn't cooperate that well, and the knife arm spasmed once or twice. But after a moment of concentration, Jon was set to slit his own throat. He'd be back in time to catch the end of the Cell and stand in triumph, he figured. He pressed the knife into his neck.

More pain. Blood started to dribble around the knife, dropping onto the ground. And then the hand started to move. In slow, stunted motions Jon tried to tear his throat wide open, but found that he would have to suffer doing it slowly, torturously if he wanted it done at all. He only had strength enough in those arms for one good stab, and this wasn't it. Jon gasped as the knife-hand spasmed with the knife in the little nick in his throat. He ripped it out again, letting blood cover him like a neck-beard. Jon drew breath, coughing up blood.

What a shitty way to go out. Jon would have flushed, but there was barely enough blood to reach his cheeks by this time. If he could find a quick death, that would've been fine. But there was no way Jon was going to torture himself into the grave. That would've been ridiculously shitty. He had more pride than that and the scoundrel knew it. He wanted to die while ripping a chunk out of one of the other guys.

Jon moved again. Bloody misery. But what the hell did he have to lose? What the fuck could stop him? Jon was biting down on his own teeth so hard that he heard one of them crack. He was trying to bite through the pain. This is what he'd come to the Cell for - to fight and bleed. He kept moving, and the pain became a constant, throbbing thing.

Leaving a thick trail of blood on the ground as he crawled, the scoundrel crept toward Izvilvin, Krugor and Rheawien. One of them was getting a knife in the foot, even if he had to latch onto them with his jaws. Jon had no idea how long his body would last, but it absolutely had to be long enough for one more stab. Jon felt like torment incarnate as he finally chose a target; the dark elf who'd let the stitch-lipped bitch get the drop on him before.

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin stood panting as Krugor attempted to make his feelings known. The skeleton wanted to become allies, but of course the Drow could not understand a word of what he said. Even if he could, the warrior would be hard pressed to convince himself that an animate undead would ally itself with a dark elf without the intention of betraying him at the earliest possible moment. Izvilvin was tired of backstabbing at this point, having been twice the victim of it thus far, both figuretively and literally.

His head swayed away from the creature, observing the battle across the cage between Witchblade and the human, Canen. The man had come a long way from making his silly speech and had fought well. How unlike him, Izvilvin thought. He had been nearly knocked senseless from two simple attacks. What horrible luck.

Krugor did not simply go away as Izvilvin had hoped, so the dark elf's rest was cut short when the skeleton advanced, leaping to the air to gain power in his strike. The need to defend himself spurred the Drow to action. Izvilvin pushed off the mesh cage and sidestepped the blow, looking to counter with a blunt part of his weapon, when Krugor's punch rocked the side of his head. Stumbling from the impact, Izvilvin took two dizzied steps backward as the world around him spun. Krugor's fist had no soft flesh to make the punch less painful, unfortunately, but he had missed the temple.

Thankfully, his awareness kicked in before Rheawien's coming attack could take him down. He'd spotted her just in time to lift a sai, catching her blade between two prongs of the weapon. The Drow was fortunate that his skewed vision did not get him killed, but the impact numbed his arm in an especially painful way. Thankfully, his muscles held against the strike.

His other weapon came in quickly, slamming into the side of the sword in an attempt to rip it from her hand. His instinct told him to strike at her while he had the chance, but his heart forced him to abandon that course. He simply could not attack her the way she'd done to him. Hopefully he could disengage her quickly enough to scurry away.

He was doing well for a man with one eye and a deep wound in his back, but it was that sudden confidence that had blinded him from Jon, who'd made his way to the Drow's feet. The blade pierced through his thin shoe easily, driving through Izvilvin's foot and straight to the sand-covered steel below. He cried out, struggling to fight the pain and stay within the realm of consciousness, but his vision was darkening. The blood loss, the pain and the pressure was growing to be too much for him.

Despite this, Izvilvin lifted his foot and ripped the blade from his foot in a hurry, foolishly dropping the bloodied knife right next to Jon again. With a limp, the Drow bounded once and leapt away from the group of foes, rolling to safety for the time being. It was an act of pure desperation, an act powered by willpower and stubborn refusal to die.

His lavender eyes surveyed the three, Krugor, Jon and Rheawien. Izvilvin could feel his time ticking away, but perhaps with the vigor his anger could grant him, he could somehow slay the three of them before he gave in. It was a foolish thought, in truth, but under the circumstances, he couldn't think of any better route to take.

For now, he simply waited, sucking deep breaths. One of them would eventually be left alone while the others duked it out, and then he would make his move.

[Krugor]

Krugor could hear his bones crack as his fist plunged into Izvilvin’s face. It was a shame that his knife had missed the target but at least the Drow had been informed of Krugor’s intentions by a nice punch. He smiled as his bony fingers touched the man’s skin.

And then it happened. Without hesitation a small rubbery mushroom sped across the cell’s floor, making it’s way towards Krugor where it leaped upon his staff once again, to be merely a piece of decoration. The skeleton turned around immediately. His attack had found a target, it had smashed somebody, for there was no other reason the mushroom would return. Krugor looked around desperately to see who, or what, had been the unlucky receiver of the thing. He had send it towards Rheawien but she was nowhere to be seen.

If only Krugor had looked up.

For a split second he heard the clashing sound of two blades hitting each other. Then it all went dark. Krugor could hear and feel his bones shatter, breaking in half, and he screamed out in pain. Rheawien had landed right on top of him, her boots breaking the skeleton’s bones as if he was merely a twig that got in the way.

He had never breathed so hard and fast as he did now. The agony was overwhelming and Krugor couldn’t move because of it. With extreme persistence he managed to open his eyes and slowly the darkness made room for the cage again. Apparently Izvilvin got attacked by the woman too for Krugor could see them standing with their blades wrapped up in each other.

The undead was about to speak, mustering all the strength he had left in his body, when a man crawled past him. This man seemed to be in an even worse state than Krugor for it left a very thick trail of blood behind him, as he moved through the dirt. The man was on the edge of breaking down, Krugor thought, and he couldn’t quite figure out why he tried to get closer to them. He’d better try to crawl the other way, try to get to the exit. And then, so suddenly, the man stuck his knife hard into Izvilvin’s boot, the Drow screaming out in pain.

Laughing created even more pain but Krugor couldn’t help it. This was funny.

Witnessing the other three contestants battling, or more like annoying, each other the skeleton tried to get up. He pushed himself up but instantly fell down again as he realised that his left arm had been separated from his body. Krugor couldn’t believe his eyes as he saw his arm laying next to him, not in any way attached to him anymore. It was one of the disadvantages of being an undead. Where the living had flesh and muscles to keep broken bones together Krugor had nothing. Everyone bone that breaks fully in half would be separated from him.

He screamed, caused by both pain and anger, as he attempted once more to get up. Finally standing up again he noticed some more broken bones; his ribs. It was a miracle that Krugor could be standing at this point, or even breathe, for the broken ribs caused him to lean forward heavily. It was all so painful.
Krugor roared and picked up his amputated left arm. It was a strange sight to see; a living skeleton trying to stay on his feet while swinging his arm in the air.

It had to be done. Even if it would kill him Krugor had to take out Izvilvin, for he was the one that distracted him from Rheawien, he was the one that caused all this. He couldn’t move if he wanted to lessen the pain as much as possible, he knew that, but at least he could throw stuff. So in one fast motion he threw the dismembered arm at Izvilvin, immediately followed by an iron knife. “Take this!” he yelled.

[Witchblade]

Witch’s eyes widened as Canen sent his icicles at her, she knew it could happen, she knew he still had two of them she just hadn’t know he’d had all five. There wasn’t enough time to fly away, she couldn’t properly dodge these ones she was in too close to him and as fast as she was, she couldn’t teleport. Turning herself in a circle, Witch managed to completely evade one, another grazed her already wounded shoulder ripping through flesh but no farther. She would still be able to use her arm. Another she was able to knock out of the air, the icicle shattering on impact with the titanium plating of her arm guard.

The fourth one slipped past all her efforts to stop the attack and imbedded itself into the side of her stomach, the sharp, pointed edge ripping through flesh and into what would be vital organs in a normal person, but she wasn’t a normal person. The fifth missed her body and ripped through the thin layer of skin covering her wings and disappearing on the other side.

The fact that her mouth was sown shut kept Witch was screaming or crying out due to the pain, she’d learned to clench teeth and jaw instead of ripping the stitching holding her mouth together. She did however growl deep in her throat like a wounded animal, something between hatred and agony. Something between sane and insanity. She could feel The Malice growing within her, that bitter hatred that tried to take her over, it was creeping out of the confines of her mind and she was having a hard time fighting against it. It wanted death and it wanted blood, all of which were happening in this tournament and all of which she was already inflicting. But she didn’t want The Malice and fighting against it, the brief inner battle, for but a moment her eyes glowed red until she’d subdued that separate creature of her mind.

Gripping the icicle with her hand, Witch ripped it from her stomach followed by a trail of blood flowing from a rather large wound. She wouldn’t be able to heal that in a single day, it was going to stay with her for the rest of this battle and be a pain in the ass, all because one stupid man wouldn’t roll over and die like he was supposed to.

Still holding onto the icicle, Witch rushed Canen, only a few feet from her, she thrust her shoulder into his chest then raised her hand and attempted to bury the very attack he had sent to kill her straight into his chest, right where his beating heart would be. If Witch had been paying more attention to what was going on inside of the cage her actions probably would have been different, but she wasn’t paying attention. She was intent on fighting and had thought that Izvilvin would be able to take care of himself, but her only ally was slowly losing the fight and she didn’t realize it. If she had she would have fought off Rheawien, Krugor and finally killed that annoying human, Jon, she would have, but she didn’t see a thing from up here.

[Falcon Darkflight]

There was nothing he could do.

He stumbled over as the numbing cold icicle plummeted through his unprotected skin, the jagged edges of the ice sheering through the flesh of his ribcage like a knife through butter, breaking three of his ribs like dry twigs. He tried in desperation to get up, coughing up large volumes of blood from the terrible wound, but his body was little more than dead weight, somehow apart from him. He lay half on his belly, looked down at himself, and saw that his chest had been horribly penetrated by the cold spear, the trajectory of the puncture merely centimetres from his heart.

And now here he was, blood draining out of him and seeping through the mesh roof of the cage to the dusty earth below in inky black streams. When had he ever stepped on the devil's tail to earn this one?

He lifted his cheek from the steel gauze below so he could see more than the dull silver of the cell and the black trickes of his own blood, and allowed his gaze to drift to Witch's own. She had been wounded by his last attack, but was still alive and coming to finish him off without a doubt.

Furiously wishing to Isa that he knew where he had dropped his sword, Canen turned his injured head downward and saw to his amazement it was still clenched tightly in his bloodied right hand, his fingers wrapped around the grip, the blade pressed almost vertically against his side. He dropped his face back to the metal again, back into the pool of his blood, no longer able to keep it up. He was funnelling all of his energy into his right hand, begging it to move, willing it to move, and when it failed to respond silently began cursing it, demanding that it quit giving him bullshit. Insisting that it could screw with him later on, could fall right off his shoulder if that was how it had to be, but that right now it was going to obey him and raise the goddamn sword point.

Canen heard himself take a racking breath. He could see Witch getting closer to him, her eyes screaming endless, screaching profanities at him.

Come on, you bastard He thought. Come on...

And then, suddenly, his arm was coming up, dragging The Valiance with it, dragging the blade through his spilled, thick black blood, getting its tip off of the ground and pointing it at Witch's stomach. With what was certaintly about to be his last offensive of his tournament, he rolled his arm back and thrusted the sword with every remaining strength he could muster at his female, now victorious opponent in a last gasp attempt to finish her off. His eyes watered, his lips burned with the pain of his wounds, tears of blood rolled down his cheeks in lurid streams of black.

If he was going to die, he would take this bitch down with him.

[Zerith]

This was something completely different that the Serenti and the LCC, that much was certain. Those two tournaments had structure and held fairness between fighters. Whatever event this way was different. There were no guidelines or rules to determine what was fair and what wasn’t. In this cage, this prison, everything was possible and everyone was open game to everyone else. In Zerith’s opinion, this tournament had a rather fitting name and was one that suited it perfectly.

The Cell.

Actually as he watched from within the steel cage, ‘The Cell of Death and Chaos’ would’ve been more fitting. Once one man made a speech and allowed the battle begin, some of the fighters took the initiative and began what would turn out to be a slaughter in the end. Others were brought into the battle as well and were soon caught up in the own struggle to survive. However, there was one that stayed back and watched, refusing to get his hands dirty until he decided to enter the fray. That man was Zerith.

After he two previous defeats in the Serenti and the LCC, Zerith was determined to at least make it through this first round. Much to his relief, the causes of his two losses weren’t locked in with him either. The first was Asuka, the copper-haired girl would did have a fair fight and earned Zerith’s respect. So much in fact, that he risked his own life to drag her body out of the water and avoid drowning. Unfortunately for the halberdier, the judges deemed Asuka the victor. However the thought of losing to a semi-finalist was acceptable.

The second cause to another defeat was a different story. Torin Reahkari, the bastard who couldn’t hold his own his own weight in a team. Zerith had done his part in the battle, starting it on his own and killing one of the other members of the opposing duo. Originally he had though Torin would be a great partner as well, now he regretted ever thinking that. The man didn’t even help out one bit, the only thing he did was run into a building and threw dust out the window. The asshole was lucky to not be in this cage though. Otherwise he would have found himself upon the point of Zerith’s halberd rather quickly.

As for the people who were in the cage, there were a mix of some familiar faces and some new one. Canen Darkflight was one of few he recognized, the Grand Commodore of the GO until he left the organization. The two of them also worked together briefly back in Scara Brae, yet if the Nocturnian picked up any new skills since then was a mystery. The halberdier watched his old companion go one on one with a unique, frightening, stitched-lipped woman. She was an odd individual that made Zerith wonder if she was undead or not. Either way he studied her movements briefly along with Canen’s. By the time he encountered one of them, he hoped they would have taken care of the other.

The only other face he remembered was belonged to the white-haired half-elf. The hair threw him off for a bit due to the fact that she had dark hair when he last saw her. Rheawien, the only person that stood by him for the entire battle at the fortress in Scara Brae. He remembered that day well, his first real fight to survive and his first experience with pole-arms and leadership. The two of them were part of the lucky few that survived while the rest of the soldiers and the Captain, Ganitorax, all died that day. That was also the day he acquired his weapon of choice, Amenzanil. Now that first lesson Ganitorax gave him blossomed into his own style of fighting. He’d never know if it was like the Captain’s or not.

The white-haired woman was lost in a battle between a drow, a very strange skeleton, another human and herself. Again Zerith took a brief amount of time to study each one and judge which ones were a threat. Yet in the end his conclusion was just as he originally thought, Rheawien would be the real problem. She was a better fighter in nearly every possible way, which worried the halberdier. If he was going to win this round, he would have to deal with her when she was weak and tired. Then he’d have the upper hand.

The real challenge was to not get caught in any unnecessary fights. He had to lay low and avoid everyone else so that when the time was right he could make a sudden appearance and eliminate whoever was remaining. “Let them all fight against each other. Then make your appearance just in time to deliver the final blow to the weaker ones. As for the major threats, give the crowd the show they want and take the opposition down by whatever means necessary. You’re not here for honor or wealth, you’re here to win. By any means necessary,” He told himself.

That’s exactly what he did, he stood back and watched the others get lost in the chaos. Soon they were too caught up in their own fights to care about the halberdier that stood on the sidelines. He watched everything, including the final efforts Canen, the human and the skeleton all attempted on others. Zerith hoped that Canen would manage to kill the stitched-lipped stranger before he succumbed to his wounds. Otherwise he would have be concerned with who her next target was. As for the skeleton, the only person he seemed to be a threat to was himself. The halberdier would leave either Rheawien or the drow to finish him off. That left only one for Zerith to take care of.

The poor human that dragged himself along the floor to try and deliver a last attack on the drow. The attack worked, knife drove through the drow’s foot. Yet it still left the man helpless on the floor and at the mercy of everyone. The invitation was offered, Zerith was just the one that took it without question.

He rushed forward with his halberd held tightly in both hands. “A nice, quick kill. That will bring an end to his suffering and allow me to deal with the next one,” Zerith thought. When Jon finally came within range of the pole-arm, Zerith lifted it up and brought the sharp axe-head down with the aid of gravity. All that was left for Jon to do was endure the sharp pain of the titanium blade bury into his spine, then it would all be over for him. He’d be rewarded for his effort though, with thunderous applause from the crowd that was watching.

[Rheawien]

She forgot how fast the bastard was. Even though her attack was half-effective, the half that produced the desired result wasn’t the one she hoped for. Rheawien’s feet pinned the skeleton to the floor, the dry bones crunching unhealthily, but Izvilvin parried her blade with the adroit movement of his sai despite the unhinged power behind her strike. Her katana was caught in the prongs of his weapon, then swatted away by his offhand weapon. It was a cunning move, leaving her flank completely open to the counterattack, but the drow refused to take an advantage. Instead he backed off, his remaining lilac eye ascertaining her in the most peculiar manner. If Rheawien wasn’t psyched up on battle fury, she would’ve noticed that he wasn’t looking at her with enmity. As it was, with the betrayal and the stitched-lipped bitch still lingering in her mind, the half-elf refused to see anything but a traitor and an enemy.

However, it seemed that she wasn’t the only one. A hobo that seemed dead in the water once he pulled out the shortest straw in the scramble at the commencement of the battling seemed too headstrong to realize that he was dead. He dragged his soon-to-be-cadaver body across the floor, leaving a crimson smear behind his snail-like movement. That, however, didn’t thwart him in stabbing his knife in the foot of the dark-elf. As if this wasn’t enough, the lunatic undead that seemed to change sides more often then socks – he tried to hugged her, tried to kill you with a mushroom, tried to be an ally with Izvilvin, tried to kill him with an utensil – flung a pair of projectiles at the drow. One was a rather unremarkable kitchen knife. The other was a rather remarkable appendage that she tore off with her descent.

Rheawien made a swift assessment of the situation. She needed to eliminate all the obstacles and she had to do it systematically, which meant taking out the weakest ones first. Since a familiar face – Rhea couldn’t quite connect the name and the face – was performing a coup de grace over the knife-wielding bum, the white-haired woman was left with the harebrained one-handed skeleton. Busy with flinging both his weapons and his words and Izvilvin, the animated corpse probably wasn’t aware that she approached him from behind.

“Your wretched mushroom almost killed me, thing!” Rheawien growled from behind, her left side still sore from the collision with the gigantic fungus and her shoulder muscles and tendons still aching from the rescue maneuver she had to perform. “And you called me fat!”

She didn’t launch an attack with her glowing katana despite her position being perfect for a classic backstab. The fact of a matter was that a slash or a trust was bound to produce minimal injuries to something that had a constitution similar to a sack of dry sticks. A blunt strike however was bound to crunch a couple of extra bones and, if she was lucky – given her position, it was highly likely – break the spine of the risen undead. So she put her body in an abrupt spin, firing a roundhouse kick aimed at the thing’s back. If it connected, the meatless creature was bound to be launched towards Izvilvin.

[Krugor]

“Your wretched mushroom almost killed me, thing!”

A screeching voice echoed throughout the cell. Panting heavily from firing his “throwing weapons” Krugor wondered where the voice came from. He was exhausted and couldn’t quite figure out who was screaming at him, though it was clear that the voice came from a woman.. Eyes started to close slowly, his hearth started to beat less and less. “And you called me fat!” the voice continued.

Realising the person yelling at him stood behind him he carefully turned around. It was Rheawien, apparently in rage about his actions. “I warned…you…about that” he sighed. “And really…a little workout wouldn’t hurt you”. But his excuses where useless, as the half-elf didn’t wanted to hear any of it. In fact, she quickly launched a roundhouse kick at him and even though Krugor saw it coming he was to tired to do anything about it.

He couldn’t even scream as he flew through the air. Just watching the sky and the clouds passing by way above him as he glided along the smooth air, carrying him towards the Drow behind him. So this is it Krugor thought as images of his past came rushing by inside his mind, What a terrible way to end a life. I couldn’t even hug somebody. Tears where pulled from his eyes, both from the sharp winds passing along his body as from the sadness about his nearing demise.

It all didn’t take longer than a second, but Krugor felt like his entire life had been covered. From his birth to his marriage, from his rebirth to his now second death. “I can’t even stay alive after I’m dead” he loudly joked to himself. The face of dead always got the craziest, silliest things out of people.

Then it all ended. With a bang he was smacked against Izvilvin, who caught him in mid-air. Hanging there in the Drow’s arms, the skeleton clinging to him with his last remaining arm, he turned around, now watching him face to face, eye to eye. “So…you finally got…what you wanted” he told Izvilvin. The words came out of his mouth as pain shot through his body like a really slow steam train. Not fast at all, more like being slowly stripped from all his vital organs by a rusty spoon. Krugor felt warm at one point, than freezing cold the next. It was clear that he had no more option left, this was it.

He looked Izvilvin straight into the eye, as if Krugor looked right through the elf, with a serious look upon his face. But suddenly that look changed and the skeleton charged into laughter, mixed with some coughing. “I win” he smiled, “I hugged you!”

It was apparent that the undead, and soon to be totally dead, skeleton didn’t make sense to anybody in the cage. But he, himself, knew that those words had meaning. He would remember this moment for all time to come, even thought time was running out.

“Finish it. I can die happily now” he said, smirking at Izvilvin.

[Izvilvin]

((All the bunnying and stuff, like Izvilvin catching Krugor, was approved and such. So was the following ^_^))

Izvilvin could not buy himself another moment's rest. The skeleton's gaze was locked on him, and the Drow knew he had become the thing's permanent target. This wasn't good. Izvilvin could get by for a while longer if the others were fighting among themselves, but with the undead creature focusing on him, the Drow knew he wouldn't be able to fight him off forever, not in his condition.

However strange the scene of Krugor twirling his own arm in the air was, Izvilvin couldn't muster a laugh. The separated part of the skeleton flew at him, twirling awkwardly in the air, clearly not the greatest thing to use as a projectile. Perhaps as a club, it would have served better. With hardly any effort, Izvilvin slapped the heavy thing out of the air, only to clear his line of sight to see the knife. He swung with his other hand, but couldn't properly gauge the distance with one eye.

Krugor had a remarkable shot for a skeleton. The iron blade cut through Izvilvin's chest, just above his ribs and to the left of his heart. He cried out, gripped the handle and ripped the knife out, throwing it aside. His face was locked in a bitter grimace. This was yet another wound that was not serious, yet would nag at him and drain his energy. It was a cruel way for a warrior to go.

A new combatant entered the fray, brandishing a great polearm Izvilvin would have dread combat against, as his weapons were suited to short range. With some bitterness, the Drow noted the man might have taken the best course in a battle of this nature, staying silent until the most appropriate time.

He did not pursue the skeleton, for Rheawien was already in the process of attacking. To his shock, the kick had sent Krugor flying into him, and it took all of Izvilvin's remaining strength to keep from collapsing under the weight of the skeleton. Catching him had been but a reflex. The Drow winced, expecting a quick attack from the creature.

Instead he heard a cold laughter. The chilling sound of the undead's spirit seemed to come forth with the expression. There was humanity in the being, Izvilvin could finally see, but he was still an opponent in the most trying experience the Drow had ever experienced. In one fluid movement, Izvilvin pulled back from the creature, bringing the sai in his right hand to bear and driving it as hard as he could into the top of the skeleton's bare skull.

The weapon pierced bone, and the main prong of the sai drove into Krugor's brain. Izvilvin felt the skeleton go limp, and allowed him to drop to the ground, more lifeless than before. His eyes observed the body for a moment, checking for any movement. Examining his weapon, Izvilvin saw that the iron prong was bent slightly. He doubted it could have done what it did if he'd put any less force behind the blow.

The thrill of battle should have revitalized him in some way, Izvilvin thought, but there had been enough surges of adrenaline for him. One could fight unconsciousness for only so long, and finality was seeping in. Tired, he dropped his weapons to the floor, stepping backward into the cage wall to use it as support to remain standing. Perhaps he could hold on for a little while longer, just to watch the others until he fell.

It was incredibly loud as the audience screamed and applauded. Krugor was down, Walter was still down, in some aspect, and the battle had heated to incredible levels. The Drow, despite being hurt early in the fight, was continuing on with as much strength as he could muster. Many people had lost their bet money on him, but many also won it back with the fall of the skeleton.

The sound seemed distant to the Drow's pointed ears, like a background buzzing like that of a beehive. His senses were weakening in some way, but his mind was still strong. He was painfully aware that his body had taken too much damage to last much longer.

He wondered what has caused Rheawien to attack him the way she had, but chalked it up to battle. This was a war, after all. Despite this rational conclusion, the beginnings of the Cell had suggested she wanted to fight together, on the same side. Had it been just a ruse to fool him? Maybe he had simply not understood what she had yelled to him, those minutes ago.

Maybe, he thought, they had never been as closely bonded as he'd thought.

[Witchblade]

The sound was beautiful, flesh ripping, blood bubbling, the cry ripped from his throat. She loved it and so did The Malice, advancing within her own mind screaming for more, thirsting for more, always wanting more carnage, more agony, more of anything that caused pain and death to others. It was easy to fall into the depths of The Malice and just lose control but she couldn’t take the risk and she never liked letting The Malice take over. Her own consciousness was pushed to the back of her mind where she had to fight to come to the forefront again.

What surprised Witch though and pushed her back into reality and away from her own inner battle was the fact that Canen wasn’t truly dead, not yet anyway. He was lifting his sword, slowly and surely the pesky human was getting to his feet and trying to fight her. Well, he was trying to do something anyway. He was weak and it seemed like he was putting everything into a final thrust towards her stomach. The realization that he was still trying to kill her within the grips of his own death made her laugh. It was pathetic, his end was at hand and he wouldn’t give in to the fact that he wasn’t going to beat her.

Parrying the attack by shifting her body slightly to the side, Witch reached behind her and grabbed her Mythril dagger; it had an added effect against those of darker influence and should really hurt piercing his flesh. Stepping close to him, her body practically pressing up against his, Witch thrust the blade into his stomach. Fleshing part easily to the sharp edge of her blade.

“Memento Mori…little fly…” She didn’t know where the words came from; they popped into her mind from somewhere, some part of her subconscious. Whether or not it had something to do with her past was of no concern to her now. And she spoke the words aloud, moving her lips just enough to get the words out yet not rip through the flesh. She hated that feeling, the thin pieces of thread ripping into the sensitive skin around her mouth and then her lips.

Stepping away from Canen, Witch pulled the blade from his stomach and sheathed it—bloodied and all—she didn’t care. He was dead; the wound in his chest was pumping out massive amounts of blood—whatever blood he wasn’t coughing up from his lungs—and the new wound in his stomach, well, that was just a push in the right direction.

But with her opponent on his way to meet whatever Gods he prayed to Witch was unsure of what to do next. It was then that she glanced into the cage and really assessed what was going on inside and just how bad of shape Izvilvin was in. Her ally was practically dead and Witch could tell that he wasn’t going to last for much longer. Her first instinct was to race inside the cage and help him, defend him, but that was something foreign to her nature. She didn’t even truly understand where it was coming from. This was a tournament after all and the Drow knew that. She also knew that even if she helped him he wouldn’t be able to last much longer anyway, there wasn’t anything she could do.

Pushing off from the roof, Witch flew over to the hole she’d made in the side of the cage earlier and tucked her wings in, flying through. Turning herself upright, she settled herself to float just above the sand covered floor of the cage and watched her surroundings. Who to go for next, who at attack and who to kill? She did not want to go for the elf bitch, not yet, if anything she’d leave her for last, Izzy was out of the question, Jon was now completely and utterly dead, so was that weird skeleton, however there was someone new who had been staying out of the line of fire.

He was welding a halberd and the only weapons she had were melee, but if she could get in close enough to the human his weapon wouldn’t be that great of help to him. Grinning, Witch used her wings to propel her at speed towards the human. Taking him from surprise by behind, Witch grabbed his shoulders and held on as she continued over top of him, attempted to pull him from the ground and over her head, essentially chucking him against the far side of the cell wall.

*Memento Mori - Latin - Remember that you must die.

[Zerith]

(OOC: all bunnying of Jon's death was approved by Walter. Seeing as how he told me to move on.))

The crowd cheered and applauded as the blade of the halberd embedded itself into Jon’s spine. The human threw his head back and screamed in agony, much to Zerith’s pleasure. One part of him found the fact that he enjoyed battle and bloodshed rather unsettling. There wasn’t really anything glorious about it and those who found pleasure in inflicting just suffering were considered sick and twisted. Yet there was another part of him that found enjoyment in this. As for being sick and twisted, Zerith had yet to see someone with those opinions enter something like this.

He was too caught up in the basking in the crowd cheers to hear the end of Jon’s scream, marking his passing to the Antifirmament. The halberdier was beginning to think of himself as a type of gladiator. With each sight of blood he spilt the crowd would love him more and more. In time he would eventually become their favorite. Then when he stood the only survivor in this cage, he would bask in all the rewards they laid at his feet.

Suddenly he was thrown back into reality, literally. Something grabbed him from behind and threw him backwards through the air. If he wasn’t caught off guard he could have tried to defend himself, but that was out of his control. The world spun around him as he spun in the air helplessly. Until his back slammed into the cage and he fell back to the floor with a thud, his halberd resting by his side.

He didn’t know what had happened. As he grabbed hold of his pole-arm and used it to climb to his feet he wondered where did he go wrong. His plan was perfect, gradually reducing the number of weaker combatants until only a few remained. It wasn’t until after he shook his head and could see straight did he finally see what the cause of his brief flight was. The stitched-lipped woman who was apparently already done with Canen was hovering in mid-air as if she was sitting atop some pedestal.

“Who the hell does she think she is, the alpha of this cage?” he thought. “Well then she’s wrong. She’s no different that the rest of us normal combatants,” he told himself.

Clutching onto his halberd with both hands Zerith called out to her, “It’s a pity you have to use hit and run tactics. However I do realize that it isn’t your fault you’re no good at fighting face to face and on your feet.”

This time she’d come to him, and he’d be ready for her this time. He wouldn’t allow her to sneak up on him again.

[Witchblade]

Witch rolled her eyes in disgust. Clearly once again she’d chosen the wrong person to fight with because this human was just as bad as the last one. Flapping his mouth off like he knew everything there was to know about her and this fight, and the freaking world for that matter. What was he, mister know-it-all-asshole-human who should be taught a freaking lesson!? And hit and run tactics? Did this guy even know what the hell he was talking about? Clearly, she hadn’t hit and run, she’d grabbed him and vaulted him towards the opposite end of the cage. That’s not running, that’s tossing, or throwing, or attempting to maim! Either way, that was not running!

For the love of all that was destructive and evil in Althanas why did she always get the humans who were stupid and needed a few good smackings upside the head? Why couldn’t she get the human who knew how to do more than flap his mouth off, or the human who just shut the fuck up and fought for once!? Maybe she should have attacked that stupid white-haired elf bitch after all; at least she would give her a run for her money.

If he was trying to incite anger in her and make her do something stupid though, it wasn’t working. All that happened when she got angry was she got angry and usually hit her target twice as hard.

Sighing, Witch grabbed her staff off her belt, the only long ranged weapon she had and boy was she glad she hadn’t decided to sell the damn thing in the bazaar right now. If only it had something sharp and pointy on the end of it she’d be a little happier, but she’d have to make due with this for now. Once she was in nice and close she’d use some of her other weapons. Twisting two metal rings in the centre area of the staff, Witch spun it around in her hand until it unfolded to its full length, 5’3. Using her wings to propel her forward, much faster than running, Witch launched herself towards her new target, her staff in one hand.

Once she was close enough she twisted the staff around and attempted to knock him in the side of the head with it. Witch had never used her staff much and her lack of skill with the weapon was going to show here but she had other skills to pull on. Touching the floor of the cage with her toe, Witch jumped off it and flipped backwards, sticking her other leg out and attempting to kick the human right in the chin before doing a complete flip and landing facing towards her enemy again. This move irritated the wound in her stomach, causing flesh to shift and a small amount of dark blue blood to seep out of the wound again.

[Zerith]

“That’s right,” Zerith told himself. “Come here so I can knock you off that pedestal of yours.”

Sure enough that’s what she did. Yet before she charged, she did take a moment to pull out another weapon, a staff. At first, Zerith didn’t know what it was and it wasn’t until it unfolded that his mind registered the name of the type of weapon. A halberd against a staff, perhaps he really would get something closer to a fair fight against her.

Once the staff was at it’s full length, the strange woman used her wings to propel herself forward. Her choice of weapon was surprised the halberdier, her movement didn’t. He was expecting a frontal assault considering the fact that the steel mesh was right behind him. Yet she did come a little faster that he originally thought. A minor problem really, he’d work with it.

Once he was within her reach, she did the appropriate thing and attacked with her staff. Zerith saw it coming though and immediately brought the shaft of Amenzanil to knock the blow away. It wasn’t really hard at all, the fact that he held onto his weapon with both hands helped greatly and allowed him to push with more force. But what he didn’t expect was another offensive attempt, this time with a kick. She had caught him offguard again, only this time he wasn’t helpless. This time he’d improvise.

He did the first thing that came to mind and immediately released let go of halberd so that he held it in his left hand. The arm that held the halberd then attempted to wrap around the woman’s leg while his free arm reached across her mid-section for the side of her waist. Then with her in his grasp he spun around in order to pin her against the mesh. If this worked right, she’d be at his mercy for the moment.

But just in case she caught him offguard again, he tightened his grip and pushed his arm into her stomach as they spun. It was an attempt to use titanium spikes on his bracers to pierce her leg and stomach. If he couldn’t pin her against the wall, He could at least deal some damage with his bracers. A fitting reward for the ache his body felt from hitting the mesh.

[Witchblade]

The little fucker wrapped his arm around her leg and prevented her from attacking. This surprised her, perhaps she was too used to battling weaklings like Canen and she hadn’t been completely expecting someone who was actually skilled with fighting. But she could cope, oh could she ever cope. After he’d disappointed her so much by flapping his mouth off, this little human was beginning to gain her interests again.

As the spikes of his bracers dug into her thigh and stomach, Witch growled down at the man, who she realized was attempting to pay her back for his little trip into the side of the mesh. The people in the stadiums where back to cheering and yelling their obscenities at warriors fallen and warriors still standing, but Witch ignored them as best she could. Not worried about the destination the human had planned for her body, Witch brought her left leg up with a quick motion, though it was on a weird angle since the human was holding onto her right, she was still able to brace her foot on the wall of the cage. Hard rubber dug into harder steel and with the momentum of his attack exhausted, Witch slammed the heel of her boot onto the mesh cage, leaving a slight dent in the wall but producing a small titanium blade from the toe section of her boot.

Pushing off the cage wall, Witch twisted her body around, her foot outstretched and coming in at an odd angle, the titanium dagger and the rest of her foot aimed straight for the human’s skull. He’d either have to let go of her and get out of the way or, well, die, because she seriously doubted his skull was made of anything stronger than bone and the last she checked Titanium broke through that rather easily with enough force.

[Zerith]

A smile formed on Zerith’s face as he watched the spikes on his bracers pierce his opponent’s flesh. He was originally expecting some type of yell or curse to escape the woman’s lip. Perhaps even a death threat or something similar but instead she growled at him. It was one of those growls that spoke for itself, “You fucking bastard, I’m going to kill you the first chance I get.” It could have been worse though, it could have said something completely different. Something close to, “Oh pain. I love it when he gets rough like that.”

Thankfully that wasn’t the case. Yet she did have her own plans when it came to being slammed against the mesh. Instead of hitting it the way she made him collide with it. She braced herself with her left boot and tried to deliver a kick to the side of his head. If it wasn’t for the shiny, sharp piece of metal that caught his attention, he probably would’ve allowed the blow to connect. But if he did that, this fight would come to an end much sooner that he planned.

His arms immediately released the stitch-lipped woman and he tried to get out of the way. Yet he soon realized he wasn’t fast enough as he felt the sharp blade cut his right cheek and his blood start to fall down the side of his face. With another sight of blood in open view, the crowd cheered and applauded. Leaving Zerith behind until he spilt more blood or did some other feat that pleased them.

As he finished spinning around and was facing his opponent again. The halberdier had to fight the urge to cup his cheek. If he did that, he risked the chance that she would try and do more damage. So just as he was finishing the full 360-degree turn, his right hand disappeared behind his back and immediately reappeared with his serrated dagger in his grasp. He tucked his arm in and thrusted in an attempt to stab at the woman’s chest.

For that little extra kick of damage, he would give the dagger a 180-degree twist when it sank in. It would also ensure that the wound would close right away.

[Witchblade]

He let her go, her dagger missed the top of his skull and grazed against his cheek instead. She wasn’t disappointed; if such a simple attack could so easily kill the human then she really had chosen the wrong opponent. Once he’d let go of her leg, Witch continued to turn around from the force of her kick. Using her wings she righted herself into a standing position floating above the cage floor. She observed her handiwork, a trail of blood leading down from the facial wound, the deep red colour appealing and so much unlike her own. However, her knew human toy was quick with the draw and he had a dagger out from behind him and coming towards her chest in mere seconds from recovering from her attack.

Melee weapons, how she loved them and he was playing right into her hands. Forget the halberd, up close and personal combat was where it at when one could look into the whites of their victim’s eyes and slowly watch the life drain out of the pupils. It really did happen too, that look of death when someone’s heart finally stopped beating. How she wanted to see that look on this man’s face, but not yet, not right now, she wanted the enjoy the battle a little longer. Right now she wanted a fight, she wanted a challenge, she wanted to bleed him and be bled herself.

Bringing her arm up, Witch stopped his attack, the man’s forearm colliding with the Titanium plating and the small Titanium spiked resting atop it. Paid back in kind, he stabbed her thigh and stomach with those things, now she got his arm. Wrapping her arm around his, Witch pushed up attempting to pop the man’s elbow out in a way that it wasn’t meant to go. Still holding onto his arm, Witch punched the human in the gut, then grabbed him by his hair and lifted his head up. With the harder part of her skull, the area right above the forehead where it hurt less, Witch smashed her skull against his more sensitive forehead. She could still feel the impact on her head, the dull, throbbing pain, it was nothing she couldn’t handle and she knew it had to hurt him more.

Then with a final move, Witch completely let go of the human and shoved the heel of her right foot on the ground, the same blade protruding from her left boot slid out of the right. Using her wings to keep her balance, Witch attempted to kick the human right in the chest, her foot aimed where his heart should be.

[Rheawien]

She facilitated the death of the skeleton efficiently. Her attack connected with the bony undead, propelling it towards Izvilvin and the drow did the rest with the clinical precision that Rheawien recognized. The dark elf’s movement was swift despite his multiple injuries, his sai piercing the bald skull of the annoying sack of bones and shutting it up for good. And it was about damn time, the half-elf thought. The skeleton has gone from comedian to a nuisance in a hurry and its demise drew out a smirk on her stern visage. The only thing that would’ve been able to turn her smirk into a full smile was that it perished by her hand, but Rheawien knew that the Cell was too chaotic, too treacherous. And in such environments she knew better then to count the teeth of a gifted horse. It was one less obstacle to the ultimate goal.

The next one seemed both the toughest and the easiest one to beat. Izvilvin was fatigued, injured and hanging by a thread and dispatching him would be a peanut manner for somebody like her. But at the same time, the drow was somebody that a part of her didn’t want to attack. It was a sentimental part, an emotional segment of her psyche that still clung to that one night of unhinged passion in the desert realm of Salvar. He was her ally then, her friend, her savior and ultimately her lover. There was an inerasable bond between them, fortified by the intimacy and all the words that were spoken. Granted, most of those words were incomprehensible jabber to the both of them, but the manner in which they were spoken was something that had a deeper meaning. Something that made her offer a renewal of the alliance at the beginning of the bedlam of the cage. Could she put a seal on the withdrawal of that offer?

The crowd whistled and clapped and roared, seeing the opportunity for a clean and easy kill. There was no wind passing through the mesh walls to chase away the smell of blood and sweat that the gladiators spilled already. Rheawien’s eyes were locked on Izvilvin, her body tranquil. It was time to answer the question that she asked herself from the second she saw the familiar dark-skinned face as one of the combatants. The face that smiled and confirmed the alliance. And the face that followed another. Frowning gaze of the half-elf was diverted sideways, towards the bitch that fought (Zerith, her mind recollected the name of the halberd wielder) fiercely. Was she prettier then Rhea? Was she a better lover? Was she worth more then a half-elf nobody that moved from town to town in search for... for something other then the monotony of the everyday life?

Yes, apparently she was. Apparently some bonds only grazed the heart while the others pierced it. Rheawien’s grip around her katana tightened, her eyes furious once she turned them back to Izvilvin. He would pay. He would pay, and once she saw life slipping from those lilac eyes of his – well, eye after her whiplash – and his body fell to the ground, she would proceed to do the same with his mute mistress. Rhea’s hand returned the katana to the sheath on her back and pulled out a dagger from her belt. This was personal and the kill would have to follow the same principle; up-close and personal. She approached the drow slowly, femininity effaced from her gait of an angered warrior.

“Izvilvin!” she shouted, her browns like embers, burning a hole in his face. “This is what you get for sitting on two chairs.”

Rheawien’s muscles worked in perfect sync, providing her body with ample speed as she came at the dark elf. Her messy ponytail was like a banner, following her every step with a minute delay. Her dagger was held low, coming from below her waist in a trust that was bound to gut the drow in one immaculate slice. And as she came close enough to smell the sweat on his skin, Rhea knew the answer to the question her mind and her conscience posed.

[Zerith]

((OOC: I am unsure if the grabbing of Witchblade's dagger would count as bunnying. In case it qualifies, the move was permitted by Witchblade.))

The battle between the Zerith and his opponent was getting better with each passing second. With each moment pumping more adrenaline into the halberdier, he came to the decision that this woman was the greatest fighter he had crossed. Forget Marcus, that bastard wouldn’t have lasted in here and neither would any of his men. Even that bastard, Bryce. He was worse that Marcus, hardly a match when compared to this woman.

Zerith had gotten his hopes up. They died the moment the stitched-lipped female brought her arm up and put a halt to his attack. His arm slammed into her and he felt the sharp pain as a spike drove into his arm. He clentched his teeth and growled, he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of hearing him yell in pain. Her arm wrapped around his while he dropped both of his weapons to the floor. Then he suddenly felt her push upwards on her elbow, possibly in an attempt to disable his good arm. Even as he tried to push back, to maintain use of his sword arm, it would only be a matter of time until more pain rushed through his body. Thankfully she changed her mind and instead punched him in the gut, pulled him back up by his hair and slammed her forehead into his. It didn’t end there either, she had the momentum and she knew it. Her next blow was intended to be the last.

Her other boot produced another blade and she attempted to drive it straight into his chest. Unfortunately she let him go in the process and while his head felt like it was splitting and more pain filled his arm, he could still hold himself. His eyes opened to see her leg fly through the air and in response, he willed his arms to move. Both hands grabbed hold of her shin and stopped what would have been the deathblow. His grip then tightened and he pulled her forward and spun around her so that he would be facing her back. Just as she was when she started this fight.

As he spun, he eyes settled on something on her back and he immediately reached for it. His hand grasped the handle to a dagger and drew it out as he passed by her. To his surprise, the blade was covered in a black liquid. “What the hell is this?” he asked himself, but then it dawned upon him.

“Canen, Canen has black blood,” He said to himself. He remembered that from when the two worked together in Scara Brae. A shapeshifter wounded him and the black liquid was flowing down his stomach. Not only that, but there was something else Zerith remembered about Nocturnain blood. Something that was indeed quite useful.

He switched the dagger to his left hand and drew his longsword with his right. Then he advanced and attacked, his longsword coming in with a horizontal slash for an attempt at a major blow to her side. Her dagger came afterwards in a thrust for her midsection but a wound to the leg would also suffice. It didn’t matter where it struck, either way the damage would meet the same end.

[Izvilvin]

A bit of a laugh escaped the Drow's lips as Rheawien began to make her way toward him. It was the only way he could think to express what was happening, for defending himself from the woman had been the last thing he'd thought to worry about in the beginning of the battle. What a fool he'd been.

He knew what was coming, knew that in order to fight his coming fate, he'd need to strike at her as hard as he could, to feign weakness and counter strong, taking her out with a single strike. It was the only conceivable way he could survive the coming conflict and move on. Fighting by Witchblade's side, perhaps it'd be possible to beat the others, and then somehow overcome her when it came down to the end.

His damaged eye had swollen and was throbbing. The pain was unbelievable, but Izvilvin simply did not have the time to dwell on it. There was no use in dealing with wounds already sustained, not in this hell.

The woman sped up, calling his name and rambling something incomprehensible to his sharp ears. Izvilvin stood straight, preparing for the worst. Rheawien's hand flashed for his gut, cutting through the air like a beacon of his end. He could sense the horrible fingers of death closing in on him, grasping and pulling to bring him under.

Yet he fought against it, reaching forth to grab the warrior woman's arm, a hand on her triceps and a hand on her forearm, halting the knife a mere inch from the soft flesh of his belly. It took every ounce of strength in the graceful elf's arms to stop the assault, but he had done it. Despite the pain, he pushed her arm back just a bit, preparing to throw the limb away from his body, draw a sai and go for Rheawien's throat.

But he couldn't. The thought of striking at her, of drawing blood from the woman he'd known to be so gentle and strong, the very essence of what he'd always thought a woman should be, repulsed him. She had shown herself to be noble and good while they traveled in Fallien, where the sun shone across her white hair as it did his. So many more common characteristics of the two had shined even brighter on that day.

His eye was looking into hers, back and forth between the two windows to her heart. His expression was sad, disappointed, and so very final. She had been his only lover, the one companion he'd gotten to know in that intimate and trusting way.

Izvilvin pulled her into him, driving the dagger into his stomach as her hand held it. The cold metal felt odd and foreign in his flesh. Pain rushed over him. The Drow wanted to scream but it got caught somewhere in his throat.

The crowd cheered, a true example of their ignorance toward Izvilvin and Rheawien's past. They simply did not understand the significance of what was happening. Thankfully, the Drow did not hear them, though he did manage to lift his eye to the woman again. He managed one final glimpse at her beautiful face before he fell, lifeless, to the floor.

If the crowd was cheering before, they were now in an uproar. The Drow had finally fallen under the weight of his numerous wounds, the most recent of which had done so much more emotional damage than physical.

It was the death of a warrior, but that was not all. His belief in friendship and love had died along with his body. If a friendship could be disposed of in favor of something as shallow as the glory of battle, what use was it? It was the abrupt end of a bond that was once stronger than steel, and the wounding of a spirit once filled with the love of life.

Izvilvin lay dead at the edge of the cell, in so many more ways than one.

[Witchblade]

Her kick backfired and it ended up with the human to her back, his disgusting hands touching her weapons and removing them from their sheathes. She couldn’t believe the nerve he had to do such a thing, those were hers and he had defiled them with his touch! Snarling, Witch used her telekinesis to draw her staff back towards her and spun around the moment the cool metal touched her fingers. She blocked the attack to her side, the sound of metal clashing ringing through the arena. And when the human tried to stab her with her own weapon, Witch narrowed her eyes on his and grabbed for his wrist, not completely in time, the tip of her Mythril dagger pierced her own flesh.

Using her own brute strength, she drew back the dagger from her skin, forcing his arm back then attempted to snap his wrist in half.

“Let’s see a halberdier fight with only one hand!”

And it was right then at that precise moment that Witch felt Izvlvin’s life begin to slip away. She’d been keeping an eye on her injured ally, she’d thought he could handle his own, she thought he’d be all right, she thought she might not care that much when he died but she’d thought wrong! If she’d gone to protect him instead of attack the human she could have done something. But she hadn’t and as his energy faded and his life slipped through his fingers it felt like a part of her on the inside was dying and she didn’t even know why.

Was it because he was her only ally? Was it because of how he’d helped her in Salvar, or because of how similar they could be at times? She didn’t know, she didn’t understand, all she did know was that allies had come and gone before in her life and none of them hurt as much as this. She was going soft, but right now she didn’t care.

“Izvilvin!!!”

He didn’t answer her back, how could he? He probably didn’t even hear it before he died, she didn’t know, she just didn’t know.

“Izvilvin!” She cried the name out like it was torn from her throat, like the stitching in her lips was tearing into her flesh, but she didn’t care.

She pushed the human away from her and turned towards her ally just in time to watch him fall to the cage floor dead. There was no life in his eyes—or eye really—and no spark of energy left in his body. Logically she knew he would be revived after the battle was over with, but she wasn’t thinking logically right now, all she was thinking about was that, that stupid elf bitch had killed Izvilvin!

Speeding towards the woman, Witch dropped her staff and grabbed her both her sai, each sheathed at the side of her boots. Coming at the elf woman from behind, Witch made a move to thrust both of her sais into the woman’s back. Then she pulled them out and attempted to round house kick her in the side of the head, driving that titanium blade in her boot into the woman’s skull and then into her brain. She’d have this bitch lying dead on the ground in a million pieces once she was through with her.

[Rheawien]

Izvilvin intercepted her strike deftly, once again displaying his dexterity, wrapping his dark fingers around her pale hand. Even though obviously enfeebled, the drow succeeded in holding her at bay, opposing her with what little energy he could muster. But the very last fragment of his life wasn’t used to counter her, wasn’t even used as a last-ditch defense. Instead the dark-elf looked her in the eyes, looked her without anger, without a tinge of hatred in his beautiful lilac eyes, and pulled her sword hand into his own belly. Rheawien, who killed many a man in her life, was never disgusted by the sound of metal piercing the flesh, but for some reason she found it sickening today. Perhaps it was because even now, when he was drifting away and losing his life to the blood loss, her victim looked up at her with amicable eyes. And she realized that that eye wasn’t the eye of a traitor.

The crowd was elated, her gutting move sending them into bewildered ecstasy and she wished she couldn’t hear them. She wished that she wasn’t in this cage anymore, that she could rewind the time and return to those seconds right after the speech of Mister Kinnity. Because Rhea knew now that Izvilvin didn’t betray her. The only traitor within this Cell had messy white hair and blood on her pale hands.

“Izvilvin...” she uttered in a whisper, her gaze locked on the bloody cadaver that stood at her feet. The lilac eye was still open, but now it looked through her and into oblivion. Rheawien felt like crying. How could she be so wrong?

“IZVILVIN!”

Then again, maybe she wasn’t. The black-haired wench - whose presence provoked Rhea’s jealousy and doubts - was bawling the name of the drow through her stitched lips. In less then a second she was in a flat-out sprint towards the half-elf, desperate to save what passed beyond the point of no salvation. She wielded the weapons similar to Izvilvin’s. All of that combined gave a rather clear result to Rheawien. She wasn’t wrong in her initial estimate. The bitch was allied with the dark elf, otherwise she wouldn’t act so desperately and vengefully. This in turn resulted in transformation on Rhea’s face, her dumbfounded visage changing into a satisfied smirk. She loved when she was right. And now she would show to herself, to the stitch-lipped whore and to all present who dominated this Cell.

The witch moved with significant speed, but she was careless enough to announce her attack by shouting the name of her deceased beau. This left Rheawien ample time to prepare and by the time the two sais were jabbed at her back, she was on the move. Luckily for her, Izvilvin backtracked towards the wall just before she sent him to meet his maker, so the steel mesh stood a little over a pace from her current position. The half-elf decided to make use of it. Two fleet steps took her to the vertical obstacle, the third one making her leap directly at it and push against it. This propelled her body in a somersault above her attacker, making her land behind her back.

“Backstabbing bitch! I’ll send you to meet your pathetic lover.” Rhea growled, not countering immediately despite her significant strategic advantage. Instead she pulled out both her katana and her longsword from the scabbards on her back before taking a deep breath. And even as she inhaled, she tapped into her inner might once again, only this time it wasn’t used to amplify the sturdiness of her blade. Instead it doubled her speed, elevating her reflexes and perception to an inhumane level. The environment around her seemed more inert somehow, as if it was moving at half speed. In reality, it was Rheawien that moved at twice her usual fleetness.

Rhea’s legs sent her body in a dash that most on the bleachers saw almost in a blur, making her scud towards the left flank of her foe, but several steps before clashing with the woman, the half-elf changed her trajectory abruptly. Her left blade came down on the right thigh of the witchy woman hard, powerful enough to give Rheawien enough momentum to complete the spin and bring her left blade in a backhanded slash across her curvy breasts. She would put this woman to rest right next to her man.

[Witchblade]

She was fast, faster than any of the others in the cell that Witch had fought so far. She hadn’t been expecting this but with her eyes she was able to follow the movements of the elf, she just didn’t know if she’d be able to react in time. The blade came singing towards her leg before Witch could do anything, her anger having blinded her to the fact that maybe this opponent was stronger than her, that maybe this opponent was faster than her, but she didn’t care. This opponent had killed Izvilvin and for some reason it hurt! For some fucking reason she could feel the pain of that!

The blade cut through the material of her khaki’s and into her flesh, ripping and tearing into vein and skin alike and producing her odd coloured blood in the process. Jumping back from the second attack Witch was able to avoid the tearing of flesh, however her shirt was ripped open in the process. Metal slicing through and ripping material and since there wasn’t much of a shirt covering her to begin with, Witch was left rather exposed, not that she cared. She’d never been one for modesty anyway and she was in the middle of a battle right now, the fact that the crowd could see her breasts didn’t bother her.

“He’s not my lover, you stupid, fucking, bitch!”

Thread ripped flesh and flesh healed as the taste of blood swamped her mouth. It was vile, she hated that taste, even with her half vampire genes, whatever they did to her they didn’t bring any kind of longing to drink the blood of anything.

The crowd was going crazy by this time. Death did that to humans, they loved to watch it, they loved the struggle and the eventual defeat. They were far more twisted creatures then she was and she hated that she was dancing for their very enjoyment but the crowd was behind her. Their noise no longer filled her ears; their screams no longer gave her headaches. She tuned it all out and focused on one person, the elf bitch who’d killed Izvilvin.

Witch used her wings, the appendages flapping loudly in the cage keeping her off the floor and off her leg. Though to anyone who had to stand on a wounded leg it would be a nuisance to her it was nothing more than a throbbing annoyance. She didn’t need to stand, she could fly. The wound would heal, but not before this battle was done, but the blood wound stop flowing from it. Charging towards her enemy and cutting through the few feet separating them, Witch thrust her sai towards the woman’s thigh, repaying her for the wound in kind, then attempted to slash the bitch across the face. Using the momentum, Witch continued to spin in a circle, coming back around to her enemy in an attempt to kick her in the gut with the flat side of her sole.

[Zerith]

The stitched-lipped woman was full of surprises. Not to mention the fact that she seemed to constantly reveal new ones was quite frustrating. Somehow she summoned her staff to her hands and managed to knock away Trithdursil like how a teacher knocks away the sword of a student. She even managed to prevent her dagger from doing the maximum amount of damage it could do.

Her strength was amazing and although it took a lot of effort, she managed to pull his arm back and get the dagger out of her skin. What was worse was sicken snap as his left wrist broke. Even then, he clentched his teeth and let a loud, long groan escape his lips. He was at her mercy now, she had him right in front of her and open for a killing blow. But for some strange reason she stopped and pushed him away. Like he wasn’t a threat to her anymore.

The woman was too busy charging towards Rheawien to watch a smile form on Zerith’s face. Although she didn’t realize it, she’d soon know why. He had done exactly what he had intended to do and she would suffer the consequences. It wouldn’t be long until her vision become blurred and she felt dizzy. Then she would feel the nausea sink in along with the vomiting. The thought that all of that was thanks to Canen made Zerith’s smile widen.

Nocturnian blood was toxic afterall. Zerith remember that much, considering he managed to poison the shapeshifter in Scara Brae with the same stuff. Of course Zerith also had to that the woman as well, seeing as how she provided him with the weapon. Now the he was left alone while the two woman went at it. The halberdier took a few moments to sheath his dagger and pick up his sword with his right hand. His left hand hung lifelessly and with a broken wrist, there was no way he would want to try to use his halberd. Lucky for him he still knew how to wield a sword.

Once he was standing straight again he looked to see how the two woman were doing. Much to his surprise and to the delight of most men in the audience, one pair of breasts were in plain sight for all to see. As for Rheawien, she was fully clothed and really went at the other woman with all she had. However now Zerith was faced with a decision. Which one would he go after?

After some consideration, the final decision was that his next target was Rheawien. Although neither of them knew it, she was the major threat out of the two of them. The simple fact that the other was poisoned made that clear. Although the stitched-lipped one did break his wrist as was responsible for the pain that filled his arms and head. Rhea was still more dangerous to Zerith that she was now.

Gripping onto his sword tightly the swordsman rushed towards Rheawien. Part of him felt terrible for having to do this. She had followed him and fought beside him when not many would. For the brief time they shared Zerith felt like she actually put his faith in him. Yet now here they were, fighting for supremacy in a steel cage. Here the past didn’t matter, only the present did. As Rheawien came within reach of his blade he knew what he’d do with the past. He sliced downwards upon the half-elf’s back while the other woman attacked from her front. All the while he was intending on sending Rheawien to the antifirmament, just as he was sending the past there with this first attack.

As for the topless woman, he’d team up with her. Together they would kill the half-elf and then the poison would claim the life of the other. She’s pass away in Zerith’s arm in their moment of victory. It was perfect, almost poetic.

[Rheawien]

Both of her attacks connected and Rheawien couldn’t say which one gladdened her more. The first one was more efficient, more deadly, ripping through the thigh muscle and drawing out a squirt of blood. The second one failed to match the first in damage, but the result was certainly more eye-pleasing. Rhea’s katana ripped through the woman’s clothes as if they were made out of paper, exposing her ample breasts to all who had the fortune to be close enough to notice. Rheawien was more then close enough and with her accelerated metabolism she had more then enough time to observe the revealed chest. Her sexual affinities kicked in inadvertently, they way they always did in the oddest times imaginable, and she couldn’t help but pause her movement and stare at the exposed soft flesh of the woman. The last time she saw a pair of naked breasts that weren’t her own was with Sarah, and that encounter with the infamous Lavinian seemed centuries ago. More then enough time for her lust to accumulate and surface at this peculiar instance.

She paid for the pleasure of staring in blood though. The now topless female used her wings to put some distance between them, just enough for her to gain momentum and come at Rheawien in a blistering flyby. And before the half-elf even got a chance to react, the bitch managed to slice through her left thigh with one of her weapons. The pain or muscle being torn apart was mesmerizing, but ultimately lifesaving as well. Because the affliction made her take a knee and this in turn saved her from what was bound to be a lethal follow-up that now merely grazed her ponytail. The combination of the pulsing ache, the warm crimson ooze that crawled down her leather pants and one seriously pissed off witch was more then enough to break the enchantment that the woman’s bosom created. Rheawien's perception was back and so was her battle awareness, noting the hasty sound of footsteps behind her back and another blistering strike from the winged female.

“Left. Roll. Now!” Rhea’s mind instructed and her body followed, throwing itself over the aching leg and out of the way of what seemed like a double strike. Because Zerith – her old pal and trusty ally – turned on her, attacking her from behind. But given Rheawien’s hasty dodge, his blade was now on course to clash with the leg of the winged woman. If fortune smiled on her, the warrior could even clip off the bitch’s foot, but that was not an outcome that Rhea counted on. She knew that this battle wouldn’t be won by dumb luck. Pushing herself up with her right leg after her rolling motion was done, the white-haired woman spun her twin blades in a fluid motion before she steadied herself again. The wound in her leg hurt like a bitch and it thwarted her movements just enough to cancel out the speed burst she got from her technique. Still, even at her regular pace, Rheawien was significantly faster then the majority of fighters.

“A nice backstab for old times sakes, huh Zerith?” she spoke, her face now locked in a cocky smirk. “So much about the so called honor you supposedly practice. Not that it matters. You’re going down with the witch.”

Rhea didn’t attack immediately though. The crowd wasn’t an unwelcome sight to her anymore, but something that fed her fury, their cheers inspiring her to prove her dominance over the rest. Her right hand rose high in the air, saluting the audience and the bloodthirsty beast in the stands returned the favor, their hooting overruling every other sound. She knew that they didn’t care if she won or lost as long as there was death on the cage floor and there was blood flowing by the gallons. And that was something she could provide for them.

First she had to take care of the bitch and her aerial abilities though. Having her opponent sweeping down on her like a hawk put her in a great disadvantage and with the blood loss, she couldn’t play cat and mouse for long. For this purpose Rheawien flung her longsword at the woman, but once again, even as the projectile left her hands, her telekinetic powers grabbed a hold of it. Instead of a usual straight-lined trajectory, the blade zig-zagged, changed elevation, making it utterly unpredictable. And then, when the blade was less then two paces from colliding with the black-haired female, it turned at a sharp angle, circling around the woman with blistering speed. Once the maneuver – completely controlled by Rhea’s telekinesis – was done, the spinning longsword sliced at the wings like a circular saw.

Zerith wasn’t forgotten either. Even as her unorthodox throw was done, Rheawien charged at her old acquaintance with her katana held low at her flank. The titanium weapon came from below, falling just short of the man’s flesh but at just the right time to bounce his sword upwards if he were to block it. With this movement done, she brought her blade down at what she hoped would be the undefended base of Zerith’s neck. There was no holding back in her movements, no reserve towards the man she fought alongside with. And the crowd loved it.

[Witchblade]

As Rhea jumped out of the way, Witch was greeted with the face and blade of the human she’d been attacking earlier. Apparently her new opponent was now on a crash course to becoming her new ally in this fight, or seemingly he had been trying until the elf had moved out of the way and now he was about to slice her leg open. With a swift motion, Witch blocked his sword with her sai, metal scraping and the blade sliding into that small area where the two prongs could trap it.

The human wasn’t her concern though, the elf was. So Witch moved away from him and towards the elf bitch in time to see her launch some kind of projectile towards her and she watched in amazement as that projectile shot itself in all different directions.

“She must be controlling it through telekinesis!”

Witch had that ability too, but she’d never used it in such a way, she didn’t even know if she could and now was not a time to experiment with such things. Using her telepathy, Witch broke into the mind of the elf woman trying to figure out what she was trying to do. Her eyes kept focus on the blade, it’s dancing motions bringing it closer and closer to her and it only took seconds for Witchblade to learn what the elf was up to.

Her eyes narrowed as she watched the blade spin around behind her. There was only one thing she could do to save her wings to use them again in this fight, and that would be to disperse them now. With that in mind, Witchblade’s wings began to shred themselves with no pain to herself. Within less than a few seconds there was nothing left of them and she fell to the ground, the elf’s cutting sword missing her wings and scrapping against the skin on her back, leaving nothing more than a few superficial and annoying wounds. Landing on her injured leg though sent her straight to the ground on her hands and knees. She’d forgotten about it for a moment and the pain that ripped through her leg was crippling for the brief second her weight was on it.

And right there, as the half-ling began to push herself up from the floor of the cage it hit her. Her vision began to blur a little bit, a throbbing pain began to form in her skull and if she had a stomach to feel sick with, she felt sick with it right now. At first she thought it was blood loss, the wound to her leg and stomach had been too much for her to handle but then she realized that it couldn’t be that. They’d bled, but not that much and blood loss had never made her feel like this before, it had to be…poison.

Witch had never been poisoned before and she didn’t know what her healing abilities could do to it, if anything. Would the poison kill her like a normal person? Would she be able to fight it off? Could she still fight herself? She wasn’t really too sure about that last one, though she could look passed the pain, that was nothing new to her, her vision was horrible. She was seeing in pairs, no wait threes and even then those three were blurred. Though the middle one would have to be the right target her depth of perception must be off.

Cursing her luck, Witch stumbled back towards the wall of the cage, her back resting against the cool steel, her breathing shallow and hard. She needed a break for a few seconds, just enough time to see if her body could get this poison under control. If she couldn’t, well, she really only had one course of action then, didn’t she?

[Zerith]

Damnit, he had forgotten just how skilled Rheawien was. It seemed like it was such a long time ago since they had fought together. But that was then and this was now. Now he was going to deal damage to the other woman, his hopefully ally. Luck was still on his side though, or perhaps one of the Thayne was smiling down on him. Either way, he was never pleased to see an attack miss until now. When a simple swift motion she knocked his blade away and when back to Rhea.

But before either one of the two could attack, Rheawien beat them to it. First she went for the topless, stitched-lipped woman and then for the halberdier. Her katana came in low towards his side. But the trajectory changed the moment Zerith moved his sword in an attempt to block. Instead, the fine titanium blade shifted and hit his longsword away, leaving him open. Her sword moved once more, this time downward. Some eyes of the audience watched it’s decent an cheered, encouraging their champion to take another life and shed even more blood.

There wasn’t any way to block the blade, so instead the fighter would avoid it. His shifted his to his left and rolled, hearing the katana slice harmless through the air as it finished it’s decent. He couldn’t breathe a sigh of relief yet though, he needed to back away from the half-elf first. Scrambling to his feet, Zerith did just that. Though even when he managed to create a gap between the two of them, his eyes never left her. He was too afraid she’d try to do something if he didn’t keep her as the centre of his attention

“Backstab?” Zerith repeated, “We were never allies in this Rheawien”. He circled around her, stopping between his opponent and his ally. “If I remember correctly, a certain someone told me heroes don’t exist. They definitely don’t here Rheawien. This is just a cell of chaos and bloodshed, perfect for those like us find our sense of belonging when we shed blood and take lives.”

He gestured to their surroundings, “Let’s face it. Although I hate to admit it, I enjoy every moment of being here. The crowd cheering every time you deliver a blow is like a aphrodisiac. The pain that fills our body only adds to the rage and adrenaline we feel. As for honor, you have no idea what real honor is. The people watching us don't have a clue either, yet that doesn't seem to stop them from enjoying every minute this.”

Smiling, he raised his sword and some of the spectators cheered. “Just think, all these people will be cheering for you the moment I force your life to leave your body. Then you’ll travel to the Antifirmament, where I’m sure Ganitorax will be waiting to greet you.”

He’d bring the fight up a notch, giving it the status it deserved as one of the final clashes in the match. The halberdier willed his body to surface his inner strength, doubling his strength and increasing his agility as well. He rushed forwards towards the white-haired woman, his longsword trailing behind him as he closed the gap he created. As he came with reach of Trithdursil, he sidestepped to his right and spun to his left. He swung his blade horizontally at her chest, eagerly awaiting to watch he pierce her skin and break a rib or two.

[Falcon Darkflight]

Canen cursed silently as his last gasp attack on his elusive opponent failed, and the point of her knife withdrew from his flesh, soaked in toxic black liquid. He could feel the remaining energy in his body ebbing away slowly, the sickly, severed strands of skin hanging of the dull edge of the dagger as if to taunt him, to remind him of his defeat.

His bloodied head sank one last time with a disenchanted breath. He felt he had collapsed entirely inside, not exactly at the performance he had given or even the bitter taste of loss, but more at the implications of this moment. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people were watching him die in a much less civilized way than he had hoped for. How he begged now to be in darkness, away from the prying eyes of those who would judge him. How he begged to be away from public view, the sight of the theatre owner and the occupants of the cage below. He pleaded in his mind for the heavy strike that would render him unconscious for the rest of the night, until medical staff could attend to him; anything but this. The hateful spew of truth that began to surge into his consciousness felt like a black hole, sucking his soul out of real time and replacing it with nothingness. The truth did not make Canen truly see that salvation was, in fact, nowhere in sight, but that it was truly, truly lost. He summoned some strength to whisper, if only in order not to be silenced by the wave of cheers that had overswept his downfall.

"Gravious et morte vehemenii - To the skies we take, gracious messengers of our cause, martyrs for the peace of free will."

The prayer was to go unanswered today. The heavy steel of the roof of the cage struck the back of Canen’s head, the force knocking blood from his face into the thin corten mesh. With no hope of recovering his stamina, the terribly wounded Nocturn lolled back, his weight forcing the steel to creak loudly once more as his black, sullen eyes returned to a glowless emerald green, his blackened wings retracted into his body until the next time they were to be summoned.

He would awaken, two days later, to a furious headache. For now, the motionless body of Canen Darkflight decorated the roof of cell number two as an emblem for the fallen.

[Rheawien]

Thanks to Zerith’s soliloquy, Rheawien had ample time to observe the effects of her throw. So while her ears listened to the ramblings of the warrior, her eyes noted the stumble of the black-haired woman and the apparent loss of wings. And while she wasn’t entirely certain that it was her attack that caused the sudden daze, Rhea knew that the woman - the contestant for the spot of alpha female that was rightfully hers - was nearly kayoed. Holding to the steel mesh in a clear display of weakness, the bitchy female just made a prime target out of herself and Rheawien wasn’t about to let that chance slide. When it came to battling, the mask you put on was oftentimes just as important as the battle prowess. If you made your opponent think you’re superior, then they begun to think of themselves as inferior and thus tipping the scales in your favor. And if you dropped the mask of dominance, you were weak and vulnerable.

But the kill wasn’t going to come easy. Zerith was done with his speech - reminding her a little bit about Mister Kinnity – and finally decided to put his blade where his mouth was. However, this time his advance was executed with significant incline in both fierceness and speed, making it clear that he was ready to back up his words with all he got. Regretfully for him, it wasn’t enough. Rheawien’s movement might’ve been slowed due to the gash on her leg, but her reflexes were practically bestial. So when he made his move and sent the blade in a horizontal arc aimed at her breasts, the half-elf simply ducked, doing her best to keep most weight on her healthy right leg. The longsword swooshed above her head harmlessly, and even as its motion was done, Rhea was on the counter offensive.

But her prime interest wasn’t Zerith. Her legs pushed from her squatted position, sending her down his left flank with her katana slicing at his ribs. She could’ve gone for the kill, shorten the strikes and take care of him right then and there, but she had another bird to take care of first and it had clipped wings. So she merely extended her sword to hopefully catch his side before continuing her dash.

“You talk too damn much.” was the only thing Rheawien told the brown-haired fighter as she made a move towards the stumbled woman. However, even though her target seemed seriously injured, the half-elf didn’t want to jump into another exchange with her headfirst. The greatest defeats came because of cockiness and overextension. After all, the stitch-lipped female could be goading her, luring her with her weakened look. To make sure that the witch remained stationary and prepared for the kill, Rhea’s hand went to the back of her belt in mid sprint, producing two pair of handcuffs that were instantly thrown towards the crumbling female. The pair of restrains spun uncontrollably at first, then straightened as telekinesis corrected their trajectory. They were guided to the wrists of the black-haired woman, hopefully shackling her against the steel mesh.

With that done, Rheawien focused on the kill. She came down the woman’s left side again, counting on the previous injury to prevent any kind of serious counter. Rhea’s speed was once again staggering, her muscles propelling her at top speed and towards the harlot. Her leg protested, expelling even more blood, but it was a sacrifice that had to be made. The titanium katana came in a piercing stab aimed at right between the pair of perfect breasts and the heart below.

[Zerith]

People should really know when they’re beaten, but stubbornness always seemed to interfere. It all could have ended and that moment, with Trithduril slicing through the half-elf’s chest and creating a crimson fountain. Rheawien would fall lifelessly to the floor and then both the victor and the corpse would receive a standing ovation. Instead the battle would continue to drag on. All because a bitch of a half-elf refused to shut up and die.

Before the dehlar blade could taste blood, Rheawien ducked. His ears heard her climb to her feet and take off behind him. Then he felt it, the sharp titanium slicing into his side and more of his warm blood leaving his body. The halberdier felt to his knees and cursed. He cursed his luck and his cursed Rheawien as well. He sincerely hoped she’d get what she deserved. It would have been even better if he would be the one to give it to her.

“I’ve always talked too much,” he thought. “Just as you’ve probably always been a bitch to everyone that you don’t like”. He turned his head around to see what was going on behind him, witnessing what would probably be the end of the reign if his ally. Placing his sword on the ground, Zerith turned around to face the back of Rheawien. His right hand, his only good hand at the moment, reached behind him once more and retrieved his serrated dagger. The swordman then raised the sharp, vicious blade and threw it at his old companion, aiming for the shoulder of the arm she used to hold her sword.

“I’ll make you regret ignoring me!” his mind yelled as he picked up his sword again and advanced. His feet lifted his body up and carried it towards the back of Rhea. The increased strength of tapping into his inner abilities propelled him towards his opponent like a arrow flying towards it’s mark. Trithdusil led, the sharp point of the longsword heading on a crash course with the middle of the half-elf’s back.

She’d learn alright. When she witnessed Zerith’s sword protruding out from her torso, she’d never forget him ever again.

[Witchblade]

It wasn’t looking good for her. The poison was working it’s way through her body and she could feel herself trying to fight back against it but she didn’t know if her healing properties could deal with poison. Her eyes sight wasn’t getting any better; then again it wasn’t getting any worse either. She could see, sort of, blurred figures battling each other not too far from her. Clashes of metal, footsteps, talking. Her other senses were working fine; it was just her sight and the pain in her head. Her reactions were probably slowed as well, poison usually slowly shut down a person’s body until they just stopped breathing, but that was not the way she wanted to end this tournament. There were far better ways to die then to lean back against some mesh wall and wait for her heart to seize.

Catching movement out of the corner of her eyes, Witch turned to see the blurred figure of the elf throwing something at her. Her first thought was a weapon, but it didn’t look like any weapon she’d ever seen and moved across her line of vision like the sword had. She knew the elf was controlling it with her telekinesis, so Witch used her own in a last-ditch effort and bumped whatever it was flying at her. She moved it just enough to avoid chaining herself to the mesh, the shackles hitting the metal hard.

Her reactions were slowed though, turning back towards the elf Witch had just enough time to watch her approach at speeds she’d never hope to hit herself and thrust her sword straight through her chest. Cold steel met an equally cold heart, and even though she could feel it pierced through both ends of her, oddly enough there wasn’t a lot of pain. There was the sensation of something foreign within her body, the feeling of blood passing through, the slowness of her own heart beating, trying desperately to keep her alive.

She wasn’t stupid though, this was it. All because she’d gotten poisoned. If she’d managed to stop that blade from hitting even the smallest amount of her skin she’d have at least been able to stand up against this elf, at least inflict some kind of damage on her. Instead she’d done nothing, one tiny little leg wound. A small amount of blood spilt for an ally who was lying on the ground, starring lifelessly forward.

Witch had nothing cocky to say, she had no last words to leave an impression in the mind of the woman before her. Instead she could only look her in the eye, hers neither filled with pain nor hate, perhaps just an emptiness. The knowledge that this fight was over for her as much as she wanted to continue. There was no strength left in her to fight back against her and even if she wanted to strike the elf now while she was standing in front of her she didn’t know if she could muster the strength to. Let the human deal with her, she’d done what she could. She’d come here neither looking for glory nor money, just for a fight and she’d gotten that. No disappointments, she’d found someone stronger to fight against and she’d love every second of it, perhaps not these last seconds though.

There’d come another time, another fight against this woman and maybe then she’d have the strength to beat her back.

Memento mori…

The half-ling’s heart stopped beating and her body slumped forward against the blade of the sword.

[Rheawien]

Obviously groggy and weakened, the woman failed to avoid the half-elf’s terminating attack. The handcuffs were diverted from their initial goal in a last ditch defensive effort, the damn things wrapping themselves around the mesh bars instead of the wrists of her opponent. But in the end it didn’t matter and the elevation in her speed was still enough to beat the reflexes of the dazed female. The titanium katana slid through the flesh and bone alike, piercing the heart that was nestled beyond the naked pair of breasts. The exhilarated screams of the crowd reached a new peak at the sight of this, celebrating another life lost, another life taken. And yet the black-haired woman seemed tranquil, looking at Rhea with what seemed like a sense of finality. Rheawien thought that she would feel a twinge of regret, the same kind that she felt when Izvilvin perished, but there were none. It felt good... No, it felt great to end the life of the stubborn vixen.

“Mess with the best, bitch...” Rhea spoke with a bitter, almost mocking grin as her hand got ready to retrieve her blade. “Die like the...”

She never got to finish her gloating. Her back erupted in pain, a dagger piercing through her shoulder blade and killing the very origin of strength in her right arm. It rendered the retrieval of her blade impossible and as if that alone wasn’t enough, Rheawien could hear Zerith homing in with another attempt at backstabbing her. So instead of a clean kill and a moment of dominating triumph, Rhea was now at the verge of losing her life.

“I won’t be beaten by that whelp! Not today!” her mind defied, and in order not to get beaten, the half-elf had to do something that she never did in her life. She let go of the sword that she and her father forged together, leaving it imbedded in the busty – albeit utterly lifeless now – bosom. This got her away just in time to dodge Zerith’s treacherous attempt once again as she strafed away from her kill. Her shoulder pulsated with pain, numbing her right arm, making her drag it behind her like a lifeless appendage. Her leg joined in the protest, begging her to stop this nonsense and cease the exertion.

“Strike two, oh honorable warrior!” Rheawien mocked Zerith as she backpedaled guardedly. She backtracked alongside the wall precariously, knowing that with the loss of her right arm, she was as good as dead. Luckily, the spot where her three glaives were discarded after the last throw wasn’t too far away and soon enough the three projectiles were laying dormant in front of her. But not for long.

She drew in the last remnants of her inner energy, animating the three objects and lifting them from where they rested. At first they levitated sluggishly, but Rhea steeled her focus, sending a bead of sweat down her creased forehead. In turn, the three glaives started to revolve around their axis as well as spinning around the half-elf at the distance of some five paces. Rheawien footslogged forwards now, keeping her eyes on the brown haired man as the glaives picked up speed. By the time she approached, the projectiles that orbited around her were almost a circular blur, making the white-haired woman look like a center of a buzz saw.

She didn’t want to lose today, it was as simple as that. She didn’t want to lose because of the shylocks in the stands that wanted her to lose. She didn’t want to lose to a man that was obviously not her peer. And she definitely didn’t want to lose now that she eliminated the greatest threat in the cage. So despite her blood loss and her weariness and the fact that her Ki agility was waning rapidly, she moved forwards. One last hurrah, a do-or-die effort that brought the edge of the saw closer to Zerith with each step she made. She would rip him apart. Or she would die trying.

[Zerith]

He tried, and failed miserably. Rheawien was just too fast for him to stop her. By the time the dagger struck, his ally was already dead. To make matters worse for the halberdier, the half-elf avoided his next blow that should’ve killed her. Meaning Zerith was left with the task of going one-on-one with the new alpha female. He tried to look at the good things and noted he made one accomplishment. Although his comrade was out from the match, Rheawien seemed to lose use of the sword-arm.

“Who gives a shit about how many ‘strikes’ I have? Just remember I’m the one that saved your ass back at that fortress,” he said as he sheathed his longsword. “Don’t make me regret it,” he added as he reached for Rhea’s titanium katana. The halberdier planted a foot on one of Witchblade’s breasts and with a sudden pull, the katana dislodged itself from the lifeless body.

The weight of the katana felt much better than his longsword. There would be much less strain on his arm now, but that didn’t change the fact that his body was still in pain. His arms hurt, his side hurt, his head hurt and he could even taste the blood that was coming down his cheek. His strength was disappearing and with it, his only advantage against the half-elf was dying too. It had to come to and end, if not now then it would be a race to see who would die of blood loss first.

Zerith’s eyes were fixed upon Rheawien for the entire time. He saw everything, her retreat along with her right arm hanging lifelessly at her side. He even watched her bring up what he didn’t realize were her last bits of strength. Her three glaives which were resting between the two of them lifted off the ground. At first they looked like they would fall at any moment, but then they were fixed in place. Suddenly they began to spin, spinning where they floated and spinning around the half-elf. It looked like a giant, rotating, circular saw blade on it’s side that would cut through anything, even the young swordsman. They crowd cheered at the display of power, thinking that this was the end for the young man.

This was it, the point of no return. The threshold the two fighters crossed now would be the last for the match and there were no second chances. Rheawien advanced, sending the saw forward to cut through the only piece of stock she had her eyes set on, Zerith. The halberdier advanced as well, gripping onto the titanium blade tightly as he took the first step. He only had one chance to get this right, otherwise he’d die and give Rheawien the satisfaction of winning.

The crowd roared, everyone was on the edge of their seats now. They new this was the final offensive and either way someone would die. Yet for one in the cell, for Zerith, he’d wasn’t going to allow it to be him. Just as Rheawien’s blades were about to tear through him. The halberdlier tumbled forward, tucked his legs and head in, and rolled. The glaives spun above him, their speed tossed his hair about his head as he somersaulted beneath them. Then as he completed the roll, he rose to his feet. With the glaives behind him all that was before him was Rheawien, wide open for the killing blow. “The tougher the fight…” Zerith said to himself as he thrusted the bloodied, titanium blade forward into Rheawien’s gut.

“…The sweeter the prize.”

[Rheawien]

It was late in the game and there was only two of them now, deciding the final outcome of the battle. For Rheawien it was hard enough to focus on staying on her feet, let alone maintaining her revolving shield but the audacious stubbornness – that by now became an essential fragment of her demeanor – was whipping her back like an angry slavemaster. She had to keep her footing, fight the fatigue, fight the pain, go the distance. To a casual observer Rhea was just another hunter for glory and fame, but that was not what kept her moving forwards like an animated corpse. Her endurance and persistence was a slap to the face of everybody, a spiteful stand against the world and everything it could throw at her. It was her wordless statement that stated she wouldn’t roll over and die.

However, because most of her focus went to maintenance of status quo instead of some sort of defensive plan, Rheawien was unable to react to Zerith’s attack. The man retrieved her katana – something the half-elf would be furious about if her life wasn’t hanging by a thread – and came straight at her. He wasn’t fresh, nobody could be after this ordeal, but there was enough spryness in him to oppose Rhea’s sluggish cognition and fatigue-deadened reflexes. There was nothing she could do against his roll, her telekinesis failing to react accordingly and adjust the height of the blades timely. And for only a fraction of a second she found herself on the opposite end of the titanium katana, on the end that usually her foes looked at, and then the slim blade perforated her stomach.

Rheawien’s muscles cramped, her face a cringed grimace, her body shocked with the abrupt pain as arms desperately clinging to the man who just inflicted her with a deadly wound. Rhea’s vision begun to fade, life seeping out of her proportionally with the crimson liquid that now gushed from three separate wounds. Was this how her crusade was going to end? Killed moments away from claiming the title of the winner? Killed with her own sword by an inferior lad who seemed like a greenhorn, ready to piss his pants, back in Scara Brae?

No.

Though her life was losing its functions, her hands held Zerith’s shoulders in a steely grasp. She even managed a smirk, a bloodied, horrid looking thing that made her fair face look malicious. Her brown eyes regained just enough focus to lock themselves on the ones of her executor. “You think you won, boy?” she squeezed through her clenched teeth and past her mischievous smirk. “Let me show you what a real backstab feels like.”

The three glaives that were running mostly on inertia from the moment Zerith stabbed her, sprung back to like in a flash, homed it on the man’s back and scudded at it, propelled by Rheawien’s last ditch effort. The three weapons were bound to strike almost simultaneously, cutting the warrior’s backbone in four pieces. Perhaps she wouldn’t be the victor today, but she would make sure that nobody walked out of the cage alive.

Whether or not that actually happened, Rhea couldn’t say because seconds after she whispered her bitter words, she collapsed onto the ground. The crowd was slowly becoming a vague booming sound, distorted and as if filtered through water. Her vision was gone, her eyelids closing shut in anticipation of the final demise. But there was a smile on her face, an uncanny satisfied thing that depicted her thoughts perfectly. She took no dive, threw no towel, took no knee. Not for the loansharks, not for the dominant witch and definitely not for any of the men in her Cell. And that was enough for her to feel like a winner.

***

Amongst the sea of elated folk that clapped and hooted and lifted their hands in a salute to the fighters, two figures showed their way out of the row number thirteen and into the isle. The larger of the two walked first, plowing the way with his voluminous gut for the hunched figure that followed lethargically. Once they reached the isle – after some good half a dozen of curses of people that got their feet stepped on – they continued down the long stairs that cut through the middle of the bleachers. Before long the roar of the crowd behind them, nothing but a distant hum filtered through the distance, becoming vague as they left the auditorium.

“That bitch. That lying bitch. Do you know how much money she cost me today? Do you know how many people bet on her demise, following my tip?” the gray-haired loanshark spoke, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat angrily. Of course, his companion neither had the wits nor the knowledge to answer to the questions posed. He could, however, offer another in return.

“What are you going to do about her, boss?” he asked in a simplistic, deep voice that made him sound almost childish.

“Oh, I’ll make certain that she takes a dive in the finals, even if she doesn’t want to. I already have somebody on the inside that will undoubtedly make that happen.” the man replied with a minute sly grin appearing on the corner of his lips. It was time to put his contingency plan in motion.

[Zerith]

“Finally.”

Zerith finally landed a blow on Rheawien and killing one at that. The crowd roared louder, standing and applauding at not only at the man who held onto the titanium katana. But also at the half-elf, who’s blood was trailing down the fine blade. They had never seen a fight like the one that had just transpired before their eyes. One with so many surprises along with vast amounts of bloodshed, chaos and overall violence. Yet their eyes failed when it came to see what was happening beyond the fight. None saw the bonds broken, friendship and alliances damned to hell or even the lack of honor. Not a single spectator managed to watch the change that occurred in the halberdier when his eyes opened.

At the very beginning, before numerous fighters lost their lives and before the destructive nature that was hidden in every contestant came to surface. Mendan Kinnity began the match with a speech. In it, he spoke of honor and mercy, claiming that not every victory was earned in by killing the opposition. Yet not a single combatant took his words into practice, not even Zerith. He was right to believe that there was no honor here. But that was only because not a single person in the Cell practiced it.

Feminine, yet strong hands held onto his shoulders tightly as if Rheawien was dragging Zerith to the Antifirmament with her. As her brown eyes stared in his as she managed to threaten him once more. “Well before you do, let me remind you about where you’re standing,” he said coldly. His right wrist twisted in a half circle, with the katana along with it.

Everything happened to quickly after that. Rheawien slumped to the floor while the crowd continued to cheer. Then for those few brief seconds afterwards, Zerith actually felt like the alpha male of the cage. Although he hid and waited during the first part of the match, he made up for it by coming in during the middle and managing to stay alive to see the curtain fall. Staying back and watch was possible the smartest thing he did and now it was paying off. He was the winner and proved to Rheawien for a second time that he should not be underestimated. He assured himself that he held that title by raising his right arm. When the crowd roared again he smiled, now he was certain.

Yet that changed in an instant when suddenly he felt something strike his spine in three places. The pain that filled his side disappeared, along with the pain in his legs. The three glaives that Rheawien used struck his back all at once, severing his spine into four chunks. His vision blurred, his strength vanished and he fell forward. The numbness that filled his body prevented him from bracing himself before he hit the ground, paralyzed and dying.

The curtain was falling quickly, the title of winner seeming to disappear behind the other side. As his eyes closed, he realized that he must have underestimated Rheawien as well. She was too stubborn to be beaten, not unless she dragged the other with her. Yet now, as the cold hand of death grasped hold of Zerith. He saw no problem with what the half-elf did, because with it he heard the sound of thunderous applause before all was silent and he died.

Too bad the audience wouldn’t be there for the rematch the two of them would have. In the black and white world that was the Antifirmament.

[Walter]

Jon's last moments in the Cell were incredibly full. He'd knifed that black-elf bastard in the foot, and the feeling of the blade sinking into the ground through an inch and a half of flesh was terribly gratifying. Though Jon was laying in the dirt with blood pooling beneath him, he felt like a winner in his own right. And without warning, that pride was ripped apart by the halberd sinking into Jon's spine. With a simple chop, everything below the weapon edge grew cold and numb. The pain that should have been there jolted through Jon's arms and mind instead, and he screamed. He screamed for the final agonizing moment that he retained consciousness, and then died.

An hour passed.

The limp body had been left inside the Cell after all of the other contestants were hauled away. The attendants simply didn't understand what to do with it; the soul was gone, and yet they had not collected it as they had for the other dead warriors. Taking no chances, a group of robed monks patiently waited outside the cage and observed the corpse. For the first few minutes, nothing happened. But then they saw the wounds on the corpse close that had accumulated over the battle. The decimated body puffed up as though filling with air and life. Soon the only sign that Jon had fought in the Cell at all were the bloodstains that coated his tunic.

Then the “dead” man opened his eyes. A sharp pain tore through Jon's head, the ache of revival that he'd become accustomed to. The scoundrel remembered just what it was he planned to do in the tournament. Even though he squinted an eye in agitation, Jon couldn't help but smirk. What condition were the other fighters in now? It was time to pay back a couple favors, he reckoned. And he couldn't wait to get the drop on that back-stabbing broad...

But Jon quickly noticed that the cage was empty. Not just the cage, but the entire arena. The spectators had left their seats long ago, and the noise had completely died away. Jon had been dead for too long, and his chance of making a comeback had also died – of old age.

He sputtered in disbelief, scanning the cage slowly before realizing that there was nothing to fight. He couldn't do anymore. His death had been a complete waste.

“DAMMIT!” Jon roared, flying into a frothing fury as he lunged at one of the mesh walls, pounding against it with his fists and feet. He had barely revived and was already beginning to see red again. He'd missed his chance and felt like a complete ass for it. Jon took his humiliation out on the steel cage itself.

“Hey, hey!” the monks shouted as the noise drew their attention. The leader amongst them, adorned with a red pendant strung around his neck, held up his hands outside of the cage where Jon thrashed himself against the metal.
“Sir,” spoke the lead monk, “We are most joyous to see that you are somehow well. But you must now come with us! The Cell judgments must be made, and your presence is required.” he explained. Jon was barely aware of the people around him, and his knuckles became bloody and his bones rattled in their frame as he raged against the Cell. The monk leader signaled to his comrades, and the lot of them rushed into the cage and dragged the man, biting and gnashing and clawing back to the main hall, where he would hopefully learn to calm down.

Jon was pissed, completely unsatisfied with his fight. He was going to show them all what he was made of next time.

Hang around, bitches! I'm not finished yet!

[Ther]

Advancing: Izvilvin, Rheawien, Witchblade*, Walter*

Izvilvin-
Introduction: 7
Setting: 6
Character: 7
Dialogue: 7
Rising Action: 8
Climax: 8
Conclusion: 5
Strategy: 8
Writing Style: 7
Wild Card: 7
Total: 70/100

Rheawien-
Introduction: 8
Setting: 5
Character: 6
Dialogue: 7
Rising Action: 7
Climax: 7
Conclusion: 7
Strategy: 6
Writing Style: 7
Wild Card: 6
Total: 66/100


Falcon Darkflight-
Introduction: 8
Setting: 7
Character: 7
Dialogue: 5
Rising Action: 7
Climax: 6
Conclusion: 5
Strategy: 6
Writing Style: 6
Wild Card: 6
Total: 63/100


Witchblade-
Introduction: 6
Setting: 7
Character: 6
Dialogue: 6
Rising Action: 7
Climax: 6
Conclusion: 5
Strategy: 7
Writing Style: 7
Wild Card: 7
Total: 64/100


Walter-
Introduction: 6
Setting: 5
Character: 7
Dialogue: 6
Rising Action: 8
Climax: 5
Conclusion: 6
Strategy: 6
Writing Style: 7
Wild Card: 8
Total: 64/100


Krugor -
Introduction: 7
Setting: 6
Character: 7
Dialogue: 7
Rising Action: 5
Climax: 6
Conclusion: 4
Strategy: 5
Writing Style: 7
Wild Card: 8
Total: 62/100


Zerith -
Introduction: 6
Setting: 6
Character: 5
Dialogue: 6
Rising Action: 5
Climax: 6
Conclusion: 5
Strategy: 6
Writing Style: 6
Wild Card: 6
Total: 57/100

Serilliant gets 220 EXP.

[Ther]

Izvilvin gets 1,800 EXP (75 bonus) and 300 GP. Raises to Level 2.

Rheawien gets 1,800 EXP (75 bonus) and 300 GP. Raises to Level 4.

Witchblade gets 1,725 EXP (75 bonus) and 300 GP.

Walter gets 1,725 EXP (75 bonus) and 300 GP.

Falcon gets 600 EXP (150 bonus) and 100 GP.

Krugor gets 600 EXP (150 bonus) and 100 GP.

Zerith gets 450 EXP (150 bonus) and 100 GP.

EXP/GP added.