Meara Parlan
02-25-09, 10:16 AM
This battle is OPEN to one person. I will be attempting to make at least one post a day, an opponent who would try to do the same would be preferable. Thank you.
UPDATE: This battle is now CLOSED to new_guy.
Gawking like any sight-seeing peasant, Meara stood at the bottom of the steps leading to the Citadel. People of all varieties passed him, going about their business without stopping to look at the slight, blonde-haired foreigner. The clamor of voices surrounded him, as a few merchants even attempted to sell off their cheap, tawdry souvenirs and heated debates were held about upcoming matches between famous champions. All this was very strange to Meara, who was used to the green sounds of the jungle and not the hustle and bustle of a city as large as Radasanth. Even if he had spent time in the cities of the Fae, he would very likely have still felt out of place. His silvery butterfly wings set him apart from the mere humans, and because of this they drew some small amount of attention. It was odd to see a Fae in this place of warriors. At this thought, Meara smiled grimly at this thought. Odd indeed. Then again, Meara was no ordinary Fae. Though he did not know it, the spirit of a warrior Draconian was trapped within him. It was that spirit that had driven him all the way here, that spirit which had compelled him like some haunting inner demon to the place where he knew he could put his talents to use. Dheath was far away, after all. It had taken many days and nights of sailing for him to reach this island of Corone. Finally he was here. This was his journey’s end.
His journey’s end indeed…but also a new beginning of sorts. Taking a deep breath, and feeling quite out of place, Meara ascended the steps to the Citadel. Here, close to the gargantuan building itself, things were quieter. It was the same kind of quiet that one hears in cathedrals and castles, in universities and near great monuments. The quiet that comes out of respect for something, not only physically enormously large, but also large in the mind of society itself. Meara looked up, craning his neck in an attempt to view the top of the building. What cyclopean creatures of enormous strength could possibly have constructed such a thing? Surely not humans! Not for the last time, Meara wondered who the monks of the Citadel really were. Word of their famed shifting arenas and healing potential had spread even to the jungles of far off Dheath. What men could accomplish such feats? Were they men at all, or demigods, serving some unknown purpose. Once again, Meara was filled with a sense of wonder at this strange and foreign place.
“Excuse me?” came a low voice from nearby. Meara whirled around, looking for the owner. It was a large monk, clad in the typical brown habit of the caretakers of the Citadel. “Can I help you with something, sir? I’m sorry, but the next tour group doesn’t start for half an hour.”
Meara was offended. He was no mere tourist! Though a pretty sight he must have painted, standing with his mouth half open and head back, staring at the Citadel like some country yokel! The Fae was ashamed at himself, and more than a little annoyed at the monk. “No, actually,” he said slightly sarcastically. “I’m looking to fight.”
The monk raised a single eyebrow. “Very well then. We welcome all comers. Come, follow me.”
“Don’t I have to sign up or something?” Meara asked.
“You already have.” the monk said gravely. Ah, some of the infamous mind-games the Citadel monks attempted to trap their gladiators into. Well, Meara wasn’t going to be intimidated by it.
The new warrior followed the monks lead, and with him he descended into the labyrinthine stone corridors of the Citadel. The Fae shuddered. He was used to open places, to places full of teeming life and noise and humidity. Here, in the stygian corridors of this Citadel he felt as though he was trapped in an infernal hell. The sooner they reached the arena, the better.
“Why is it so c-cold in here?” Meara asked, shivering slightly. The monk did not respond.
Luckily, he did not have long to wait before they reached his arena. The monk stopped so suddenly that Meara nearly ran right into him. The door they stopped before was simple, it seemed to be made of metal (perhaps iron, Meara thought), and it looked fairly unexceptional and plain. Meara wondered what that meant. The monk nodded to Meara, gesturing towards the door and saying nothing more. Awkwardly, Meara wiggled the small iron knob and entered into the room. As soon as he entered he could hear the door behind him.
Immediately, he felt more comfortable. The temperature here was much more comfortable than had been in the corridor. Meara wondered if somehow the monks heated this room. Perhaps after his complaint had been noted? This room was small and square, made of stone like the rest of the building.
The edges of the floor were lined with small grates, made of bronze. It was lit by some sort of dim magical orb on the ceiling, which gave off a much more steady light than the torches of the outside corridor. Feeling slightly nervous, Meara made his way across the room to the door on the other side. He couldn’t open it. There didn’t appear to be a handle of any sort, and shove as he might the metallic obstruction made no sign of moving. Huh?
Somewhere, deep within the walls, Meara heard the clunking of machinery. What was going on? With horror, Meara noticed movement towards the edges of the room. It was the grills. They were now almost completely filled with water. The liquid splashed over onto the ground, making the floor wet and slippery. It didn’t seem to be stopping.
Now completely terrified, Meara ran back to the door he came from. Similarly to the door on the other side, it had no sign of a handle and appeared to be locked. There was no way out. Meara turned back to face the opposite end of the room, where he now guessed his opponent would be emerging. So this was the arena the monks had given him. A deathtrap. From the scabbard at his hip, Meara pulled his arming sword. In his left hand he grasped his round buckler. There was no way out now, no choice at all. He would win this fight…or die.
The arena is about fifteen feet by ten feet, rectangular. Here (http://img527.imageshack.us/img527/9274/arena.jpg ) is a link to a map I drew in case my description was unclear.
The ceiling is about twelve feet high. The water level rises six inches each post. Consider the water level to be 0 at the end of this post, as it has just begun to spill over from the grates. At the end of the second post, it will be at six inches. And so on and so forth.
Good luck.
UPDATE: This battle is now CLOSED to new_guy.
Gawking like any sight-seeing peasant, Meara stood at the bottom of the steps leading to the Citadel. People of all varieties passed him, going about their business without stopping to look at the slight, blonde-haired foreigner. The clamor of voices surrounded him, as a few merchants even attempted to sell off their cheap, tawdry souvenirs and heated debates were held about upcoming matches between famous champions. All this was very strange to Meara, who was used to the green sounds of the jungle and not the hustle and bustle of a city as large as Radasanth. Even if he had spent time in the cities of the Fae, he would very likely have still felt out of place. His silvery butterfly wings set him apart from the mere humans, and because of this they drew some small amount of attention. It was odd to see a Fae in this place of warriors. At this thought, Meara smiled grimly at this thought. Odd indeed. Then again, Meara was no ordinary Fae. Though he did not know it, the spirit of a warrior Draconian was trapped within him. It was that spirit that had driven him all the way here, that spirit which had compelled him like some haunting inner demon to the place where he knew he could put his talents to use. Dheath was far away, after all. It had taken many days and nights of sailing for him to reach this island of Corone. Finally he was here. This was his journey’s end.
His journey’s end indeed…but also a new beginning of sorts. Taking a deep breath, and feeling quite out of place, Meara ascended the steps to the Citadel. Here, close to the gargantuan building itself, things were quieter. It was the same kind of quiet that one hears in cathedrals and castles, in universities and near great monuments. The quiet that comes out of respect for something, not only physically enormously large, but also large in the mind of society itself. Meara looked up, craning his neck in an attempt to view the top of the building. What cyclopean creatures of enormous strength could possibly have constructed such a thing? Surely not humans! Not for the last time, Meara wondered who the monks of the Citadel really were. Word of their famed shifting arenas and healing potential had spread even to the jungles of far off Dheath. What men could accomplish such feats? Were they men at all, or demigods, serving some unknown purpose. Once again, Meara was filled with a sense of wonder at this strange and foreign place.
“Excuse me?” came a low voice from nearby. Meara whirled around, looking for the owner. It was a large monk, clad in the typical brown habit of the caretakers of the Citadel. “Can I help you with something, sir? I’m sorry, but the next tour group doesn’t start for half an hour.”
Meara was offended. He was no mere tourist! Though a pretty sight he must have painted, standing with his mouth half open and head back, staring at the Citadel like some country yokel! The Fae was ashamed at himself, and more than a little annoyed at the monk. “No, actually,” he said slightly sarcastically. “I’m looking to fight.”
The monk raised a single eyebrow. “Very well then. We welcome all comers. Come, follow me.”
“Don’t I have to sign up or something?” Meara asked.
“You already have.” the monk said gravely. Ah, some of the infamous mind-games the Citadel monks attempted to trap their gladiators into. Well, Meara wasn’t going to be intimidated by it.
The new warrior followed the monks lead, and with him he descended into the labyrinthine stone corridors of the Citadel. The Fae shuddered. He was used to open places, to places full of teeming life and noise and humidity. Here, in the stygian corridors of this Citadel he felt as though he was trapped in an infernal hell. The sooner they reached the arena, the better.
“Why is it so c-cold in here?” Meara asked, shivering slightly. The monk did not respond.
Luckily, he did not have long to wait before they reached his arena. The monk stopped so suddenly that Meara nearly ran right into him. The door they stopped before was simple, it seemed to be made of metal (perhaps iron, Meara thought), and it looked fairly unexceptional and plain. Meara wondered what that meant. The monk nodded to Meara, gesturing towards the door and saying nothing more. Awkwardly, Meara wiggled the small iron knob and entered into the room. As soon as he entered he could hear the door behind him.
Immediately, he felt more comfortable. The temperature here was much more comfortable than had been in the corridor. Meara wondered if somehow the monks heated this room. Perhaps after his complaint had been noted? This room was small and square, made of stone like the rest of the building.
The edges of the floor were lined with small grates, made of bronze. It was lit by some sort of dim magical orb on the ceiling, which gave off a much more steady light than the torches of the outside corridor. Feeling slightly nervous, Meara made his way across the room to the door on the other side. He couldn’t open it. There didn’t appear to be a handle of any sort, and shove as he might the metallic obstruction made no sign of moving. Huh?
Somewhere, deep within the walls, Meara heard the clunking of machinery. What was going on? With horror, Meara noticed movement towards the edges of the room. It was the grills. They were now almost completely filled with water. The liquid splashed over onto the ground, making the floor wet and slippery. It didn’t seem to be stopping.
Now completely terrified, Meara ran back to the door he came from. Similarly to the door on the other side, it had no sign of a handle and appeared to be locked. There was no way out. Meara turned back to face the opposite end of the room, where he now guessed his opponent would be emerging. So this was the arena the monks had given him. A deathtrap. From the scabbard at his hip, Meara pulled his arming sword. In his left hand he grasped his round buckler. There was no way out now, no choice at all. He would win this fight…or die.
The arena is about fifteen feet by ten feet, rectangular. Here (http://img527.imageshack.us/img527/9274/arena.jpg ) is a link to a map I drew in case my description was unclear.
The ceiling is about twelve feet high. The water level rises six inches each post. Consider the water level to be 0 at the end of this post, as it has just begun to spill over from the grates. At the end of the second post, it will be at six inches. And so on and so forth.
Good luck.