The Infamous (Open to All!!!)

[Mutant_Lorenor]

(As the title suggests, this battle will be open to as many who want to join!!! Regardless of level)

Lorenor. Now a man of considerable prestige in both Salvar and Raiaera, the mutant had worked hard to forge a name for himself. Working with the dual-roles of both professional Assassin and High Priest of N'Jal, Lorenor was a busy man these days. He worked for the Assassin's Guild of the Church of Ethereal Sway in Salvar, and that business was a booming affair. Finding himself in Corone for a time, Lorenor traveled often between Salvar, Raiaera and Corone. Sometimes making stops in other regions of Althanas.

With a troubled expression on his face, Lorenor understood that Corone was a highly dangerous place these days. Standing in front of The Citdel, the mutant was pondering a different sort of mayhem. Not the usual combat request per se, but the type of combat he'd always imagined in his black heart.

His adventures lead him back to The Citadel where he thought of his most recent set of battles. The desire for greatness was there, and an attempt to achieve The Glory had already begun. Lorenor sought fame and respect now, two matters which always eluded the mutant. These matters were more interesting to him than any sort of material gain. Lorenor was old now these days, and he was reaching twilight years. Lorenor did not know how long his species lived, but at this point, he was on a death-wish anyway.

Staring up at the beautiful structure, Lorenor studied the intricate spires and stain-glassed windows visible at various intervals. Birds nested at the higher levels of the structure. From experience, Lorenor knew that the structure had many wings, sections, and areas. The organization of the structure was done in a mathematically ingenious way meant to confuse the enemies of the Order.

Studying the various nooks and crannies of the building proper, the mutant noticed the distinct cultural aspects of The Citadel. Various columns and walls aesthetics were in place that represented the major cultures of Althanas from the Elves of Concordia Forest, to the Harpies of Fallien. The mutant could see the mad-sort of energy that flowed from whatever materials were used to make The Citadel since time immemorial. The mutant often wondered how tall the building actually was. He had some idea of how many floors were present and how deep it went underground, but the mutant still had no idea as to the raw size of the structure.

Lorenor had his theories as to how the structure came to pass, but he kept them oft to himself. The mutant did not want to make enemies of the few allies he had left in the Order of Ai'Bron.

As he stood there looking up, he became vaguely aware that someone was staring at him. That individual stood within his sensory grid, emanating a powerful electromagnetic field. Lorenor stopped staring at the remarkable structure for a moment, and then turned to look at the monk who was observing him. The mutant wore an indifferent expression on his face as he regarded the monk carefully. He was a fellow like any other within the Order and wore the robes of a Neophyte.

"Are you not the one who carries the dark lady within?" The neophyte asked showing a great deal of knowledge and foresight.

"I am one of many who carry N'Jal." Lorenor said. "Who asks the question?" Lorenor asked.

"I am Lemure." The monk said. "A neophyte of the Order. I have been granted the right to oversee your studies here in The Citadel."

"My studies?" Lorenor asked. "My days as a member of the Order are now over. I am afraid I must spend my time dedicated to the secrets of N'Jal."

"I can understand such a pursuit." Lemure said. He continued. "However, I must also remind you that the Order is in charged of The Citadel and if you intend to use this building's services you will need supervision of the Order."

"Lemure. Surely you do-not take me for a run-of-the-mill rookie? I am no novice warrior. I am a veteran to this structure and its services. But enough talks of past endeavors. I am here for a purpose today."

"What type of environment do you seek to do battle in?"

"A contained area of some sort." Lorenor rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He continued. "But that is not as important as my request is. I wish for you to set out an open challenge to all the warriors and wizards of Althanas." Lorenor said in a bold statement. He raised his fist tightly until it shook. "Lorenor wishes to test them to the very heart of their core. The challenge will be open to as many warriors as wish to join, and the challenge will be set in a coliseum at night." Lorenor began to walk towards The Citadel. "Oh and one other matter Lemure. Set the time so that day never comes and it is eternal night. They can bring their own light sources, I care not, but I do not wish to see the forsaken sun." Lorenor said and went on to The Citadel...

"Lorenor. Chamber number forty-five has been prepped for your use."

"I do-not recall introducing myself to you Lemure." The mutant hissed as he paused for a moment. But then he let the matter go, and decided picking a fight with the Neophyte was probably bad for business. "Chamber number forty-five it is."

(Note: I will describe the Arena in my next post)

[Ulysses]

The day went and the night came in like the tide. Ulysses sat in the corner of his room and watched out the window as the sun sank into the horizon and a bright moon rose in its place. A chill wind wafted between the cracks of the monumental grey stones that made up his room, and he shuddered. The quarters the Monks of Ai’Bron had provided him were convenient enough, but far from comfortable.

The bowl of porridge that had been provided for his dinner lay on the wooden table, uneaten. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Some deep disquiet had fallen over him, but he couldn’t place his finger on why. Part of it, he thought, was longing…

A memory washed over him—a brown haired boy chasing a girl through a golden field of wheat—and then was gone, as swift and beautiful as the life of a ladybug.

When he opened his eyes again, again an armor-clad figure had appeared in the chair across from him. Ulysses didn’t blink an eyelash. The Knight was one of several souls of ancient warriors that resided within him—gifted to him by the mysterious spirit Cydonia, a goddess of heroic virtue.

“Something approaches,” the Knight said. His speech was archaic; listening to him was like admiring a decaying castle. “I can taste its foul reek upon the wind as surely as thou felt the winter chill upon thy bones.”

“I felt it too,” Ulysses sad. He looked into the eyes of the Knight and saw sorrow that reflected his own. There was longing there as well, and he wondered what lost love the Knight still pined over after so many centuries.

“Dost thou think about her again?” the Knight asked, abruptly changing the subject.

Ulysses knew just who he meant. His own love was a fisherwoman named Mary. When the spirit Cydonia had granted him the ability to take on the skills of heroes of old, Ulysses had lost his name and all remnants of his old life as a fisherman. When he’d returned to his home, Mary hadn’t remembered him in the slightest. To her, it was as though he’d never existed. Ulysses sighed. “Yes,” he admitted. “And you? Thinking about her again?”

The Knight was silent. He didn’t appreciate discussion of his own past—although Ulysses had caught glimpses. A stone, circular table. Great white cliffs and ocean waves. A beautiful woman in a white dress.

A short monk rapped on the door once and let himself in. “Ulysses?” he asked. The monk’s bald head was covered in sweat, and he looked left and right frantically. Ulysses was reminded immediately of some sort of little rodent.

“Yes?” Ulysses asked.

The monk looked at him and smiled ingratiatingly. “Aha! Right! I, uh, yes. I’ve been ordered to issue a challenge to all warriors currently residing within the Citadel walls. It seems that the ah, infamous Lord Lorenor V’halkulus wishes—”

“Who?” Ulysses interrupted. The monk’s jaw dropped.

“You don’t know of…ah, well, perhaps you wouldn’t. You’re from Scara Brae after all, aren’t you?”

Ulysses didn’t like being treated like a yokel. “Nevermind,” he said. “What challenge are you issuing?”

“Ah yes,” the monk said. “Any and all warriors are encouraged to come to this. It’s quite a special event, as I understand. A dark warrior of his stature hasn’t entered the Citadel in a hundred moons or more. But I’m certain you aren’t interested in such a match, so I’ll be on my way…”

Accept, came the voice of the Knight in Ulysses’ head. Accept the challenge. This man the monk speaks of is no man. I can sense it—a great darkness has entered this building, and we must be there to confront it. Do you understand? It is right. I can feel that it is right.

“Very well,” Ulysses said. He wasn’t so certain he was up to a battle of this proportion, but if the Knight suggested he go, he would. As far as he knew, he had no choice but to follow the commands of the spirits within him. They were incarnations of the spirit Cydonia, and following Cydonia’s orders was perhaps the only way to return to his beloved Mary. “I accept the challenge. When does the duel begin?”

The monk’s eyes widened. “You…you do? Um. Well. How…unexpected. Very well then, follow me. The competition will begin momentarily.”

Ulysses nodded. He picked up his sword and looked down its sharp steel length for a moment, then smiled. Hello, old friend, he thought. He grabbed his shield and followed the monk through the hallways of the Citadel. They stopped before a grand oak doorway emblazoned with the letters XLV and a rune of some sort that Ulysses couldn’t decipher.

Do you know what that is? Ulysses thought, directing his question at the spirit of the Knight within him.

Aye, I ken that sigil very well, the Knight said back. ’Tis the rune of a dark sorceress. In my world, ‘twas the symbol of the witchwoman known as Morgaine of the Fae, but I know not who has made use of it in thy world of Althanas. What evil lies beyond this door I cannot say.

As usual, much of the Knight’s explanation went over Ulysses’ head, but he took at least part of it to heart: there was evil here, maybe greater than any he had faced before. He tasted bitter iron in his mouth.

“Chamber Forty Five,” the monk said. “Your enemy has requested that the arena be steeped in neverending night, but you may bring a light source of your own if you wish—or we could provide you with one.”

“I don’t have one of my own, but I’ll take what light you can give,” Ulysses said. The monk nodded and snapped his fingers. A glowing orb of light, about the size of a man’s fist, appeared and began to orbit around Ulysses’ head. It illuminated a few feet in every direction—no better than an average torch, in other words. It looked like a tiny version of the moon that currently hung over the Citadel walls.

The monk looked deeply sorry. “Champion of Cydonia, I fear you have waded into deeper water than you can imagine, and so I shall offer you one piece of advice. If you come up against the creature Lorenor alone—run away. Do not be a fool. We monks can heal your body, but we cannot cure corruption of the soul. Now that is all the aid I can offer you, unfortunately. I wish you luck.”

Ulysses nodded and said no more, but took the monk’s chilling advice to heart. He shoved open the door marked XLV and stepped into darkness.

[Taskmienster]

Stripped bare, exposed for the world. It was a feeling that had not left the heart of the exiled noble turned mercenary. An entire life spent behind castle walls. An entire life spent with a silver spoon in his mouth and never a question as to whether there would be a meal to come. It was vastly different from how the real world worked and lived. Einar had found that out first hand. Time spent in Salvar had been time he was groomed to take the position of his late father, Reichart Fenrisson. Mathematics and business tactics were more important than any trade skills. Einar had learned them religiously, but his experience outside of the protected walls was limited at best, and life outside of them was far more brutal and hostile than he had ever imagined.

Storybooks had told him what he would generally expect from Radasanth and the country of Corone. Years had passed since he had last read the words offered to children as they grew, but he remembered them well. As time passed he had grown a little more comfortable with the way life worked in reality, but still the idealistic storybooks attempted to paint a beautiful picture over a world vastly different. There were no princesses locked in towering buildings, dragons raiding the countryside, or a society full of happy people that prospered in whatever pursuits they followed. In truth, the princesses were noble’s wives and daughters, their bites were worse than a fairy-tale dragon, and their oppression was enough to keep most in poverty. They were not the only lies the books had bestowed, but the other truths were just as simple and crushing.

“Are you interested in a battle, sir?” Einar had let his feet create his path; his mind was overwhelmed quite enough with other matters. He looked up to see the smiling face of a monk. The overweight man was almost as tall as the massive noble, but his slouched shoulders and sagging robes hid any power he might have at his command. Past the man, Einar spotted the massive columns and grand entrance to the Citadel. It was a marvel of magic, from what he had heard. Warriors and mages alike fought duels in the rooms. Another fantasy brought to life, and given a façade of perfection in a world lacking. “Lord Lorenor V—“

Einar lifted his arm as if to halt the man, and it did so effectively. Gruff, ill-shaven, and slouching his way through Radasanth, the thirty year old Einar had long since given up hope that there would be something for him to find interesting. He had spent a night at a tavern, but even the whores that trolled the area did nothing but remind him of how far he had fallen. His wife, his young child, what would they think of him if they knew he was spending his time amidst drunken commoners and life-long prostitutes?

“I do not care what the challenge is, or who I shall be facing. If it is something to occupy my time, I deem it worthy enough.”

The monk nodded and smiled, it looked almost sideways. Was it regarding something Einar had said? Or did it pertain to what the battle taking place was like? The massive man shook his head and removed his shield from his back. Maybe it would have been better to get at least a little information before heading to the forty-fifth room…

[Duffy]

Duffy smiled. It was the sort of smile that solicited joy and exuberance at a childish game or trick, but one the thief enjoyed very much. No sooner than he had stepped out of the Citadel, fighting a swordsman with two blades and desperate connotations, he had been drawn back at the mention of a ghoul with the shadow ten-fold bound to his heart. From his previous and somewhat brief encounter with Lorenor, Duffy had no doubt that it was the one and only Priest of N'Jal that occupied the arena, and they had long been overdue a reunion in the holy manner of friends reunited.

As he wandered out into the sandy bowl of death, somewhat curious as to why the monk had given him several disapproving looks from beneath a cowl of silence and servitude, Duffy realised that something was amiss. Firstly, Lorenor was not the only one in the arena, and secondly, the others looks considerably more combat capable than the lanky streak of Scara Brae piss ever could, which wasn't his own description of course. He could not see the entirety of the arena from the mid-width of the entrance tunnel, but the movement chided ill winds for him, and he held on to the comforting coldness of Tooth and Nail as he approached. The twang of pain from his daggers begged the question, what did the Citadel hold in store for him this time, and what manner of regret would come hunting in the dark?

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Manifesting around his person, the world shifted from the cold walls of The Citadel's grim structure to the world that he had imagined. A night breeze that was surprisingly warm to his undead body passed across the arena from the West. Lorenor felt the tropical taste of the wind for a moment and enjoyed it for a long moment. His body straightened as he felt the breeze passing across his person, hide cloak flowing with the wind. Lorenor admired the expert precision of the Monks. His arena was created as a full representation of a coliseum completely dedicated to the Thayne Codex. As a High Priest of N'Jal, he wanted to be certain that all of the Thayne were present.

At the central most point of the arena was erected a statue representation of the All-Thayne, and all of the Greater and Lesser Thayne were positioned around the All-Thayne like many stars. Lorenor could see the exact position of the Greater Thayne, N'Jal, stripped of her title aeons ago, with her entire artistic representation intact. She was gloriously menacing, a true image of the terrors that lurked in the dark. Her servants, the Spider-Magi had bested legendary warrior Rakh. Lorenor walked over to the statue of N'Jal, payed her tribute, and then moved towards the throne at the exact center of the arena. Very close to the imagined representation of the All-Thayne.

As a High-Priest of N'Jal, Lorenor had many secrets at his disposal. However, the mutant was only interested in this nightmare event for one reason, and one reason alone. He was here to test his limits. Sitting down on the marble throne, Lorenor appeared as a mockery of the great kings of Althanas' past. In his own way however, the young Spider Magi was a king himself. A king of beasts, a king that served the outcast Goddess.

Folding his hands together and placing them across his chest, Lorenor listened to The Will of N'Jal. Guiding the mutant to this very spot in his destiny, Lorenor looked up at the stars above. They were shining down as if guiding his person to this very location. Where the true war would begin, a battle that would one day be spoken of by scholars and bards. The wind carried noise with it now. Several individuals found their way into the arena, the flesh carried its scent to the mutant's sensory grid. Powerful Lorewnor had become. He thought back to his days as a fledgling ghoul, fresh out of the caves of Haidia, raw power hidden from him. Now, the High Priest of N'Jal sat there in his empty kingdom.

Drawing his sword, the mutant held the Blade of N'Jal in his hand carefully. He jutted the weapon into the ground, so that the handle faced skyward. Its tremendous dark power flowing from within the blade. It was a tribute to the dark lady, like much of Lorenor's personal nuances were. He wrapped his cloak around his person as he sat there, looking very much like the outcast king he was. One particular scent that approached was very familiar to him. From a recent adventure. Lorenor smiled as this scent brought back a surge of memories. His eyes opened casually as he looked into the darkness. The arena was well-lit with torches, a matter that he had sought to. Not everyone was blessed with the capacity of seeing in the dark.

Lorenor sat there for a moment as he waited for the approach of his incoming opponents. The mutant listened, some had confidence, others did not. It would be a long night indeed. Tonight we dine in hell... Lorenor thought to himself as he observed the miscreants heading in his general direction.

Lorenor stood up.

"Gentlemen." He called out to them. "Welcome to my humble tribute to the Thayne. I have sponsored tonight's little event. I am glad that you all have answered the call of the brave." Pausing for a brief moment, the outcast tapped his chin. "The purpose of this event is to test the limits of our skill. As you know, some of you have more skill than others. It is of no consequence. I play fair." He continued. "I have painstakingly crafted a weapon for just such events." He walked over to his sword, plucked it out of the grand and walked towards his opponents.

"The goal of tonight is quite simple. To survive!" The mutant then grinned, a hideous thing. "Mark my name young children of the All-Thayne. For it is Lorenor. I am a High Priest of N'Jal! Your enemy has been revealed, now what will you do about it!?" Lorenor never bothered taking an aggressive combat stance. He stood there with his sword pointing to the ground, and the wind carrying his cloak with it. He wore that grotesque grin on his face. His body was tensed, one of his opponents was a very large man with armour on his person. He looked at the nobleman intensely for a brief moment. Never removing his eyes from the individual he deemed the most dangerous of the entire group of miscreants.

Even his ally, Duffy Bracken.

[Duffy]

Duffy’s eyes drifted upwards as the arena rose before him in all its umbra glory. As he stepped out into the Citadel’s dome proper, he began to adjust to twilight and caught the distant glow of light-orbs. At least there was some luck going his way, his opponent’s would not be able to see him approach until it was too late, but he knew Lorenor also had the same advantage, once he removed himself from his preposterous throne. The smell of shadow touched his nostrils, one that came with a wave of fear and the unseen. It was the smell of the sixth sense, what Duffy liked to call his ‘street noggin’.’

“You’re ever the showman old friend!” He called up with a defiant shout as his approached the outer ring of of statues. He recognised some of them, especially N’Jal. He looked at the representations of Y’edda, the Old Thayne’s and smiled with expectation at the wiry and somewhat non-threatening dedication to Tantalus. He was thankful for that above all the others, it showed he had not been forgotten. “When I heard you were here, and a battle was to be had, how could I possibly refuse a reciprocation of your help in the fortress of Jadet?”

It had been months, perhaps almost a year since their encounter and journey together, and the thief was aggrieved at having to leave earlier than he had anticipated. This was the perfect opportunity to show the ghoul all he had learnt in the interim period, and perhaps rebind their mutual fates together; perhaps they would reprise the deal they made in Radasanth long ago. “Whoever else is out there, be wary! This is no mere mortal you face tonight, and whilst I can make no claims of greatness, his name will ring out in the heavens and in your ears for years to come!” With a knowing nod to Lorenor, Duffy turned his attention back to peering through the gloom.

He caught sight of another and gave him a nod as well, a man with a great weapon after all deserved respect. Sighing and smacking his lips to bring his attention back to something less dangerous, he looked at the distant door. There were four combatants then, he thought, and all of them most likely masters or monsters...“I will survive, Lorenor," he looked up at the ghoul and pointed defiantly, "as I always manage to do; you can ask what I’ll ‘do’ about it all you like,” he unsheathed his daggers and span them around eagerly whilst dancing left and right, “but you’ll have to come down off your high horse and find out what we’ve got in store for you yourself!”

With a wink, the Tantalum brought both his fists together and sounded the acceptance of Lorenor's challenge with a thunder clap from the Tinder Gear. Flame on!

[Amen]

Two men clad in hulking golden armor entered the inn, and strode through the small crowd without pause or hesitation. Even the most inebriated found it in himself to get out of the pair’s way, as it was obvious that they were armed and experienced and powerful, and they would stop for no man. Their steel boots were wooden thunder on the stairs, and then from the ceiling above, and every pair of eyes at least glanced upward, wondering.

The knights came immediately to a door, though the doors were all unmarked, and one of them pounded on it with the base of his metal-clad fist. When it opened, it revealed a tall woman with striking blue eyes.

“Airik, Isadore,” she said, and nodded her greeting.

“Anya,” Airik said. “Where is your apprentice? Where is Marcus Book?”

*

Marcus knelt in the center of the room, dressed only in a ragged pair of trousers. His eyes were closed and his body relaxed, but there was a threatening air about him. He was in the midst of meditation – of communion with the Source – and to be him or near him was perilous. At any moment he could explode into a screaming inferno of holy hellfire, or open his eyes and begin a murderous rampage, possessed by righteous hate. Worse things happened, too. Between the three of them, the senior knights had seen it many times before, and so kept their distance from the unmoving squire.

“He should return soon,” Anya said softly. “Three hours is typical for him.”

“Did he know we were coming?” Airik said, somewhat confused.

Anya shook her head. “We were going to set out tomorrow for Farshire, as ordered. He insisted upon meditating to prepare for the trek. And, I suspect, so I could have the bed. He’s a closet male chauvinist.”

Isadore grinned, being more familiar with Anya and her distaste for preferential treatment due to her sex. His grin quickly disappeared when Marcus stirred, however, and the three knights turned to face him, and each put some distance between themselves and him, their hands on the hilts of their weapons.

When Marcus opened his eyes, there was a brief second when it seemed twin suns had been concealed behind his eyelids, and a flare of orange-red light issued from them. That light swiftly faded, however, and the squire’s body tensed. He hung his head and growled in animalistic fashion from deep in his throat, his naked shoulders and heavy-thewed biceps taking on their full definition.

He was resisting the Light’s compulsion, they knew. In those first moments after leaving meditation, the channeler is overwhelmed with the urge to smite and slaughter, even for the smallest transgressions. The Source demands freedom to burn and cleanse, no matter the cost. Airik found himself impressed at the young knight’s willpower: these urges were obviously very strong in him, but he managed to overcome them relatively quickly.

Marcus exhaled, and his impressive physique gradually returned to its relaxed state, one muscle group at a time. His veins still stood out on his neck, but they were slowly fading from prominence. The squire lifted his head and looked at each of the three knights, and cleared his throat. “Knight Airik, Knight Isadore,” he said.

“Marcus Book,” Airik said, lifting his chin, “the Grandmaster has called upon you to service.”

*

The four knights of The Brotherhood hurried through the streets of Radasanth, and then into the halls of The Citadel.

“I don’t understand,” Anya said. “Why was Marcus chosen for this?”

“The two of you were close to The Citadel, and Marcus’ actions here over the last few days were very interesting to the Grandmaster,” Isadore said.

“But why send me?” Marcus said, strapping his sword to his back as he walked. “Why not Anya? Or you or Airik? You were obviously not very far, either.”

“This…creature is considered a potential threat,” Airik said. “He’s not yet so dangerous as to threaten whole nations, as The Necromancer was, but one day he could be. The Brotherhood has not yet encountered him and we know very little about him and his limits. So, naturally, he doesn’t know anything about us. You are strong enough to gauge his limits, but not so strong that he should notice you above any of the other combatants. If any of us entered that arena he would wonder about our power and he could, in theory, seek the Brotherhood out and do us harm.”

“If this Lorenor is so dangerous, how can we trust the monks to save Marcus if the worst should happen? What if his power rivals theirs?” Anya said.

“The Grandmaster doesn’t give this command lightly, Anya,” Airik said, clearly frustrated. “We are all asked to risk our lives for the greater good. Marcus knows well the risks involved with our calling, and this is no different.”

Anya went stone-faced and said no more, and Airik suddenly stopped in front of a door, which was generic save for the symbols carved into it: XLV. “This is it,” he said. “Take off your jacket, Marcus. The monks said that the arena is trapped in perpetual night, as per the demon’s request.”

Without hesitation, Marcus shrugged off his sword sheath and then his jacket, thus exposing his arms. His left arm was decorated with tattoos of angelic script, which glowed as the Source’s light coursed through the squire’s body. He retrieved his sword from its sheath, and then handed the sheath and his jacket to Anya. “I’ll be back,” he said with confidence. “I might not be as pretty, but I’ll be back.”

Isadore laughed, though it sounded a bit forced, and slapped Marcus on the back. “Put the fear back in him,” the senior knight said.

Anya nodded to her squire, and Airik pulled the door open. With one last deep breath, Marcus crept into the dark, and Airik closed the door behind him.

*

Marcus stuck to the outside edge of the arena and avoided the rings of light the torches gave off. It was not difficult to pick out his target amongst those assembled: he was cloaked and exuded sorcerous vileness, which the young knight could sense, and the Light in him surged against it. Even without the gifts of the Brotherhood, Marcus would have been able to pick Lorenor out of this crowd – if only because he was gloating.

Unlike most of his contemporaries, Book understood the urge the iniquitous had to gloat out loud. The dark path was, in many ways, harder than its opposite, and certainly less glamorous. Those that sang praises for the black were few and far between, and it is a hard road to justify one’s hate for the world at large. Marcus knew that if he were in Lorenor’s position now, he would also gloat.

The only thing about it that gave him pause was mention of a name: N’Jal. And so the name of the mutant’s patron was revealed, and already Marcus had something useful to report to his superiors, should he live.

Marcus moved slowly. The glow from his left arm was kept dull, so as not to stand out in the twilit coliseum. He held his sword to one side as he crept along the outside wall of the arena, watching as Lorenor and another adventurer hidden in the dark exchanged challenges. As far as the squire could tell he had not been noticed, and this was an advantage.

The knight did not expect to get directly behind his enemy, but instead chose a plan of attack from just behind and to Lorenor’s left. He hoped it would prove to be a blind spot, but the surge of adrenaline filling his arms and legs kept him realistic: it was impossible to tell what the monster knew or how quickly he could react. Or how he might react, for that matter.

So the squire waited, counting breaths and watching close, until one of the young men in attendance confronted the ghoul. In that moment, Marcus rushed forth and hoisted his bastard sword overhead, and then viciously brought it down and right toward Lorenor’s neck.

[Ulysses]

So...when I first started writing this post I was a bit confused as to the positions of everyone in the arena, so I tried to figure it out and drew this diagram (http://img197.imageshack.us/img197/7411/diagramsi.jpg)to help. Um, is that pretty much right? If I'm wrong about something, let me know.
Statues of the Thayne surrounded the circular arena like a silent and critical stone audience. While others may have been awed, Ulysses briefly examined them with a mixture of regret and contempt. Once he too had owed some small allegiance to these old gods—in his life as a fisherman he’d offered whatever few coins that he could spare to a small alter by the docks. Now, however, he owed allegiance to a different, much more personal god, Cydonia, at whose whim he was fighting in the Citadel. Cydonia evidently thought that Ulysses could earn honor or virtue by battling in these arenas, and so he had been drawn to Corone...and ended up here.

He found himself pining for the days when a few copper coins in a wooden bowl were all it took to appease the gods, but thinking such things was useless. He put it out of his mind.

Four figures stood before him. To his left, a broad-shouldered and bald knight. To his right, a huge and powerful looking man with a bizarre haircut. Both were intimidating figures. Across the arena was a man he would never expected to have seen—a performer from the Tantalum, who performed in Ulysses’ own Scara Brae. Ulysses recognized him from one of the plays he’d seen…what was it called, something about a man named Lysander? It was very odd to see the bard here, but there were more important things to focus on.

Namely, the figure in the center of the arena—who could only be the Lord Lorenor the monks had spoken of. He only caught a glimpse of the dark warrior’s face, but what he saw would haunt his nightmares. A sunken and gray face with deep-set eyes…except instead of eyes there only sat little malicious purple lights. The man radiated evil and darkness, so much so that Ulysses was physically affected by it. He swooned and felt as though he was about to puke. He closed his eyes for a moment to regain his composure.

So much power, the Knight murmured. It is good that we have allies.

Allies? Ulysses wondered. These were strange warriors of great power, probably some of the best the Citadel had to offer. Each was likely here for his own gain and only his own gain. If they were lucky, a great evil would be vanquished tonight…and if they were lucky, they would survive. Or at least some of them would survive. When he opened his eyes again, Lorenor had begun to walk towards the large man with the strange hair. Meanwhile, the knight to his left wasted no time and charged the dark warrior, sword in hand.

Ulysses gripped his own longsword in his right hand and his shield in the other and rushed towards Lorenor and into the fray.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

We are moving on. Task is welcome to post at any time during this thread, but I intend to finish this thing. Thank you all for your cooperation.

Several warriors answered the call. In a moment or two, the individuals had entered his sensory array. With a grin, the mutant studied his competitors. He had experience with only one of the competitors, Duffy Bracken. Briefly, they had shared an adventure in Radasanth several weeks ago. After some events occurred, the mutant and the acrobat parted ways. Lorenor never saw the acrobat again until today. He looked at Ulysses, acknowledging the youth briefly. Fear was thick in the air. I wouldn't want to fight me either. Lorenor thought grimly to himself.

Then, the last combatant entered the arena and something unexpected happened. Attacking from the get-go, Lorenor couldn't help but admire the kid's bravery. It wasn't until the kid came within the sensory array that Lorenor noticed something odd. Something very odd. Burning and radiating from within the man that currently ran towards the mutant was his bane, The Glorious Light. Two opposites in the elemental spectrum, Lorenor noticed the subtle increase of temperature in the air. This eliminated his grin. He's going to be a problem. Lorenor thought to himself.

Immediately, within the span of a few seconds, the mutant calculated several occurrences. Even his own death. If I am going to go down, I am taking these bastards with me! Lorenor admired the kid's courage, he would give him that much. Any other man would have been caught by the kid's skilled attack. But Lorenor was not just any man. He was a High Priest of N'Jal. A long hard road had lead the mutant to the seat of evolution he currently sat on. Lorenor's senses depicted the youth's attack quite vividly. Going right for the head huh, you've got balls kid. Stepping back at best speed, Lorenor rose the arm that had his Aegis Bracer attached. By now, the metal of the bracer had achieved a certain level of evolution. It was very hard and refined. He rose his arm quickly in an attempt to intercept the incoming bastard sword.

Lorenor ducked down as well. Excelling at close-quarters-combat, the mutant prepared with a sneak-attack of his own. Lorenor could hold his own against the beefy specimen attacking him. Though short, Lorenor was still a powerhouse by all rights. As he ducked, he took his opposite arm and slashed with his claw-like fingers towards his opponent's mid-section. He sensed Ulysses' approach, but for the time being did nothing about it. As he attacked the grin returned to his face.

This is going to be fun! He thought to himself.


Intercepted Marcus' sword. Counter-attacked with his own maneuver. Currently is acknowledging Ulysses' attack but is doing nothing about it, yet. Hey guys, I mean Lorenor is a fast dude but not -that- fast. :) Let's get this show on the road!!