The Aequitas Chamber

[Max Dirks]

This chamber will host the following players:

016573
Alis Grave Nil
Amen
Ataraxis
Duffy Bracken
Godhand
Hysteria
Neville Longinus
Squidi
Silence Sei
Taskmienster
The Daredevil

Please note that Godhand has replaced Letho on the roster.

The Cell will begin at 12 AM CST on Wednesday April 14th, 2010. It will end two weeks thereafter or until each player has concluded. Sometime before then I will be updated the gambling area and putting up a physical description of the Cell.

[Max Dirks]

After four long years the gates to the Mistician Assailing Arena in Radasanth were open once more. Thousands of people, heralding from southern tip of Fallien to the northern reaches of Berevar, had gathered at the Arena to watch their favorite warrior battle in Althanas’ most frenzied close quarters venue: the Cell. The weather was perfect for such a chaotic event. Heavy storms had completely consumed the city. But not even strong winds and heavy rains were enough to deter this crowd. The obsessive fans had completely packed the grandstands and standing room only extended well beyond the Arena, as far back as the Bazaar. For one day, the struggling economy, civil war and even Xem’zund were merely after thoughts for these people.

Sitting above them all, atop a large platform in the center of the arena was the tournament Grandmaster, Max Dirks. He was wearing his typical attire: a white jumpsuit covered by a long black trenchcoat. Beneath the coat his “Patented” and “Twin” Beretta 950’s were stowed in their holsters, easily accessible if needed. His two prevalida katanas were sheathed on his back. For Dirks, this tournament marked his return to Althanas prominence. After years of tragedy, heartbreak, and loss, the criminal was back to his old antics. It was traditionally the winner of the previous years’ competition that heralded the coveted position of grandmaster, but last year’s winner, “hushpuppy,” had “disappeared.” Though he claimed no responsibility for the prairie dog’s disappearance, Dirks was able to lobby the Lornian Battle Tour for the position.

Sensing the crowd was getting anxious, Dirks stood from his throne. Suddenly the booming thunder was overtaken by the roar of the crowd. Dirks looked below him. On his right stood the Treslizn Chamber and on his left the Aequitas Chamber, both appropriately named after Althanas heroes of old. The two chambers were completely identical and symmetrical. From the rocky ground at the bottom of the Arena to the level of the grandstand (15 ft) was a thick layer of adamantine. Spaced throughout were 12 doors, one for each competitor. Above that the Arena was completely open. The sky was completely visible, but no rain was hitting the ground. It was then that legendary magician Phagan Slater stepped forward. Once an enemy of Dirks’, Phagan had agreed to construct an incredibly powerful magical force field around the arena in exchange for some unknown favor. For all practical purposes the force field was indestructible. It extended 50 feet into the air in a circular arc. Nothing could pass enter or exit without Dirks’ approval. Dirks was similarly protected by a second, much smaller force field.

Dirks waited for a moment, then motioned for the crowd to quiet down. Originally he had planned to deliver a speech glorifying his return, but it was apparent to him by the continued roar of the crowd that it was unnecessary. No one had forgotten who he was or what he’d done. With a shrug, Dirks nodded to Phagan. Suddenly all 24 adamantine doors opened and the awaiting competitors were thrust onto the battlefield. Once everyone had emerged, the doors shut behind themselves. Dirks smirked and signaled the start of the tournament.

“Welcome to the Jungle…”

(Welcome to the Jungle is more than just a typical Dirks' cliche: it's the music by Guns and Roses that I recommend you listen to while preparing your first post to fully grasp the intensity and the pacing of the tournament. Please remember that you're expected to post every 24 hours or you will be removed from the tournament except if your post is a "conclusive post." I've added some information about "conclusive posts" to the Rules and Regulations Thread. Round one ends April 28th at 12 AM CST.)

[Amen]

Marcus did not feel well.

The young squire had never seen so many people gathered in one place before, and he could scarcely believe there were so many faces in the world. He would have been truly overwhelmed among them, or looking out over them, and so there was no word for how he felt now that he was part of their focus: one of a handful of men assembled to struggle and maybe die for their pleasure.

He entered the arena with his entourage, catching only brief glimpses of his opponents as they followed the same walkways in the relentless rain. When one of the chosen warriors was glimpsed, hundreds of voices cried out at once and mingled into a single deafening roar. Together the masses made a beast a hundred times more terrifying than a dragon, as thunderous as an angry god.

Marcus did not know how the crowd was kept back. He imagined some sort of magic had to be involved. There were people everywhere, and so they could hardly hope to secret him into the arena. Instead, they marched him through the sodden crowd like a messiah, one of twenty-four, and wide paths opened up in the teeming congregation to allow the gladiators through.

“Tell me again,” the paladin screamed next to the ear of the man nearest him, but his voice was a sigh in a hurricane, drowned out absolutely by the god-voice of the crowd.

The man was another paladin, a man Marcus knew. Marcus mouthed the words “why me,” and patted his chest. The elder paladin gave him a stern look, and the squire knew the man well enough to know what the look meant: we’ve been over this.

And they had. To the Brotherhood, it was simple. They had been a secret society, for their own collective protection, and now they wanted the world to know they existed – but not how powerful they really were. Thus, strings were pulled and their most promising squire was chosen to represent his order in The Cell. His instructions were simple: survive as long as you can.

Marcus wasn’t afraid of dying, and this is a truth separate from bravado and pomp, he merely accepted that one day he was going to die violently in service to the Brotherhood and so he had no fear of it.

There was fear in his eyes as he looked out over the crowd, though, unreserved and unmistakable. Death he didn’t fear, but this crowd, these people, the scale of what he found himself in today: that terrified him.

***

“Come on, get the jacket off,” Anya was saying. Anya was Marcus’ mentor, and had been permitted to join him just before he was to enter the arena on the Aequitas side. No more than ten minutes had passed since they had emerged from the crowd and entered the Cell. Everything was happening so fast.

His hands shook as he undid the buckle on his scabbard and shrugged it off, leaning his sheathed sword against a wall. He put his shoulders back and let his jacket slide off of his arms, and Anya pulled it the rest of the way off and folded it over her forearm.

“Stop that shaking,” she chided. “The shirt, too.”

Marcus raised one heavy eyebrow at his mentor, and but there was no humor on her face. “Your mission is to impress that crowd,” she said, “and that shirt isn’t going to stop any swords anyway. Off, now.”

Book sneered and peeled his shirt up over his head, handed it off to join his jacket, and then retrieved his sword. He freed it from its scabbard and relinquished the scabbard, too, for it would not be needed inside. Anya didn’t wish him luck – the Brotherhood didn’t speak of luck. She just nodded at him, grim-eyed, and walked away. A steel gate descended between the squire and his mentor, and then began to slide forward toward Marcus.

There was no going back.

He turned away from the gate and sighed, head bowed, relishing that last moment of relative peace and safety as the bottom teeth of the gate screeched ominously along the stone floor – the eye of the storm, relatively speaking. The first step was the hardest, but on he came toward what seemed to be an impenetrable metal wall. The wall was in fact a door, which opened slowly at the paladin’s approach, allowing a blaze of light and a crushing burst of noise to enter: the ever-present crowd calling for their champions.

The light from the arena filled the hall, momentarily blinding the squire and rendering everything around him a thin silhouette and the arena outside seemed impossibly vast. For a moment it felt like that last step out of the hallway would be his last, as if he would fall into oblivion if he took it. There was no choice.

But then, there never had been.

Somehow, he heard the door close behind him even over the colossal roar of the spectators. There was nothing left to do but join them now, and so he threw his head back and screamed his throat raw. Red-faced and eyes burning, he hoisted his sword up and advanced, as eager as the rest of the throng to see blood spilt.

[Duffy]

Into the arena stepped the hopes of fools,
A disciple of gods carrying world-bearing tools,
With dagger and sword and Tindergear primed,
Young Duffy arrived in the arena begrimed.


With chuckle and bounce the thief did announce,
“What’s occurin’ sirs?” With theatrical flounce,
He cocked his head surely and bounced between spots,
His hangover solid and his stomach in knots.


Here we can see but one face of twelve,
Each looking for glory into which they can delve,
What fate awaits each combatant within?
See the truth revealed, in the Cell born of sin!

[Silence Sei]

Crowds had gathered for a hero. The Cell was a tournament that could create a hero out of normal men. The Cell was a tournament that turned heroes into legends. The Cell was perhaps the most famous and violent tournament Althanas had ever seen.

It was because of this that Sei wanted no part in the competition.

The mute hated to get into altercations if they could be avoided. Fighting, in Sei's opinion, was something degrading that made little sense to the mystic. Fighting served no purpose other than proving that humans and animals were no different than one another. Scratch that, animals fought for food. Humans fought for bloodsport.

The crowd roared as the surprise guest stepped out from his door. Looking around the chamber Sei had noticed that nearly none of his opponents had arrived yet. This was good. He could try and determine who he was here to find, and who he was here to avoid. He could avoid violence with some, while trying to convince others that they were needed to save his beloved Radasanth.

The crowd's cheers faded in Sei's ears as he remembered the prophecy. Radasanth was to be targeted to be destroyed. Only by untiting eight other warriors could Sei even stand a chance of saving the city that heralded him as a hero. This was the mute's motivation for The Cell. While he had found several of the heroes through happenstance, the mystic knew that the massive tournament was the best way to recruit people into his cause.

The smell of freshly kicked dust filled Sei's nostrils and nearly caused the hero to choke. As his eyes scanned the crowd for faces, he had locked eyes with that of his daughter, Anita Orlouge. She was there to cheer her father on, to help spot any people who might fit the prophecy. Anita could 'feel' who was right for saving Radasanth, as it were. She was going to be Sei's strongest weapon for finding what he needed.

The orange haired youth then locked eyes with the grand master of the tournament, Max Dirks. Sei had shared several battles with the gun-toter. He had established the man as his biggest rival, yet one of his greatest allies should a need arise. Glancing over to Anita, the girl shook her head quickly. 'Uncle' Max was not one of the Warriors Nine. Finding himself a bit lost at this revelation, Sei met Dirks' gaze once more with a stern nod. He showed his respect to Max's title as Grand Master by giving him a bow.

The mute clasped his hands together in a prayer like motion. The mute closed his eyes and said a small prayer in order to get ready.

He hoped the Gods would bestow upon him the gift of more warriors to save Radasanth...

[Alis Grave Nil]

Alis felt as if he woke up, his pupils almost as large as his eyes, his hair blond, his skin pale. It was pale as if he was sick, suffering from a disease, yet he was not, at least not known to him, for he knew not of his vampire heritage. The Bow master’s face was tired and sad, to the point of depression, his head hanging, his eyes half closed, not caring to show emotions. The noble natured raised himself from his makeshift bed. Sitting up, he revealed his rather tiny figure that always where hid beneath his clothing. His pale skin was disturbingly white, to the point where he could outmatch the dead. As the wind broke about the area, he felt the breeze all to good, his eyes came to rest upon his body in a quick motion as he noticed he was barely with cloths.
With that though, his cloths appeared, within his eyesight, his ceremonial clothing. The white linen pants and shirt. The silk blue cloak and his leather boots also came on in a rush. With the feeling of the cloths on himself, the cold chilly feeling became bearable, and it would not take long before he would discard the cold feeling all together.

“Empty minutes, empty hours, empty days, empty years. Why is it so that my memories will not return, but yet haunt me with these emotions that are not mine to own.”He questioned himself though he had done so many times before, almost like a ritual whenever he awoke from his slumbers.

Stabilizing himself the vampire was quick to find his belongings when he realized he was hearing voices, many of them and they where loud. Quickly he held his bow in his hand with the quiver on his back, with an arrow pulled back and ready in case he needed defend himself. He had never been here before, he knew not how he came to be here and the though scared him. He felt like it was like waking up in his grave all over again and his knees grew shaky from it. Slowly Alis Grave Nil, the vampire elf took his first step towards a dangerous path into the arena.

[Hysteria]

Dancing rays of light filtered through the gaps in the massive door just in front of Talen. His scared blue eyes were fixated on the large construct that succeeded in making him feel very small. Cool damp sweat had worked its way across the back of the black shirt that passed for fighting attire for the poor warrior. His tired greying pants seemed too tight, biting into his waist and constricting his movements.

Relax.... relax...

Empty words drifted through the boys mind without any effect on his nerves. His minds eye saw him as nothing. Dirt perhaps, to be scrapped off the boots of one of the famous warriors. Their names had been mentioned, but as his brain rapidly descended into a chaos of thoughts they were all lost.

There was thunder. The pale youth tried to focus on the sound but it was quickly overtaken by one even greater. Could that have been people? The thought was the only solid thing that Talen had been able to put together since being shoved towards the mammoth door. Something was about to happen, something other than being thrust out into the open and hacked into tiny pieces.... well that was actually yet to be seen. The door lifted open and Talen was thrust out.

The tall youth blinked vaguely and gripped his sword tightly. He held the stilled sheathed blade with two hands, one on the hilt and one on the sheath just below the other. His knuckles turned white as he looked around; his face fearful.

It seemed that he stepped out of the door near the corner of the cell, but that didn't register right away. Instead his eyes fell onto the other competitors who were emerging. The grave faces of the number of silent warriors nearly caused madness for the boy. He lacked any sense of calm, instead it felt like the slimy tentacles of a squid were wriggling through his gut; for the people he faced would not be cast down by a gods touch with a simple declaration. Nor would even the spear that had killed a god be any good in Talen's hands right now. He had been a duffer of a daredevil to take on such a task.

But he was there and he had to fight.

[Duffy]

Lost in a dream world Duffy jumped as the steward prodded him in the back. With a gruff "Move it," the thief huddled forwards, not entirely comfortable with the scruffy and bedraggled appearance of the event's organisers. He looked dazedly up at the storm clouds overhead as he walked and half-wondered just how long he had drifted off for. The whispers of a verse in his own hand spiralled off into his sub-consciousness and the impending battle brought home a few truths he was not ready for. He felt sick, and for once it was not brought on by mixing his drinks or eating too much sugar. It was world-bearing, far too responsible sort of lethargy.

It had been over five hours since he had awoken and he already looked worse for wear. His chin was bedecked with a five o'clock shadow verging on the eight and his once white clothes and tightly wrapped bandages were mud stained and sodden with dirt. He looked every part the urchin of Scara Brae, perfect for the rough and tumble that would no doubt follow, but not so flattering on the eye.

As he had warmed up and thought of a game plan, he had mused on the last tournament he had entered. It was over a year ago in the ill fated Magus Cup when his one chance at glory slipped away in the elven hands of a better, quicker 'solicitor of funds.' He was a lot older now, and whilst he was not altogether wiser, he liked to think he had learnt enough of the world to survive longer than the first round. When the opportunity arose to compete once more, not even Ruby’s disapproving monologue and witticisms could keep him from rushing out the door to sign-up.

His victory poem had been written in homage to his delusions of grandeur and as ever, it was badly conceived, cranky, and full of erroneous grammar. Writing accurately or for the pleasure of others was not this particular bard’s expertise, but he conveyed the required meaning and brought it to life through annunciation, spirit and flair, as opposed to cold hearted and clandestine accuracy. He was far too clouded by his own enthusiasm, and too stubborn to think of it as anything other than perfectly wrought that he recited it smugly as he padded up the foyer steps. His chunky boots chimed out an ominous rhythm like Death knocking on an octogenarian's door.

Even in the depths of the preparation area the roar of the crowd dominated the senses and purveyed a sense of enormity that bordered on the inescapable, on the dramatic. As he approved the port cullis and gate he stopped to compose his thoughts into something less distracting. Great oceanic storms broiled in the thief’s mind and he began to feel like he was alone, unguided and unfettered by the proclamation of his arts. He felt uninspired, which was something he had rarely been in recent months. Here he could not pretend to be an actor performing a role as his masque and his mien were now intertwined. As the doors opened and the swell of noise and intoxicating smells struck him like a tsunami, he instantly felt alone, instantly forgetful of his well rehearsed repertoire.

“I guess there ain’t no turnin’ back now!” He stepped out into the Cell and felt his chest tighten and the static in the air crackle and arc around his wrists and limbs. He clocked onto the other combatants and realised very quickly that this tournament would not be an easy endeavour. One, perhaps two opponents might have gone in Duffy's favour, but he was clearly out of his league, out of his mind, and winging his way into third place if he was remotely lucky. "If Lucian can do it..." he re-assured himself, begrudging his nemesis the time of day to give him the resolve and determination to live beyond the starting bell.

In the stocks and stands amidst the squalor of the city's poor, the Tantalum troupe erupted into a mini rendition of When the Cows Come Home and waved their little blue flags. There were several other gestures of support which should not have come from a six year old, and Duffy chuckled as Pete was pushed back into his seat and re-clothed. He pulled Tooth and Wainwright’s Dagger from their respective sheathes and span them around menacingly, waiting for the go ahead for the melee to begin.

[Squidi]

People, people, silence, listen!

It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for!

For those of you that have been living under a rock for the past twenty-something years, my name is Zooga Agooz, Master Thief.

Yes, that's right, Master Thief.

So you have heard of me?

Well, I'm hardly surprised.

My accomplishments in the field of robbery are infamous across the land.

Paralleled only by my accomplishments in stealing the hearts of women.

But tonight it's time for me to tell you a different tale, about the time I participated in the most terrible tournament ever . . . and won.

Oh yes, I remember it like it was yesterday.

Butterflies floating in my stomach.

Blackness.

Deep breaths, in and out, in and out...

And the crowd, vibrating your bones.

In an instant, though, the blackness brightened, and I knew it was time.

Opening my eyes, I stepped forth into the cell.

But to those observing my portal, they would not have seen a thing!

How, you ask? How was this possible?

Pssh... In all my years, I've learned one thing, and one thing only.

Pink is the ultimate camouflaging color.

Thus, wearing pink from head to toe, I was completely invisible to all those around me!

Fucking unbelievable, I know!

The odds were completely stacked in my favor.

How could I not win?

[Breaker]

The Breaker Boots rang dully on the stone floor like bells warning of Cronen's approach. The iron cage door was all that seperated him from the Cell. Two scarred, strong hands reached up and adjusted the hood of his light grey tunic, so that his face remained in shadow.

As the door swung open outwards, Breaker, the beast who was once a man, clawed at the cage inside Cronen's mind. The bars of that mental prison would soon dissolve, once Joshua judged the remaining combatants worthy of facing his vicious alter-ego. Too many times had he allowed Breaker to face an up-and-coming warrior in the Dajas Pagoda, his old training ground, and as a result subjected the unfortunate fighter to being torn limb from limb while still alive. Cronen had not come to the Cell to entertain the beast's torturous desires; it was the one place where warriors of a higher caliber were sure to be found.

"Put the weakest out of their misery..." Joshua noted mentally as he stepped into the ring. One of his callused hands remained beneath the cloak, while the other gripped the center bar of the cagelike door. The roar of the crowd covered the shriek of shattered screws as the door came off its hinges.

"... and then, maybe my old friend, we will meet our match." The first fighter to catch Cronen's attention was a fellow of about his own height, with odd pinkish skin, who stood twirling two daggers. Cronen pivoted and hurled the heavy iron door. It sped towards the Tantalum at waist height. A deadly piece of debris initiated combat in the Aequitas Chamber.

[Ataraxis]

The beauty of the city’s skyline was tarnished by heavy rain, reduced to nothing more than a dark and gritty line of saw-toothed shadows against the weather’s sullen canvas. In every way, Lillian knew it should have been a disheartening sight; yet, even as she watched the raindrops pelt against the windows of the waiting room, the sixteen-year-old girl looked strangely at peace. She had been listening by the sill to the pitter-patter on the roof shingles, humming along the rain’s soothing rhythm, eyes following the timid raindrops on the glass as they softly trickled out sight.

Like this, Lillian looked every bit the typical teenager on a rainy day, making it that much harder to believe that this unassuming girl, a freelance librarian at that, was actually waiting to fight in the Cell. She knew she should have been anxious, scared even. Her heart should have been beating like a little drum, threatening to burst or leap out of her chest. In fact, she most certainly should have already run away screaming by now. ‘But then, why do I feel so serene?’

Lillian wandered closer to the windows, peering into the stained glass with a nostalgic smile. The clouds were darker than before, their underside flashing as thunder roared amidst a rain of ropes. A few stragglers were still scampering about the streets, unable to find refuge from the downpour; yet, the girl envied them. After twisting the locks above the frame, she forcefully lifted the window and brought down a mist that caked her with dust and paint chips. A breath of rain invaded the room, damp yet welcoming, and she took it all in. Lillian didn’t mind the deafening roars – not from the stormy heavens nor the awaiting spectators.

And she smiled.

This. This was why. To Lillian, this wistful scenery was the most soothing prelude she could ever ask for, a gift from above to hone her mind… right before taking her first steps into a cage of blood-thirsty titans.

There was a knock at the door, and she knew it was time. Lillian made her way across the dusty slate room, picking up the cloak hanging from the ladder-back chair and the weapons belt she’d left on a table by the exit. Her gaze lingered there for a moment, riveted on the dozen vials scattered on the rosewood… and on the few lingering red stains that tainted their insides. Her eyes clouded over with guilt as she began questioning herself, her motives, but the librarian quickly shook the doubt away. There was no choice.

“You have to, Lily,” she muttered to herself, curling her fingers into little white fists. “It’s why you’re here.” The girl tentatively picked a handful of the vials off the table, staring in dark wonder at the flecks of clotted blood that clung to the glass. Soon, her gaze hardened with resolve, and she carefully stashed the fragile tubes into a satchel hanging from the belt she’d just clamped on. Lillian sighed; with this, she was ready at last.

“To think I came to bleed giants,” the girl finally said with a scoff, throwing on her cobalt cloak in a flutter and a flourish. Fastening it on with the silken strings about her neck, the librarian finally made her way out the door. “Who would believe me?”

:::::

The sudden roar of excitement that greeted her when she stepped into the semi-circular battlefield had frozen Lillian there and then. She knew better than to think the audience was excited to see her, a quite literally nondescript nobody, jump into fray, and so she gave cursory glances to the left and right, registering all she could of her adversaries. The first thing she saw, however, was one of the twelve massive metal doors that lined the arena’s arc, careening through the air like an oversized discus. It missed her by an arm’s length, but the enormous swoosh of wind had knocked her out of balance, so strong it had almost blown her cloak right off. A heartbeat later, the wall of adamantine it struck rang like a monstrous gong, so loud that even the cries of the crowd could not rise over the din.

Lillian blinked, craning her head slowly to the right with palms smashed against her temples. “Great. is that… Joshua Cronen?” she asked herself in a tired drawl. Though he was hooded, his attack had knocked the cloth slightly loose, revealing the face of the Pagoda warrior, and she reflexively readjusted her own hood and cloak so as not to be recognized herself. They’d met in Underwood once, as accidental roommates in the Peaceful Promenade. Since then, they'd gone their separate ways on relatively good terms, but with what would ensue in the out-and-out fiasco this battle was becoming, the librarian doubted those good terms would last much longer.

Wasting no more time, Lillian solicited the surrounding shadows, most of which came from the streams of rain that drizzled on the force-field overhead. They gathered at her feet like moths to a flame, forming a pool of darkness that quickly climbed her small figure before seemingly vanishing. In truth, however, Lillian had become but a passing presence in the arena, manifold more unassuming than the girl already was – visible, yes, but substantially harder to focus on. Moreover, thanks to the otherworldly cloak she wore, even someone with keen eyes sensitive to the colors of magic would not be able to detect the shroud.

With a sweep of her arm, Lillian gathered bits and pieces of shadows from nearby sources: the trickling rain above, the indestructible walls of adamantine, even the foes she slipped by while slinking towards Joshua. Soon, another puddle of fluid darkness massed at her feet, until it burst forth like a jet of ink across the rocky ground, rushing unseen along the arena’s arc. Though her sole target was the currently bare-handed warrior, she was wary of relying on a straightforward attack; instead, she willed the tendril to slither toward the participant closest to her mark, the rogue in showy pink clothing. The moment Joshua showed an opening, however, was the moment Lillian would veer it back on track…

Should the tendril link with his shadow, then the first major step of her plan would be complete. The wisp of sorcerous darkness would drain him of his life-force, something Lillian had just seen the man had in excess. It was essential to enfeeble him, to sever his heels: only then could she begin the second step toward taking down a titan.

‘Sorry Josh,’ she thought to herself with an apologetic grin, ‘but it looks like you’re Giant Number One.’

Bunnied Josh's hood being knocked off with Numbers' permission.

[Godhand]

He smiled as the large metal door was pulled open before him. He pulled the gloves on his hands back, laced his boots tighter and walked through the portal, holding out his arms and basking, relishing, in the delighted roar of the crowd. He let it engulf him, consume him. Let it penetrate into his muscles, tendons, his core. The swordsman held out a hand and watched enraptured as the crowd hushed just a bit, then smirked when he slowly raised his fist and the noise the crowd made grew accordingly. Theatrics. In some ways, Godhand was a noble and virtuous man. Very few ways, granted, but some ways. But in others, he was simply a showman. A performer.

A whore.

He'd gotten a taste for it during his youth spent as a prizefighter. There was nothing like it. You could ride that thrill for days and no matter how many times you experienced it it would never ever lose its edge. You couldn't drink it, couldn't smoke it, couldn't shoot it and couldn't freebase it, but it could still make a junkie out of you faster than cocaine, heroin, nicotine and alcohol combined. The roar of the crowd. The ultimate high.

He took a look around the cell to see who'd he be up against, but to his surprise found no one he knew or heard of with the exception of 'Silence' Sei Orlouge, a man he had been acquainted with only briefly many years ago; he'd done some mercenary work for him and assisted in putting down The Yellow Lily rebellion. Or was it the Yellow Turban rebellion? He'd played commando and had a hand suppressing so many insurrections, rebellions and coups in his younger years that they all seemed to blur together now. Some crackpot territory and tin-pot dictator had sprung up at least once in every single region's history without exception. It was enough to keep a specialist very busy. But Godhand had washed his hands from that kind of work a while ago and never looked back; the travel, living conditions and nature of the work that required you to stay in the area in case there was a resurgence was simply too exhausting both mentally and physically to keep up past your twenties. He'd heard of guys that got off on that sort of thing and made that their bread and butter from being a rookie until the day they died but that wasn't him. He was a creature of habit; he liked to have a homebase. Roots. Liked to know the layout of the town and where the good places to eat where. He was simple in his pleasures.

Nevertheless, he was surprised. Sei Orlouge had disappeared from public view for a while now and Godhand supposed it made sense that he'd want to use a highly visible and notorious event like The Cell to make his triumphant return back to the public eye. But he expected to see others here, more present, famous names. Letho. Bloodrose. Possibly one or two members of the NWO, too. A Pagoda grandmaster? He couldn't rule it out. Champions, in any case. But it was just him and a whole bunch of people he didn't know. There were some in hoods, but they were likely rookies hoping to use anonymity to let the other contestants draw the worst conclusions. He'd been on both sides of that trick. He knew right away that this would play out one of two ways: either they'd stay out of his way and try not to get taken out in the crossfire, or they'd all gang up on him. Well, the second one didn't sound too fun. He decided a show of force was in order, if only to dissuade his opponents from all converging on him at once and ripping him apart like a pack of hyenas.

With that in mind, he calmly drew a Magnum, leveled it at the head of the nearest man (a fellow in a hood), and pulled the trigger.

Godhand fires a .50 bullet at Numbers Guy's head

[Amen]

There were certain habits a successful warrior fostered, both on and off the battlefield. Marcus had long ago discovered that a good performance and an easier victory came from simple visualization: imagining the fight playing out, considering every possibility with the knowledge that one couldn’t foresee everything. In short: make a plan, or the barest skeleton of one. There had been plenty of time for that before The Cell began, and the paladin had put that time to good use.

He had considered a scenario like this one - that is, the scenario where twelve combatants were shoved out into an area all at once and turned loose. He had imagined that maybe most of them would be confused by the suddenness of it, and he had been sure not to fall into such a trap himself. He had imagined other scenarios, darker ones, where the other eleven were not confused but instead all focused immediately on him with homicidal intent.

Thankfully that hadn’t happened…yet. No, instead everything was a great deal more chaotic than he could have envisioned. His plan had called for a swift but thorough survey, a glance at the competition to gauge threats and form a plan of attack. He saw now that such a complete survey would not be possible.

His breath was barely recovered before an entire door was hurdling across the arena, tossed by a cloaked figure. Marcus watched the debris fly, momentarily astounded, and then swung his gaze back to the titan from which the missile had originated. The squire was further stunned to see another man on the scene now, aiming a pistol at the titan’s head.

An honest-to-gods gun was being discharged a stone’s throw away, a weapon against which Book was perfectly helpless. There was little doubt in his mind now that he stood on death’s precipice, and it was getting windy.

Marcus was on the third breath now, his eyes sweeping the rest of the arena, and by the fourth he found what he was looking for. He did not know Talen Shadowalker, but he recognized fear when he saw it. The boy looked to be younger even than Book himself, and had not yet drawn his sword though his hands lie on hilt and scabbard. Fear and hesitation.

The paladin lifted his sword and charged the tall boy in faded black with savage purpose. It was Marcus’ hope to strike before the darkling lad could unsheathe his sword, and thus quickly remove a lesser threat before facing his promised doom – a bit of glory before the end. With that in mind, Marcus shouted, swinging his bastard sword two-handed in a high horizontal arc: a strike aimed at Talen’s neck.

[Duffy]

Duffy’s eyes widened as the newcomer took ‘making an entrance’ a little too far. With a concerted effort he buckled at the knees and leapt onto the door as it levelled mid-flight. All the years he had spent skitter leaping across the roof tops of Scara Brae paid off as he ran along it as it slipped underneath with immense speed. Before he could register what was happening he span forwards off the edge and landed with a thud, his right fist punching the ground and his left arced above his head with a slightly elegant gait. The door crashed into the adamantium wall behind him and bent in two as the dense metal brushed off the assault with a catastrophic thud. His confusion dropped from view, and suddenly he paid minute attention to every little detail. As he panted and caught his breath, he picked out the slightest blemish and speck of dust, his heart focussing his vision on how close he had just been to being shown the door.

Whilst he had not expected any leniency or the good fortune of being ignored, it was at least polite to introduce yourself in some manner before getting straight down to business. With a subtle movement he tucked his hair back under his bandana and stood upright to take stock of the damage. His muscles were tight, his cochlea was spinning with nausea and his knuckles were red, but on the whole, he was alive, and feeling a little more confident.

“You’re supposed to make use of a dramatic entrance chuck, not make use of entrance itself!” He bounced and clicked his neck, a whirligig suddenly aware that flailing his arms wildly would not cut it. He was on fire with the taint of adrenaline, buzzing and rearing to go with a well of energy boiling away in the pit of his stomach.

Speed, or so it seemed, would be all that would get him by. How long it would last or how quickly he would be outsped, they were the questions of doubt he had no breathing space to ask.

"When the curtain rises, I shall present the players, but until then!" He bellowed at his assailant with a devilish grin as the smell of sweat and fear already lingered in his nostrils. It mingled with the dampness in the air and the bridling mass of people all around them, chanting and mocking their favourite and their worst. The forcefield, whilst deft, was clearly not impenetrable.

Choosing his targets more wisely than the others he sped with a comic dash to the left; his feet padding with lightness often reserve for ballet dancers or men of a floral persuasion. As he ran, he levelled his daggers at the man, who seemed an altogether more amicable sparring partner than the one who flexed his penis a little too strongly for his liking. His religious symbols and stoic appearance foretold a similar but less disastrous pain even as he turned to fight the one Duffy knew to be Talen Shadow-walker…the flashes of their roguish endeavour against the Golden Sun brought a sense of familiarity to the thief’s mind as he picked up the pace. “Oi!” He shouted, hoping to drag Marcus around with his voice and take the focus from his friend onto his own blades, his staccato stance deployed and ready to bite.

No doubt soon enough he would have to trudge back across the mud spurred on by the dying crowd. Then he fight on to his very last and face them both off before the sun was set and the night arrived, but he would cross that bridge and allow fate to test his faith when he came to it. He would introduce himself to the one named Joshua in due course, with all his charm and guile attentive to the moment, and his wit as snappy and abrupt as the sound of gunfire.

[Hysteria]

“Oh my....” mumbled Talen.

One of the competitors ripped the massive door off its limbs and threw it at another competitor. Talen stepped backwards and bumped into the door he had just entered. The display of raw power was staggering and slowly the young warrior with his back to the wall stepped away from the monstrous Breaker.

There was however a more pressing matter for the young warrior to face. A paladin of sorts had raised his sword and was charging towards him. Talen inhaled and lifted his still sheathed sword. Vaguely he could hear shouting coming from one of the other fighters, but he didn't listen to Duffy's attempt to subvert Marcus.


* * * *

“Remember your footing Talen!” Said Mel hitting the youth's legs with his cane.

Talen grunted and changed his stance. The grizzly old warrior walked around Talen, checking his stance and making sure he was concentrating.

“You are tall, you need to make sure you limit your surface area and don't forget you have talents that other fighters won't have!” Said Mel hitting Talen's shoulder this time.


* * * *

Talents they won't have... echoed through Talen's mind. He was still afraid, nearly more scared than he had ever been, but he was going to act. He dropped to one knee and lifted his still sheathed sword above his head, angled so the hilt of the sword was pointing to the ground. The paladin's blade collided with his own with clang. The blade had cut into the sheath, but stopped against the steel blade within.

Talen opened his mouth wide and the darkness within twisted and bubbled forwards. The shadows extended out into a gaping immaterial snake and struck towards the Paladin's face. The snake was fake, merely an illusion and Talen hoped that it was enough to make the Paladin miss his next attack.

Following quickly Talen pulled the hilt of his sword, drawing it was a shing. Pushing his sheath with his left hand to try and keep the Paladin's sword busy, Talen slashed across the man's chest, hopefully slitting him open.

[Silence Sei]

Sei completed his prayer with just enough time to watch the events unfold. Directly across from him a man had ripped his door off of it's hinges as threw it towards another competitor. Just as Sei stepped forward to rescue the man from his impromptu demise did somebody familiar catch the mute's attention. Pausing just long enough for Duffy to take a handle on his door situation, Sei's eyes met with Lillian Sesthal.

The mute had expected to meet those of the Warriors Nine in this hellish arena, but not the sixteen year old Lillian. The girl was one of the first to have joined the mute's cause to save Radasanth. Sei's eyes were then diverted from the form of Lillian to that of a figure from his past. With so much going on Sei could only shiver as he had felt a presence he had not felt in a long time.

Godhand Striker...

Sei had met Godhand when he was recruiting soldiers to quell the Yellow Lily Rebellion. The Rebellion had been compromised of thousands of insurgents, and as Sei recalled, Godhand Striker was one of his most powerful generals against the overwhelming force. It seemed as though once the mute had stepped out of Althanas limelight that Godhand took center stage and grew much stronger than before. The crowd cheered for him as much as they had for their hero. This allowed Sei to form a plan.

Stepping backwards until his spine had align with the wall behind him, Sei bvegan to speak to Godhand and Lillian. "Listen to me. Godhand, Lillian, I propose a truce for now. We can knock out the rest of the compeitors with the slightest of ease if we work together. Afterwards, I will gladly give myself up to the two of you and you can have this God-forsaken battle. I just need to find what I'm looking for. Understand?"

Sei was aware that Lillian would know what Sei meant by his proposal. The mute hated to engage in violence, but this was the only way to find the warriors he required. Looking directly towards Lillian, Sei spoke once more. "Lillian, I am going to be a transmitter for Anita to you. She is in the audience looking in from above at the fight." Sei's eyes motioned into the crowd to show Lillian Anita's location.

"Anita will be a second pair of eyes for the both of us. She's opened her mind to let us know if there are any sneak attacks. Godhand is not getting such a luxury, as I am not sure if he is the man I once knew. Be careful Lillian, and don't be afraid to call for help if you need it."

With his communication quickly ended with Lillian, Sei looked to his right to see the squabble going on with Talen and his foes. Strategically, eliminating the weakest was a good idea. This was just too much, however, and Sei decided to go for the instigator of this whole ordeal. Watching as Godhand fired his weapon towards the hooded individual, Sei began to cast one of his spells. He had the advantage of not being a prime target. Who would attack 'The Hero of Radasanth' unprovoked, after all?

[Breaker]

Cronen pivoted off the throw and came to stand with the stillness of a coiled spring. Calm, calculating eyes swept the arena from beneath the skewed hood.

Chaos reigned in his mind, and all around. Breaker clawed at the walls of his prison. Joshua heard scampering feet, shouts of battle and the slide of a holster. A young woman whispered his name.

"I remember that voice," Breaker growled. Joshua silenced him before he could say what he wanted to do to Lillian, using a technique his late mentor taught him. Medsan had been an Ai'Bron monk whose wisdom helped Cronen control his shattered psyche. Some of Medsan's last words had counselled Cronen to participate in the cell.

He turned his head inside the hood and faced the Gunman.

Breaker cackled as he found his voice again.

A single gunshot echoed as two revolvers discharged.

The fat slug from the cougar magnum blew back Cronen's hood, taking a large chunk of his left ear with it. The Colt Anaconda, held in the hand beneath his cloak, fired a prevaldia round at Godhand's sternum.

"The girl is after us, let me take her head off at least." Breaker snarled from the confines of their shared brain.

Cronen detected Lillian's strands of shadow. He could smell her, too. He smelled everything; his flesh and cartilage spattered on the ground, the sweat and fear of the cell, but her scent reminded him of flowers. It comforted him, as did the roving strands of shadow. They seemed almost to watch his back, which made sense considering he once carried her out of a semi-collapsed inn.

A growing roar rumbled across the grandstand as more people who attended Dajas Pagoda recognized his close-cropped hair and the Y shaped scar on his cheek. Crimson flecks almost concealed that pale patch of skin. Cronen licked his lips and savoured the metallic tang.

[Alis Grave Nil]

For all the feelings in the world Alis Grave Nil was awestruck. The brutality, the raw display of power, the far too vulgar display of powers, or more so, the abuse of power from some. The vampire quickly realized it was not a place for him to be, his abilities where not equal or by any chance able to match any of those huge brutalities. But for what it was worth, he would not lie down and allow them to take his life unopposed. Sneaking himself along the wall, bending low and observing the ranger kept to his entrance partly hiding by not provoking anyone. He couldn’t help but notice the pink fellow, and wondering what kind of sick person it must be. The vampire jumped at the sound of the gun shot. He knew not what had caused it, but looking at the fellow who had caused it and the damage on wall where the shot at hit, Alis grave Nil knew already, it was not a person he wished to provoke.

This was not a fight you wanted to throw you’re self into, it was one you wanted to survive. The vampire spotted a familiar face, actually it was not the only one, he spotted another one. He saw the guy with the peculiar way of speaking and the pale guy. He knew them from an encounter earlier where they had ambushed a caravan of weapons for the gilded leafs. Perhaps he could forge an alliance with them. Just like it was meant to be, with that though the vampire saw that his pale friend was being charged and was now fighting to defend himself. The bow wielder quickly fired an arrow aimed for the back of the paladin, and loaded a new arrow to follow up and released it afterwards. This arrow was aimed for the right side of his back. Gambling that he might dodge that way due to duffy’s place on the opposite side.

[Neville Longinus]

I made this post at 11pm EST before Dirks deleted it. Some changes: It's Rayse Valentino, with some appearance changes so nobody recognizes him.

Shittiest beer he's ever had. Downright tasted like rocks. It was unusually brown that day in the tavern, well everything looked brown at least. And wavy. And even more wavy. Rayse Valentino opened his eyes.

He was on the floor. A common bed for for him when suffering from the magical sickness. Every other day was a blur to him, where he would wake up miles away from where he last remembered, sometimes in another country entirely. He believed that some sort of alter-ego took over during these periods and purposely put him into bad situations, but it was a thought a bit too paranoid for him to think about. The dream he just had was kind of weird, it was as if he just collapsed on the ground moments ago and gotten some rocks in his mouth.

As he was spitting out pebbles and stood up, he noticed he stood in front of a large closed door. Not too far away his sleepy eyes could see others in front of doors, and for a moment he thought he was still asleep. He could see a storm raging overhead, but none of it was affecting him. The cheering fans snapped him back into reality, as he remembered hearing about this sort of thing before. Wearing a black cloak with a hood over his eyes, it seemed like he was dressed so nobody would recognize him.

"The Cell... ?" he mumbled, wiping his mouth and feeling around for his things. His back had a sword strapped to it, several of his throwing knives were at his side, and his pockets were filled with mini-molotovs. "Don't tell me... Fuck!"

He fished out a small piece of paper that only said the words, You are Neville Longinus. Did his crazy alter-ego put him into some sort of death cage? What's with the alias, anyway? He turned around and reached for the doorknob, trying to turn it to leave, but it was futile. Not only that, but there was nary a crack in the door as it blended almost perfectly into the wall. He looked up and decided to scale the wall. His body turned red and semi-transparent for a moment and then he vanished, a trail of flame flying up into the air but then violently being sent backward to the ground, reforming Rayse's body in mid-air and having him slam back into the floor. Getting back up, he dusted himself off and looked around incredulously. It felt like some giant monster slapped him back into the arena.

He wasn't one to dwell on a bad situation however, as he reached for his pack of cigarettes and pulled one out, lighting it and blowing the smoke up into the force field. He saw the smoke disperse along the ceiling of the magical barrier, making it clear to him that he was trapped. He cracked his neck and knuckles.

"Fuck this Cell and everyone in it."

[Neville Longinus]

Assuming my post wasn't deleted, this would be the logical place for my second post. If this is a problem I can re-post it after someone else, otherwise tally-ho!

He was unusually irritable today. Not only was he thrust into a battle with what appeared to be... Godhand? That teenage girl that was with him? Not to mention all the other weirdos. Aside from that, he was awake... early. The medicine that he was taking to combat the illness could only be taken in bursts, with recuperation periods in-between. He generally overdosed and blacked out, but this time it seemed that he was still under their effects. He was angry and couldn't think very clearly.

As it stands, his life hadn't been very good to him lately. He pulled the hood over his eyes, ashamed of his current situation. He didn't want anyone to see him this weak, this succumbed to an illness. Until he was cured of it, he wanted to remain incognito, but that looked hard this time. The matter of his alter-ego couldn't be ignored anymore, either. It didn't want to kill him while in control, but rather when Rayse was in control. Sticking him in an arid desert, a field of slow, or a prison waiting to be executed- It wanted Rayse to suffer. That, or it was constantly toying with him. He assumed that it was merely him suffering from the copious side effects of the medicine, but he wondered about that.

A metal door slamming into the wall broke his introspection as his eyes sharply darted to its origin. Then, he heard a gunshot. Goddamn it, they let you use guns in here?! He was on edge as it was returned with another gunshot. Where the hell was he, some Aleran firing range? It was pissing him off.

He thought about it, but all of his impulses wanted him to grab someone's throat and wring it out. Not usually so vicious, he figured maybe this was his one chance to cut loose and finally let himself go. So this is what I've become; Some wild animal? Putting his hand on the adamantine wall, he looked up at the storm and the howling winds blowing his cloak around.

Deciding to let his frustrations out, his first target became clear: A man with orange hair with a gray karate-gi. Pulling out one of his alcohol-based mini-molotovs, he lit it with his thumb and forcefully tossed it at him. Unprovoked, he attacked The Hero of Radasanth.

[Silence Sei]

Sei Orlouge was not one for skimping out on minor details. His ability to notice facial cues and mannerisms is what lead the mystic to two bronze trophies sitting in his tomb. It was only natural with this ability to notice the small molotov coming at his being, right?

Wrong.

The mute had been so caught up darting his eyes between both Lillian on one side of the arena, and the paladin on the other, that he had not the time to focus on attacks coming towards him. His whole being was dedicated to not only keeping these...these children alive, but by keeping up his alliance with Godhand and Lillian. So many things were on his mind that the man had to rely on his daughter in order to save himself.

Papa, projectile at twelve 'o' clock!

Sei darted his eyes directly in front of him. Instinctively the mute had reached to his the back of his left hip. His hands quickly threw out one of his steel throwing fans directly towards him. The mute's projectile met with that of his attackers. As a result of this, flames spread out in a small dome with just a few embers short of reaching Sei Orlouge himself. The strategist had gotten careless in his want to take care of others and it almost cost him his life already.

Focus Papa, Anita's thoughts translated into Sei's head. The one who attacked was the one between the two big fights. He's against the wall. He's got more of those bombs so be careful. Sei nodded to show that he was heeding Anita's warning.

The smell of burnt ground began to rise up into the hero's nostrils. This simply would not do. What kind of fool would just outright attack The Hero of Radasanth, the Dragon of Drantrak? This man must have had a death wish of some sort to commit such a foolhardy act. Reaching back to the front of his left hip, Sei untied the string holding a chakram from his side.

Walking over to the ground in which his fan had fallen, the hero examined the flames that were quickly dispersing. It appeared as though the flaming projectiles were meant to completely swallow their target in intense heat, presumably killing them instantly. If one survived such a horrific attack, they would more likely be too scarred to continue through the pain. Sei had to be careful with this one, at least until he ran out of his molotovs.

Deciding it would be better to try and end this brawl as quickly as possible, Sei removed the chakram at his other hip. Crossing his arms together in an X formation, Sei slung the blades outwards while releasing his grip. This caused the chakrams to sing out a whistle as they each hit opposite sides of the walls. Due to the power behind the throw, the weapons bounced off of the walls and proceeded to fly towards the walls to their direct left. The blades (which flew about three feet from the ground) would continue to bounce off of the walls until they found their trajectory was altered downward, upward, or with somebody's flesh.

The mute looked back to his assailant as he removed another steel fan from his right hip. The mute then proceeded to throw the fan towards Neville without another hint. This strategy was meant to cause Neville to panic, and cause him to fall into one of the spinning death traps now activated on the field.

Sei, protecting himself, decided to take flight. Two magnificent butterfly wings burst from the back of the mystic. The vibrant orange and white splashed against one another, complimented by the blue outline trim around the appendages. Sei kneeled down and jumped upwards, forcing the two wings on his back to force him afloat. Keeping above the two mobile chakrams allowed Sei to provide Lillian with a third set of eyes, as well as keep the mute safe.

Things were getting interesting indeed.

[Duffy]

Duffy threw caution to the wind and skipped to a halt as he approached the paladin. Luck it seemed would not deal the thief an opening hand, and Talen's blade rang out across the arena as it struck the paladin's own weapon. "Damnation," he muttered, looking at his acquaintance nervously. All around their heads wanton destruction reigned, mimicking the precipitation above with flecks of blood and magical energies arcing through the air. Very quickly, Duffy realised, the arena was becoming a crimson bath the likes of which he could not possibly survive...

He pieced together a formula to work with, that would, perhaps, allow them some luxury and time to make an impact. He traced the path of an arrow that whistled past him to the familiar sight of the vampire Alis, and smiled brightly at his sudden fortune. His face beamed with malefic intentions as a plot sprung to life. "You!" He pointed, smiled, and looked between Talen and the elf, "Oh, this is just perfect for us! Just like old times!" The roar of the crowd momentarily abated as a song drifted down from the stands and tinkered it's way through the workings of the forcefield.

Duffy looked up and realised Ruby and Lilith were singing, but they were not singing any ordinary song. It was a paean about the hero of Radasanth, one which had been written in recent times but already it was part of the folklore of Althanas. It spoke of a warrior blind to the world, but omniscient to the workings between the realms. It took Duffy a moment to piece together the subtle suggestion with his limited knowledge, and instinctively it brought his gaze to the one he knew to be named Sei...

Fate was at hand, surely? How could so many familiar faces, friends, enemies, charlatans and whores be in one place if not by coincidence or divine intervention? He wiped the snot from his nose and peeled off his bandana, already plastered to his scalp from the exertion deployed in avoidance of the door. He dropped it to the muddy floor and clicked his neck back into a comfortable position. "Cross-roads... intertwining legacies, broken skies and wandering prophets..." He mumbled something that would only make sense to him, as he often found himself to be doing, before glancing up at Ruby once more.

Her song combined with Lilith's aria beautifully and it drifted down into both the Aequitas Chamber and the Treslizn, bringing the air above both to life with swirling patterns of dancing lights. The sonata of one sister embroiled itself in the deep notes of the melody of the other and lifted Duffy's heart from the gutter long enough for everything to make sense in his childish mind.


"Cast away thy trappings of royalty, and I shall swaddle thou in a gown of pure love! Never again will I part from thee! Pray, my love, make me thy canary to keep forever in the cage of thy bosom! Let us embark on the first ship tomorrow, before dawn can tell of our elopement!"

The quote ruptured the air around Duffy, who threw all concern for the outcome of the Cell away. With a deft motion, he clasped the hilt of the Katarhna and unsheathed it with a single definite swing. The echoing emotion brought forth by the line from I Want To Be Your Canary was all he needed. The lights overhead would be all he required to slip in behind Talen and the paladin's clash and deal the first of many surprises in the narrative of The Cell's Opening Act.

He spoke a simple word of power, squirted a line of liquid along the blade and ignited it. It burst into flames and held it's power with Lysander's pedagogue long enough to survive the sudden rush of blood to the head, and wind that swirled around the thief as he ran forwards.

With a spin he cut upwards at the paladin's back, hoping to catch him unawares and claim the first tally in the name of a true hero.

A hero born not of greed like Sei, or arrogance like Striker...

Duffy was a talentless hero born of passion, born with the same drive he had seen in the likes of Ulysses, Metaldrago, Ruby or Lilith or the everyday people who lived and breathed the Radasanth air.

They were the true heroes, and Duffy was proud to bring their tales to life.

[Ataraxis]

Lillian felt the onset of a headache as static chatter overflowed her mind, like a psychic signal attempting to establish contact. At once, she recognized a signature to the telepathic waves, and it was with a sigh that she greeted her acquaintance. ‘Mister Orlouge,’ she began with narrowed eyes, squinting due to the dual strain of incoming telepathy and outgoing shadow manipulation. Though her focus was doubly solicited now, she did not let the distraction affect her control over the twining vine of darkness that was creeping across the field. ‘I would have said hello earlier, but considering the circumstances… it didn’t exactly seem appropriate.’

She had listened to his plea, and understood all too well what the mute warrior had come here looking for: to find specific allies against a coming catastrophe that would befall Radasanth and all of Corone. Upon first meeting him and his daughter, they had told her she was among these nine prophetic figures – much to her dismay. She was not one to ignore cataclysmic events if she could stop them, but her mind was otherwise occupied with worries of her own, right now. As insignificant as it sounded, it was crucial for her to fill these vials with the blood of powerful beings. After all, she had her own apocalypse to prevent, and as strong as she had become, her strength alone was not enough to stop it.

‘Believe me, I never had any intention of fighting you, mister Orlouge… nonetheless, I will agree to your terms. Truce.’ Lillian also told him to thank Anita for her support, although she was fairly certain she would not make use of it. His offer of helping her out of a potential pinch, however, had drawn a mischievous smile across her dollish lips. ‘My thanks. I doubt I’ll need it… but you already know that, don’t you?’ With that, the transmission was cut short, and she flinched from the residual spark left by the breaking of the psychic link.

As if on cue, she heard the overlapping of two gunshots echo through the arena. Godhand had entered moments ago, also the recipient of Sei’s message, but he wasted no time in firing his trademark revolver straight at Joshua’s face at almost point-blank range, who himself had been no slouch in his instant retaliation. In the blink of an eye, her emotions had gone from glee at seeing her mercenary of a friend walk in, to fear for his life as the Pagoda warrior fired his own firearm through his cloak. It wasn’t long, however, before she told herself there was no need to fear for Godhand Striker, and her thoughts switched at once to cold-blooded calculation. It was time for step two.

‘Now.’

With that singular thought, the shadow serpent broke from its path, picking up speed as it made a beeline toward Joshua like an arrow in the night. She had felt him notice her, notice the lance of darkness, but it was too late. His dark silhouette upon the ground was now one with her sorcerous shades, joining his life to hers in a necromantic link. The surge of energy feeding back into the tendril was immense, and she knew the process had begun. His strength coursed through her, and though she felt no more empowered by his stolen vitality, Lillian simply grinned, looking back at the other participants in the fighting pit. It was them, all along: they were the real recipients.

She was merely the conduit.

There was a four-way scuffle consisting of a dagger-wielding rogue with a voice of silver, a sickly-looking blond bowman, a bulky warrior with a bastard sword and the archetype of a tall, dark, handsome man… shadow snake-tongue slithering out of his mouth notwithstanding. Halfway between both groups stood Sei and a cloaked man, who’d just now engaged the mute with explosive cocktails. The blast had almost caught Anita’s father in its fiery roar, and a harried Sei threw his chakrams in reprisal.

Looking at the arsonist, Lillian frowned. ‘Don’t really have the privilege of choice.’

The librarian threw her arm back, wisps of solid night forming at her fingertips. Countless tendrils of dark strands discharged from the spheres of magic, aiming to wind about the forms of all the fighters she had seen. Some might miss, she knew, but Lillian had already felt a number of her threads wrap around the cloaked pyromaniac and even Sei Orlouge who'd just taken flight with iridescent wings. Smirking in satisfaction, Lillian whispered to herself. “And we’re linked.”

The alien life-force that had been drained into her body was now coursing through the webs linking her to the other warriors, spears of scintillating light that struck as lightning. Instead of pain, however, those connected to the girl were being overwhelmed with sheer power. Lillian had no idea how this boost of vitality would affect each individual, but she knew one way or another, they would find a way to make use of it.

“Do you think they’ve forgotten about you?” she cried out, surprising the audience with the sheer volume a body so petite had apparently mustered. “Crush each other, and the survivor gets crushed in turn! Does that sound like a fine strategy to you?”

With that, she threw up her arm, beckoning them to come. She was smiling at them, but there was no condescension in that simple expression, and in her wide blue eyes was a gleam of genuine thrill. It was an invitation to join a battle of evened odds, now that she had slightly turned the tables in their favor. She had predicted they might simply make use of her boon against each other, however, so she had thought of one final incentive.

“Unless you’re not interested in bringing down a weakened titan,” Lillian said with a grin, looking over her shoulder as she pointed a thumb back at Joshua.

The power to transfer life-force in combination with the tendrils was gained here (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?p=161089#post161089). The shadow tendril connecting with and draining Josh has been approved by Numbers, though the extent of the drain is up to him. Webs connecting with Rayse and Sei have been approved. Amen, Alis, Hysteria and Duffy are free to choose whether or not to get linked. Those connected get a boost to their power: the nature and range of this boost are at their discretion.

[Neville Longinus]

Rayse could not hear the song of heroes. It was a sonata not meant for his dark heart. He could only hear the song of his own greed, ambition, and arrogance. The same arrogance that assumed he could take out the orange-haired man in one attack.

As the molotov collided mid-air with Sei's own thrown weapon, The Contractor cursed his accuracy and realized that this wouldn't be so easy. The explosion clouded his view of Sei, but as the smoke cleared he noticed that the warrior who had before thought nothing of Rayse's presence was now staring right at him with a chakram in each hand. What the hell did I do? Can I even fight in this condition?

Sei released the weapons and Rayse watched them start bouncing around the arena very strangely. Before he knew it, they were both closing in on him from each side, and The Hero of Radasanth even threw another one right at him! The speed at which these attacks came, the way they perfectly closed in on him, it made him think he was out of his league. With the wall to his back, he was surrounded. As there were only moments left before impact, he could do nothing but brace himself.

That is, until he felt something very strange. A rush of adrenaline passed over his body, and for the first time in months he felt like himself again. His senses were accelerated, and the speedy chakrams now felt very slow to him. He relaxed his body and smiled. This was who he was; Not some no-name hooded clown with magic tricks, but Rayse Valentino. His name was one to be respected, to be feared.

Under his hood he peeked out and glared up at the now-airborne Sei, "What kind of sissy man has fairy wings?" He had never seen fairy wings before and couldn't make the distinction between them and the butterfly-looking wings of the man he was insulting, but it was still fitting.

The chakrams closed in on him and passed through him as though he was not there, the points of contact turning into pure fire. The thrown weapons appeared to chop his body in half, but heat radiated from the area Rayse stood in. As the weapons passed through, they created the image of a man chopped in half with his upper and lower body separated by a sheet of fire. The weapons continued bouncing around uninterrupted, and the flames slowly connected his body halves, changing back into his flesh and clothes. He heard the clang of the chakrams hitting the walls nearby before moving on to the other side of the chamber. A coarse wind blew his cloak around, and another drag was taken off his cigarette.

The ground around him was steaming, his very essence a raging furnace. His influence was being exerted on the rocky ground, and the very air around him. The rune on his shoulder was glowing brightly, almost seeping through his clothing. The tattoo lines spread halfway across his arm and over his shoulder. Whatever was boiling within him could no longer be controlled. He had heard Lillian's plea, and for a moment he forgot about Sei. An immediate sense of direction overcame him, compelling him to do something about Cronen. Although Rayse had broken his concentration for a bit, it seemed that he was not The Hero of Radasanth's primary concern, even after the attempted murder. His thoughts were twisted by this newfound power. Something in him that was held back by the medicine was now unhinged. This titan... he dares draw attention from me?!

In rage, Rayse slammed his foot down into the ground, sending a fissure through the ground that made its way towards Cronen. When it reached its target, it would burst forth into a geyser of flames.

[Max Dirks]

Dirks twirled his gun around on his finger and walked to the other side of his podium. Below him was the B league. Except for his friend, Sei Orlouge and the walking tank, Godhand Striker, the participants in Aequitas Chamber were subpar. In fact, two of the combatants hadn’t moved more than a foot away from their doors. “Cowards,” Dirks said. They would be easy targets, that is, if Dirks could hit them.

This time the criminal properly aimed at the Daredevil, who was crouched by his door. Dirks took a few moments to line up his shot and pulled the trigger. Phagan once again opened the shields briefly and the bullet travelled into the Cell. However, just before the bullet struck its target, the unthinkable happened. Zooga Agooz leapt out of nowhere to try and strike the cowering Daredevil with his rubber toy dagger. The bullet struck the top of Zooga’s head, instantly killing him. Somehow his brain must have altered the trajectory of the bullet because it exited his nasal cavity and continued directly into its intended target, Daredevil’s, eye socket. Of course, Dirks didn’t see any of the details, but he did see both of them fall to the ground.

“I think I got both of them,” Dirks pumped his fist. “Double kill!” This more than made up for his poor accuracy when he interfered with the Treslizn Chamber.

When his excitement faded, Dirks turned his attention to Einar Fenrisson, the other participant who had barely moved. “No, I can’t do this right now,” Dirks said. He didn’t want to miss and ruin his double kill. He turned to Phagan, “You take care of him.”

“I’m not involved in this.” Phagan responded.

“I’m afraid you are, old friend.” Dirks said, “We have an agreement. If you ever want to see him again, you’ll do what you’re told.” Suddenly the humor was gone from his voice.

Phagan frowned, but obeyed. He closed his eyes and raised his hands into the air. A hole opened in the shield above Einar. When the rain started falling onto him he slowly looked up at his impending doom. Suddenly a bolt of lightning struck at the very spot where Einar stood, completely vaporizing him. It sent shocks throughout the chamber, but all the participants were unaffected. Phagan closed the gap and took a deep breath. The crowd cheered as they knew the source of the destruction. They began to chant, “Dirks…Dirks…Dirks…”

“Should we give them what they want?” Dirks asked rhetorically.

“I…I can’t,” Phagan wheezed. “I haven’t completely regained my strength since you revived me. If you want these shields to hold you’re going to have to wait to play your games for a moment.”

“Fine,” Dirks retorted, “It’ll probably make them want it more anyway…”

(The Daredevil, Taskmienster and Squidi are disqualified)

[Godhand]

He thought he'd lined the shot up just right, but looking back it might have been a little sloppy. He'd traded function for form to delight the crowd and tried to make the shot look as casual as possible, with the gun askew in his hand and doing his best Christ-on-the-Cross pose. He'd managed to clip the hooded man's ear but not much else. He was lining up another shot when suddenly his concentration was broken.

The information didn't stream in like it would have if it were him simply hearing a man speak. Rather, it poured in all at once as though once upon a time you'd read a book and had forgotten what was in it until that moment. A completed thought. Faster-than-light communication? Such was the nature of telepathy, he supposed.

Nevertheless, the distraction afforded his opponent just enough time to draw his own pistol and fire off a round towards Godhand. It was coming in good and center, too; poised to go right into his gut and stay there like a broken bottle. He might have been able to dodge it if his attention had been focused on the mystery man at the time but Orlouge's telepathic communique had made him lose his footing. He only just managed to throw himself to the side, the bullet leaving a deep score in his abdomen.

"Sei you dumb cracker, you're gonna get me shot!"

It wasn't all the mystic's fault, though. He shouldn't have just assumed anybody under a hood was a nobody. That was a possibility...Nay, it was likely, but as long as it wasn't a hundred percent sure thing it was never smart to let your guard down. As it turned out the man in black was armed and dangerous. Probably not quite as much as Godhand was, but still enough to make the day go very, very badly for him. The mercenary ran a hand against his newly acquired wound, looked at his bloodied fingers, wiped the blood off on his coat and then drew a second revolver, opening fire on the mystery man with both weapons at once.

He only had time to squeeze off about three rounds, however. Suddenly CHAOS had erupted all over the goddamn arena. Dazzling lights in the sky, a song riding under the current of the cheers, fire, explosions, tendrils of shadow and light shooting seeking out the contestants, metal razor fans bouncing randomly off the walls, a man vomited a snake and Sei Orlouge grew fairy wings.

He didn't even know where to begin. He'd been in more hectic battlefields but not ones quite so varied in their many traps and pitfalls. He ducked a flying fan that threatened to cut into him from behind, but kept his eyes on the gunman all the while.

He hadn't replied to Orlouge yet, unsure as to whether a thought was enough or if he'd have to speak it aloud. The truth was he held no ill will towards his employer and had perhaps a bit of partiality to him, having given him work back when he was so green. Nevertheless, something about the proposal didn't sit well with him. Apart from the fact that he could likely take on everyone in the cell except for one single-handed, and thus didn't NEED help, or so he felt, it just didn't seem sporting to gang up on the weaker gladiators. He surprised himself, thinking with such a mindset, in a real warzone where his life was in danger he'd have taken every advantage he could get. But now, here...It didn't seem fair to them. Or to the crowd! They were there to watch a pitched contest, not a grizzly massacre!

Well, that was what he'd like to believe. The truth was they would have likely cheered just as loud for a sudden, bloody decapitation as for a intricate back-and-forth swordfight.

Probably louder.

Godhand yells at Sei, takes a grazing hit from 007's bullet, dodges a metal fan (PANTERA RULES, YEAH!) and fires three more .50 caliber rounds towards 007.

[Amen]

Make no mistake, Anya had said, mere hours ago, this is The Cell. The least of those you will meet inside will be your peer.

Marcus was…disappointed. His blade chewed through Talen’s scabbard, but met its match at the metal kept within and there stopped. The paladin growled – really growled – but did not engage in a test of strength, as tempting as it was to focus on removing the boy from the battle. He needed to be mobile, he knew: an unmoving target was sure to get bowled over by bullets or airborne doors.

It didn’t make it any easier to turn away from Talen when the teenager began to summon up serpentine shadows from somewhere inside his mouth. In fact, it inspired the overwhelming urge to kill in the squire, an urge it took some effort to resist. It was, after all, his job to hunt down and kill men of the dark. It was due to Marcus’ peculiar occupation that he was able to discern the exact nature of the shadow-walker’s illusion: Source-Light burned in his dark eyes and pierced the incorporeal shadow. He did not as much as flinch as the smoke-snake struck toward his face.

Book’s advantage would not be Talen’s downfall, however, at least not yet. Marcus had, at first, ignored the shout that had come from behind him, directly as a result of his hope to slaughter the boy before he could become a threat. Now that his original plan had failed there was little choice but to acknowledge the second danger.

The squire’s reaction to the thought of a second attack coming from behind him was unskilled, but fortuitous. He recoiled from Talen Shadowalker and withdrew his blade just as the pale boy unsheathed his sword and slashed, and thus Marcus avoided having his chest opened up. Satisfied with the short distance between himself and Talen, Book allowed himself the shortest moment to turn and swing wide in the hope of catching the second attacker who had, an instant previous, attempted to draw the paladin’s attention.

Auspiciously for both Duffy and Marcus, and for the crowd cheering them on, the bard had skipped to a halt before getting close enough to be caught in the deadly swing. This was happy for Marcus because, in the meantime, someone had loosed an arrow in his direction. Now, his furious swing had been swift and more than a little foolish, and being so frenzied he did not make a good target. The arrow passed as a blur, close enough that the air it displaced stung the squire’s cheek and shocked him.

Marcus dropped into a slight crouch, inadvertently dodging a second loosed arrow, and saw his opponents in a measure of time too short to actually consider them beyond their basic existence. His mind acknowledged them on an instinctive, subliminal level, and no more.

Too often had the paladin heard seasoned warriors speak of the battle-focus: the experience of time slowing to a crawl in the midst of a bloody struggle so that the affected had all the time he needed to think, react, and strike. Marcus experienced something like that now, but found that it was not what he might have hoped for. Time seemed to slow, yes, even stretch, but he felt no calm or comfort in it – he was aware of so many threats to his person, so many potential deaths in front of him and behind him.

Behind him, yes. He stood up straight and twisted at the torso, swinging wide and strong in the air to discourage Talen from approaching. Satisfied that he was not being flanked, at least for the moment, Marcus twisted at the torso again, this time bringing his sword down from on high: he heard Duffy’s padded footfalls on the stone floor behind him, and feared the bite of cold steel in his back.

So much was happening as Marcus’ blade fell, too much to see or hear or even understand. He was not aware that he’d even garnered the notice of Lillian Sesthal; much less that she had been weaving a spell with him as an intended target, and if she’d been a wicked sorceress with murderous intentions – at least more immediately so – Marcus would have fallen long before his blade met Duffy’s.

Thankfully, Lillian’s goal was more nebulous and, perhaps, more sinister.

Foreign power flowed into Marcus Book, power that was not his own and that he had not yet earned. It filled him, toughened him, and as such it made him a better vessel for the energy he channeled…and the being to whom that energy belonged.

Marcus’ sword met Duffy’s clamorously, and the paladin pushed himself forward so that he came face to face with his would-be murderer. His eyes radiated golden light – burned, as if a holy fire was consuming him from the inside, and there was all the turmoil of an uncontrolled blaze therein. The paladin’s body was powerful enough to hold the Light, it was true, but his mind and his will were comparatively small.

“Sear the flesh, cook the sin, burn them all,” the paladin said. He was face to face with the bard, but the words were not for Duffy and they didn’t come from the mind of Marcus Book.

The battle of wills between the paladin and the Source of his power would have surely been lost, if not for a third voice: Lillian Sesthal had made a suggestion, and both the warring entities thought it a good one.

In his altered mental state, Marcus honestly forgot about the three warriors that had been working together to end him. He saw only those men who had seemed unstoppable before: those most likely to dole out pain and slaughter the likes of which the paladin could not defy. Chief among those men was the titan Marcus had identified before: the man capable of ripping a heavy door from its moorings and turning it into a projectile.

With that newfound focus, the paladin regained the slightest tinge of control and clung to it with fierce determination, and his fiery eyes focused on Duffy over their locked swords.

“What’s it going to be?” Marcus said over the cacophony produced by screaming crowds and songs and ricocheting bullets. “Are you going to make me kill the three of you, or shall we bring down the giants first?”

[Breaker]

A bowstring snapped, weapons clashed, explosions tore at the air. The winged mystic's chakram's rattled around the arena, chanting along with the crowd. Beneath the plane of sensory understanding, Cronen felt Lillian's shadowy tendril turn towards him.

"Kill her. Fill'er with holes! Damn you, get away from that thing!"

As the strand of shadow slithered closer, Cronen could understand it's intention. Having the life force sapped from him like the victim of a vampire did not seem appealing, and he instinctively crouched to leap away. But something about the fear, the absolute terror the obsidian tentacle inspired in Breaker, made him hesitate.

Breaker screamed as Lillian completed the conduit. The beastial presence in Cronen's brain faded, and then vanished.

Suddenly the cacaphonic pandemonium in the Cell seemed to harmonize with the songs from the spectators, supported by the overall roar of the crowd. This music was written on a three-dimensional canvas colored by the swell of magic nearby. Cronen felt the inferno as the black-haired man's fiery fisurre approached, and tasted the the residue of telepathic chatter. Without Breaker polluting their brain Joshua lived in the moment, feeling ever more acutely aware.

He felt weaker, as well. Still concealed beneath the mist-colored cloak, his right hand holstered the big Colt. Normally the ugly Anaconda seemed to have no weight at all. Now, it was a lump of lead on his belt. Despite the decline of his physical power, he wanted to run over and embrace Lillian. Although probably a side effect, he had not felt such mental clarity since before Medsan's death.

A stray raindrop which had found its way through the force field struck his nose. The smell of it, the freshness, reminded him of all the pleasures of life. The shuddering impact of the lightning bolt made him address more imperative matters.

Cronen threw himself sideways in an eye-blurring barrel roll as the Cougars spat three more slugs. The first missed him completely but struck the Breaker Boots, ricocheting skyward on a collision course with the gossamer-winged warrior. The second went through the top of his right shoulder and then painted a portion of the force field red. The third glanced off his hip before hurtling towards Marcus Book, leaving a messy hole behind.

Cronen exited the roll some distance away and landed with one boot on the ground, the other braced against the adamantine wall. Panting, with sweat soaking through his scalp, he watched the fissure of fire pass his previous position and continue toward the man with two guns. Hot blood soaked through his cloak at shoulder and waist level. Slow sticky blood dripped steadily onto his other shoulder from the shredded ear. The pain from his multiple gunshot wounds ripped at him like a pack of tiny wolves. But it could not compare with the mental torment Breaker habitually brought.

He felt shaky, certainly. Out of breath, but hardly at his limit. And so as the chakram Godhand ducked under approached he took his left foot off the wall and kicked the bladed disc with his enchanted boot. It reversed direction, flying back at Godhand twice as fast as before. The impact sent a tingling sensation up his leg, a tremor he had not felt in some time.

"Being below my usual strength is worth being able to enjoy breathing again," he thought blissfully as his conditioned lungs regulated the process. The ease with which they did so made him realize that his flurried evasion had also taken him out of Lillian's range, severing the connection.

A dull note of foreboding invaded the music in Cronen's mind. When his strength returned, Breaker would as well.

[Amen]

Whatever the bard’s response might have been, only he knew. The offer was off the paladin’s tongue one moment, and then the next he was bodily torn away by a force too quick to see.

The bullet struck Marcus in the fleshy part high on the right shoulder, not so far from his neck, and bored through him easily. It left a cloud of bloody mist in its wake, and the force behind it carried the man backward – away from his opponent and down to the unyielding stones of the arena floor.

Immediately the wound hissed, spitting malodorous smoke into the air, and Book cried out in agony. All wounds are anathema in their own way, blatant symbols of imperfection, harm, and unmaking, and thus the Source-Light burned at them. Because the Source so fully inhabited the paladin’s body now, the wound was cauterized in seconds, and then the damaged tissue began to knit itself.

And then the healing stopped, and the Source – once screaming – began to fade back into the whisper it had originally been.

Marcus felt control returning, and with it came fear.

No!

Over and over he mentally repeated it, but as time passed it became more obvious, truer: the connection had been severed, Marcus’ strength was deteriorating, and the Source was no longer able to possess him so completely. Thus weakened, he could not rely on the overwhelming power conferred on him for those blissful few seconds.

And the wound he now suffered would not be fully healed before the last of the stolen power faded.

The paladin curled upon himself and moaned, both for the pain and the ongoing loss of that brief taste of godhood, and then he reached for his fallen sword. Mortal or no, he was not dead yet, and so the fight continued.

[Hysteria]

Talen's sword sung through the air without the answering sound of spilt blood. It was a little disheartening for the shadow warrior to see his plan fail, he had spent at least ten minutes practising that sword-snake combo before the fight. With a sigh he let the snake fade away. His sorrow didn't last too long as an arrow shot just clear of the paladin and above Talen's head.

The crack of it against the adamantium brought his mind back into focus. The fight was a kaleidoscope of action and sound. There was so much that he could barely keep track of it all, most of it just smashed against his brain and was forgotten. Lightning, gunshots, shadow tendrils shooting towards him, explo... wait what was that about tendrils?

The young warrior could just see the darkness shooting towards him coming from a woman across the arena. He tried to focus on the darkness and take control of whatever menacing attack had been thrown towards him. Just as he managed to focus on it a blade cut the air just in front of him. For a second he lost focus and the darkness struck him. He mentally prepared himself for whatever pain was going to hit him, but instead he felt a surge of energy. Talen has never felt anything like it before. A blast of energy filled him, tore away his fears and nerves and made him feel invincible.

Although as quickly as it had come the tendril stopped transmitting energy as the human bulldozer Joshua moved out of the spells range. It didn't seem to matter though; Talen felt amazing. The paladin just in front of the boy managed to survive the myriad of attacks and suggested they tackle one of the bigger foes.

Talen, still on one knee simply wasn't sure. The man had just attacked him, was he supposed to now trust him? He had met both Duffy and Alis before, but this paladin he had not.


* * * *

“There is something you should know boy.” said Mel with a look of concern that was rare for Talen's old friend, “On the battle field there are no rules. Someone who is your friend could as quickly be an enemy and battle field alliances are tenuous at best.”

“So what should I do?” Asked Talen, more confused than before.

Mel sighed and looked into the sky.

“Just go with it.”


* * * *

“Alright Mr Shiny-Eyes, you attack one of the 'giants' and I'll back you up.” Shouted Talen over the roar of the crowd and various other explosions. His words were cut short as a bullet struck the paladin. Talen watched with an odd mixture of awe and revolstion as the blood splatter suddenly turned into some sort of inner fire. Talen stood up slowly, making sure that there were no other projectiles headding towards him.

Well... kick 'em while their down...

Talen used the slowly fading power from the tentrils of darkness to form a circle of darkness. The shadows shot towards the paladin, attempting to obscure the man's view. With his sword raised, Talen brought it down towards the crouching man's neck in a smooth downwards arc.

[Alis Grave Nil]

Sword clang as they hit swords, the sound of gun shots ringing true and loud in everyone’s ears all to often, flames biting and eating at whatever they could find purchase in. The cell was a mess, a utter chaos that would devour anyone that couldn’t pay attention to it, or where lucky enough to avoid attention. With an arrow on his bow, the sensation as the string creaked and the wood creaked under the pressure. Lightning passed down and struck a man and the smell was unpleasant to say the very least. The vampire knew not what to do for most the time, he was left dumb struck by trying to pay attention but failing for there where simply to much to cope with.

Sweat ran down his face, not from heat, not from physical tiredness but simply fear. His legs where struggling to keep their posture and the bow wielder felt his aim shaking. His once noble nature was gone; there was nothing noble about his nerve wreck feelings. Duffy had acknowledged him and he had nodded in return, his action spoke more of the alliance than words would. Alis Grave Nil was about to lose another arrow at the paladin to aid their alliance but something caught his eyes. A spinning fan came towards his location and with it also came tendrils of black. What purpose they served the ranger could only guess at but in an arena of death where each warrior served to end others before he died himself he could only guess it was meant to cause him harm. Dodging right and left from the tendrils, keeping his footing as he jumped around like a monkey the fan came closer and closer until it was almost upon him. His experience in the woods and running around there as well as in the tree’s made it an easy game of tag to avoid the tendrils but when the fan came the ranger saw he would not be able to jump over it and he didn’t have time to dodge to the sides.
Dropping his body and falling voluntarily onto his flat back, the fan spun over him, and along the way grazed his face grabbing a piece of his chin, cutting him a small cut, like a barber cut. Small amount of blood spilled from the wound but as quickly as it started to bleed it closed again as if he had never been hit. While he laid there the tendrils had captured him and with it brought powers and the vampire welcomed the sensation.

Images flashed through his head, with the power that surged in his body along came hundreds of pictures that he saw himself in 3’rd perspective, through his own life. Unable to get them all he realized that it was his own memories of life, the memories he had lost. He tried like a desperate child to get to his mother when taken away; he tried to cling onto the memories but in vain.

The cheers from the audience, the sound of battle and the instinct of survival brought the vampire back to the cell’s reality quickly though, and he cursed himself for losing all the valuable information he could have gotten from his memories, but a sensation of the past had entered him and he held onto it. It was just the beginning and he would see it through. Words spoken loudly, it was the woman who had made the tendrils offered herself to be attacked, a trick of some sort Alis grave nil though at first, but her proposition of bringing down one of the big fellows in the arena was too good to give up. If he went down, it would mean one less hero titan to be afraid of. But still he had friends to protect first. The marksman pulled the string with the same arrow he had stringed earlier and let lose an arrow towards the weakened paladin. With his new powers the arrow midair dispersed and turned into 5 arrows creating a circle with the original arrow in the middle and the others on each side and over and under the original. Each arrow was one feet from the middle one, and they were all converging on the already hit paladin. Sparing a glance to Talen and Duffy the undead elf could see that they were locked in close quarters with the paladin and firing an arrow into that would be unwise as you could easily hit your own. But from his experience his acquaintance’s where quick to avoid danger so he took the gambit and fired an additional arrow that disperse as the previous one towards the paladin and he did so… with a sinister grin.

[Duffy]

Duffy stepped back with deft footwork and blinked. He brought his sword down so that it was levelled across his midriff, its blackened blade still lingered with smoke and ash. He had moved too quickly to see the shadows flit across the arena and give his target unknowable power, and been too afraid to contemplate how he had turned so quickly and deflected his gambit. Marcus’s offer was, for all intent and purpose, a respectable one. In an ideal world, full of ideal and morally inclined people he would have taken it up and the three pebbles in the river would have rushed against the great stone that was Joshua. This, however, was not a respectable world, and Duffy was far from being a respectable person.

“I will not do time in your allegiance, nor shall I suffer the tyrannical lies of zealots, madmen and fools!” Lysander slipped through the cracks in Duffy’s growing fatigue, his metaphorical hands scrabbling at the young boy’s memories and turning over his personality to make room for his own. “Why should I fight giants in a swarm of gnats, when I can stand on your shoulders as a dying man and swipe at their faces?”

Bang.

The gods answered Marcus’s question for him, and with keen eyes Lysander traced the blood splatter to a distant barrel. Injured, weakened and desperate, Marcus' offer suddenly looked laddered with the same pathetic fallacy that was drenching him to the bone. The Aria pumped a vision of Celia into the blade-singer’s mind and he shed a single tear, that same sound and that same dreaded flame had ended the battle of Calash Peninsula five years ago when he had witnessed his love and his drive borne away in the arms of a Valkyrie. “Pathetic instrument, puppet strings and all, I beseech thee to stand down and take your leave of me, before the clarion call of insanity strikes you down!”

Lysander noticed a faint tingling in his side and looked curiously at his hip. Whilst his sword arm was unfettered, he realised that he too had been tied with dark magic to the girl Duffy would have known, but the blade singer could not. “I-” he mumbled, his bravado and verbosity stunted by the sudden realisation that the Aria was rocking in a storm in pain, not in joy. “Grah, cursed dichotomy and witches!” He swung the katarhna around and the Sword of the Western Weald cut through the darkness and pulled him free.

Bringing the blade around in a full circle, Duffy and Lysander together chanted an ancient song that gave the steel blade life. It began to vibrate, pushing against an unseen force as the circle was half-completed, and then sparking with lightning as it drew its full turn to a close. With a crack of air, they conjured a powerful Raiaera enchantment to the blade using the energy gifted to them in the political quagmire the Cell had become. He felt sick at using such darkness to further his cause, but desperate times called both for sacrifice, and for guile.

“Shatter the remnants of obscurity, and leap out into legend,” he began to sing, closing his eyes for a moment as the Aria pulled Lysander back into hiding.

---

The wind swept away the barley and rye that covered great swathes of the Corone countryside, and the lightning in the autumnal sky set fire to the arid land beneath. Atop the rocks overlooking the great ocean, Celia stood with lips parted and lungs bellowing, her hair lifted by the tempest she conjured from the nothingness. Beneath her, on the battlefield, there stood a mage and a blade-singer, locked in a battle of spells and wit. Above, in the gleaming sky, the Valkyrie waited to pluck the songstress from the earth for her eternal sacrifice.

She wept a single tear as her work was done, and the fire of the Empire's Rage flew towards her, reflected in his eyes like the sorrow she carried in her heart.

All went to dark, and Lysander screamed with rage. He conjured the sword he carried to life, and charged for the sake of love and passion, at the conflagration he yearned to extinguish in his enemy, so brazenly tyrannical and deceptive before him.

---

Duffy re-emerged from his monetary incarceration, and felt the heavy weight of the katana in his hand once more. His eyes, open once again were now perfectly white, devoid of colour or blemish. As the rain tumbled down in increasing thickness, and the friends he had drawn upon once in Scara Brae rallied to his ideals and to their combined desire to ‘stick it to the man,’ he beamed a smile and lifted the katarhna up so that its point was as high as it could be.

The crowd roared, and the Tantalum Troupe added to the cavalcade with a second round of When the Cows.

“For it is only the gilded liar amongst us that make for a poor thief!” He winked at his friends and began to feel alive once more as Lillian's corruption left him. It had allowed Lysander to lengthen the duration of his enchantment on the katarhna, so that it was now stronger than steel and carrying the radix of a more dangerous paradigm; a death knell strike to tear through metal and skin alike.

"We common people need no help from the pedagogues of greed and fear; we will fight our own war!" He shouted at Marcus, the working man glinting in his eyes and plastered over his expression like the mud in his hair.

As the arrows sprung from the vampire’s bow and Talen launched his shadow remnant, Duffy, instilled with the distant and faded memory of the man he truly desired to become ran forwards and made a second upward spiral at Marcus's side. As the sword moved through the air and he twisted and pounced between the scattering arrow storms, it hummed and crackled and sung a song with an inhuman voice that called for an end to the fire inside.

[Silence Sei]

The Cell was quickly becoming a symphony of gunpowder and lead. Shots rang out, lightning struck inactive foes down, and Sei's chakrams passed through what appeared to be a flame elemental of some sort. The mute knew that he was in for the fight of his life. He was also in for a fight against time, for while Max Dirks was a friend, Sei feared the gunman would get tired of the 'cherubs' antics. All it took was a second of boredom and Max Dirks would find a bullet in the mystic's chest.

Suddenly Sei was overcome with what he could only imagine to be shadow magic of some sort. Looking towards Lillian, Sei felt a new vigor within himself. The determination to save Radasanth had sparked anew in the former vampire. This shadow magic Lillian had cast would normally have an adverse effect on the mute, but due to the golden ring equipped to his index finger, Lillian's spell had its intended purpose.

Sei flew slightly downwards just above his chakrams. The minor change in his altitude saved the mute from finding a bullet in one of his majestic wings. Sei looked towards Joshua but his attention was quickly drawn away by the sound of one of the bullets finding a target. Quickly turning his head towards the other group, Sei witnessed Talen's sword raised on the seemingly weakened paladin youth. His eyes darted to the archer notching another arrow in his bow, and the door stopper rushing towards the boy.

Sei acted quickly. He moved his hands at speeds he did not know he possessed. Sei was the Hero of Radasanth, yes, but before that he was the 'Protector of Radasanth'. Witnessing what could only be surmised as an attack rape on the boy made the mute realize what was truly important. Sei knew his actions arrived just in time as he watched Talen's sword stop just inches before it found its mark on Book's flesh.

Without wasting another second, Sei darted faster than he could ever imagine moving normally. The mute noticed himself passing the multiple arrows as if they were in slow motion. Spreading his arms wide and bringing them around, Sei had hoped to tackle Book to the ground. The action would cause the mystic to be assaulted by three of the five arrows, which tore his fragile wings asunder. It would also cause both Sei and Book to miss Duffy's attack completely, as Sei was not only trying to protect Book, but himself. This would result in Sei laying on top of Marcus, who would be lying on the ground.

The sound of glass shattering quickly overtook the arena. This caused the crowd to go into an absolute uproar. Everybody who was anybody knew that Mystic Protection had just been cast, and that spelt pain for anybody not directly touching Marcus Book. Glass shards would appear around the boy (and Sei, provided Sei had actually tackled him) until it seemed as though he would be protected by a thick wall of glass shrapnel.

"Lillian! Get down now!" Sei shouted to the girl without directly transmitting the thought to her alone. In his panic, the mute had allowed the fans, Dirks, and even the other combatants know that hitting the floor would be in their best interest. Without more warning, the glass shot out in a dome formation, filling the entire Cell with transparent death. The shards that would hit the barrier would quickly come back down, essentially raining more death upon the contestants.

"PAPA!" Anita Orlouge shouted at the top of her lungs. She knew what her father was about to do in order to help protect Marcus Book. The weakened knight could not take much more punishment, but Sei's body could. As a result of his heroic nature, Sei spread out his wings as far as they would go. The fore large holes at the top and bottom of each of the wings would not provide the mute with a lot of protection, but at least Sei would help out Marcus Book.

At least Sei would remember that he was not a Hero. He was a Protector.

[Duffy]

Ruby looked on with anticipation, catching the advance of Sei long before Duffy did by the virtue of her raised position. Wrecked with guilt and a sense of helplessness, she almost wanted to a sing a blazing sonata down onto the barrier, she wanted to do anything to help her friend. Lilith held out her hand and rested it onto her sister's shoulder, and they looked reluctantly away as the glass sphere erupted, scattering shards across the Aequitas Chamber with reckless abandon and perilous scrutiny.

The thief blew backwards, suddenly stricken with lightning bound pain; a quicksilver deliverance of prevention to his left cheek and upper arm as he had turned instinctively from the dome of crystalline shards that had formed over his intended target. Duffy cursed both the empty air his vibrating blade cut through, and the simple deflection of their combined efforts to remove their opponent from the arena. For the second time, fate had intervened in his machinations, and he was growing tired of being tantalised so fleetingly.

He landed with a thud on his back and his white demi-cloak drowned in the sludge. Slowly he sat upright and unbuckled it at the clasp. As he stood, he held it out with his free hand at arm’s length and grunted an underhand remark about expensive linen. It dropped like a sodden towel to the floor, and lifted a weight from the boy’s shoulders. Devoid of his attire, Duffy began to feel colder and weather worn and stressed by the lateness of the hour.

The swordsman’s gambit had left two large pieces of glass embedded in Duffy’s upper arm, below the shoulder and in the cartilage and muscle that formed most of its bulk and several smaller cuts on his left cheek. Whilst it hurt, it was nothing more than a flesh wound in comparison to what some of the others had already suffered. Gunshots and tourniquets would no doubt come his way eventually. He relished the hint of iron on his tongue and the crimson stains that were perforating the bandages wrapped tightly around his limbs.

In the delicate rain, he looked up at the dying lights overhead and sighed. He had been wrong to presume Sei’s dichotomy had gotten the better of him. His motives were as furtive and highly strung as the next man’s, to be sure, but how was Duffy any different, wanting the same thing even though it would ostracise him from his home, his family, his city true? He swung the Sword of the Western Weald, reborn with Lillian’s offering of alliance and found comfort in the hum of the radix. “How could I be so wrong…” He closed his eyes momentarily and let the rain drops splatter onto his face. When he opened them again, the whiteness was all but faded, and the Tantalum re-emerged from his union with Lysander proper. The veil of secrecy and determination was gone, leaving a rabbit in the lamplight and hunter's sight.

With a slow and careful motion he began to pick the flecks of glass embedded in his cheek and drop them with a pincer motion. With each twang of pain and regret, it became apparent that the fire, bullets and blows being exchanged between the combatants would either need to be more raucous and rampant, so as to avoid the same fate as the other thief and the nobleman with the plate-mail and axe, but also to keep the crowd interested.

Whilst time would come in the days and weeks ahead to speak with Sei as a disciple to the prominence of power, here and now was not the place. Clinching his teeth and flexing his arm to test the damage, he pulled the sword backwards and flipped it into a reverse grip. Duffy was determined to deliver the performance he and the troupe had become known for. Riveting, unpredictable, lacking in talent but bridling with passion.

“You finally understand the nature of heroism, for one cannot be a patriarch of his people – without the ultimate offering…” He ran up behind the great wings which professed their feeble endurance to testing, and punched forwards with both gloves of the Tinder Gear. The liquid jettisoned over the swordsman’s appendages, and the crowd tensed on the edge of their seats.

“You cannot be a hero...without sacrifice.”

Duffy’s eyes lit up as he clicked his fingers and clapped his hands on the edges of the vapour trail.

Echoes of Teric Bloodrose’s defeat and the screaming death of bandit king and brother alike wracked Duffy’s wounds with salt, but as the spark tindered the flammable liquid, there was more at stake in the flames than simple flesh and blood. There were hopes and dreams and revelations to scorch too.


I have used an additional two charges from the Tinder Gear, leaving Duffy with one good burst of flame or igniting until the end of the round. The effect of the flames, whilst not strictly deadly, would still hurt their target; the extent of which of course, is entirely up to you.

[Silence Sei]

In the course of roughly a few minute, Sei had gone through sheer hell.

The injuries to the mystic's wings had finally caught up with his body. The rush of adrenaline to save the child had kept the perforations in his appendages from hurting. Now Sei could feel the cool azure liquid of his blood flowing down his spine, filling his shoes with their presence. Sei winced as the wings underwent further punishment.

The glass shards that had shot upwards now rained down upon the mute, finding a home in his back and his wings. Closing his eyes, Sei caused his wings to retract into his spine. All that remained of the once beautiful limbs were several miniature pieces of glass sticking out from under his shoulder blades.

Sei could feel himself getting dizzy. Reabsorbing his wings when they had taken so much damage was tiring on the mute. He had quickly become the healthiest fighter in the Cell, to probably it's most sluggish. Had Sei kept his quick reflexes, he would have been able to completely avoid the flames Duffy prepared to spew over him.

Roll to your right, Papa!

The shout caused Sei's eyes to widen. He had to stay alive and find the warriors he required. Without them, Radasanth could not be protected. This would have been yet another meaningless battle if Sei could not find at least one person who matched the prophecy.

Tucking his head underneath his right arm, The mute rolled to his right. The mystic (still presumably holding Book), spun away from the all-consuming spark. Sei did not go untainted, however, as he felt the searing heat make its mark upon his back. The flames had caught themselves upon Sei's clothes. Hastily the hero grabbed at the cloth on his chest with his left arm, ripping it off and throwing it at his attacker.

The mute realized that this attack was silly and probably not going to do much, but there was little he could do for himself at this point...

...Then he heard it...

"Or-louge! Or-louge! Orlouge! Or-louge!"

At first, the chant sounded as if it just came from the mute's daughter. Then the phrase began to pick up pace with a few more people. By the fifth chant the whole audience was cheering for their hero, their protector. Sei heard cries for his name louder than that of Godhand, Duffy, Joshua, or anybody else that was in this accursed tournament. The people believe Sei had more left in him. With such a strong group supporting him, how could Sei Orlouge give up the fight now?

With the power of a sports entertainer Sei leapt back up onto the ground. Focusing all of his magical energies, the ring upon his finger took form. Sei pulled a shard of glass out of the back of his head with his spare hand as his emei piercer formed upon his left index finger. Sei charged towards the relentless attacker, attempting to wrap his arms around him as he had Marcus Book before him.

If he managed to embrace Duffy in this hug, the mute would bring the emei piercer into the actor's spine. This was not a killing blow by any means. Sei would not try to take a life unless it was needed. This was to paralyze the actor for the rest of the tournament. The piercer would find its way in between Duffy’s neck and upper back.

The mute had noticed the showmanship of his opponent this entire fight. He seemed to be one more of the theatrics than any sort of real fighter. "When this is over..." Sei spoke to the man, "You and I are going to have a long talk about Radasanth..."

Shirtless, quickly tiring, and covered with a vibrant combination of glass shards and blue blood running down his back, Sei looked determine. He would find what he needed, even if he had to cripple every last person in this damned Cell.

[Breaker]

After kicking the chakram Cronen pushed forcibly off the wall. The enchanted boots obeyed his thoughts, becoming as slick as ice so that he slid across the rock floor. This allowed him to rest while in motion, and gave him a moment to examine the magical dome which Sei constructed around himself and a fallen warrior. Josh felt drawn to it; he could tell by the unique energy patterns that it was a magical barrier, and he had a history of success in dissipating such defenses.

Like a venomous snake, the second chakram warned him of its approach, rattling against the walls of the arena. Josh heard the bladed disc coming too late to do anything but dive and roll. The chakram passed above him, snipping off a scrap of his cloak. As he came to rest he realized Sei had completed the glass dome, but still the energy inside it increased. Like an overinflated balloon, the thing was sure to burst.

"Lillian, get down now!"

Josh had only sensed an impression of the previous telepathic messages. This time, it felt like Sei had replaced Breaker in his brain, and the psychic warning confirmed his suspicions. He rolled again, and again and again, until he lay alongside the two corpses Dirks had killed with one bullet. Grasping one by his pink collar and the other by his hair, Cronen exhaled and heaved the bodies on top of him.

The glass dome exploded like a thousand shattering mirrors. As shards sped in all directions, Josh peered between his improvised fleshy shield. Shrapnel stabbed the corpses in a sickening series of impacts. A single shard, like the child of a malicious mirror, bounced off the force shield and slipped between the bodies. It shattered against Cronen's forehead, splitting his left eyebrow in two. Blood trickled into his eye as he shed the corpses, stood, and assessed the situation.

His face felt sticky with blood, sweat, and grit. The once handsome cloak showed a half dozen holes. With the blood from the bodies added to his own, it looked more brownish-red than grey. The Breaker Boots bore a nick and a scratch, the result of redirecting a bullet and a chakram.

He kept the cloak on, for gory as it was it could still conceal some of his actions. Beneath its protection he pulled a roll of gauze from his back pocket and wound it rapidly around his wounded shoulder. Tied the bandage off then wrapped the rest around his waist, putting pressure on the hole over his hip bone. His heart rate slowed, and with the security of the gauze and natural clotting, the flow of blood almost stopped. The swollen remainder of his left ear no longer dripped; rolling across the ground had coated it in grime.

Cronen squinted and winked the hot, thick fluid out of his eye. Those callussed hands appeared briefly, affixed a patch over the irritated ocular, then vanished beneath the shroud once more.

Again he pushed off from the wall, the enchanted boots allowing him to glide across the ground like a statue on a glacier. He slid nearer and nearer to Lillian, staying aware of his surroundings, but focusing mostly on using the techniques Medsan taught him to keep Breaker at bay. His strength was returning, and his alter-ego awakened gradually, a bear coming out of hibernation.

Cronen felt unsure what to do. He had come to the Cell on a suicide mission. After months of deliberation, he could think of no way to stop Breaker's wanton destruction save for destroying the body they both resided in. Medsan had originally suggested this; to a monk death was just another change, like drinking gin rather than whisky. But Lillian had clearly blossomed into a powerful young sorceress, one who might be able to help him repress the hated persona.

The cloak did not billow behind him, for one of his hidden hands grasped it at the seams, keeping it secretively shut. Some things had not changed; he was still in the Cell, still had to fight, still instinctively wanted to win.

[Neville Longinus]

As Rayse watched his attack miss Cronen and continue on towards Godhand, he pressed his right hand against his temple in pain. Why was he seeking attention in the first place? What did he gain from his attack? Furthermore, why was it so hard to focus?

What did he really want?

The tendrils retracted, cutting him off from the sudden surge of power. However, it was merely a catalyst to his current condition. The black tattoo lines had completely covered his right arm by now, spreading to the side of his neck and part of his chest. It sought to take him over, to return him to a state of chaos.

He was alone here. A cold, dark, quiet arena. His consciousness felt like it was slipping away. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small canister of the pills he was taking. Every time these were consumed, he wouldn't remember the events of the next day, sometimes the next week. However, taking them immediately after he woke up had a chance of killing him. Would he risk it, just to get out of this nightmare? He returned the pills back into his pocket.

What did he really want?

His mind was pulled back to reality as he heard the panicked, telepathic warning of the mute in his head. The chamber appeared before him, blood dripping from nearly each competitor, the screaming crowd calling for more. He looked towards Sei and realized his predicament. Rather than running away, he took a step toward the shards and his body disappeared into a myriad of flames. The streams of flames that were Rayse Valentino flew forward a few feet and came together to reform his body. He looked like a demon of fire for a second, and then his human features and clothes appeared once more.

The threat was not over, however. He ducked down and covered himself in the cloak with his right arm as the glass shards rained down from the sky, piercing through the cloth and creating scrapes in his arm and sides. Getting back up, he could feel the pain coursing through his body. The Contractor stared at his right arm, which was twitching and had a few shards sticking out of it, the blood rolling down his wrist and dripping off of his fingers. Letting his freshly-ripped cloak fall back down, his breathing had become heavier. Such rapid use of his abilities drained him both physically and mentally. Suddenly, the chamber felt very foreign to him. Compared to him, it was still cold and dark. He needed to become stronger, to turn everything around into a part of him.

What he wanted... was to make it all burn.

His entire body gained a red glow, and a light flame engulfed him. He reached for the sword strapped to his back under the cloak and pulled it out, noticing something very strange: It was covered in black spidersilk. Did he do this earlier? He could not recall. Feeling an urge to light it, the thread lit up and the flames reached to the sword's tip. It was an intense blue fire as the sword's blade was completely hidden in the twisting inferno. Was it still a weapon of Damascus, or something more?

He turned to the wall and ran at it, slashing at it with his sword. While he could not damage the adamantine, something strange happened. The arc of his attack left a burning imprint of fire that started growing upwards until it reached the top of the wall. It was a magical fire connected to Rayse himself, and he could feel the chamber becoming brighter and warmer. His own strength seemed to radiate in the presence of this fire. Turning back around, he shoved the sword into the ground, watching as various cracks grew in the ground in front of him, stopping just a few feet away and releasing steam. The wall behind was hot, the ground below was hot, and even the very air around him starting carrying a humid fog of heat. Amidst it all, he felt stronger, more in control of himself. He needed to spread this fire as far as he could.

He started walking towards the source of the shards. There was a group of fighters in that area, and they too needed to burn. Images flashes in his mind, of a town engulfed in flames. Were they his memories, or someone else's? His boots left melted imprints in the rocky ground, with cracks growing from the melted rock that culminated into another release of steam from the ground. Far below the rocky floor, there was an even greater fire growing out of Rayse's will. With the flames spreading, he was growing even stronger. His sword dragged along the ground from his bloody arm, sending sparks into the air and leaving a trail of fire so hot it almost looked like a line of magma, bubbling up from the cracks. All the while, he still held the cigarette between his teeth.

Lifting up the blade to his side, he stepped forward and swung horizontally, causing an enormous arc of fire to erupt from his blade. It was a crescent-shaped fireball, flying at the group of fighters, such as Duffy and Sei, at waist-length. Upon contact, it would create a small fiery explosion. The sword fell back to the ground after the attack, Rayse with a smug satisfaction in his handiwork. While Cronen's inner demon was like a parasite, Rayse's was a reflection of his own inner self. It was his own rage, sorrow, and pain- manifested into a pyromaniac that just wanted the world to burn.

((A fire is starting to creep along the walls and a growing area of the ground is becoming warm and sprouting little streams of steam. Oh, and a widening crescent of fire is heading towards Duffy/Sei and crew. The fissure with the exploding geyser of fire from earlier is still heading towards Godhand, and will burst when it comes into contact with something (either Godhand of the side of the chamber if he avoids it).))

[Amen]

Marcus’ ears were ringing and for the first time he knew what it was to be dazed. It was not merely confusion or a lack of focus brought about by deficient willpower: he was teetering on the edge of consciousness. Colors seemed to be inverted, all the mad noise of the arena rendered down into tinny screams and pops and booms lacking bass, and the dull ache in his shoulder rested beneath it all, an unpleasant ambiance.

Later, when he had time to consider his failure, Marcus would regret his loss of control. If not for the meddling of his own powers he surely would have stuck to the original plan, and perhaps then he wouldn’t have been shot and the bard or the shadow-boy would be bleeding from holes in the shoulder.

But neither Talen nor Duffy was injured. Book was, however, and he was helpless as his foes converged on him. If he had any awareness of this, it was vague, and he struggled to lift himself to ward death off. It would have been a feeble attempt, and Marcus probably should have fallen there and then – a victim to a swarm of arrows and multiple stab wounds.

But then the chaos and color of the arena gained weight and collided with him, and the paladin was tackled to the ground again. He was now certain that all sense had left him, because he could only imagine that someone had saved him. This made no more sense than the sound of shattering glass or alien warnings in his mind, or the certainty that said warnings had come from the weight atop him.

Of course, Marcus was not losing his senses, but was in truth coming back into them. He grunted as his savior rolled, dragging him along for the ride, and then Sei was gone. The squire rolled to his hands and knees and there paused for an instant: his head swam, and he was waiting to see if movement would cause him to pass out. It didn’t.

Marcus quickly considered the damage done to him. He could taste blood in his mouth: it coated the back of his throat and the taste would not fade no matter how often he swallowed. He had breathed in the gory mist that had burst from the back of his shoulder, which was strange but not as disturbing as the paladin suspected it ought to have seemed. He touched his fingertips to his shoulder and felt none of the expected pain. The wound was a puckered burn mark caked in hot blood, outwardly cauterized. The damaged nerves had been fried, and thus there was little left to feel pain. Much of the surrounding tissue had been partially healed, and Marcus discovered that he had satisfactory range of motion in his right arm.

He could still fight.

Now, unlike his opponents, and even the man who had saved him, Marcus Book was not a hero and did not aspire to become one. If anything he was an avenger, righting wrongs already perpetrated, and usually with enough prejudice that he often seemed the amoral villain. Still, he was not inhuman. A man had saved his life – a man who should have been happy to see him die – and as it happened that man was about to be incinerated.

An arc of fire was roaring across the arena, and in scant seconds it would collide with both Duffy and Sei. Inspired just as Sei had been, but only because of the latter’s selfless actions, Marcus charged. He threw himself into the air, arms spread wide, with the intent of tackling Sei. Of course, Duffy would also likely be struck by the paladin’s body and likewise saved, but Marcus was a paladin and not an acrobat, so it couldn’t be helped.

[Ataraxis]

Lillian had to sigh when she noticed the first signs of her plan falling dead in the waters. True enough, the arsonist in a cape had made good use of the power transference: with a simple stomp of the ground, his foot had sent a shallow fissure speeding across the floor toward the Cronen. Even as the arena groaned and cracked, she saw the sparks and smolders gush from the earthen scar. Yet even with his gunshot wounds, Joshua had managed to roll out of harm’s way, letting the burrowing flames slip by and erupt not far from Godhand in an incandescent geyser. The librarian cursed under her breath, hand shielding her pale eyes from the blazing pillar of crimson light.

The hulk of a warrior that had first answered her invitation had also taken one of the mercenary’s ricocheting bullets to the shoulder, and the golden flare that radiated from his eyes as a result of her gift quickly petered out like a doused flame. All of the transferred life had gone toward healing the injury, but the man was not out danger yet: as he fell, the others swarmed upon him like vultures to carrion, hungry for the easy kill. She frowned, but the fact that some were unable to see farther than their own noses had, sadly enough, fallen well within her calculations. ‘That’s why we have Plan Bs.’

However, Lillian hadn’t foreseen Sei’s seemingly divine intervention – the dazzling wings didn’t help dispel the imagery. He had saved the prone man from certain death, much to her surprise. Before she could even make sense of it, the teenager suddenly picked up the growing sound of metal against rock. Looking back, she saw Cronen gliding across the floor as if it were ice, heading straight for her. Not realizing she had merely been standing right between the Pagoda warrior and the mute hero, Lillian decided the time for her to take real action was long overdue.

Her form lowered as her knees bent, all in one quick, fluid motion. The ground strained underfoot, as if subjected to unthinkable amounts of pressure… until it burst into stone shards and plumes of dust. With the unwonted strength in her legs, Lillian sped across the arena, past the dastardly group that was flocking over Sei. She felt a pang of guilt at the thought of abandoning him, but there was no helping it: she was only moments from her real goal, which lay but a dozen feet away, next to the wall of adamantine.

And with all the irony of karma, that was exactly when she heard his warning cry. ‘No! Don’t you da-’

There had been no cautionary spark, no seething smoke nor raging fire, only specks of reflected light, scintillating under the stormy clouds like diamonds in the night sky. Jags of glass broke away from the mute in the ensuing explosion, forming a hail of crystal bullets that would skewer everyone within reach.

With all her might, she leapt. Her body sailed far across the field, and before she even landed, her hands reached out for what lay upon the floor. When her soles struck solid ground, she lifted it up with a swing of both hands, the effort met with the groan of iron.

The door. The rain of glass shattered against the door Joshua had throw at the singing rogue, the very same that had rung against the walls like a gong from hell. Lillian had taken refuge behind it, letting it rest over her kneeling for at an angle to protect her from the falling glass that had broken against the force-field overhead. The piercing cacophony had brought her hands to her ears, and she now understood why the glasswalkers of Nirrakal were so often hard of hearing.

When the storm abated, she pushed the door off her back, letting it clang deeply in a cloud of dust. Assessing the situation, she threw cursory glances every which way. She first noticed the arsonist setting fire to the arena, something that alarmed her but that she could do nothing about. Lillian then saw Joshua gliding toward her at a smug, confident pace, as if skating leisurely on a frozen lake. He was, however, far from unscathed.

There was a bleeding gash on his forehead, and his cloak had been riddled with puncture holes to match a colander. Even so, he was on the move, and Lillian could not ignore that. She also couldn’t quite ignore that sudden change in him: there was newfound clarity in his eyes, and none of that clouded rage that had warped his expression until now. It was strange… he almost seemed a new man.

“But you still want to win, don’t you?” Lillian whispered with a corner smile, the blue of her eyes now framed with strange rings of blood. She hadn’t even noticed her hood had fallen back, letting long strands of silken ink cascade about her shoulders. “Good. I’ll take you on, then.”

Her hands seized the iron door, so hard that her fingers left dents. The metal shrieked under the stress of her unnatural strength, and in one deafening wail, she folded it in half. Even then, the display was far from over: she grabbed the resulting slab at both ends again, twisting the door a second time. Her palms sank half an inch into the iron, due to the sheer force she was exerting, leaving behind a pair of hand-shaped grooves. With another metallic groan, she bent the scrap metal into an even smaller block.

Lillian rose, dropping the chunk of iron at her side, and it struck the earth with a small quake. It was bound by a thick dark rope, which she held as one would a lasso. The girl lifted the boulder up with her left hand, letting it swing at her side like a pendulum. It gained momentum, and soon the ball spun round and round, becoming the deadliest of slings.

“Guess I forgot to say,” she began, drawing her arm back in preparation for a swing. ‘Duck’ was the only mental warning she deigned give Sei, as payback for that glass rain incident – she didn’t wait to find out if he’d even heard her. With a banshee’s cry, she flung the ball of spinning death from the side; it broke through the air, churning wind in its swooshing wake. The makeshift weapon threatened to catch almost everyone in its monstrous sweep, from the cloaked arsonist to the fighters that had swarmed on Sei’s new charge. The bones and organs she intended to crush at the end of the meteor’s arc, however, all belonged to Joshua. Any other victim would be mere collateral.

‘I’m a monster too.’

Lillian sweeps the makeshift meteor hammer across the nearby group (possibly containing Alis, Hysteria, Duffy and Rayse). Lillian warned Sei mentally, without knowing if he could hear her. The actual hammer is aiming at Josh's body. And because I know you're thinking about it, Rayse: the web-rope isn't made with magic-reactive formula, so it won't explode.

[Godhand]

Godhand fancied himself a good shot but things really didn't seem to be going his way. He'd netted only a glancing blow with his first shot, the second one merely scuffing his target's boot and the last two hitting some very non-lethal areas. Was he that bad or was his opponent that good? The only notable outcome of any of his shots had had was that the third managed to stay live after going through the man's shoulder and went into some other poor bastard, to far greater effect than it had produced in Joshua. He began to wonder if taking more shots at him wouldn't just be wasting ammo, but he didn't have time to consider that at any length as the chakram he'd avoided was now kicked back into his direction.

He could have dodged it again, sure, but that wouldn't have been nearly flashy enough for this crowd. With that in mind he holstered both his revolvers, dug his feet into the ground and struck an Iaido pose. One hand was on his sheath, the other on the handle of his Muramasa and his head was low as though he had chosen to sense instead of see the chakram coming. Right when he estimated it would have been in range he unsheathed and slashed his blade diagonally in one motion as fast as he could manage, which, considering who he was, was pretty damn fast, then sheathed his sword just as quickly. He thought it must have looked very impressive to everyone else, the chakram flying off in another direction after being caught in mid-air by some seemingly invisible force. The swordsman wasn't prepared for what happened next, though.

Apparently, what with the strength he possessed, the speed he'd swung with and the legendary craftsmanship and material of his blade, instead of knocking the chakram AWAY from him it had instead zoomed right through the steel weapon, cutting it in half and turning one deadly projectile into two. One of the halves arced away from him but the other's trajectory remained unchanged. Too late to dodge now; he'd sacrificed form for function yet again, and paid for it yet again. He haphazardly brought his sheath up and drew his sword out just enough for the steel to collide with the adamantine blade, deflecting it enough that it sliced across his stomach instead of into it. It'd gotten him pretty good all the same, though, and the swordsman fell to one knee to cradle his wound. Yet before he even had time to recover he saw the ground before him churn and smoke before exploding in a geyser of lava. Godhand cursed and removed both hands from his abdomen to protect his face, waiting for the sizzle he knew would come.

And yet, there was no heat. No pain. He looked down to see his sheath absorbing the magma. It had been magically fueled. If it had been tapped from the earth instead he would likely be burning alive at that very moment.

Before he even had time to compose himself or even look around to see who was where, there was yet another explosion and as Godhand whipped his head towards the source, he instinctively protected his face yet again as sparkling glass shrapnel flew towards him.

And yet again, miraculously, no pain. The magically materialized glass had shifted its warpath from his head to his sheath once it got within five feet of him, dissolving as soon as it came in contact with the masterwork magic vacuum.

Best quarter of a hundred grand he'd ever spent.

He almost didn't want to look up, fully expecting some other psychopath or maybe God to try and strike him down again, but there was no imminent deadly attack following the shards. Certainly, there was chaos all over the arena. Furious fires, fantastic flails and freaked-out fuck-ups. But over in his corner of the place, things were relatively quiet.

Then he heard it. They weren't chanting Striker anymore. They were chanting Orlouge.

...

Oh well.

He was still big in Raiaera.

Godhand split the chakram in half with his sword (with Sei's permition), but received moderate damage from one of the halves. Rayse's magma attack was sucked into Godhand's sheath along with the glass shrapnel flying towards him, both of them being magically created and sustained.

[Hysteria]

“So what now?” Asked Talen turning to his old friend.

“I have taught you as much as I can Talen. You need to go out and find your own challenges now.” Replied Mel, “Meet some people, get in trouble, get out of trouble, do good, or bad. Be proud and don't hold back.”

“I don't understand.” Said Talen, his face showing his confusion.

Mel lifted his old hand and placed it on Talen's shoulder.

“Go out and have fun, challenge yourself.”


* * * *

Challenge myself... ha.. I haven't landed a damn hit against anyone yet.

Talen's attack was once against useless as a winged man dived onto the paladin. Talen took a step backwards in surprise and quickly lifted his sword defensively.

“A fairy and a holy man rolling around in the dirt together? Well I never.” Mumbled Talen to himself, probably inaudible to anyone else over the roar of the crowd.

There was a sudden dome of glass forming over the two men and Talen continued backing away from the pair. It proved a worthless effort though, for the glass dome suddenly exploded and sent shards in every direction. The shadow warrior just had time to lift his arms in front of his face. It did little to stop the glass though; shards smashed into his arms and chest, embedding themselves deep into his flesh. The range and proximity of the attack was something to be marvelled at, but Talen wasn't marvelling.

“Fuck...” he mumbled to himself pushing the butt of his sheath into the ground to help keep himself standing. His eyes lifted to Sei not far away from him. In a fight of villains, Sei had done something oddly heroic, although picking sides seemed like an odd way to show heroics considering Talen had been attack first, not the paladin.

Talen wanted revenge; simple, cold, deadly revenge. Behind Sei, Talen could see the massive hammer being swung by Ataraxis. Talen smiled a cold smile. He took a few steps towards Sei as the 'hero' threw off his flaming cloths. Talen jumped into the air and though he had his sword in hand, he was simply trying to pin Sei, so they both would be hit by the hammer.

Challenge this...

[Silence Sei]

Just before Sei allowed his emei piercer to find a home in Duffy's backside, the mute paused. His nostrils began to fill with the scent of smoke once more, and he turned his head towards the flame elemental he fought earlier. There was now a giant fire ball flying towards the two of them. Growing in size, Sei did what he had to do in order to avoid getting nailed directly by the blow.

He released his hold on his opponent and spun around to his back. Without hesitating, the weakened mystic lifted his left boot and pushed forward with all of his might. This would hopefully cause Duffy to be thrown into the direct line of fire (pun intended). As Sei finished, he caught a glimpse of metal heading from his right and his left. One was trying to help and the other was trying to hurt.

Luckily Marcus had gotten to Sei first, tackling him to the ground as the mute had previously done for him. While Sei was appreciative of the fact that the youth had saved his life in return, he winced at the sensation of the glass still in his back biting deeper into the flesh. Dirt and dust quickly filled his blue wounds and acted as a bandage of sorts. Sei wiggled his back a bit under the three hundred pound warrior to attempt to rid himself of at least a bit of the glass.

Now was the matter of their would-be trapster. Talen didn't seem to have any concern that his former ally was fighting the mute. He apparently would cause Sei harm at the cost of friendship. It was a despicable act and it caused Sei to realize just how much people in this fight wanted to win. Reaching one hand over Marcus' huge body, and the other reaching towards his side, Sei acted out his next plan.

He withdrew his second throwing fan with his spare hand. Trying to gain a grip on his surroundings, Sei noticed the archer still not moving for his next attack. Pulling his arm back, Sei threw the razor sharp battle fan. The gold and blue designs whistled almost as beautifully as the chakrams once did. His target was the archer's right thigh. While it was not much of an attack, Sei had hoped it would distract the foe long enough to be struck by Lillian's giant ball of doom.

As for Talen, he seemed to be heading straight for Sei now. The mute's left hand was balled into a fist. Concentrating all of the magical energies he had, his emei piercer of light formed once more. The sharp weapon quickly grew in size due to Sei actually concentrating every bit of light magic he had into the thing. It grew only about three feet longer than before, making a miniature javelin.

Then the God's smiled upon Sei Orlouge as much as the crowd before them.

The smoke the fire caused dissipated once it hit the top of the dome and Sei could feel it. Sunlight. The rain was starting to clear up and Sei could feel the brilliant sun beams upon his face. The slight change in weather gave Sei a greater advantage, as soon as the sunlight hit the man's features, his piercer grew an extra three feet. This would mean that Talen would have to change his mid-air course if he were to avoid being punctured in the heart by the light mystic's weapon.

While the mute could start to feel the stinging heat forming around the arena, he could also feel the sun coming in overhead. If it had not been for the gaseous orb, Sei probably would have not lasted much longer. However, Sei Orlouge was a light mystic, one that had undergone the Light Trials of Orlouge Drantrak. He had an affinity for light. It replenished him body and soul not unlike a plant. With a small boost to his vitality slowly increasing, Sei knew he once again had a decent survival chance.

He could hear his daughter screaming over the events that just transpired. Surely Anita was having a heart attack over such attempts on her father’s life. Finally being fed up with just having to sit back and watch, the girl turned to the tournament Grand Master. “UNCLE MAX! PAPA’S GOING TO DIE! DO SOMETHING!” Anita pleaded with her ‘uncle’ in an attempt to get Max to eliminate more competitors as he had done earlier. While the help would have been much appreciated, Sei was not going to count on Max Dirks to save him in the Cell.

Looking over to Lillian, Sei smiled a bit. "Keep swinging, Lillian. It may be what I need to get back on my feet..."

[Hysteria]

Sometimes someone could pull an amazing move out of their arse and save themselves. These people were great warriors who would rise through the ranks and become heroes and maybe even legends. Unfortunately though, Talen was not one of them. The boy was better summed up as 'alright' at pretty much everything he did. That word though was too good to describe Talen's ability to change direction mid-air. The boy landed with his feet on the ground, but could not stop his momentum. A second after landing there was a sickening squelching sound and a spray of blood.

The spear had pierced Talen's chest and the boy had moved a good three feet onto the spear. He dropped his sword and sheath and gave a pitiful look at Sei. The last of the energy that had been transferred to him via Lillian quickly faded and with it the courage he had just had. He coughed, blood spilling out of his mouth and down his chin. Despite the pain, Talen had seen the way light seemed to energise the de-winged man.

“One.... last.... thing....” spluttered Talen.

The boy moved forwards, trying to grab the mystic's robes, regardless of how feebly it would be. Above the pair Talen forces the last of his energy into creating a mass of darkness above Sei. The shadowy mess was just under a metre wide, enough to cast a shadow over Sei.... at least if he didn't move.

“Hammer time....” said Talen, waiting for the monstrosity to take him and anyone near him out.

Feel free to just push me off Sei ;) I'll get stuck by the hammer in my next post.... I'm going to assume Talen was out of the line of fire of the fire ball, I think it makes the most sense, at least till it explodes.

[Duffy]

The swell of heat dragged Duffy’s gaze from the advancing swordsman and in the few brief moments he was distracted, his world changed. He looked back to be greeted with a hefty boot to the chest.

Thud.

Tantamount frivolities and enjoyment aside, as the thief stumbled backwards towards the advancing pyrohemia he thought of one thing, and one thing only.

Fall.

As he tripped himself he turned over and landed with a heavy thud onto the arch of his back, drawing on the parkour skills he had perfected as a young boy. The mud cushioned much of the blow but it still jarred his spine and clashed his teeth together with a grimace and a scowl. If he had super senses, he would have heard the troupe gasp in perfect pitched unison in the stands above.

The flames rushed harmlessly overhead, brightening Duffy's pale face and bright eyes with incandescent rage. Rayse's attack was followed by the whirling and hefty weight of the door Joshua had thrown at him.

"That was blinkin' fortunate!" Duffy choked, not quite believing his luck.

He blinked, and struggled to balance the need to kill with the need to question Sei’s motives. “Why,” he asked aloud as he pushed himself upright cautiously, water and mud dripping down the back of his once clean attire. It caked the wounds from the glass shards and soothed the pain into a dull throb; an ironic poultice to rouse his stamina and energy. “Save us…when we’re here t’fight?”

As he stood at his usual height, a single halcyon bolt struck the top of his head, dragging his gaze up into the lofty clouds. The rain broke, and the warmth tingled down his body as the thin beam widened. The change in the weather meant only one thing in Duffy’s mind, struggle. As the temperature rose the sweat and clamour of combat would drain all the combatant’s energy levels and they might not continue to dodge doors, fires and tsunamis for much longer.

He took stock of his surroundings, thankful, broken and bruised that Sei had tried to push him to the fire and give him the opportunity to break out of the circle. Talen was still on the assault, and Alis was on the edge of his perception as Marcus and Sei dealt with an assault from all sides. Jumping from one foot to another to limber up, Duffy made a haywire choice to sheathe the Sword of the Western Weald, its vibration rattling in its cage until it went silent and still. He replaced it with his trusty daggers, Tooth and Wainwright’s Riposte and twirled them around.

He observed Talen's somewhat reckless action, but understood what it was he was trying to do. Duffy frowned for a moment, and then caught his friend's desperate look and nodded. It was the way, and Duffy would not get in the workings of another hero in his finest hour. If Talen wished to sacrifice his own life to bring the swordsman down with him, then the Tantalum would play no part in his soliloquy.

With a smile, he brought both blades across his chest and held them in reverse, establishing the vibrato stance to defend against any wanton attacker. He used his time to observe their struggle and to breathe life back into his bones and to wait for the right moment to prove to Sei that heroes had to sacrifice themselves, not their privileges, to garner the respect of nations, gods and daemons.

He was not entirely sure how he would achieve such a thing, against someone so obviously stronger and skilled than Duffy could ever be. He shrugged, and guessed that decisions were an awkward thing to make at the best of times, but in the fire & ice chamber of the Cell, they were beyond all mortal comprehension.

[Neville Longinus]

A grumble escaped the lips of Rayse Valentino, tightening the grip of the inflamed sword he was dragging. What were those people doing, anyway? They signed up for this, why do any of them need saving? They knew what they were getting into. Maybe they realized that they were in over their heads. Looking over to his side, he saw that the flames he had started along the wall were catching up to him, as though they were following the carnage. Stabbing the sword into the ground once more, steam started to rise from the floor in this area as well. This was going far too slowly for his tastes.

That's when he noticed a steel chakram that was still bouncing around. As it was hitting the walls and creating shapes inside the chamber, it gave Rayse an idea. He reached into a pouch strapped to his belt and pulled out three throwing knives that were joined together using a long strand of the magical black spidersilk. A knife was at each end, and another one was right in the middle. Unlike the sword, he remembered what purpose this arrangement had. He threw the middle one into the ground next to the nearest wall, and the other two as far as he could toward slightly farther walls in opposite directions. They formed a really wide isosceles triangle with a missing bottom side. With another set of the conjoined knives in the same pouch, he could connect the ends of the furthest daggers and put the middle ones directly across from each other at the other side of the arena. So there would be two wide isosceles triangles with missing bottoms and the ends in close proximity to each other. The result would be a diamond-shaped enclosure of the chamber with magical thread.

With all of the fire bubbling underneath, standing in the center of the arena and lighting the diamond would cause all of the fire below to violently make its way toward Rayse from all over the chamber. He had no idea what would happen at that point, but needless to say it would be gruesome.

As he looked over to the other side of the chamber, his eyes peeked out from under the hood at a familiar face: Godhand Striker. With the need to get to the other side to plant the last three knives, he also had the desire to test his mettle against the big mercenary himself. In both the war he was hired for and the Fallien job, Godhand's actions seemed to overshadow his ow. He couldn't remember any of that; His only impulse was to take down the strongest man in the world. Not to mention that all of his ranged attacks have had little effectiveness. It was time to get up close and personal.

Opportunity came quicker than he thought, as before his earlier attack had time to connect, a large mass of iron was arcing quickly toward him from behind. He was fast enough to avoid it, but he had another idea. Quickly pulling the sword of the ground and sheathing it, he ran towards Lillian, and while he was now clear of the danger posed by the swinging ball of death, he was now being threatened by the rope that connected it to the little She-Titan. Spitting his cigarette out, he ducked under the rope but reached out to grab it.

The pain was excruciating. Holding firm, he felt his arms were about to pop out of their sockets as he held onto the rope. It lifted him off the ground and if it wasn't for the pain, he would've felt as if he was flying. He only held onto it for a few seconds before letting go and letting the momentum propel him across the chamber, just barely behind the iron ball as it careened on a collision course with Cronen. He timed his own flight to crash into someone else: Godhand. His arc of fire from earlier finally crashed into the chamber wall, exploding and sending a few negligible embers flying around.

Spinning around as he flew, he made sure his arms weren't dislocated and felt around for the growing bruises on his shoulders. It was bad, but not enough his strength. Pulling the sword back out of its sheath mid-flight, he held it low and prepared to slash across diagonally at Godhand in an attempt to cleave him in two. The hood over his face was just barely staying on. While the fires of the sword were magical, they only served to amplify the strength of the blade.

The tattoo lines were now creeping along his chin, and almost fully covering his torso. It wouldn't be long before he stopped remembering why he was here.

((Rayse is flying in for a cross-slash on Godhand.))

[Breaker]

Cronen glided across the ground like a bloodied spectre with the stillness and upright poise of a suit of armor. As the sun warmed his face, the earth warmed his feet. He heard shouts from the knot of warriors beyond Lillian ringing above the roar of the crowd, perceived the fiery arc cast by the pyromancer, and felt heat building beneath, as if the rock floor hid a sea of molten magma. But he locked eyes with the teenage sorceress, searching for a sense of understanding or comraderie. He found it in those eerie blue orbs, even as the girl created a massive hammer and swept it in a wide arc. She looked almost like a gunslinger, with her feet spread wide in a deep horse stance. To the legendary martial artist, her intetions were clearly telegraphed.

"Of course she's not going to make this easy for me..."

Josh broke out of his statuesque pose long enough to take two long, speed-skater strides. The Breaker Boots scraped harshly on the hard ground, propelling him so the speed at which he slid doubled. Cronen could not stop a smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth, and his uncovered eye twinkled in a way which would attract some people, and send others running.

The first time he and Lillian met, they had spent an hour or two underestimating each other and delighting in proving each other wrong. Now he was near enough to sense her power, and knew he would not make that mistake again. The girl, however, seemed to have underestimated him once more. Wielding such arcane abilities as an adolescent probably made her almost as cocky as him. And if there was any common strain he had noticed among magic-users, it was a lack of understanding of the effectiveness of close-quarters combat. Cronen's grin widened as he recalled a quotation from a famous fighter.

"I am a shark, the ground is my ocean, and most people can't even swim."

He waited until the last possible moment. With the meteor hammer inches away from crushing his abdomen, he went into a controlled bailout, falling first onto his side then to his back as he skidded headfirst between the girl's widespread feet. The rocky ground further shredded his cloak, but he could not feel it through the concealed arsenal he carried. The friction of his heavy frame on the earth kicked up a cartoonish cloud of dust, which momentarily engulfed him and the girl.

A moment was more than he needed. The crowd gasped as the two combattants disapeared from view. Before that collective intake of air ended Josh had swept Lillian's legs out from under her, wrapping both of his own powerful legs around one of hers in a restricting grapevine. She fell backwards, a sapling cut down by a landslide. He caught her deftly. His arms, like to well-trained pythons, applied a loose rear naked choke. To restrain her, not to put her to sleep. The girl was incredibly quick, and defended with her habitual intelligence. She must have let go of the meteor hammer, because one of her hands made it half way inside the stranglehold while the other brushed harmlessly at his wounded hip. The way her body was twisted, a simple squeeze could have snapped her spine. But he had no desire to hurt her; he had a mission.

"Lillian," he uttered in a rapid whisper, "I don't understand exactly what you did to me with that shadow thread, but you helped me more than anyone has in a long time. I can't explain right now but please, please stay alive. I need to talk to you at length as soon as possible." His voice, so matter-of-fact and energetic at first, almost broke at the end.

With the message delivered he released his holds on the girl's neck and leg, and shoved her gently upright. As the dust cloud settled the crowd witnessed Lillian standing in the same position as before, and Cronen rolling to his feet a few yards behind her.

He stood with his back to her, perhaps a foolish gesture, but one of good faith all the same. His battle-hardened mind mapped the positions of the knot of four warriors. He needed to kill them all, as fast as possible, so that he could speak with Lillian.

Josh stepped forward and the ground shuddered as both hands disapeared beneath the remnant of his cloak. His strength had nearly returned, and Breaker pawed at the bars of his mental cage.

Cronen's hands reappeared, a delyn throwing knife in each. He cocked back his left arm and let fly, the blade spinning with the speed of a crossbow bolt on a beeline for Duffy's chest. His right arm drew back in imitation then snapped forwards, sending the second dagger to bite into Sei's spine. Almost in the same motion he tore off the bedraggled cloak and tossed it aside.

The sun poured it's warmth into his loose fitting black clothing. Cronen stared boldly at the knot of warriors who had alternately fought, tackled, and rescued each other. He radiated the vibe of a fearsome fighter, his left eye covered by a black eyepatch, his shoulder and hip wrapped in gauze, sinew standing out like ropes twined over his muscles. The last delyn throwing knife sheathed on his chest, and the tips of three short spears bristled just above his uninjured shoulder. The colt holstered for cross-drawing on his uninjured hip. He drew one of the spears in a liquid motion and pointed it at the fighters before him, a clear non-verbal challenge.

Bunnies approved by Ataraxis. Quotation is from Rickson Gracie.

[Amen]

Marcus hit the stone floor of the arena in a roll and slid, which scraped blood from the naked flesh of his back. He didn’t have time to acknowledge the pain: he had to return to his feet and rejoin the fight.

His desperate tackle had rescued Sei, and the paladin felt satisfied. He had the niggling suspicion that the mystic would have survived the attack, having proven himself to be quite durable already, but Marcus counted the effort as being good enough: if it came down to it, he could proceed to kill the old mute without feeling like a snot-nosed ingrate.

That was not to say, of course, that he had any hope of killing anyone. Despite the shaft of sunlight now illuminating the bloody struggle on the Aequitas side, hope seemed to be dissipating as the stakes were raised. The earth was cracking everywhere, spewing flames and steam into the air, and similar spectacles were afflicting the metallic walls of the arena. The young sorceress, whom Marcus feared for her power, proved not to be as frail as she appeared – there was little doubt that she could snap him in half or worse if she got her hands on him. There were corpses not far from where they’d been gunned down by the competition’s overseer, and too many people still had loaded guns on the field. Black death loomed over Talen Shadowalker, and Duffy faced off against Sei. What became of the elfish archer was a mystery.

The end, it seemed to the squire, was nigh. Perhaps not for the giants, of course, but what chance did he have against their breed?

The young man’s glimmering eyes fell on Joshua Cronen, and he ignored a twinge in his wounded shoulder. The extended spear seemed to be an offering: a place to throw oneself for glory - suicide by Breaker. Marcus exhaled, preparing himself for the pain to come, and then he began to walk. He came upon his sword, which had been lost when Sei had rescued him, and hooked the toe of his boot under the blade and lifted his leg sharply, tossing the hilt up into his waiting palm.

Book inhaled and held his crude old sword up vertically at the ready, relished its familiar heft, and then exhaled. And then he charged, eager to reach his chosen end before the fiery cracks sealed the way off.

His intention was simple: he would slash at the spear just beneath the head and hopefully turn it aside, and then quickly recover to stab at Cronen’s heart. If he was to die, it was going to be glorious.

[Ataraxis]

A part of her had hoped the iron meteor would barrel through the man, but Lillian was not the naïve girl she used to be: since the flock of vultures around Sei had mostly managed to avoid the giant flail, it came as no surprise that Joshua had as well. He pitched to the ground, letting the hammer sail over him harmlessly, all the while continuing his charge with a tuck and roll. In the time of a wink, he had gapped the distance, bowling headlong between her legs as his slide churned up a cloud of dust.

The girl lost her footing as his broad back bumped into her thighs, and she yelped from a rush of vertigo when her feet were robbed of purchase. Her back struck corded muscles rather than harsh ground, and even in the risen dust she knew what was coming. Lillian managed to slip one willowy arm into the tree-trunks that sought to crush her in a chokehold, then freed her windpipe from his forearms with a turn of the neck. She gasped, coughing on the filthy air, but she was calm.

Though she had squealed in the fall and the short scuffle had made her heart skip a few beats, the girl was not afraid. After all… she hadn’t merely seen the grapple coming. ‘You should know better by now… I’m not in the business of telegraphing my attacks.’

The arm she’d slipped into his hold was pushing back, but not with the explosive strength she had displayed before. For some reason, Joshua had decided against trying to strangle her; yet, even if it were unforeseen, Lillian had no qualms in capitalizing on this apparent mercy. Five blue glints slid from between her fingers, five needles with which she surreptitiously pricked her captor’s right forearm. Meanwhile, she let her left hand drop over the dripping bullet hole in his hip, seemingly by accident.

His following words, however, had given pause to her scheming mindset. While she did not drop her guard, Lillian thought back on her first assault, on the moment Joshua severed the shadow link that was draining his life. She recalled his face then: the gaping mouth as he panted heavily, those wide, hazel eyes brimming with shock and disbelief, like an escaped prisoner who’d seen the sky for the first time in so long, that he couldn’t even remember its name…

And there it was again, that pang of guilt. In her desperate mission, in her ceaseless scheming, she had forgotten to see the obvious. ‘Of course something was wrong with him’, she chided herself. Though she was unaware of his circumstances, she should have recognized the signs… she should have known, better than anyone, the terrors of being trapped within your own mind.

Joshua let go of her without warning, pushing her back to a stand as she gasped in surprise; she would have spun in preparation for a sneak attack, but she heard him roll farther away as the shroud of dust and dirt settled about their parcel of the arena. There was a quake as he stepped away, and she could guess he kept his back to her. Lillian bit her lip, shaking her head.

‘I’m sorry, Josh. I still have to win this.’

Rather than spinning on her heels and stabbing him in the back, however, Lillian darted away in the opposite direction, heading for the pyromaniac and the mercenary. She was sweating profusely, only now noticing how torridly hot the arena had become: it felt like being slowly cooked inside a furnace, and the thinning air did nothing to help. Though indestructible, the walls of adamantine were still metal, and they were only minutes from the incandescent glow of a branding iron.

She looked back to the Pagoda warrior in his stand-off, only to catch one of his sidelong glances. He seemed grateful, perhaps for freeing him from whatever mental beast had caged him, perhaps for not betraying his trust by knifing him from behind… it could have been anything, really, but Lillian only looked away, hiding the dark remorse in her blood-ringed eyes.

In the end, Joshua never noticed the five needles of blue-metal in his arm. He never noticed that she’d cupped her hand beneath his injured hip, stealing a handful of his blood…

He never noticed that she’d already stabbed him in the back.

Lillian stuck Josh’s arm with five very small Prevalida needles (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=20558). When her hand touched his hip in the fall, she took samples of his blood. None are currently magical, or magically-enhanced. This and the minor bunnies approved by Numbers.

[Silence Sei]

The mute had little time to alter his weapons course. This man had been attempting to kill the mute mere seconds ago. The youngest Orlouge had been given enough of a reason to defend himself, and put an end to Talen's life. Then there was the whole fact that Sei was in a competition where everybody tried to kill each other. All of those facts did not stop Sei's reaction to his mortal blow.

As Marcus moved from atop him, the mute's eyes widened. The emei piercer slowly retracted back into the mystic's ring as he fumbled onto his stomach, then his feet. Sei kneeled by Talen's side, feeling that no man should be allowed to die without somebody there to grieve. The sky blue eyes of the mute began to fill with droplets as he looked to his victim.

Sei actually felt remorseful for having every right to kill a man.

No. That wasn't true. There was never a right to take another's life. Sei had spent the better part of ten years proving that he did not have to kill to be a protector, to be a hero. Now this man lay before him dying, casting a cloud over the mute's head. Even in death the warrior fought to his last breath, and for what? To entertain a bunch of blood-thirsty masses?! Sei could take this no longer.

The heat of the flames threatened to cause boils to arise on the mute's skin. Sei was unsure whether or not this was due to the fire before him, or the one within him. Reaching towards his back, Sei knocked a few more shards from his spine as he grabbed the hilts of his twin swords. The three foot s-shaped blade quickly shot upwards to catch the dagger thrown at him. Turning to find the thrower, Sei witnessed Marcus Book attempting to assault the demi-god of a man that was giving Godhand and Lillian a run for their money.

"NO!" Sei's rage filled the stand, his mental voice nearly causing weaker minds to pass out from pain. "NOT ANOTHER ONE! THIS TOURNAMENT BE DAMNED! AS LONG AS I STAND NOBODY ELSE WILL FALL!" focusing his entire energy on the swords before him, Sei closed his eyes and hoped he could make it in time.

Opening his eyes, the mute saw the lines forming behind Joshua. The orange hair quickly took shape, the blue eyes following suit. By the time the arms were formed with matching swords, it was obvious that Sei Orlouge had just created an exact mirror image of himself. The doppelganger quickly grabbed onto the hilt of his long sword, all four feet of it singing to the wind as it was swung at Joshua's shoulder. Sei had hoped to cripple the man into completely avoiding Marcus' attack. He had meant what he had said.

Even if he had to cut off their arms and legs, Sei was going to make sure another person in this damndable Cell did not die. At least as long as he was standing.

While his copy was busy with this, Sei stuck his arm into the cloud Talen had formed as he lay dying. The coolness of the cloud brought a smile to the mystic's lips. The cloud of shadows must have absorbed some of the moisture off of Sei's sweating and bleeding form. It now possessed water particles. Looking towards the fire elemental, Sei raised both of his Gemini Blades into the cloud. The dark cloud quickly grew to gigantic proportions, hovering over all of the contestants but stopping just short of the barrier that trapped them within. Sei had successfully focused some of the magical properties in his Zodiac Weapon into the cloud to cause it to take such a monstrous form.

The rage that now fueled Sei, as well as the cloud itself, were two of the greatest weapons Talen could have left the mute. Sei looked at the smoke rising up into the cloud. It quickly seemed to absorb a lot of the heat that Rayse had caused in mere minutes. Sei kept his focus on the elemental as he heard the greatest sound he could have been given.

The sound of a thunder bolt... within the dome.

Rain drops began to cascade onto the floor, causing the once dusty soil to form a slippery mud. What blood was left on the mute quickly began to wash off as the cool rain drops touched his body. The cloud had caused a rain storm to form within the great cage they were all trapped in. The rain quickly began to extinguish any flames that Rayse had produced in his monologue of catastrophy. The steam from the mixture of rain water and heat seemed to just fuel the cloud further, causing an even greater torrential down pour. The mute's eyes darted to each competitor while the cool water rain down his features, sbringing his slightly spiked hair to fall to his shoulders.

Half of them were healthy, the other half were badly injured. It took a traumatic event for Sei to realize he was somewhere in between. But two half-injured Sei's would make one healthy mystic. Furthermore, he had just issued a challenge to every last person in this tournament. The only choices were slaying the ‘Protector of Radasanth’, or not continuing the bloodshed at all. Sei knew that everyone was going to chose the latter option, and he was finally ready to fight to the death for something here.

In other words...

They...

...were...

...screwed.

[Godhand]

Godhand was struggling for breath. He was tired and that was part of why he was so drained, sure, but beyond that it was HOT. It was hotter than Hell! His hair was pasted to his forehead and perspiration was dripping into his eyes. The mercenary removed a sullied hand from his abdomen, running it through his hair and slicking it back with blood and sweat.

He liked to keep it classy.

The swordsman stood up, finally having caught his breath. He sheathed his blade and shifted his gaze to the rest of the cell, already a hand tentatively hovering over one of his revolvers. Sei was fighting off a pack of rabid swine (that's what charity got you), Cronen was skating around the arena and a hooded man was sending out wave after wave of fire with but a sweep of his hand.

And then he saw her.

A beautiful young woman with perfect porcelain skin. She was small, but not short. Rather, she was petite. Perfectly proportioned with just the most modest, austere whisper of carefully rationed feminine charms under her cloak. Her facial features seemed sculpted by a man with divine inspiration; the delicate chin, the subtle brow, the dazzling blue eyes. She was an angel.

An angel swinging a one ton makeshift flail.

Good lord! He was in love.

Wait.

"What the...Fuck?"

Was that Lillian?

"WHAT THE FUCK!?"

He'd dropped his blade in surprise at finding the meekest, most pacifistic member of the NWO in a tournament as bloody as The Cell. But that wasn't what had caused him to exclaim an expletive. Rather, he'd been so mesmerized by the (previously incognito) beauty swinging the flail that he'd failed to notice the man that'd hitched a ride with the crumpled up iron door. And before he could do anything, shoot him while he was on the vine, ANYTHING, he'd detached and was now flying towards Godhand at terminal speed wielding a FLAMING Goddamn sword! He looked like the angel of death and Godhand was panicking!

But he still moved instinctively, and right away his right leg snapped forward with enough power to send the hooded man sailing clear through the supposedly indestructible force-field and aaaaaall the way to the scene of the crime.

Except the pleasing bone-crunching impact he expected to feel on his leg never came. Instead it'd gone RIGHT THROUGH the man as he dissolved into fire, and having put so much momentum behind the blow Godhand nearly prat-fell. He whipped his head to the side as he heard the tell-tale sound of a fire burst only to see the man flying at him again like some sort of evil goddamn spider monkey. He'd retained all his momentum but this time he had him. He threw out a fist to greet him with but there was a 'poof' sound and he'd disappeared again. He heard the sound of fire but couldn't seem to find the man, and that's when he started to get nervous. Just then though, some base animal instinct kicked in and he looked up to see the pyromancer falling towards him. Too quick to see, Godhand hooked him from the shoulder to the crotch in mid-air and spun around, seeking to powerslam his attacker into the ground with enough speed and ferocity to leave him crippled for life. Just as he was about to make contact with the floor, however, there was another flash and a burst of fire and Godhand was burning.

He'd disappeared at the last second, leaving a conflagration of flame to burn the mercenary and spread all over his clothes. His shirt in particular had caught fire but good, and then without even thinking about it he suppressed his pained expression, puffed out his chest and ripped his shirt apart to the delight of the crowd. He felt more than saw the firebug behind him, and with one motion he turned around and pointed to his face while rearing back a fist. The hooded man slashed at him suddenly and got him good across the arm, but just as Godhand was about to lunge for him he threw down some sort of bomb and the area was consumed by smoke.

Panic time again. He knew the man was an accomplished mage and blind as he was, he was easy pickings for any sort of massive fire deluge he could and would summon. He fell to his knees and frantically searched the ground, one of his hands finding his sheath just as a sound like a gunshot was heard and the mercenary brought it to his chest to protect himself.

The exploding fire bullet was consumed instantly by his sheath, saving him for the third time that fight. The bastard probably expected an explosion and blood, and he certainly got it, but probably not like he was expecting.

Godhand, bare chested and furious had emerged running out of the smoke like some sort of angry rhinoceros. His form was sloppy, with his arms swinging at his sides, but he enjoyed the element of surprise and was able to slam his arm against the pyromancer's side with all his monstrous strength, sending him flying and likely breaking not only a good amount of his ribs but his spine as well.

He sucked in breath after hard breath, his powerful chest rising and falling with each intake. He wasn't pretty like Joshua Cronen or Sei Orlouge. He didn't look majestic when he was angry. He felt, looked and acted like an enraged gorilla.

Which, really, he more or less was.

Godhand receives burns to his chest and arms, tears off his burning shirt, recieves a considerable slash wound on his left arm and then knocks Rayse into the air (approved by Rayse).

[Breaker]

"There is never nothing going on."

Medsan had spoken those words to Joshua so often that they seemed to operate on a reel in his mind, popping up every so often. The quotation applied in a different way at the moment; there was too much happening in the arena for Cronen to stay aware with only one line of sight.

Beneath the rather extradoridinary patch, his left eye opened. Rather than seeing only darkness, the martial artist developed split vision. His right eye watched Marcus Book snag his sword and slowly answer the challenge. Beyond Book, the mystic glowed with power, magic emanating from his being as strong as the fever from the ground. Although the hellish heat evaporated Cronen's sweat as fast his pores produced it, one of his boots' many enchantments kept his feet at a comfortable temperature, which also served to stop his core temperature from skyrocketing.

Behind Cronen and to his right, a floating eyeball peered from the only empty doorway in the adamantine wall. Through the enchanted eyepatch, Josh saw everything it saw. He closed his right eye, just long enough to examine the Cell behind him.

The Angel Eye swept over the far end just as Godhand, on fire, tore his shirt off. "That explains the screaming and explosions..." having the pyromaniac fight the titan suited Josh just fine. He continued his scan until he saw Lillian toss him a look while scampering towards the battling behemoths. Gratefully, he glanced over his shoulder to meet her gaze with his uncovered eye. The resulting skew of split perspectives forced him to shut the eye behind the patch, feeling slightly dizzy.

The wounded warrior with the sword approached with foreboding in each footfall. Cronen should have paid attention to him, but he couldn't stop staring at Sei. The mystic appeared to be going slightly mad, something Josh could appreciate, but a massive amount of magic coming from the mute was merging behind him. Unable to discern its nature, Josh closed his right eye and opened his left.

The picture the Angel Eye showed him seemed impossible. Sei stood behind him. Josh blinked. Sei stood some distance in front of him and behind him. And the doppleganger drew a sword. Frustrated, Josh retreated the Angel Eye a safe distance down the corridor, tore the patch off and stuffed it in his pocket.

Marcus Book and second Sei struck as one being, and in the same instant Breaker reared his ugly head from within.

Josh was water, as liquid as the rain falling all around. He flowed backwards like an unexpected undertow, exiting the arc of Marcus' slash and invading past the effective range of second Sei's. He stamped out Breaker's attempt to seize control, like forcing a hungry bear back into its cave. He sank to one knee, formless yet with perfect form, held the haft of the spear above his head with both hands to block the longsword at its hilt. His next feat might have made the attacking pair stab each other, but a realization suddenly sprang out of his subconscious. A realization so chilling his constant motion ceased for an instant.

Rain fell all around. Dark clouds within the arena blocked out the sun. And he could smell something sulfurous, a familiar scent that made his hair stand on end.

Electricity in the air...

"Lillian!" He bellowed as energy from above gathered to strike at his unique electric signature. "Drain me agai--" Marcus Book stabbed at Cronen's heart, but two forked bolts of lightning got there first.


*

The point of Book's sword found its mark and stopped as if striking solid granite.

Breaker opened his mouth and let out a sound too guttural to be a laugh. A roar of freedom and exaltation. A scream of battle as he reversed the spear and stabbed upwards at Second Sei's groin. A cry for carnage when the longsword split his back from shoulder to armpit as he leapt over the pathetic one. A growl of knowing in mid-flight as he threw the spear behind him. An eloquent explosion would be the result if it struck the ground between them. He had charged the thing with enough of his infinite energy to kill them both.

The Breaker Boots struck the ground and the beast whose namesake they bore charged Sei Orlouge. He felt better than a golem in a bar fight. The smell of blood all around invigorated him. The crackle of dried blood on his face and body soothed him. The instinct to spill more blood - enough to bathe the arena - fueled him. The crackle of electrified air overhead promised a steady supply of narcotic pleasure. Even the blood fanning from the wound on his back resembled sexual release.

The bull rush continued. The horns - his arms - swung to batter those blades aside. Sei was the source of the magic. Breaker hated magic. He aimed to seize Sei in a bear hug and drive him through the wall.

To squeeze him 'til those clear tears turned crimson.

The spear is now essentially an impact grenade with a five yard blast radius, thrown in the general direction of Second Sei/Book.

[Amen]

Marcus grunted as he struggled to sink his blade deeper inside the Breaker, but it would go no farther. Something was indisputably off, striking all notions of glory from the paladin’s mind: the danger he was in went beyond defying an enemy one had no hope of besting. This, quite suddenly, felt like standing in a god’s shadow.

“Oh,” Book hissed, “for fuck’s sake.”

There had been panic in Joshua’s voice a second ago, and then a flash of light and heat amidst the unexpected downpour. Now Marcus looked at the man, and saw something else living behind his eyes, something without pity or remorse or fear. It reminded him of what he felt in the Source, but more chaotic – it was insanity given flesh.

The squire had no compunction when it came to running away: he fought demons as a general thing, and only a fool would stand toe-to-toe against many of them. Facing one’s demise in battle against a superior warrior was one thing, getting crushed like a roach was entirely different.

Marcus didn’t know how Sei managed to move across the arena and get behind Cronen, but now he sincerely hoped that the maddened warrior would find the mute more threatening and thus turn on him first. Mentally repeating that desperate prayer, Book turned and ran.

His panicked mind went into overdrive, processing the change that had come over the warrior, and somehow he put two and two together. Joshua had spoken of being drained, and had said a name: Lillian. This was surely the name of the cloaked, petite figure that he had seen crumpling up an entire gate and using it as a flail – there was, after all, only one woman here. Her presence and Joshua’s words answered the question of the surge of Source-power.

With the loss of the sun and the rise of clouds and rain, hope for survival had unexpectedly returned. As he ran, still terrified that the possessed warrior was behind him, Marcus yelled urgently. “Do it!” he roared. “Drain hi-"

And then the whole world went red and white and there was a burst of sound, a noise that obliterated all other noise and left only high ringing, and the paladin was lifted bodily off the ground and then thrown as if utterly weightless. Book knew nothing of the spear or its altered properties, or even that it had been thrown. Granted, he didn’t know much of anything at the moment, except that he was briefly midair and that it hurt.

Whether it was instinct, training, or dumb luck, Marcus curled his body as he flew and put his head between the protective cushions of his thick arms, which likely prevented his skull from being cracked open as he collided with the unyielding arena wall. He hit the ground next and wheezed, but held onto consciousness out of sheer frantic willpower. The flesh of his back was red and blistered and he ground his teeth at the profound agony the wound gave him – and the ubiquitous rain was a constant irritant. He screamed the pain out, as if he could exhale it, and his voice seemed muffled beneath the obstinate ringing in his ears.

The paladin tried to get to his feet once, and then the pain struck him down again so as to make him vomit up his last meal on the wet arena floor, but the man was nothing if not stubborn. He regained his feet on the second try and staggered, grim-eyed and pale, steadied himself, and then ran after Breaker. Beyond his charging foe, Book saw the styled Hero of Radasanth, far from where he’d been a few short moments ago, but did not dwell on what made no sense to him. He could not have guessed that there were two of the blue-eyed protector.

Alone, the paladin was nothing before Cronen’s incredible might, but Sei…well, the mute had proven himself to be impressive in his own right. Perhaps it behooved him to aid the mystic a second time, while there remained the slightest bit of strength in his battered form.

[Duffy]

The dagger flew across the arena like a dart, excellently balanced and poised to kill. Duffy barely had enough time to bring up his own blades in a cross, trying to knock the prevalida edge up and out of harm’s way. With a timely chink and a spark, Joshua’s weapon scattered away and Duffy stepped back arms flailing in shock. Somehow, despite the sheer strength applied behind the throw, he had survived.

Whilst he was, for all intent and purpose still alive, the pain in his upper left arm was growing. The sun emerged to cast its gaze down across Aequitas and Trezlisn, so too did it scrutinise the mud balm which had soothed and aisled the wounds inflicted by Sei’s glass menagerie. It cracked and ruptured, like the magma flow of a volcano scouring the land of all life, until the cold air twanged memories of regret and crimson tides into the bard’s mind. He stretched, twirled and examined his general state. “Well Ruby said actin’ ain’t never gunna be pretty.”

The Aria placated it's paragon's mind with an ancient verse, revealing one line at a time very slowly. The stormy seas of silver rocked back and forth in it's great otherworldy container, and Duffy swayed slowly with it. The Narrator almost boomed the verse over the arena, in a dreary and solemn voice that could rupture the spleen or send swathes to sleep.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried,
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

His eyes began to fade to white spheres of heroism once more. But it was not Lysander that began to emerge.

He turned his attention to the melee and was enamoured by the complexity of the competitors’ exchanges. Sei and Joshua with the paladin somehow still alive in tow were forming one cavalcade of violence, and Godhand and Talen still stood on the flanks every little bit of their monstrosity still revealed. It dawned on Duffy that he was nothing but a supporting role in a very complicated adaptation, who did not fully understand the political undercurrent that washed away their sins. He span his daggers around again, patted down the bandages which were now dry with blood and the scattering dust of the dry mud, and thanked Tantalus he had remained unscathed thus far.

Then he heard Sei’s proclamation, and he settled his gaze on the ‘hero’ of this slum-hold city. If the hero of Scara Brae, silent for so long and unrecognised despite his good deeds was going to fall here in the Cell, it would be ensuring that Sei had to fight for his title and for the right to make such outlandish claims. He walked slowly forwards towards the copy which had declared no-one to die, and scooped up the delyn dagger as he advanced.

“I shall take that challenge, Sei; I shall see to it that your eyes are awakened to the type and eidos of a hero’s late philosophy!”

With very little skill or accuracy, Duffy threw Joshua’s dagger at the swordsman, ‘aimed’ for the shoulder and at the same time, he kicked into a run and patted out the rhythm to his favourite melody with arms stretched wide like an eagle’s wings, and a grin plastered on his face that added percussion.

He sang of death, he sang of sacrifice, he sang of transcendental agony.

[Hysteria]

So this was what it was like to die... Thought Talen calmly.

It wasn't so bad. The pain had dulled, just as his vision did slowly. Around him there was chaos. Flames, giant bits of metal, flying flaming men, half-metal men, the cell had it all, but Talen found it difficult to focus on them now.

Blood flowed from the wounds in his chest, turning his greying shirt into a sticky black mess. His eyes blinked trying to clear away the darkness that spread across his vision. A smile spread across his face slowly, a little private joke.

I suppose I didn't do too badly....


* * * *

“But Mel, isn't that risky?” Asked Talen, unsure about what his friend was saying.

“The bigger risk is to not do anything. You will end up spending your whole life not living a day.” ?Mel said rubbing his chin with a smile, “Don't worry though. This is just one life, and you need to make the most of each one.”

Talen looked at his friend. He had no idea what Mel was talking about.

[center]* * * *[center]

Talen's eyes dropped closed and he slumped to the ground, his mouth still smiling to his private joke. Perhaps he would get to fight some of these warriors again, and this time land a hit.

Fin!

[Silence Sei]

Anita Orlouge could not believe her eyes. What she was watching below had caused tears to fill up in the teen's own eyes. Her papa was having another episode, something the mystic only did when in extreme and dire situations. As a matter of fact, the last time Anita called Sei losing such control was...

Anita's eyes went back to 'Uncle Max'. The last time her father had lost such control was the last time the mute had fought the man in the white jumpsuit. Their duel had been quite epic, a true battle of titans. It was nothing like this absolute carnage going on now. Sei had been pressured enough by Dirks to use those same Gemini Blades he possessed now. During that battle, Sei had lost control and he inadvertently attempted a strike towards his daughter. It would have been a killing blow.

If not for Max Dirks, Anita would be dead. As she snapped out of the situation, she looked over to her father's friend. Surely he would also realize that Sei was having the same mental breakdown as the one before. It was no wonder that when someone as incredibly smart as her father began to fall from grace, he would surely start loosening his grip on sanity as well. The girl looked to Dirks and mumbled something quietly.

"if you have to kill Papa to stop this, do it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The doppelganger had found his mark, and was happy with the blow. Jumping backwards, the double caught more of the after effect of the makeshift grenade than the actual explosion itself. It was filled with the powers of lightning, the power to instantly vaporize anybody (with the exception of this 'Breaker' guy) with a single blow. The double took note as his feet planted into the mud, sliding backwards a bit before following the man known as Breaker.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sei had known better than to issue an open challenge to so many still in the Cell, but he did not care. It seemed as if the call was going to be answered by Duffy alone. As Sei's eyes turned to the one who thought he could best the Dragon of Drantrak, he gripped his swords tight.

And then it hit him like a ton of bricks.

Breaker's arms almost knocked away both of the mystic's blades with a single motion. The mute steadily held onto the s-shaped sword with his right hand, but the long sword managed to escape his grasp and fall to the ground. Sei howled in a mixture of pain and frustration. Of course, being mute nobody heard the actual physical proclamation of the strategist. Sei had felt as though his ribs were bruised (at least), but he had managed to avoid a complete vice grip that this man was attempting.

The charge continued as Sei stumbled backwards. Sei quickly raised his left hand to chest level as Breaker continued his assault. Throwing a left hook directly in front of him, Sei hoped to catch his 'bull' by surprise. It was rare that magic users such as Sei managed to be almost as physically powerful as they were magically gifted, so the blow would be enough to at least cause a sharp pain to the right side of Breaker's neck, directly above the shoulder.

If the blow connected, Sei would once again activate the magic of his ring. The emei piercer would shoot forward into the neck of the titan, though it would be much smaller than it had been against Talen. Sei could feel the power of the man before him, and knew it was the mute's own carelessness that had bestowed this bout of strength in his opponent.

But that meant he was powered by electricity. Electricity had its roots in light.

It was a long shot, but if his two-pronged attack had worked, Sei would concentrate every fiber of light magic left into his being. He was going to once again drain Breaker of his violent tendencies. Of course, Sei knew not the difference between Breaker and Joshua Croen. Had anybody stopped to actually talk during this damn tournament aside from the mute himself, he may have found that out. It was more than likely going to hurt the mute further, but he was going to siphon the energies that now revitalized Breaker into his own form via the 'iron' emei piercer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The double had failed in reaching the original Orlouge in time before he was rushed. Standing where his predecessor had been, the mirror image rushed to grab the hilt of the long sword that had to the ground. The speckles of mud that covered the once shiny weapon made it seem as though it was just somebody's play thing.

Duffy's dagger throw almost had found its mark. Feeling the cold sting of dehlyn against his left cheek, the mute turned to Duffy. The line that the dagger had made lined just across the copy's face from his nose to the middle of his cheekbone. Blue liquid began to ooze out of the newly acquired wound as the copy clenched its teeth towards the actor. It was time to get people to stop attacking his 'father' and start making this more of an even match.

Placing the spare long sword to its holster at his back, the doppelganger stood still. Grinning a bit as he could feel his oncoming attacker, he uttered a simple phrase...

"If I would, could you attempt to kill me? I don't think you have the power..." Sei intentionally put the stinging of the word 'attempt' into his opponent's brain. He was taunting him. He was telling Duffy he was not a challenge to the mystic, and in the clone's mind, he wasn't.

[Neville Longinus]

Having just backed off from the juggernaut of a man, Rayse tried desperately to catch his breath as he put his sword into his left hand and pointed at the mass of smoke expanding from Godhand's position with his right hand. The little tar-based mini-molotov had done its job in temporarily blinding the man. Like the other two, Rayse had his own gun, but he didn't need a holster for it. Sliding his thumb across the ring on his right index finger like he was lighting a match, a burst of light erupted from the tip of his finger and made its way toward the mercenary.

The explosion that followed put a smile on his face. Unlike his other abilities, his enchanted ring had its own set of limitations. He couldn't turn into fire right now to save his life, so it was really his last gambit to finish Godhand off. The red blast mixed with the black smoke and rose to the top of the force field, spreading across and further impeding any outside light.

"I, is that it?" he asked in a low voice, his breath interrupting his speech. "I expected m, more out of you, b-big guy."

That's when he noticed the dark raincloud that was within the force field. The heated explosion from his fiery gun mixed with the dark cloud to make the downpour warmer, but it didn't stop the rain. His shock turned to rage as he realized that someone was on to him. The growth of his flames on the surface had been dulled, but he knew that his plan was still proceeding underground. Nonetheless, if he didn't hurry then it wouldn't be long until someone found a way to extinguish that as well. He reached into his side pouch and pulled out the last three throwing knives, turning around and tossing them into their respective locations. They were off by a bit from forming a perfect diamond, but the precision didn't matter.

When he turned back around, he froze in terror as an enraged mass of fire charged from the smoke with an indescribable fury in its eyes. He could barely move, much less dodge the attack, so he tried desperately to put his sword between them. Godhand's punch tore through the sword and cracked the Damascus in two, sending half of the blade flying into the sky. The burning strings around it all snapped and fell to the ground, burnt out and inert. The fist continued and slammed into Rayse's chest, knocking the wind right out of him and making him drop what was left of his sword. The sound of his ribs cracking entered his ears as if it was in slow motion. His feet started lifting off the ground from the force as the mercenary picked him right up with just his fist and sent him flying into the chamber wall like a cannon. Slamming into the adamantine, he heard another cracking noise and slumped down to the floor, his vision darkening.

He shook his head and bit down hard into his lower lip, causing blood to drip out of it. Losing his consciousness was not an option at this point! Parts of his body were starting to feel numb; Did Godhand break his spine? If it wasn't for the sword absorbing some of the hit, there's no doubt that the mercenary would've punched a hole right through him. The pain was so intense that he couldn't tell if he was even feeling it anymore. He caught part of the magical thread out of the corner of his eyes; He was sitting on it. The desire to burn overwhelmed him. The pain was nothing compared to the urge to see nothing but flames, engulfing everything in their wake.

The tattoo lines almost entirely covered his body. He didn't know who he was, but he remembered being born into a world of fury. Not able to stop being angry, he found solace in the only thing he knew how to do: Cause fires. Wandering from town to town, every building was burned to the ground. Sometimes he found other things to do, like try to find out who this 'Rayse Valentino' guy was. That's the name that was on the business card in his bag. He decided to register as Neville Longinus; A name he saw on one of the bounty boards. There was no way to identify with the name however, since he didn't share the fate of its original owner. He was just a man with no meaning, no direction, no fate: A Fateless.

Using his hand as a pivot, he struggled to turn his body around and plant his feet into the ground. Getting up, he pressed his hand against his back and stood up straight, his legs shaking as he stood. Walking around wasn't difficult, but getting up proved to be the most challenging task. Something was loose back there, but his spine seemed to be intact. Sharp pains came from his chest however, causing him to cough and spatter blood on the ground in front of him. His right arm was still caked with the crimson dye of life as well, but it was nothing compared to his other injuries. Since he looked like he was out of commission for a minute or two, he had lost the attention of the others and started walking to the center of the chamber. There was a slight limp in his step, but he could probably sprint a bit before his legs gave way entirely. He was so close... all he had to do was get to the center.

This world that rejected him, he would return it all to nothing.

((In case it needs to be mentioned, all actions between Godhand and myself were collaborated and approved.))

[Duffy]

“If I could tear your heart out, Sei, I would do so without a fleeting ounce of heartbreak!” Duffy’s voice roared out across the arena as he approached his opponent with blistering briskness. The Aria sung its song once more, the distinct and apocalyptic arrangement found in Duffy’s head driving him on with reckless abandon to his final performance of the evening. All around him, in brandistock cut and tempest borderline, the power of nature, fire and the fury of man combined into a brilliant show of arrogance and hate. This was the very thing that Lucian had succumbed to, and Duffy would rather die or kill those who maintained the perpetual ignorance of man.

The Narrator spoke louder and louder as he went through the epitaph for the Tantalum. Each word droned with sorrow and petrified tombstones, weighing down on Duffy’s mind and anyone who cared to listen to the booming arrangement of words with little meaning.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

In the heat of the moment, Duffy found his element once more. With every flick of his daggers and every heartbeat, he remembered and rekindled the countless memories he had hidden away for so long. Each time he had triumphed, he had suppressed the need to celebrate to better himself in the eyes of the troupe. Each time he or they had failed, he had swept aside remorse to keep spirits high, drowning his anguish with lock and key and alcohol. This moment of sudden release he guessed, was the same gluttonous victory a ‘hero’ felt when he was adored or scorned by his public, his ‘people.’

Bearing down on the clone, determined to prove his opponent’s arrogance wrong, Duffy unleashed a flurry of strikes that were pushing and feigning counter attack and follow-up alike. The staccato stance appeared, and he went all out with the sum of his talent, his experience, and his hatred for what he feared he would one day become. The clash of steel and vibrant and erratic footwork would be enough to confuse any swordsman into submission or into making a mistake so that Duffy could bend at the knee and deliver a death kneel; but this was no ordinary swordsman.

“I will kill you, body or soul – I will prove myself!”

The Narrator’s voice rose in pitch to be heard over Duffy’s bum rush.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him,
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him…

To deliver his award winning line, Duffy Bracken would need to improvise a sucker-punch of extraordinary cunning and guile; this was his true test, for even death in this arena could be more forgiving than a discredited artist.

[Silence Sei]

The trap had been set. The bait had been laid out. Now all the Sei copy had to do was await the effects of the powerful (but random) Would? spell. The rain poured down as the mirrored image brought his swords to his face. Several of the blows were quickly caught by the flat parts of the mute's blade. Despite the doppelgangers best efforts to block all of the punches, several fell through his swords.

The blows were minor, about as hard as being hit by a falling fruit from a tall tree. After the third strike to the face of the mystic, what started off as 'apple shots' were quickly becoming 'watermelon blows'. All the fruit comparisons made the mute wish he had some strawberry wine to drown his sorrow, and ease the pain; inner and outer as it were.

Finally having enough, the mute pushed his blades forward, causing his opponent to plant his feet on the ground. Sliding back, Duffy looked towards his opponent as the blue-blood lowered the Gemini Blades. a small blue stream trickled out of his left nostril, seeping into his mouth. The sour taste of mystic blood would have made Sei wince, had he not been so serious at this point.

Before either competitor could make another move, another roar was heard. The telepath turned his heads to find out where the lightning had struck this time. Looking back towards Duffy, Sei realized that the roar did not come from the monstrous lightning at all. It came from a monster of a beast.

Lions. Freaking live lions were now in the cell. This was quickly starting to become more like a gladiator arena than any sort of sanctioned tournament. The beasts began to appear sporadically and the duplicate could deduce that there were at least five of the beasts. One of the creatures had appeared behind Godhand Striker, rearing its end and preparing to pounce upon its prey. The beast would soon be dead, Sei imagined.

The second lion appeared ten feet between Sei and Breaker. This beast was simply circling the two titans as they made their power plays. No doubt the monster's instincts would soon take over and it would take the victor of the fight. It was only natural that this beast would not engage in a fight between two people that could easily destroy it. One weakened giant however...

The third appeared chasing the fleeing Lillian. It was obvious that this beast had been in the middle of a hunt before Would? plucked him from its home. the lion never stopped its stride as it tailed the girl heading for Godhand and Rayse. It was going to catch some sort of prey by days end, even if it was a sixteen year old human girl.

The fourth did not seem to be a threat to anyone, but its emergence was sad nonetheless. It had formed over the corpse of Talen. This particular lion had the largest brown mane of all. Its form was nearly double that of the regular sized lions, and when it opened its teeth to crunch down on the body before him, Sei assessed that a dagger could be made out of each of the feline's teeth. For now Talen's death kept the most intimidating of the five at bay, but for how long was uncertain.

The fifth appeared as Sei brought his gaze back to Duffy. The beast had tackled the entertainer to the ground. Raising his arms up to protect his face, Duffy attempted to bring a knee into the monster's stomach. The blow had been rendered ineffective and the massive feline opened its jaws to clamp down on the actor...

...If it were not for the fist slamming into the ribs of the big cat. The blow sent the lion flying into the adamantine wall. crumpling to the ground, the lion paced back and forth as it met eyes with the denier of its lunch. Sei Orlouge (or rather, his 'impersonator') had just saved the life of the man attempting to kill him not seconds ago. The beast rose to its feet and sought to re-establish its wounded ‘pride’.

The lion leapt at Sei, only to be caught in the mouth by the long sword of the Gemini Blades. Pulling the sword out, Sei allowed the monster to fall to the floor. A pool of blood quickly formed underneath the beasts head. It was the second life that Sei had taken today. Somehow, in order to save Duffy Bracken, the death at the mute’s hands seemed worthy. Maybe now the entertainer would stop his damn assault.

Of course, the clone didn't even give notice to the fact that he had left his back open to the grounded Duffy during this time...




All bunnying approved by Duffy

[Neville Longinus]

Rayse took another step, his body wobbling as his shaky feet met with rocky ground. With one hand pressed against his broken ribs, the other pulled at his tattered cloak. Most of it came off with a strong tug, leaving only the hood and the top portion of the cloak. Blood slowly dripped out of his mouth, falling down to his chin and then falling onto the ground below. The rain that fell upon him immediately turned into steam. His furnace-like body could not feel the cold, only the endless intense heat made him feel alive. Even so, he couldn't even feel heat unless it was extremely high. Below him, the heat had turned the rock into magma, slowly turning and twisting. It was calling him to him, begging for release into the surface. Could it satisfy his desires?

He finally reached the center of the chamber, but he had caught the attention of an over-sized beast that was feasting on a corpse of an unfortunate competitor. Their eyes met, Rayse's glare intimidating the lion.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" he asked before breaking into another fit of coughing blood.

While he was wiping his mouth and looking at the ground, he felt tremors. The pebbles below were shaking every few seconds, and there was a thumping sound that was getting louder and louder. As he looked back up, he saw the lion stampeding towards him, looking for its next meal. Rayse was having none of it. He had come too far to be eaten now.

He strained to lift up his right arm once more, pointing at the lion with his right index finger. In the same way he attacked Godhand, he flicked his thumb across the ring and let loose a fiery bullet that collided right into the lion's head, quickly engulfing its entire body in torrid flames. This was likely his last shot, as the ring fizzled out and turned dark immediately afterward. The lion emerged from the explosion and continued its charge, its rage surpassing its own feeling of pain. However, each of its prints left a pool of blood. Right before it reached Rayse, it collapsed.

Before anything else could come his way, he flicked a spark to one of the daggers, sending a line of fire that coasted along the magical thread. The flame quickly spread and formed a diamond shape on the inside of the chamber. Everything was ready now. The rainstorm was bothersome, but it was about as effective as trying to put out a forest fire. The last vestiges of Rayse Valentino left his body as the tattoo lines fully covered his body, pulsating with a dark glow. He raised up his arms...

Every time I wake up, I am in utter torment. I can't control my anger, my anticipation, my sorrow. But... the fire gives me solace. It is the same as me; A creature born from the whims of others, only able to destroy everything it touches. If my only purpose is to burn the world....

So be it.

Using the remnant of the energies Lillian transferred to him, he slammed his fists down into the ground. The entire chamber started to shake. A wispy trail of fire was pulled from the burning magical thread, flowing into him. The fire below rumbled, grumbled, and finally rose up to greet their master. Fountains of lava burst from various parts of the chamber, spewing molten rock and causing the rocky ground around to crack and give way. The fountains receded, being replaced by several growing pools of lava.

In some parts of the chamber, the effects were more pronounced, causing sections of the ground to collapse entirely into lava. The enormous lion next to him lay on cracking ground, and moments later it fell in entirely. Its flesh seared and melting, and the last thing Rayse saw was its skeletal figure disappearing below the burning liquid. The flames along the walls regrew with a new vigor, and Rayse was finally starting to feel... warm. Like the mother he had never holding him close, he finally felt home. The others have been feeling the heat this time, but now that it was hotter than a desert due to the force field keeping all of the heat in, Rayse was only just starting to notice.

He let loose a maniacal laugh, his body licked by flames from underneath as pools formed all around him. His strength was starting to return, the fire filling in the cracks of his broken bones. The images of the burning town flashed throughout his mind, and it seemed he had recreated that event once more. Stomping his foot into the ground, he caused a rush of fire to burst from the ground around him and then fall silent. He enjoyed his handiwork, following the flames all around with compelling passion. All of the chamber now was steaming, the top of the force field sending the steam back down to create a thin, humid fog. Anyone dehydrated in this heat would have hazy vision.

There was only one thing left to do.

"I have a request for all of you!" he screamed, the flames allowing his voice to soar over the breadth of the chamber. "Make your deaths as painful as possible! I want you to feel every second of your mortality being stripped away, so don't be shy!"

((I really need to reset my timer so I'm making this early. Summary: Much of the ground is still intact, but roughly half of the surface area of the chamber is now covered by pools of lava and 'islands' surrounded by lava. The pools are growing slowly. It's hotter than a desert.))

[Ataraxis]

The earth hissed like a bed of smoldering coals, cracking under the lapping waves of fire that had transformed the arena into a blast furnace. Every step nearer to the walls was met with a choking flare of heat, blinding her along with the sweat that dripped into her eyes. Every breath was a dry heave, a violent struggle for the smallest gulp of rarefying air, and she wondered how the perpetrator of this cataclysmic heat haze could remain so hale and hearty beneath his all-concealing mantle. Lillian had already pulled back the folds of her own cloak, hooking them behind her shoulders in the semblance of a cape that even now billowed in the scorching winds.

There was a rumble from above, and Lillian risked a glance to the growling darkness within their cage. She saw the cloud grow fat with ambient moisture, felt her throat further parched by the thinning air. Sheet lightning crackled from its belly in blue-white flashes, and she raised an arm to shield her eyes. There was a sudden prickling of invisible needles on her skin, and she knew what was coming.

Before she even heard the thunder clap twice, two bolts of lightning had already struck Joshua dead in the chest. Lillian stared in utter disbelief at the man, standing statuesque with steam hissing from his body and a sword planted in his chest. Her mind reeled with his final words, lamenting as she sought to understand what he had meant, to understand why he had asked to be enfeebled right before being smote… until the dead man moved.

The bulky warrior Sei had rescued reiterated Joshua’s plea, but it was too late. The paladin had pulled his sword back, without a single drop of blood marring its steepled tip. Unscathed from all assaults, the beast caught the man’s throat amusedly, hurtling him into the far walls like a mere rag doll… and that was the moment Lillian lost track of everything around her.

Exploding spears, hails of fire, charging bulls and a symphony of broken bones. During this, she stood still under the falling rain, suffocated between the soaking cold and the ongoing heat. A roar came from behind, and from the void, a wild lion had emerged. Lillian gasped, kicking the ground to dash away in bewilderment, but her boot slipped against the nascent mud; she almost recovered in time, but her knee still struck the thirsting earth. So many questions were now storming through her mind, thundering against her skull with more vehemence than the clouds above. So many questions… but only one answer. ‘Survive, no matter what.’

The lion leapt high with a murderous bellow, golden pelt bristling under the downpour, and half a ton of muscles came crashing down. Its paws spattered against wet soil, tainting its regal coat with flecks and spritzes of mud; it growled in confusion, searching left and right for its vanished quarry. Lillian had skidded to the side, still wrapped in her sorcerous shadows: the beast had gone after her dark blur by mistake. Instinctively, she threw her soggy cloak over its head, slapping the wet cloth across its eyes and mouth to blind it. The creature threshed madly as it labored to bite through in vain, its irate roars muffled by the sodden fabric.

Another rumble reached her ears, but this one had come from down below. The arena shook, and she felt the brewing of yet another storm beneath the soaked crust. The ground collapsed every which way, opening the way for geysers of spraying lava. The world shifted right beneath her; an earthen wound cracked open at her feet in gushes of black mire, and she could make out in its depths the wicked glow of impending death.

Kicking the ground, Lillian grabbed a handful of the lion’s mane in desperation. She spun over it, straddling the beast as she yanked its fiery hair, kicking both heels as hard as she could into its powerful flanks. The beast cried out above the storm, a cry that Lillian had answered in kind: spurred by pain and the scream of life and death, it sprang forth in a gigantic leap. Lillian unsheathed a crystal sword from her side, bringing it to bear with a ringing vacuum through the deluge. With the same hand, she pulled her cloak off its head, letting it feel the rain and wind and violence all around. It could now hear the exploding pillar of molten rocks that had surged from behind, hear the voice of the madman that had nearly killed them both.

It landed a dozen feet away, in a patch of mud free from the pooling lava. The lion could now see the exposed throat under the man’s hood, the mad face that was taunting it, that wished its death… and with a cry of war neither human nor beast, it pounced for the kill.

Lillian is comin' atchoo with a sword (http://www.althanas.com/world/showpost.php?p=157050&postcount=20) and a lion, Rayse.

[Breaker]

Breaker's fierce forward motion forced Sei to retreat. Faster than swords could stab battering ram fists swept them aside. The mute radiated a vile stench of magic which Breaker strove to smother. But frustration built in his mind as the mystic squirreled away from his clutching talon hands.

The sheer arrogance of Sei's decision to stop made up for the time wasted chasing him.

"Punk," Breaker thought as his prey cocked a fist and swung. "You can't throw hands with me." No one ever had.

Breaker changed direction like light bouncing off a mirror. His beautiful black boots provided perfect traction even as they churned up the mud. He shadowboxed the punch and aimed a paralyzing elbow strike at Sei's spine as he sprinted past. But such a meagre assault could not slake his crimson thirst. He twisted and turned. Hands in the shape of tiger claws sent a barrage of blows at the enemy's eyes and throat. And then Breaker's momentum proved too much for him.

He tripped and tumbled backwards. Rolled like an ill-shapen speare sphere until he slammed against the wall in a seated position. His skull rang from the impact and his vision went hazy for an instant.


*

Joshua shivered uncontrollably. He sat on a bed of snow in what seemed to be an air bubble at the centre of a glacier. The limited space forced him to lean forward with his head between his knees, watching his bare feet turn blue. "There." Finally his keen eyes spotted a fissure wide enough to fit his fingertips. As he scratched furiously at the walls of his prison, he heard Medsan's voice in his mind.

"The path to enlightenment does not include self preservation."


*

Breaker blinked but everything stayed hazy. The rain from above and the heat from below seemed in fierce competion. Steam issued from the molten rock as each drop landed. Pools of lava bubbled merrily as the artificial storm diluted them. He stayed still for a moment to appreciate the warring decor his opponents provided. Also because the wall helped hold his gaping shoulder shut. A delicious aroma wafted as the adamantine got hotter and cauterized the wound. And from there he could look out at all the others to pick his next victim.

A large lion appeared. It towered over his seated frame. The two beasts locked eyes for a moment of tangible intensity. Then it licked his face and he scratched it behind the ears.

"Nothin' like a hot rocks steam bath eh kitty? If only I could get a little more of that lightning..."

[Godhand]

Satisfied that the pyromancer had been destroyed or at the very least neutralized (after all, how could he have not been?), Godhand's eyes scanned the rest of the arena for someone else. He'd heard Sei's bombastic proclamation some time ago, certainly, and though he believed himself more than capable of plowing right through the mystic, he didn't quite want to. At least not yet. He was still rather partial to The Defender of Radasanth; they shared history and with most of Godhand's old comrades-in-arms dead, he wasn't quite ready to burn that bridge for good. When you got to be his age and in his career you tried to keep as many options and friendships open as possible, lest you get cornered and forced into working for one guy because no one else will take you.

Just then, the unthinkable happened. Literally. The unthinkable had happened as he turned to see an irate lion flying through the air towards him. Godhand's base evolutionary instinct was to flee, but he battled through it and instead clasped his hands over the beast's paws, locking fingers with claws and breaking the animal's bones instantly. It gave an agonized roar but the mercenary merely spun on his heel and popped his hips, letting go of the lion's appendages and sending him spinning into the wall and breaking his neck. The hulking beast collapsed on the ground, either dead or paralyzed. Either way, it wasn't Godhand's problem anymore. The more pressing question was how the hell that had happened? Had Dirks grown so bold with their battle he'd opened the force-field just to sick animals on them? He didn't put it past the freak. He'd grill the man after all was said and done just to make sure. Nevertheless, there were currently more pressing matters to attend to.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed his fire-happy opponent limping away. He was more resilient than he thought. The mercenary moved in to take him out once and for all, but before he could the hooded man raised his fists and slammed them into the ground, causing the area to shake and shudder. Plumes of steam and fissures filled with flame sprouted all across the arena before a good portion of it spewed out lava like a volcano. Godhand dove to the side to avoid being showered with molten rock, stopping himself just before he rolled into a quickly growing pool of magma. He rolled away, carefully avoiding the still-burning globules of lava the geyser had managed to splatter the area with.

He cursed and drew his sword, prepared to run the gloating lunatic through and send him back to Hell where he so richly belonged and apparently yearned to be. But before he could even take a step towards him he saw an enormous goddamn lion leaping into the air, being ridden by a sword-wielding valkyrie and snapping its jaws near his throat, and Godhand shifted his gaze elsewhere to save himself the ensuing gruesome scene. He was confident that Lillian would quickly be the end of him.

Looking around, it seemed his choice in opponent had been made for him. Most of the contestants were dead. One hardened rookie had miraculously made it this far but didn't seem like a threat to anybody in his state. Sei had apparently taken up a vow of non-violence or at least a code of conduct and Godhand doubted he'd do anything but defend himself from the one berserk thespian. The pyromancer had about a snowball's chance in this Hell he'd created to walk away the winner from an exchange with the seamstress, and Godhand would never attack Lillian, obviously. That left the lions and the wounded gunman collapsed in the corner. It wasn't very sporting to attack a wounded enemy, he knew that, but considering the numerous blood-letting slashes he'd personally suffered, he figured they were probably about even at that point. With that thought he drew one of his revolvers, leveled it at the beast he'd bonded with and pulled the trigger. His gun had finally fulfilled its manufacturer-intended purpose.

It had been wielded against big game.

Godhand shoots at 007's lion.

[Max Dirks]

Max Dirks watched the Aequitas Chamber for a moment longer, and then looked down at his gun. It was shaking in his hands. “Damn it Phagan,” he turned to the sorcerer. “How much longer?” Dirks continued without waiting for a response, “You do realize what’s at stake here, don’t you? I didn’t come here to have a two bit magician ruin everything I’ve worked for…”

But then Dirks was interrupted by a loud fizzle. A stray piece of glass had just dissipated a foot away from the criminal in the inner layer of the protective shield. Dirks snapped around and peered down into the chamber. “Sei,” he said, identifying the source of the attack. The cherub’s 'mystic protection' spell had just been unleashed on the entire chamber. Most of the combatants managed to dodge the impact, but one was not so lucky. A glass shard crashed into Alis Grave Nil’s face and penetrated his skull. Then it lodged itself into his brain stem. The warrior stood screaming until he was buried by the rain of smaller shards that were created when mystic protection hit the shield. Alis Grave Nil fell to the ground in a bloody heap.

Dirks was perplexed. Had the self proclaimed “Protector of Radasanth” just killed a man in cold blood? The criminal was about to force a smirk when something unexpected happened. Instead of continuing to chant Dirks’ name, the crowd started chanting Sei’s name. Dirks tightened his grip on his gun and swore. “What the fuck?” Overtaken by anger, Dirks stepped away from the shield and raised his gun. He took aim at Sei and looked over his shoulder at Phagan. “Make a hole.”

“I can’t,” Phagan responded.

“What?” Dirks replied, turning his gun to his companion. “Do you think I’m a damn idiot, magician? There is no way that piece of glass would have hit the inner shield if you hadn’t opened the outer one first. Open a damned hole now.”

“That wasn’t intentional.” Phagan hissed. “If I open a gap the shield will fail.”

Powerless to interfere, Dirks lowered his gun and turned back to Sei. The cherub kept throwing Marcus Book around as if he was protecting him, attempting to rile the crowd as he did so. Seriously, Dirks thought. Was Sei that oblivious? Did he really think the crowd was cheering for his “heroism?” Dirks shook his head in disgust. He followed the cherub’s actions closely as Sei engaged himself in combat with another fellow, Talon. A brief skirmish took place but it ended as quickly as it had begun. When the dust settled, from Dirks’ vantage point it appeared that Sei was holding the boy in the path of Lillith's one ton hammer. Ultimately the hammer struck Talon and killed him as Sei scampered out of the way. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dirks said, astonished. “Two kills?” Sei was creeping up on Dirks’ kill count and the criminal was not happy.

“Are you ready yet?” Dirks turned and asked Phagan. The magician merely shook his head in response.

Dirks made a fist with his free hand and turned back to the chamber. He watched Sei until the cherub pushed a sharp thought into everyone's minds. Dirks couldn't believe the cherub's nerve. Had the cherub just announced that no more people would be killed in the Cell AFTER he just killed two people? Sei immediately used his doppelganger attack after the challenge and was now wreaking havoc on the chamber. He created a huge storm within the Cell to put out Neville Longinus’ fires and had now blurred Dirks’ view of the fray. Drunk with power and seriously fucked up mentally, ‘Silence’ Sei Orlouge, was taking Dirks’ tournament away from him.

Before Dirks could react, he heard multiple growls ring up through the cloud. “Are those...lions?” Dirks asked. “Did someone just summon lions into the cage?” Dirks asked rhetorically. Convinced it was Sei, as he was probably the only person powerful enough to do so, Dirks slammed his foot against the platform. When the cloud had cleared enough for Dirks to see down, he found Neville Longinus, the fire wielding canary dead on the ground, or at least what was left of it. “Did Sei’s lions get him too?”

“That’s it,” Dirks said, resolved. “Now?”

“No…” Phagan responded.

Dirks frantically looked around the platform for something that could help him defeat Sei, but there was nothing. So then he scanned the grandstands and eventually saw her. In the competitor's VIP section stood young Anita Orlouge, Sei’s daughter and Dirks’ goddaughter, and she was staring right at him. The criminal was caught off guard. Anita had grown much older since Dirks had seen her last, almost disproportionally so. Even at this distance Dirks could see that her body had developed and she was very beautiful. The boys at her school must be crooning for her. However, Dirks also noticed that she appeared to be quite flush. Dirks realized it was probably because she had just witnessed her father kill two, possibly three people in cold blood. Maybe she could help him take the cherub out of the battle and turn the crowd's attention back to him.

Without much thought, Dirks nodded to her and mouthed “Trust me.” He lifted his gun and aimed it at her, cocking back the hammer. When Anita saw this she feigned terror. Phagan, on the other hand, was completely appalled by Dirks’ action. “Sei,” Dirks yelled. “Sei, you damned cherub. Get rid of these clouds, I’ve got a surprise you.” There's only one man standing at the end of the Cell, old friend, and it won't be you...

(Alis Grave Nil is disqualified. Sei, since you’ve coaxed me into the battle, I will do my best to post so that you can maintain your timeframe in the next couple of days)

[Amen]

The paladin fell to one knee, and at first he was concerned that his loss of balance was a symptom of his body failing him. A quick glance about him eliminated that possibility, which would have been comforting except the arena was becoming more hellish by the minute.

Somehow, there was a pride of big cats prowling the interior of the arena, and one was already making a meal out of somebody. So absurd was this development that Marcus thought nothing of it when the quivering earth began to vomit up rivers of steam-spitting molten lava. The very floor was beginning to melt away, and the rain was doing nothing to slow the ground’s disintegration.

In fact, the rain was making the temperature worlds worse than it would have been ordinarily. The heat was rapidly becoming unbearable, trapped as it was by the magical force holding the gladiators and their destructive powers inside, and the rain was immediately evaporating at a rate equal or faster to its integration in the magical cloud. Thus, the atmosphere was intolerably humid, and Book was briefly thankful for his state of relative undress.

Still, there would be no surviving this rising heat for long. If the stifling mugginess didn't render him unconscious or worse, the expanding rivers of lava would eventually leave him nowhere to stand. Every passing moment presented Marcus with a worse way to die, and he vaguely wished he’d met his end in the myriad ways made available before now: shot fatally, stabbed, crushed, impaled, or blown up. Any, he decided, would have been preferable to melting.

It was getting hard to breathe, and Marcus had trouble discerning the various figures still alive in the Aequitas chamber. His first order of business would be to find a place where the heat wasn’t as likely to kill him in an immediate sense, and it seemed to the paladin that the worst of it was coming from the center of the chamber. His first instinct was, therefore, to move away from there, but something gave him pause.

Through the heat-distorted haze, Book could make out the shape of a man reveling in the blasphemous flame, and every fiber of his being was certain he was to blame for the condition of the arena. With that knowledge, there was little choice left: the pyromaniac had to die if Marcus was going to survive.

It was not easy to traverse the ruined battlefield. Strips of lava bubbled up from somewhere below the ground-stones, creating a vein-like network over which the squire had to move. He sought out narrower strips between the islets, leaping from here to there, until at last he landed with a painful roll on the centermost platform. Only then did he realize that he’d lost his sword somewhere between stabbing the Breaker and being blown up.

The paladin hesitated, facing what seemed to be a quick death by fire or a slower one by pressure-cooking.

“Hey!” he shouted, and his voice was as raw and cracked as the flesh of his back. “Hey, you son-of-a-bitch, look at me when I’m talking to you! What’s wrong with you?”

Apparently, without realizing it, he’d chosen the former.

So committed, Marcus charged the burning madman, intent on kicking and depending on his boots to offer some protection from the ubiquitous flames surrounding his foe. As it so happened, however, Book never got around to it: a massive silhouette suddenly exploded from the steamy cloud near the pyromaniac. The paladin watched, dumbfounded, as the silhouette melted away to become a lion, and said lion had a girl on its back, glimmering sword raised to the wind and her cloak billowing impressively behind her.

That does it, he thought. I’ll never be surprised again. Now, I’ve seen everything.

[Duffy]

Ruby gasped in the heat of the moment, and the entire troupe slipped to the edge of their seats to get a closer look as the action unfolded. The lions, whilst unnatural to this part of the world, had delighted the crowd; gasps and oohs and aahs prolifically grew louder and louder as they rampaged around the arena and took to the ebb and flow of war with instinctual ease.

“Duffy!” Lilith screamed, as the great lion pounced on top of him, after dropping him to the ground with natural finesse and brutal strength. They all stooped and covered their faces with their hands, peering out through the cracks in their fingers.

Once more, they saw the hero of Radasanth save the thief from certain death, and once more, they chanted ‘Orlougne! Orlougne! Orlougne!’

“Oh Ruby, we have to help him!” The sisters looked to one another, genuine worry plastering their pretty little faces with the concerted effort of helpless puppies.

Down in the Cell, Duffy stumbled upright with gritted teeth and clocked onto the back of the mystic. Every part of his body, every ounce of his soul screamed from the vendetta of obscurity to be fulfilled with that simple moment, but somehow, he could not. At every turn, Sei had rescued Duffy from the precipice of death and at every turn, Duffy had betrayed that paradigm with the simple rebuking clashing of blades. He was starting, although with great amounts of reluctance, to realise that Sei was a hero worthy of the title after all.

The pithy foam on his lips was starting to parch him, and the heat from the cloaked man’s inferno was drawing every drop of water from his body, a salty wash to wash the blood, mud and grime from the thief’s lanky form. Now his wounds stung, and his breath was erratic between words. The smell of sulphur and tar clung to Duffy’s nostrils and the distant roar of the crowd was nothing more than dull thundering crescendo, dulled by a pounding head and a well solicited ignorance. He concentrated on one thing only, his opponent.

Turning on a heel, he ran to the nearest circular shard of the ground and leapt across the magma. The wisps of heat drained even more of his strength, and as he stepped into the middle of the platform, the tendrils of a future death changed, and Duffy concerned himself with the graceful exit to stage right he had perfected over the years. Rayse had broken the fabric of the Cell itself, so Duffy vowed to break the purpose of the combat, prying open each crack with his bare hands burning in the fires of conflagration.

“Sei, turn and face me, come to the stage of your devastation!” With his challenge Duffy’s eyes turned pure pearl once more, and the simple plan he had told Ruby of came to fruition. “Show me all this patriotism and heroism,” he stomped a foot as he felt the natural movement of the magma churn the ground below. With a thunderous crack, the circular part of the arena occupied by Duffy rose several feet above the others with a tectonic rumble. “Show me each and every ounce of your soul!”

He twirled his daggers above his head, skipped left and right, and prepared himself for the finale. Eyes devilish and malefic through the circle of fire that rushed up around the edge of the otherworldly stage.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head
And we far away on the billow.

The Narrator's voice droned on, stopping before reading the final verse until it's words would be significant, and delivered with harrowing chill.

“It’s time,” Ruby muttered, the roar of the magma spewing up all around her friend acting as a symbol of their pledge to one another. She too heard the poem, and knew that it was time, “Let us sing, sister, let us sing of Salvar’s heat, and Radasanth’s quagmire, and the glory of Scara Brae dying in the flames of the Phoenix and the Bard.” Lilith stood up and together, they held hands and stomped their delicate little heels to lock their sense of timing together.

From the Aria the song to gel the hearts of the people with its heroes ripped out across the chants and cheers.



Ruby is singing the Paean of Phoenix Fire (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?p=160632#post160632). None of the lyrics can be heard yet, by the arena combatants at least. It will have no direct effect on anyone other than Duffy, and will not come into 'effect' until the moment of his death, so will form a part of the plot in his concluding post.

[Silence Sei]

For Sei, going fist to fist in a straight up brawl with Breaker would not have been advisable. As a matter of fact, taking on the titan with anything less than his mind and magic could certainly spell death for the mute. He just had to see if he could absorb some of the energies now crackling through his opponent's body. If he could just siphon some of that power and make it his own.

His blow was all for naught, as the punch was quickly shadowboxed by Breaker. In a counterattack, the man brought an elbow towards the back of the mute. The mystic brought his sword behind him to try and cushion the blow of the spine shattering hit. The flat of the sword caught Breaker's elbow just enough to slow the hit down from a non-lethal standpoint. That didn't mean that the blow did not feel like someone had smashed a brick into the mute's exposed and already injured backside.

Sei fell to one knee from the blow, raising his head to see if Breaker had another part to the attack. As Sei predicted, Breaker attempted a multi hit assault towards the face of the hero. Sei tucked his head in towards his chest in an attempt to make sure nothing got injured. The mute regained his footing s he took about three powerful blows to his head. Sei felt himself getting dizzy, and swore that he blacked out for a minute, because when he raised his face above him, he saw that Breaker had retreated.

Furthermore, the fire elemental had somehow turned the entire battle into his own playground. The mute's head wobbled as he watched his clone save Duffy Bracken from a lion. He also watched as Lillian gained an epic mount and went for the kill on the elemental.

Wait....what?!

Sei was sure at this point he was in mid-transit to hell. The fire was there, the vicious animals, and the warriors who could overpower Sei by blinking. Surely he had fallen asleep after a long night of defending Radasanth from its criminals and masterminds, only to find final rest in his bed that night. Surely his brother Niche would take care of his niece, Kyla Orlouge, and Max Dirks would be able to give Anita everything she desired. The man had a way of getting what he needed when he needed it, and the father was confident he left his 'children' in good hands. The mute slowly began to close his eyes and accept slipping into the abyss...

Papa, help me!

The voice caused the mystic's eyes to shoot open. Looking upwards, the mute tried to find his daughter amidst the smoke and spectators. The heat meant nothing to him if Anita was in danger. All it meant was that he had to try that much harder to get out of the Cell and save his child. Sei's eyes caught the girl, her face painted with a look of absolute terror. The magician quickly shot his eyes towards where his daughter had been looking to find Max Dirks pointing his firearm directly at the girl.

Nothing else mattered. No pain would have been greater than watching Anita die while the mystic was helpless to do anything. He had almost lost Anita once two years back, when she was caught up in the blast of Mystic Protection. Sei had sacrificed many of his spells in order to bring her back, and even temporarily relinquished the majority of his weapons. He had no qualms throwing his life away in this fight if it meant Anita would see the light of the next day.

Sei's new purpose reinvigorated the mute mentally, and he took off. His legs allowed the mute to run much faster than he would have normally under these conditions. Watching the blur that was Sei Orlouge caused the crowd to grow quiet in awe of his newfound speed. Leaping off of the cracking ground, Sei found his feet at the shoulders of his copy. Kneeling down and withdrawing the long sword sheathed at the back of his duplicate, Sei leapt into the air, he flew towards the grand master of the tournament while pulling both blades under his arms.

The black smoke began to stain Sei's face as his swords slammed into the barrier, being roughly fifteen feet off the ground thanks to his leap. Rather than being rebuffed by the magical properties of the fore field, Sei found that his swords had actually -stuck- into the dome. Sei was sure Max Dirks could imagine the stern and determined face of his rival, even if the smoke covered his entire being when the gunman looked. Sei had a way of piercing into one's soul with his eyes when he was dead serious.

Pulling the s-shaped sword out of the dome, Sei slammed it a foot and a half above where he had 'landed'. He then withdrew the long sword and slammed it into a place just a bit higher than the other sword. Sei alternated between the two swords as he climbed the magical dome that encased the fighters of the Cell. Within a matter of seconds, Sei had climbed to face his longtime rival and friend, Max Dirks. Sei then began slamming each sword in alternate turns in an attempt to get through, small cracks slowly growing wider with each slam of the weapons. Phagan was a great wizard, no doubt, but not even his powers could stop the Godly endowments of a Zodiac Weapon.

Sei would break through the protection in a matter of seconds. If Max Dirks had any sense left in him, he would know that Sei was about to do to him and his personal defense what he was currently doing to Phagans creation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The duplicate stumbled back as the original managed to make an otherworldly jump towards his target. Knowing what Sei Prime was doing, the doppelganger raised a hand, enchanting the mute with one of the two Mystic Protections it currently possessed. He could only cast it one more time, and his time was not long for this fight, so he had to make his other casting of the trademark spell last.

Turning towards Duffy, the Sei nodded in reply to his call. He was resilient and determined to make a big display for the crowd. What a showman this warrior known as Duffy was. This sword fight was going to go down as one of the best the audiences of the Cell had ever witnessed. It was time for the duplicate to step up and make sure that everyone would speak of the time Duffy Bracken and Sei Orlouge met. Strategist Vs Actor, Protector Vs Hero, Radasanth Vs Scara Brae. The mute ran towards his foe, jumping over the large crevice of magma with the same ease Duffy had accomplished.

The only difference was that Sei stayed in the air further and longer. Holding both of his swords, Sei brought the two blades down towards each of Duffy's shoulders. Despite the rage towards each other this entire time, Sei finally saw Duffy for what he was. A hero in his own rite. A showman for the people. Duffy Bracken was one of the warriors in his prophecy.

"The best of luck to you!" Sei shouted, "When this is all over, I would still like that talk with you, win or lose!"

[Duffy]

Bunnying discussed or worked on with Sei. Conclusion post to follow.

Sei burst up and over the flames like an angel of death, harrowing Duffy’s cheery riposte with a simple fear inducing twang. Orlogne’s blades bore down on him as he fell from the sky, and the thief tensed for his counter-attack. He stomped his right foot forwards and brought both his daggers from a wide-arc into a cross, clipping the swords as they descended and knotting all four strips of metal into a tangled mess with a chime. He gritted his teeth as the shock of the collision juddered down his spine and little chunks of earth kicked up from behind his hobnailed boots.

The Butterfly Catch caught the angelic warrior perfectly, a simple defence he had perfected only his mind, but seemingly it was one that evened the odds here. He smiled over his wrists as they flexed to hold off the dead-weight and brutal strength of Sei, and he mumbled, “We shall talk, indeed we shall, but of things you would not dare to dream!” Duffy side stepped, as if comically tripping up another actor on stage and let the swordsman’s weight send him stumbling forwards.

He tried to spiral and lunge with Tooth outstretched, but found the Gemini blade already blocking its path by the time he had chance to register what had happened. For precisely nine blows, they traded lightning reflexes and counter points to their respective arguments, Duffy’s daggers striking Sei’s blades in a combination of normal and reverse strikes, and Sei’s arcane style arcing and dicing the air as it boiled all around them.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down…

Throwing caution to the wind, Duffy leapt, drove his right fist with dagger in reverse into the ground and roared – drawing on his roles as a bear or lion in the simpler children’s horrors the urchins of Market Square loved so much. As he landed, he pushed down with both feet and flipped forwards, tumbling down onto Sei with his left dagger flailing in a pirouette assault. The clone barely blocked the attack and stepped backwards quickly as his assailant landed in a monkey-like stance and followed up his roar with a cackle.

“A hero never plays his true face to the crowd, a true hero dons a masque with which to enamour his people – he dons a masque that represents not what he is, but what people expect him to be.”

From the field of his fame flesh and gory…

Sei cocked a smile himself, and lowered his blade so that it pointed to the ground and settled in a calm and resolute stance. The platform rocked slowly, and more lava spewed up the sides as if the earth itself rejected the warrior’s performance. Now Duffy was tired, and his knuckle was bashed and his arm was numb from blood loss he felt alive once more. It was ironic that the only time he ever found solace in the suffocating miasma of the world, was when he was smothered by the reigns of another man’s mettle, of another man’s mind.

“We find ourselves in these dark times only through finding others, we help ourselves only when we help another to defend against the challenges life throws at us. I see that you, Sei, are the paragon of that eternal virtue – I will suffer no nightmares dying here today at your hand, if only to make you see that your purpose is so very much more than you could expect!”

Duffy scuttled forwards, and Sei distinctly brought his blade up to his waist, ready for the Monkey Man to swing out from the metaphorical tree that was stupidity once again. They clashed blades and the crowd around them roared, half of their attentions now turned to the Tantalum and the Hero of Radasanth, and half transfixed by the true Sei’s endeavour to reach the mastermind of the Cell itself, Max Dirks.

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone –

Duffy fell onto Sei like a savage, throwing skill out of the window in favour of berserk abandon. Three strikes clipped the Gemini blade, and Sei spun backwards into an arced strike looped into three follow through strokes. Duffy backslapped from the first, leapt sideways from the second, and felt the cold twang of regret in the wake of the third.

“DUFFY!” Ruby and Lilith both screamed, the notes of the Paean choked quite literally from their throats. They watched, absorbed by the scene as the thief stumbled back to the edge of the platform and reached down to his hip. As the tears flowed down Ruby and Lilith's cheeks a fire inside burst from their limbs, a unison of sorrow to Blanche flesh and spirit alike. They looked to the rest of the troupe with a re-assuring and patriarchal glare, and continued their song amidst the rising conflagration, determined to succeed in their goal.

“Fackin’ ‘ell!” He grumbled, somewhat surprised to see blood on his fingers. The blade had cut straight through his side, just above the pelvis and the crimson tide down his hip and thigh was already torrential. Nausea struck him like a ton of bricks, and he nodded to the clone.

Irony would have it that Tooth had found something to bite, in amidst the medley and melee of the two hero’s exchanges. He was too dizzy to recognise what body part it was embedded in.

“At least…” Duffy mumbled, his lips parched and cracked, “at least I drove the point home,” he fell to his knees with a thud and Nail dropped to the arena floor with a clank. Every little heartbeat flooded his limbs with a pain he could only describe as soul-rending, although he was no stranger to it. The Narrator stopped his soliloquy; the last line of a Hero’s riposte suspended on his lips as if fate had forbade its utterance.

A few moments passed until Duffy could take the strain no more. He spat out a wad of the blood in his throat and dredged the last of his courage and strength to stand, with feeble effort so that the coup de grace from his murderer could be delivered with honour and integrity.

“I have but one request,” he asked Sei, daggers held in front and hair plastered to brow. Never in all his days had Duffy Bracken looked so much like the scum dog he was.

“Give me the hero’s end…show me that you understand, and show me that I have seen you in my Prophecy of Nine. Prove to me you can help me end the shadow of Scara Brae, as you did in Radasanth…”

The Tantalum ran forward into the lion’s roar and legend’s fold.

[Max Dirks]

Max Dirks watched intently as Sei Orlouge leapt across the broken ground and began to climb the shield. “I hope you’re allowing him to do that,” Dirks asked, looking over his shoulder at the magician. Phagan gave a light nod and Dirks looked back down at Sei. For someone too weak to make a single hole in the field a moment ago, Dirks found it odd that Phagan had no problem adjusting the shield to support Sei’s weight now. Dirks wondered whether the sorcerer had ever truly been weakened by his lightning attack on Einar earlier in the tournament. But Dirks would deal with Phagan later. Right now, his concern was the ascending cherub.

Dirks waited until Sei was eye to eye with him and was aimlessly hacking away at the shield’s outer layer before he spoke. “Oh no, old friend, those blades will never penetrate both layers of the shield.” This visibly enraged the mystic, who began to strike faster and harder. Coward… Sei’s voice echoed in his mind. “You don’t seem to understand how it all works, cherub. At the end of the day there will be only one person standing in that arena. Your ridiculous rhetoric might have the crowd fooled, but I assure you that it will be me, not you.”

If Sei could talk, he’d be screaming. While the mystic relentlessly attacked at the shield, Dirks took a casual look over at Phagan. The magician was looking off towards the grandstands, apparently paying no heed to Dirks monologue. He didn’t look like he was struggling with the shield any longer, but Phagan did have a sinister look on his face, almost like he was plotting something. Mindful of this, Dirks turned back to Sei and gave his final ultimatum.

“You have two options, Sei,” finally calling the mystic by name. “You either go down there and die or she does.” Dirks visibly tightened his grip on the gun. I’ll die as a hero with my daughter at my side Sei’s voice stung Dirks’ mind. At that moment, Dirks turned his gaze to Anita. She mouthed the word, please. “Sorry Sei,” Dirks said, still looking at Anita, “There are no martyrs in the Cell.”

Then it all happened at once. Suddenly, both shields dropped and without a noise Sei lunged at Dirks. The criminal was barely able to catch the movement with his peripheral vision. He realized then that he only had one choice to protect himself from being impaled by the Gemini Blades. Without hesitation, Dirks turned his body completely and fired two shots at Sei with his 'twin' Beretta. The first caught the front of the mystic’s blade, knocking him off balance. The second shot caught his shoulder sending Sei toppling off the platform.

Dirks immediately turned back to Anita and said only “Sorry…” His apology was to her for using her as bait, not for shooting his old friend. He then turned and rushed Phagan. When Dirks stopped, his gun was against the magician’s forehead. “What the hell are you thinking?” Dirks screamed. “Put the shield up now.”

“You coward,” Phagan repeated Sei’s sentiment. “You stand up here, hidden behind an impenetrable shield so that you can cheat your way to a victory. Then you use a little girl as bait to take out the strongest competitor. You are weak, sad, pitiful…” Phagan said.

“I would NEVER hurt that girl, you stupid mage. She’s my goddaughter. The only family I have left on this pitiful rock.” He pressed the gun harder into Phagan’s forehead. “Do you really think I want to win this tournament to announce my return to Althanas? Don’t be petty.” Dirks released the gun and started walking towards the Aequitas Chamber. “I’m here for something else…something much greater…and I couldn’t just let Sei up and kill them.” Dirks scanned the battlefield until his eyes fell onto Godhand and Lillian, the members of the NWO who had destroyed his home and taken his life from him. When the crowd saw Dirks on the edge of the platform they cheered. “I’m here for revenge.”

Dirks crossed his arms, gun in hand. “Recreate the shield,” Dirks said, barely above a whisper. “Do it or you’ll never see him again…” Phagan hesitated for a moment, but soon the fields were erected once more. The combatants wouldn’t have even noticed it was gone, unless someone realized that doppelganger Sei’s mystic protection spell didn’t rain back down onto the combatants when Sei prime was shot.

(Just a filler post, no DQs yet)

[Neville Longinus]

Semi-transparent tendrils made of flames peered from the cracks below him, reaching up and wrapped themselves around his limbs and torso. The spell was complete, and in its wake Rayse had nearly taken control of the chamber. Just in time too, as his body was not likely to respond to his commands anymore. The fires that were taking hold of him were not his ally, however. Despite filling his body with life and giving him a slow, steady breath, they were slowly killing him. They fed off him, only serving to drain away what little humanity he had left.

He was living on borrowed time.

The tattoos sunk into his flesh, channeling his will into raw power. As he heard Marcus Book yell at him, he turned and smiled. A twisting whirlpool of flame rose up from one of the nearby pools of lava, and with a mere wave of Rayse's hand, the spinning torrent of fire made its way to the paladin, intending to slam down on him.

His attention was suddenly turned away by the the Valkyrie riding her steed. She approached at him with fury, intending to end his campaign.

"It's too late to stop me," he lamented. "I should thank you. If it wasn't for that little boost earlier, I couldn't have done all this."

He put out his hand as if to shake Lillian's, but as the lion pounced he formed a fist and and raised it up. As if to mimic his actions, from the ground burst a huge molten fist of magma, slamming into the lion and knocking it halfway across the chamber. Lillian jumped off before the fist hit, coming down hard upon Rayse with her crystal-sword. The pyromaniac was a bit unprepared for her speed, but the fiery bondage that came from the ground lifted him up and moved him out of the way just in time. He suffered a cut to his chest that almost reached his already-broken ribcage, ripping a hole in his shirt and spraying Lillian's much-wanted blood sample into her face.

There was, however, something else that was severed in the attack. Under his shirt was a necklace with a locket at the end of it, and it was also severed by the slash. It bounced on the ground once, and Rayse's eyes followed it. He could not understand his compelling desire to focus on the locket despite Lillian's impending follow-up attack, but his eyes were glued to the sight of the small object bouncing once more, this time dangerously close to the edge of the little island Rayse stood on.

In a moment of clarity, his expression turned to shock as he snapped back into his old self and lunged for the locket, catching it right before it fell into the dangerously hot liquid. No matter what, he could never forget the picture that was in that locket. The mother he barely knew; The last person to ever love him unconditionally. When he was a mere child, he killed another just to save this locket. As he caught it, the ground beneath him gave way, plunging the pyromaniac into his own lava. The liquid bubbled for a few moments, but then fell still. The threat of the growing pools, however, was still far from over. All of the remaining competitors had a time limit before the whole place became a volcano.

((All actions approved by Ataraxis. Also, despite what anyone may think, this is not my conclusion post.))

[Breaker]

Breaker had narrowed the list of possible names for his pet lion to "Maney" and "Fleshbreath" when the upper half of its head exploded. The ballistic force of the bullet showered him in blood and bone fragments. The training and experience his body had endured over the years forced him to throw himself forwards into the prone position. Breaker didn't care much for using firearms but found he had drawn the Colt Anaconda on instinct. The heat from the ground grew mildly uncomfortable and he knew he could not lay there for long. Long enough to shake up the pecking order in the arena though.

Breaker laughed as he sighted along the revolver held in one hand and drew a spear with the other. He cackled like a mountain collapsing as he charged it full of surplus energy so it would explode on impact and threw it at Godhand Striker. Not a very hard throw but he hoped the gunman would try to catch the spear or let it strike the ground near him. He managed to quiet his merriment to a chuckle as he gripped the gun with both hands and assessed his targets. It would have benefited his aim to stop laughing altogether but the overall carnage - most especially the lion's exploding head - was maybe the funniest thing he'd ever witnessed.

He recalled the sequence of the Colt's load from Joshua Cronen's memory easier than skimming through a cabinet of file folders. Then he took a deep breath and on the exhale, got his gun off.

"Bang!" he shouted in time with the revolver's report as a prevaldia prevaldia armor piercing round rocketed towards Godhand. "Bang, bam!" As an identical bullet and a steel hollow point sped towards the duelling forms of Second Sei and Duffy. "Bang, bam, boom!" As he fired two hollow points at the little witch who had previously drained his energy. But the revolver only clicked in time with his boom. "Damn it, I forgot Cronen wasted one of those beauties." The sixth bullet would have blown off the original Sei's head.

"Oh well, much better to take care of him the usual way..." Breaker hated it when anyone he tried to kill survived. And Sei had survived a serious salvo of blows.

He leapt to his feet and holstered the colt in one motion. But when his boots struck the ground it initiated a spider web of cracks which emitted blasts of heat. Only then did he realize he was no longer wearing a shirt. It seemed the rising magma had burned it away, leaving only the leather sash which held his last throwing knife. His grime-seared chest resembled the face of a cliff more than skin. Realzing the ramifications of this superceded any immediate assault, he leapt at the wall just as the ground he stood on dissolved into a pit of lava.

Breaker hit the adamantine feet first and sprinted along the wall. His boots made running sideways almost as easy as running upright. A second later he stopped to look before he leaped.

His piston like legs propelled him towards Sei faster than an arrow leaves a bow. He seemed to aim a double-footed jump kick at Sei's head. But as he soared through the air the weight of his right boot increased to a hundred pounds and altered his trajectory. He dropped in on his prey like a tilting knight. His right leg - the lance - aimed to shatter the mute's knee. His left leg - the shield - curled tight against his chest to fend off those biting blades.

[Ataraxis]

The sound of crystal rang in the raging storm, and Lillian’s blade cut a clean swath through the ropes of falling rain. The slash was met with mild resistance, and she knew the tip had cut deep into the arsonist’s chest, scraping against the ribs before exiting the flesh in a sputter of red. A warm spritz had reached her cheek, but she merely blinked, landing on poised feet a few inches to his right. Before she could follow-up on her attack, the girl watched in surprise as her target slipped, losing purchase on his little islet of safety before diving headfirst into the bubbling moat of molten rocks.

The lava hissed, almost joyously as it claimed its very maker. There was a whisper of steam at the center of the crimson ripples, and Lillian brought a fold of her cloak to the front, to serve as a soggy shield against the sparks and fizzing splashes. His body had sunken quickly, swallowed whole into the molten depths, and the only traces of his past existence were in the lingering smell of burnt hair. All the while, Lillian had stared transfixed at the gruesome process, like watching a newborn brood devour their mother’s corpse.

Her mind was a blank, save for a single, troubling thought. ‘You did this.’

She hadn’t pushed him in – the thought had never even crossed her mind. Lillian had intended to kill him, had prepared herself for the heinous act of murder since entering this god-forsaken cage... but not for this. Not for immolation. There was a knot in her stomach, like the pit of an avocado; she felt sick to her core, and the smell did nothing to help. ‘Get a grip, quick… you can’t just… just stand here, listless. Lily, you have to-’

She never finished that thought. Lillian heard detonation after detonation, and on the third gunshot she had faced Joshua on pure instinct. The fourth had scraped her right arm, blowing off a patch of skin in a mist of blood. The fifth had found its home dead between her shoulder and her chest. The world shifted beneath her feet, or so she thought until the she saw the caged canvas of a thundercloud, stretching far and wide before her eyes. There was ravenous fire burning in her chest, and an agony that radiated through her ribs like chain lightning. There was a bubbling behind her, and she felt a breath of heat surge up… ‘The lava.’

Lillian screamed in pain and rage, and the bellow was answered by the scrape and squelch of boots against mud. Her body had arched back in a straining bridge, and the tip of her foot was planted deep inside the soil to stop her fall. A sizzle reached her ears, and she threw herself forward with a cry of agony. With heavy breaths, she clutched her hair, patting the smoldering ends until she put them out – an odd concern, considering the hollow in her chest.

The girl eventually brought a weak hand over the messy bullet hole, lilywhite fingers digging into the wound. She tugged at the corners of the skin, wincing terribly, until she drew out a thick black net of webs. Caught within were fragments of steel, which dropped in concerted ‘plinks’ off her boots and into the mire. Dark mist was seething from the injury, and within moments it had shrunken enough to stem the bleeding. The cocoon of spider webs she had weaved under her skin had not quite stopped the bullet, but had weakened the blow substantially enough for her rib to handle the rest – even now, the bone was healing from its radiating fractures.

The guilt she’d felt had ebbed with the pain, and now her mind was clear again.

“You’re pushing your luck,” Lillian addressed the beast that had once been Joshua, her irises turning a solid crimson as she stared him down. Without looking away, she swiped her thumb and index along her crystal blade, letting the dripping red waters pool into her palm. Once done, the girl sheathed her weapon, replacing it with one of the vials in her satchel. Carefully, she poured all the fluid into the glass, then added to it the blood that still trickled for her cheek. With the sampling done, the librarian capped the vial and stashed it away, right next to the specimen she had taken from Joshua's hip wound.

Finally, she had collected all she required from this motley assortment of people. Godhand’s borrowed blood was already coursing through her veins, the source of her inhumane strength; now that she had also pocketed the Pagoda warrior’s resilience and the arsonist’s flames, she had need for nothing else here.

‘Maybe now I can grant you that favor, Josh.’

The web cocoon under her skin was acquired here (http://www.althanas.com/world/showpost.php?p=161664&postcount=30).

[Silence Sei]

The first shot had done nothing if not infuriate the mute more. The second came close to hitting the mystic’s shoulders, only to be stopped by the same spell that had injured so many back at the start of the fight. Mystic Protection activated and shot outwards as Sei was blown back into the Cell. The glass sung out in the orchestra of smoke and mist that sought to escape upwards into the atmosphere as if it had been pressurized the entire time.

As Sei fell, he had come to the realization that Dirks had set him up. He had laid a trap out for the youngest Orlouge, and Sei took it. Using his one true weakness, Dirks took out his alleged friend from this tournament it seemed. But why? Why would the Godfather of his child attempt to eliminate Sei from the contest when they had settled their scores? Not since the tavern in which Sei originally asked Dirks to be the Anita’s Godfather did the two have any bad blood.

And then it dawned on Sei as much as the light from the sun outside dawned on his face. Letting out a laugh nobody could hear, Sei could have slapped himself for not seeing it sooner. It was so damn obvious! As he fell in his hysteria, the mute eyes his double as he began to finish off Duffy Bracken. As the entertainer spoke something to the doppelganger, the clone nodded and brought his swords outwards.

Then would come down at each of Duffy’s armpits and probably find their home at the opposite ends of their entry point. Sei knew once his mirror image returned; he would gain all of the memories of the fight, all the words in the conversation. It was a benefit of the Gemini Blades. For now though, Sei had hoped that his clone could notice his descent in time.

The duplicate turned around and looked up as if to read its masters mind. Rising a hand outwards towards Sei, the clone began to fade out of existence. It was a good thing too, because at that point a bullet phased harmlessly by as the double returned to nothingness, the Gemini Blades glowing an eerie blue to show that their special ability had worn out.

That’s when Sei noticed Breaker jumping towards him. The man was attempting yet another attack on the mystic’s life, and at this point Sei didn’t care. He had figured out (in his opinion) the biggest mystery between himself and Max Dirks. As Breaker attempted his powerful strike towards the mute, he would be met with the air almost blocking the strike. Once again the arena filled with the sound of glass shattering, and Sei’s eyes focused back on Lillian.

Withdrawing his second throwing fan from his pocket, Sei opened the blue and golden dragon designed weapon and tossed it at the girl’s face. Between Sei’s mystic Protection and what was about to happen to Lillian, the Cell was going to be over in a matter of seconds.

Back at the start of the contest, Sei had cast an enchantment. The spell had actually been the first time Sei used Mystic Protection, but instead of on himself, he had casted it on Lillian’s form. The actual incantation he had casted on her was actually for a delay on the spell until Sei was ready to activate it with a subliminal image of sorts, that image being the gold dragon painted on the mute's fan. In an attempt to protect the children of the fight until the end, Sei gave Lillian his trademark spell. Now the mute wanted it back, and he was going to take it back the hard way.

The Sei looked towards Breaker as he shifted his weight away from the man, a smile forming around his lips as the glass shards around him fired out once more. Almost by instinct another glass shattering sound was heard, and the Mystic Protection activated by the now idle fan on the hot ground shot forth from Lillian like a bullet. Many of the shards collided with one another, but the slight delay between Sei’s own enchantment and Lillian’s would be enough to severely injure almost anybody left in here. Especially considering that the dome was back up, and that glass was about to come down hard.

Sei hit the ground with a thud. If not for his innate endurance, the mute would be splattered upon the ground. He could feel several shards from Lillian’s mystic protection jutting out of his arms, his face, but none of the glass was large enough to kill him. Shifting his eyes towards Anita in the stands, Sei tucked his head under his battered and bruised body before losing consciousness, and before seeing whatever effect the raining glass now had on the arena. With a few bruised ribs, torn wings, blood pouring from his nose and mouth, and more than likely a couple of broken bones, Sei slipped off into a sleep as his body lay upon the hot ground.


Anita watched in horror as her father fell towards the ground. She couldn’t have blamed Max Dirks. The man had simply done what Anita had asked in his own way. Still, the teen felt a pang of guilt in her stomach once she saw that she was the reason for her father’s loss in this competition. Looking up towards Max Dirks, Anita heard the sounds of the glass and the sickening thud Sei’s crumpled body had made.

The crowd grew silent as they watched. Anita couldn’t bear the sight of this any longer, and began to close her eyes in an attempt to allow her father to get up. “No,” a voice called out to Anita. The girl opened her eyes and saw Max Dirks looking at her. Sei had done all that he could in this tournament, and now it was time for his rest. Anita understood that.

However, something else itched in the child’s mind as she looked at her uncle. This was all a very elaborate plan he had laid out just to snap Sei out of his psychosis. Max could have just as easily opened up the dome and shot Anita’s father in the leg. It would have been a simple gesture that would have gotten the job done. So then why did he go through all the trouble of luring her father out, only to feign the entire attempted assault?

Then just as it had dawned on her father, it dawned on Anita Orlouge.

“You’re terrified of him…” she whispered to herself. The great and powerful Max Dirks was afraid of the Protector of Radasanth. Why else would he have done such actions to intentionally eliminate Sei? It wasn’t because Anita had requested him to help her, that was just a convenient excuse. Max Dirks did not want Sei Orlouge to advance because he was afraid of what the mute could do to him! Anita bellowed out a laugh as loud as her father as she wrapped her arms around her sides and fell back to her seat. Wiping away the humor tear from her face, the girl decided to watch the rest of the festivities with the single amusing thought of Max Dirks staying up at night afraid of the boogieman with butterfly wings haunting his mind in her head.

((Unless somebody actually takes care of Sei’s body in one of their upcoming posts, this is not my concluding post. Just didn’t want anyone to think Sei was dead yet. Close to it, but not yet.))

[Godhand]

Godhand wasn't impressed. He easily sidestepped the javelin, half-hearted as the throw was, and quickly dipped to avoid the armor-piercing round. Without the hood hiding his movements and cloaking his aim, the mercenary quickly identified his head as the pagoda master's target and used his superior speed to move his body before he'd even finished pulling the trigger. The bullet sailed past him harmlessly and Godhand smirked as he calmly lined up the revolver with the commando.

Just then, he felt an enormous explosion behind him and flung himself forward at roughly the same speed the fire was expanding. He'd avoided the blast itself, but the explosion still propelled him forward at enormous speeds and it was all he could do to tuck his arms and legs into his body before colliding with the adamantine wall. The impact was sickening and served to further daze him after the aftershock had destroyed his sense of balance. It was pure dumb luck that he hadn't plunged into the magma after bouncing off the wall; luckily, he'd managed to land in one of the quickly diminishing patches of land that still remained in the arena.

He raised his head just in time to see the prick fire off two shots at Lillian. Lillian! His right hand. His confidant. His number one girl. And then he'd run right up the wall and into another fight, as if his affront had been forgotten. As if he hadn't just tried to lay a hand on his own personal hero. Fueled by nothing but rage, the mercenary picked his aching body off the ground and lunged into the air. He'd had to calculate the strength of his jump to avoid landing in lava, but he was still launched and flew as if supported by wires. He drew his second revolver and opened fire on Joshua with both guns. The shots were tricky; they were both in the air and moving quickly, but he had plenty of ammo and most of all the will to use it.

The crowd thrilled at the ridiculous scene. Two men without wings soaring across the arena, a pyromaniac plunging into lava, a doppelganger and his master committing bloody murder... And above all the bang bang shoot shoot of the pagoda master and Godhand. Bullets were flying through the air, men were dying, women were crying and they didn't care. Grown men. Little girls. They'd been waiting their whole lives for this moment.

Happiness is a warm gun.

[Amen]

Marcus could hardly be blamed for standing in slack-jawed awe as a girl riding a lion descended on a pyromaniac ensconced in his one love, even though a half-instant before the squire had been lamenting the thought of a death by fire. That fear had become reality in the meantime, whipping up from a nearby pool of lava and charging the paladin in a rush of roaring heat.

He went wide-eyed and did the unthinkable – largely because he wasn’t thinking – and threw himself backward. Backward happened to be the direction of a thick river of molten rock, and the melting-death seemed all but assured. Then the whirlwind whipped in a last-ditch effort to chase its intended target, bending at the middle much the same way a saucy dancer thrusts a hip to the side. Once again Book curled upon himself, and the inferno-tornado came this close to catching up to him.

For the first time, the crowd reacted to what was happening to the paladin. They watched with bated breath, every mind sure it was about to behold another body entrusted to the lava, and then the incredible heat and the sultry air coming off the whirlwind struck him and lifted: hot air rises. Marcus was airborne and flailing, gliding over the molten river, until he landed on the opposite side and rolled with the brutal impact.

The spectators went wild with disbelief. Some were actually angry, as if they’d been cheated by some trick – nobody was this lucky, nobody.

Just to prove them wrong, the sound of shattering glass filled the arena, and glittering projectiles were launched in every direction. Now, Marcus surely would have been shredded to gory tatters had he been standing, but his prone position on the heat-warped islet he found himself on meant that most of the glass sailed harmlessly overhead or ricocheted off an upraised lump of softening rock.

Most, but not all. One projectile tore across the paladin’s cheek, and on instinct he turned and curled upon himself, which actually made him a larger target. Shards cut into his back and shoulders on his left side, drawing long, bloody, ugly wounds across his body. There were sparkles in those wounds: the glass embedded in his scorched flesh reflected the smoldering light of the lava.

Marcus laid still for what seemed to be a long time, but he wasn’t dead or even unconscious. The pain wracking his nerves had gone beyond debilitating and had crossed into being transcendental: a place where he felt it so acutely that it was if he was outside himself and experiencing it secondhand. Every rattling, wet breath was torture, and yet he made no effort to make the agony stop: he was too busy just experiencing it purely as a sensation. The squire could have written volumes of philosophical theory about anguish in that moment, if he could lift and deftly command a pen.

His eyes blurred, and then focused on something just within his reach - some reflective surface shining in the ubiquitous firelight. It was his discarded sword, as charred and dented as its master. Still feeling like an observer to his own actions, Marcus reached for the hilt. His hand missed twice, fingertips caressing the hot stones on which he slowly cooked, and then his fingers wrapped around the old leather grip and flexed.

He didn’t remember getting to his feet, or the walking, but nor did he have the wherewithal to question it. Blood rolled thin from between his lips as he peered down at the battered body of Sei – the mystic who’d once rescued him, and one of the madmen who’d turned him into the perforated, half-cooked shank of raw meat he was now. Book didn’t hate him, he didn’t even want to hurt him, but he wanted this to be over.

Slowly, so slowly, the paladin lifted his sword with the blade pointing downward over Sei’s heart, coughed up a little more blood, and then pitched forward with the intent to plunge his weapon down into the mute’s chest – not by the strength of his arms, for there was none left, but by the weight of his body.

[Breaker]

Breaker shielded his eyes in the crook of one elbow as a blizzard of glass whited out the Aequitas Cell. Fortunately the shards were about as dangerous to him as snowflakes to a child. They shattered upon impact with his steely skin. Even those of Godhand's bullets that weren't knocked off course by the glass storm bounced off. Each one felt like a kick from an ogre with tiny feet. But Breaker refused to budge. He used the boots to root himself to the ground until the impacts on his flesh subsided.

He uncovered his eyes to see what looked like snow all around him. But no - this was the only remains of the plethora of shrapnel which had struck him. Rather conveniently Sei happened to be sleeping about a yard away so he tried to stomp on the mystic's head a number of times. "Maybe this will finally get the job done." Satisfied that this might finally yield some result, he threw back his head and inflated his lungs for a cry of victory.

It felt as if all the fire in the arena were suddenly in his mouth, his throat, in his lungs. Breaker keeled over, coughing like an asthmatic who took a hit from a crack pipe instead of his inhaler. It wasn't until he realized he was coughing blood up all over Sei's orange hair that he realized what had happened. The glass from all those mystic protections had smashed itself into a fine powder against his impenetrable skin. And now he had miniscule pieces of painful sharpness slashing his insides to bits.

Like a drunk searching for a dropped cigarette he forced himself to his feet and staggered away. In the panic of irreversible agony, Breaker's cowardly instincts took over and he fled to the recesses of Cronen's mind.


*

Josh felt hot suddenly, instead of cold. He heard the voices of hundreds of people, the panting of combatants, instead of just his own chattering teeth. An image of being in hell-on-Althanas had replaced his mental solitary confinement. But at what cost. Cronen clutched his throat with both hands and realized just in time that he was teetering on the brink of a lava pit.

The instincts he had been born with told him to keep moving. Keep fighting. Find a way to breathe, find a target, destroy it. But somehow he could only see the bubbling magma before him, and a single logical conclusion. Every time Breaker took control of their body he left a trail of suffering and death in their wake. This time, the suffering had found a home in his lungs. There was no way to make the future brighter if Cronen played a role in it.

"This must be what Medsan meant..."

Eyes wide open, Josh bent his legs and performed a swan dive towards the centre of the boiling pool.

Unless someone finds a way and reason to save Josh, my next post will be a conclusive burny death.

[Duffy]

All the pieces of the puzzle at last slotted together.

As the clone of Sei drove his blades down, the Narrator and Duffy delivered the final line of his eulogy in unison, their voices wavering with the strain of ages and spoken through gritted teeth and agony.


But we left him alone with his glory!

Above the arena, Lilith and Ruby finished the last line of their song and slumped back onto the benches, their energy spent and their bodies drained of all emotion and will. A great rush of flame surged from their chests and spiralled together above the dumbfounded crowd, the cheers were momentarily broken by a wave of screams.

“I am undone,” Duffy said whilst falling to his knees as the pain became too much for him to bear, too much for his life to repeal. “All the nuggets I have to offer you are in this last parting message, take unto yourself and may it guide you, as it guided me,” the thief fell forwards at the clone’s feet devoid of life.

Above the arena, the flames of the phoenix paean grew stronger and stronger above the centre of the force field, until they formed a rough avian shape and gave birth to the animus of hope, the Simurgh. Silence descended for a few brief moments and the bird fell to the force field with a rush of burning air. Phagan’s magic was no match for the Aria as the spell song vanished and travelled into the Cell through the dimensional gateway of the creative mind, re-appearing above the platform that had been Duffy’s stage.

With each beat of its wings and each screech of its lava maw, heat rained down over the Tantalum and smothered him with tinder and ash, little flecks of magic kindling sparks in his smouldering bandages and baggy trousers. Short-lived, the Phoenix collapsed over the thief, as if it were being absorbed into his body, and vanished from sight with a rush of air and a pop.

The Tantalum troupe looked on in silence, hoping with all their hearts that Ruby and Lilith had been righteous and true in their delivery of their wish. The Aria was a fickle thing, tempted by devil’s whim to turn the will of a Spellsinger into a joke, a fatal twisting of words. The crowd looked on too, momentarily distracted by the spectacle unfolding before their eyes.

In a slow paced drone, the Narrator plucked a simple poem from the boy’s mind and recited it, like a priest would at a funeral service, driving it and the last of the eulogy rite into the clone’s mind.


Into the arena stepped the hopes of fools,
A disciple of gods carrying world-bearing tools,
With dagger and sword and Tindergear primed,
Young Duffy arrived in the arena begrimed.


With chuckle and bounce the thief did announce,
“What’s occurin’ sirs?” With theatrical flounce,
He cocked his head surely and bounced between spots,
His hangover solid and his stomach in knots.


Here we can see but one face of twelve,
Each looking for glory into which they can delve,
What fate awaits each combatant within?
See the truth revealed, in the Cell born of sin!

Duffy twitched.

The clone began to fade, and the Tantalum troupe cheered with a raucous round of flag waving and obscenities.

Two great wings of fire sprouted from his back and lifted his body upright, suspending it in the air with a hum of energy. The fire inside Ruby and Lilith’s heart, their passion and drive scoured Duffy’s body with an inferno brighter and stronger than Rayse or Christoph could ever muster, burning his muddy bandages and tattered clothing from his body and spiralling the ash up and into the air with wisps of dark powder.

Born anew and with his message delivered, Duffy’s body coasted backwards in a slow arc and tumbled in a glorious dive into the magma below. The dagger dropped from the clone’s fading form and chimed a death knell for them both, leaving the other combatants to battle on through all things said and all things done.



One wonderfully mediocre 'guaranteed 40' bullshit conclusion post. I'm out, have fun whoever is left!

[Ataraxis]

Lillian cursed at the first sight of a second glass storm: besides the fiery embrace of the lava moat all around her, there was nowhere to hide. ‘For someone who rushed to make a truce, you’re trying really hard to be a thorn in my side, Sei.’ The sphere broke into myriad shards, and the girl planted her feet, covering her eyes and throat with both arms as she steeled herself for the mystic barrage. Every slicing shard brought a painful wince to her face, shredding her cloak and the summer dress beneath it with every glancing cut. The larger jags broke messily against her skin, colliding like shrapnel with the webs within, but even then the damage done was gruesome.

She dropped to her knee when the storm abated, breathing harshly through her hand to avoid inhaling the shimmering dust. The girl could only see a mist of burning haze around her; the arena was steaming her alive, and she genuinely wondered if the trickling on her skin was more sweat than blood. Lillian was currently oblivious to the merciful brush of the rain, as if every fallen drop were instantly sublimated by the volcanic temperature of the cage. Worse, the unbearable heat was like salt in her open wounds, and her skin was turning red and raw, almost peeling from the scalding vapors.

A rush of wind greeted her then, and the momentary sense of relief had blinded her to the golden fan that was slicing through the smoke and steam. It broke the crackling sludge in front of her, pelting the girl with a mix of dry earth and muddy clumps, but Lillian watched the still weapon with narrowed eyes, so addled by the heat that she could only see in its stead the mirage of a golden dragon.

The sound of shattering glass sent a chill through her spine. This time, however, the librarian realized she had been at its source. The mystic barrier had formed around her, likely the mute’s final ace in the hole. She swore an oath, feeling indescribably used, but her irritation vanished when she felt a sudden coolness surrounding her: the mystic’s shield was somehow protecting her from the blazing atmosphere. Even when it broke apart into thousands of fragments, the spell had brought a powerful wind that blasted the maddening heat away, while restoring her lucidity in its refreshing caress. Wasting not a single second of this unforeseen boon, her legs coiled like powerful springs, and she bounded from her island to the closest floe of solid ground.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a glance of Joshua. He stood at the edge of the flames, a dark silhouette wreathed in a burning halo, staring into the pit of hell. The demon was gone, but what it left behind this time was not a man freed from his torture… only a lost man who’d seen the end of his life’s path, the infinite abyss that waited beyond the edge of the world. “Wait, Josh!” she cried out as he bent his legs, arms spread like a majestic bird taking flight. The man soared high, his body a cross that basked between fire and rain…

And from greatness, he fell.

‘There’s no need to die anymore,’ she had wanted to say, had wanted him to hear. ‘I can help you now.’ Her mind was in chaos. Could they return him to life, if his body were no more? Had he taken precautions to prevent his resurrection and make this sacrifice his last? Lillian had no answers, even as she watched him plummet closer and closer to his death.

The girl had thrown her hand out in desperation, letting her spidery threads fly over the distance in an attempt to catch him. They loosely caught onto his arm, and tugged at the strings with all of her strength. There was, however, no resistance as the ends of her lines flew back to her in a useless heap, clattering with the soft clink of metal on parched land. Her eyes swelled up as she realized that instead of his arm, the webs had honed in on the silver-blue needles with which she’d pricked him. Helpless to do anything else, she could only watch in silent horror as he crossed the point of no return.

Once again, Lillian heard the lava’s joyful hiss, and she felt her heart grow silently numb. Rather than saving an old friend from the monster that haunted him, she had betrayed his trust and sent him to his demise… all for the few measly pieces of silver that lay at her feet.

Lillian tried to save Josh, but her previous scheming to defeat his Breaker form made her fail.

[Silence Sei]

The heat. The unbearable heat upon Sei's chest caused the mute to be rather uncomfortable in his slumber. The mystic literally peeled himself off of the ground to turn over, narrowly missing a boot to his head and a sword to the chest. The fact that he had been laying on the sweltering ground had made several severe burns on the bare chest of the warrior. To add injury to...well, more injury, Sei had a combined mixture of glass shards and fine glass particles literally combing his spine once over.

The mute barely lifted his head from the scorching land he laid upon. Slowly opening his orbs once more, Sei watched as the powerful man sacrificed himself to the molten death below. The hazy vision of Sei had just barely noticed that there were several little particles over the man who had just tried to finish him. The look in Joshua's eyes made it seem like he was in intense pain, which caused a great sadness in him before his suicide leap.

Those specks, Sei thought, those are miniature glass shards. I've caused him to end his own life... Sei wanted to think further on the subject but closed his eyes and placed his hands on the ground. In a few minutes he had caused the death of at least four people in this battle. Surely this was some sort of record. Sei managed to push his aching and defeated body up through the hurt.

Each movement was sheer agony. Every time the mute blinked, he thought he may not have the power to open his eyes again. Sei looked at who was left on the field. Lillian. The paladin youth. Godhand Striker. Sei had no hope of defeating any of these three at this point. Just as well, he had no intention of fighting Lillian and Godhand anyways. Nor would Sei cause any harm to the youth he originally saved at his own expense. The mute had expended all of his resources and spells just for the sake of winning the tournament and finding his warriors.

Then Sei smiled upon concluding he had one more spell left. Would? had been used, but it had been used by his doppelganger. That meant that there was still one use of the ability left. Closing his eyes, Sei sent a message to all who were still alive on the field. "If I could, would you find it in your heart to finish me?"

Sei looked to his hands, seeing his Gemini Blades were not with him. Looking back to where he had crumpled on the floor, Sei saw the swords. He didn't have the power to go retrieve them, he had to go back to the basics. Reaching into the pockets of his gray pants once more, Sei found his two melee fighting fans. Throwing them open, Sei forced his left hand into grabbing the hilt of the weapon. Sei stood with blood trickling down his abdomen, the same azure liquid dripping from his nose and mouth. His back resembled that of a porcupine more than that of a human. His pants were torn and tattered, hinting pieces of pale white flesh here and there.

Yet he stood. Through everything, Sei Orlouge stood.

The crowd roared with excitement as Sei shifted his left foot backwards and planted his right foot in place. Holding his right fan below his face, and the left above it, Sei could have sword that at least two of the fingers in his left hand were broke. He had to make this last display to the audience, to his foes, and to most of all, Max Dirks.

Sei wanted to give the gunslinger the thought that no matter what happened to Sei Orlouge, he would rise. He would make a stand for the people, and not for his own want to be a hero. These people expected something of Sei Orlouge and he could not disappoint them after giving them what they had requested for so long. Max Dirks would always have Sei Orlouge. Whether he liked it or not.

Sei stood and waited for (presumably) the three-sided kill.

[Neville Longinus]

Many months ago...

Leaning back in a wooden chair with his feet on the bed, Rayse's eyes followed the movement of the clouds outside his window. He had been feeling strange lately, a sense of listlessness washed over him in his day to day life. Nothing seemed to matter anymore as he tried unsuccessfully to make it big. Stopping by at a local inn along his travels, he had stayed in his room all the way till nightfall, just staring out the window and fiddling with his locket. He opened it and ran his thumb across the picture of his mother. No exciting business ventures had come his way in over a month, and he was starting to question his motivations.

He leaned back once more, but suddenly found himself falling onto the floor behind him with the chair falling on top of him afterward. A chill ran down his spine. At first he thought he fall off his chair, which wouldn't have been so weird. However, it fell on him later, which meant he simply passed through it. Moving the chair off and getting up, he put his hand on his forehead. It was true that his abilities allowed him to turn parts of his body into fire and pass through objects, but it never occurred unconsciously. He thought that maybe he wasn't feeling well and left his room to go downstairs to the bar and get some beer.

His head spinning, he took a step down the staircase but never felt his foot hitting the first stair. His leg had turned into fire up to his knee and before he knew it he was tumbling forward, crashing into the floor at the bottom of the stairs. He was whole again at the bottom, but the experience was harrowing.

He pulled himself up, his heart racing and for the first time in a while he had genuine fear in his voice, "What the fuck is happening to me?!"

The present...

It was warm... and bright... Rayse opened his eyes and found himself slowly descending into thick red water. Due to his magical sickness, he could not feel the cold he accustomed to in Salvar, and the only heat he could feel had to very extreme. To him, lava felt like a hot tub. The rune on his shoulder had grown across his entire body, possessing and torturing him. Was he still a human? The fires he worked so hard to create were now making him one of their own, their insatiable lust never satisfied until everything was covered in a sea of white flames.

It's not over yet...

In his hand he held the locket tightly, but he did not know why he valued it so much. He was still the nameless one, only adopting Neville Longinus for the sake of registration. The body he occupied looked like it was fading away, just barely staying in one piece. He was only a puppet of the flames now, bowing to their will. They desired more, and he had no choice but to deliver.

As long as I exist, the world will burn.

The entire chamber rumbled, the pools of lava bubbling as if they were alive. Near The Protector of Radasanth in a large pool of lava, a enormous creature of molten rock twice the size of the largest lion rose up and sent a few globs of lava flying around the chamber. Red hot liquid dripped down its faceless head, as it was accompanied by gigantic arms with and an upper body that was attached to the pool of lava below. Tendrils made of flame were attached to various parts of the creature like the strings of a marionette, and semi-transparent streams of flame connected it with the diamond of fire that was still burning along the adamantine walls. It was these threads that connected the monster to this world, and if they were severed then the the molten giant would fall apart for good.

Letting out a low-pitched moan, the monster raised one of its rocky arms up high, a bright pulsating light in the cracks that connected the chunks of stone. In a movement, it lowered its arm palm down on a crash course with Silence Sei. Even if it didn't hit, the molten giant was so flimsy that the entire army would fall apart on impact in a burst of lava.

After the attack, the creature would likely go on a rampage of the chamber for the remaining competitors, punching and swatting anything in its range.

((Since Sei thought Rayse was dead, I assume his Would? spell does not affect him. My next post will likely be my conclusion. Reminder: The fires controlling Rayse are essentially powered by Lillian's life energy from Breaker that have gone haywire. I definitely couldn't do any of this on my own.))

[Breaker]

There was a world of burning pain, and then nothing but white light.

Josh rose upwards, ever upwards, but he had no body. He was the neverending light, the wind that tickled the trees. He could travel anywhere in a moment, find anyone with a thought. And his thoughts led him straight to Medsan.

The monk had no more form than Joshua, but the presence was there. That comforting shared wisdom. That love for life lived a moment at a time. He heard Medsan's voice in a most intangible manner, but the words rang true.

Welcome to the world of the enlightened my brother. Your journey has just begun.

There was no more darkness tearing at Joshua's soul, no beast plaguing his every move. He was weightless, invincible, and free.



Concluding post.

[Godhand]

If the commando had been a hawk hunting a dove, then Godhand had been the eagle hunting the hawk. They'd matched up just right; the shots were still difficult but they were moving in more or less the same direction at more or less the same speed. Godhand smiled as he unleashed a rain of lead on his opponent, but amazingly enough the bullets failed to have any effect on Joshua. They drew blood, certainly, but Godhand wielded .50 caliber handcannons and he expected bones to break and flesh to rend when he landed a shot. They'd always done so before, anyway. What was so different now?

He kept firing even as his adversary advanced on the helpless mystic, and it was only by an incredible stroke of luck that Sei managed to avoid a fatal head stomping. And then a curious thing happened. The commando couldn't seem to breathe; pretty soon he was writhing on the ground and choking to death. Whether it'd been the soot and smoke of the arena-turned-volcano, or the shredded glass permeating the air, or a previously-unknown spell cast by Lillian, Godhand couldn't tell. It could have been a myriad of other things, as well. Perhaps a failsafe put into place by one of the vanquished competitors? In any case, his sheath seemed to be protecting the mercenary for now.

He watched, mystified, as Joshua ambled away from Sei before seemingly committing suicide by leaping off their raised island into the magma below. Godhand immediately thought it some sort of ruse, but sure enough he heard the sizzle and smelled the smoke when the commando plunged into the burning liquid. It was possible he could have survived. He definitely didn't put it past him, seeing how little effect his bullets had had on the man. Still, something told him he wasn't going to emerge from the lava. At least, not by his own power.

Afterward, he heard Sei's voice in his mind, asking someone, anyone, to be his mercy angel. Godhand didn't quite know how to react. He could have put a hole in his head right then, sure, but it just didn't seem right. He wouldn't call him his friend exactly but they shared history and at his age that's something you valued. Anyway, he justified it to himself by considering that if the wounded paladin had his way, Sei wouldn't be around much longer.

Just then, a geyser of magma soared into the air and some sort of inhuman elemental monster formed out of the molten rock. Jesus Christ, it never ended with these people. He swung a fist made of lava towards the mystic as Godhand opened fire yet again, the lead melting inside the creature almost as soon as it penetrated. And then he'd attacked Lillian with another wave of magma, and there was nothing he could do.

He'd always wanted to believe otherwise, but it seemed that he was the type of man that when faced with a chance to either protect his protege or destroy his enemies, would pick the latter.

But life was all about self-improvement, right?

He flipped in the air and landed feet first against the wall, immediately using his superior speed to run across the vertical surface before gravity could take effect. He dashed madly across the arena, firing at the creature all the while as he raced towards Lillian, but it was to no effect. He grew desperate and holstered his Magnums, instead pulling out his muramasa and cutting a burning thread that stood in his way.

It was a stretch, but he was almost there. He could do this. He could make it. Just a little more...

And so he leaped, hoping he'd manage to tackle Lillian, his own personal hero, out of the way.

[Amen]

Iron met stone with a dull spark, and Marcus leaned heavily upon the hilt of his old blade. This was the first time he felt some connection to the hand-me-down weapon, like it was actually an extension of his body as opposed to a dead weight he wielded about for want of something better. That was sure to be the last time he wielded this blade in the Aequitas chamber, hit or miss: Book didn’t have the strength to extricate the weapon from the fleshy hold of a corpse, so he certainly wasn’t going to get it back out of solid stone.

Sei was gone, and the battered paladin didn’t have the capacity to lift his head and look about, to gauge his position or that of any other gladiator. He had been running on fumes and determination, and those last vestiges of strength were spent. With a quiet grunt, the big warrior sat himself down on the arena floor, oblivious to the heat now. He leaned back against his blade, which was so deeply imbedded in the stone that it supported his weight. For good or ill, Marcus Book was done.

He grinned hardly as he rested the back of his head against the cross guard of his sword, and lifted his eyes. The lava hissed and bubbled all around him, and the ground trembled beneath him. A shadow fell over him, and he chuckled soundlessly, closing his eyes and letting his chin fall against his chest.

A giant composed of molten stone loomed over him, and its vocalizations vibrated in the paladin’s chest. It turned its baleful attention to the revived mystic, but Marcus did not lift his head to watch what had to be a brutal end. Instead he let go, released himself to the will of his body, which begged for unconsciousness and oblivion. He sighed in relief, liberated from so much pressure and hardship, and waited for the black to rise up and take him.

A moment passed, and then stretched. One tick of the watch became two, and then three. Then six, then nine.

On the march went, but peace would not come. A solitary tear of inexpressible frustration cut its way through the blood and grime on its trek down the paladin’s cheek. His heart beat stubbornly on, pushing heat through Marcus’ battered limbs, heat born of a fire growing in the man’s chest.

This fire had little to do with its natural cousin, which plied its destruction all around the Aequitas chamber – it was a personal flame, an incorporeal but existent one. It was born of fury and could not be seen or touched, but it could be measured. How could one deny it when a man who should have been long on his way to hell was standing again, oozing blood from every pore on his left arm, the skin of his back rendered one giant blister, his right shoulder caked with curdled gore? His lower jaw was war-painted with his own red life, and his irises were golden cinders as they scanned the scene before them.

In the throes of combat, Marcus would have overlooked the big picture in the struggle to survive: he would not have been able to tear his eyes from the molten giant. Now, a man already past death’s veil and breathing yet, he had no concern for oblivion. He watched as one of the competitors – another giant, untouchable in Marcus’ estimation – ran along a wall and slashed at what seemed to be a free-floating line of fire, and somehow it all began to make sense. When the line was severed, the half-visible wisps of flame faded, and the molten portion of the giant that wisp connected to seemed, if only slightly, to cool. Marcus suspected he had died and the experiences of the last few moments had been one vast hallucination, but he felt compelled to act.

Possessed of his second wind, Book reclaimed his sword from the stone, and turned. He ran hard, searching his surroundings for any sign of…yes! He saw it now: a knife rooted delicately in the adamantine of the wall, trailing an oh-so-thin length of what looked to be thread or wire, which itself burned, and from that burning fed an endless stream of ghostly fire to the magma giant. The paladin brought his sword down on the throwing knife once, and then twice, and on the second blow it lost its anchor in the wall and fell, and the fire rolling off of it dissipated.

Marcus tried to raise his voice to the others, and found that attempting to yell made him first cough up a fresh mouthful of blood and phlegm. He spat, and tried again, and this time his voice reached out over the hiss and pop of the surrounding lava and the rumbling moans of the elemental. “There are strings!” he screamed, “Cut the fucking strings!”

[Silence Sei]

When Sei had felt the rumble in the ground, and the incredible heat rise up beside him, he was shocked to say the least. The mute tried to run from whatever was to his side, tried to escape. But it was no use. While he had narrowly avoided getting smashed by the giant arm, the shockwave of its impact to the ground sent the mute flying. Sei could feel a sharp stinging over his left arm. As he focused his eyes on to the appendage he found that it was gone, melted away with one splash of the acidic magma.

Sei landed on the ground and forced himself back up, blood pouring from his arm socket. His last ace-in-the-hole had failed him. Now he had only a matter of moments to do something, anything. Sei looked up towards Max Dirks as he decided his next course of action.

One step. The mute's mind filled with the vision of a scared eight year old girl. One who was defended by the mystic just barely in time to save her life. After slaying the beast that had come after her, Sei picked the child up and took her from that cold Salvar air. She would become his daughter, and she would be the best thing to ever happen to him.

Two steps. His eyes began to see as another girl approached him in his home. She wanted to help him defeat a bandit and maybe find her past. Sei accepted the task. With a few laughs and journey to one of his races home town, he had another daughter. Kyla Orlouge had always been a part of his family, but now he could declare her a 'daughter' as well. Sei's eyes began to well up with tears.

Three steps. The mute raised a trembling finger towards Max Dirks for only three seconds. His face remembered the fight in the bar. How he had lost his mind temporary all in the name of defeating the gunslinger. Time seemed to skip ahead to the mute asking the man who was once his greatest enemy if he would be the one to take care of Anita should something happened to him. Now, Sei wanted Dirks to know that no matter what happened, Sei was there.

And with three mighty steps, Sei Orlouge's body fell to the ground, a pool of azure liquid surrounding his body. The crowd fell silent at this revelation. Then almost as if inspired by the mute, they once again began their chant for the hero. Their cries filled his dying ears as the mute sent one last message to only Dirks.

"Even in death... they cry for me over you... I am their champion... you can not change that..."

With that, Sei Orlouge closed his eyes and let death finally take him.

((Concluding post. It was a blast guys. If I advance, you'll be pleasantly surprised I hope by what I have in store next.))

[Ataraxis]

One man had been lost to the burning seas, but another had now risen in his stead… that is, if it could still be considered a man. Lillian could not know with certainty, but she believed the arsonist had found a spark of life in the volcano’s womb, and had let that spark ignite him. What she saw, however, was not a phoenix reborn from its ashes: it was a perversion of the myth, a sickening simulacrum of man and fire alike. The girl thought she saw a smile bubble hotly beneath that amorphous face, and she watched in terror as it drew a hand back, as if to ready a hammer’s strike. The smoldering crust upon its shoulder cracked in a network of glowing veins, and the beast flung its gigantic arm down on the dying mystic. It snapped like a whip, breaking against the floor in a deadly splash of flying magma.

Charred flesh and burnt fat filled the noxious air, and Sei stumbled to the ground. Smoke seeped from the stump that had once been his arm, only partially cauterized by the lava that had devoured it. Blue blood was pooling beneath the mute, and he expelled his last breath under the chants of the ferocious crowd. They clamored his name, but the cries sounded so disingenuous, almost obscene… not the cries that mourned a hero’s death, but that delighted in one’s sordid end. Lillian could feel their attention shift to her now, as if awaiting another spectacular performance to top the last one. ‘Don’t you start looking at me now, you vultures.’

The beast of magma shifted in its boiling lake, slowly bringing its arm to bear as it reserved the girl a similar fate. That was when Lillian saw Godhand run across the burning walls, ignoring the hissing of his boots as he sought to save her. He’d barreled through a thread blocking his way, not realizing that the severed link had drained the heat from a patch the creature’s molten armor: without its precious fuel, it cooled down to a darkening payer of volcanic rock. The only other survivor in this arena had the same epiphany, and she nodded in agreement as the mercenary closed in. ‘Caught between a frying pan and a hard place,’ the girl lamented inwardly, steeling herself for the indescribable pain that was soon to come – either from being melted alive, or crushed by a human freight train.

The train struck first. While it might have been the lesser of two agonies, Lillian wasn’t quite ready to call herself fortunate. She felt like a fly caught in a race horse’s teeth, flattened by the sheer force of the tackle but unable to break free. Somehow, though, the mercenary had avoided crushing her bones, and her organs had not suffered a collective failure as of yet. As long as she could speak…

“Throw me,” she muttered between grit teeth. Before he could question and protest, she clamped his mouth shut with her hand. “Throw me! High!”

Godhand stopped his dash at once, trailing dust as his boots scraped against the ground to a stop. Though reluctant, he lowered his stance, and his muscles coiled as one. Lillian was crouched now, legs bent and feet cupped in his hands. With a stentorian cry of ‘alley oop’, he flung his arms up, and at the end of the swing, Lillian kicked the platform of his hands as hard as she could.

She could feel the wind on her face, but rather than a pleasing breeze, it threatened to tear her face off her skull. She spun in mid-flight, disappearing into the clouds, her body now upside down as she dangerously approached the crest of the force-field. Her boots struck the solid barrier with a deafening shock, but rather than falling like the glass shards from Sei’s destructive spell, Lillian remained stuck to shield as if by some adhesive – her webs. Assessing the arena from the peak of the world, she pinpointed the locations of all the remaining daggers that kept the burning diamond in place.

From her perch, she drew an arsenal of throwing knives. Her arms coiled, lithe muscles becoming cords of flexing steel. Her eyes narrowed as she steadied her aim, pulling back on the reins of her gargantuan strength… and she unleashed them all.

The ground broke apart in seven points, and the sound of clanging metal echoed throughout the arena. Her daggers had not only severed the burning strings that formed the ritualistic array, but their sheer force and velocity had dislodged the knives themselves. The diamond sizzled before burning up in wisps of smoke, and the intangible flames that had fueled the monsters dissipated into thin air. “Now, Godhand!”

The mercenary didn't miss a beat. He had cannonballed into the heart of danger, vaulting over the pool of lava to perform a vivisection on the fly. Adamantine slid through the magma like a knife through bread, offering no resistance to slow his momentum. After sailing through the air, Godhand landed in a safe patch of dirt, turning just in time to see the severed halves of the red giant collapse into lava below. A garland of lingering flames was trailing from the chopped corpse to his sheath; as it was sucked inside, it vaguely resembled the ghost of a burning man.

It was over.

Lillian neutralized the webs on the soles of her boots, detaching from the force-field with a smile of abandon. Seeing this, Godhand cursed and bounded once more, catching the girl in his outstretched arms a second before she crashed to her grisly death. “Come on, why do you keep doing this to me!” the man shouted, but she could hear the relief lacing his anxious words.

“Yelled too much. Throat parched. Hassle.” Lillian took a moment of respite in his arms, breathing as slowly as she could. The atmosphere was still suffocating, but it was definitely cooling down; they might yet escape death by convection. Now that her adrenaline rush had run out, the girl looked up at the mercenary, managing a hint of smile. “Also, hi.”

Carefully, Godhand let the girl slide from his embrace, and she relished the firm support of the ground under her feet. “I think we can end this here,” Lillian spoke out loud, though her voice was still raspy from the soot and smoke. “We could always hack at each other until only one of us is left, but from what I understand, these people need survivors for the next round. We’d profit more from staying bruised and battered, than teetering on the brink of death, post-revival…”

She turned her head askance, glacial eyes fixated on the paladin. It was clear now that she had been addressing him. “Don't you think?”

All of this, naturally, done with Rayse's and Godhand's permission (sheath, fire threads, absorption of Rayse specifically done on his request for reasons that will or already have become readily obvious).

Concluding post.

[Neville Longinus]

The present...

The molten giant felt itself weaken when one of the strings was accidentally severed by Godhand. Part of its body felt sluggish, and it could no longer lift up one of its arms. Its face slumped, but continued advancing toward Lillian. Then, she severed the rest of the threads.

The beast of magma came to a full stop, its features hardening as it struggled to move. It let out another deafening moan as the mercenary came in and sliced it in two. Rayse was almost entirely fire now, nearly succumbing to the magical sickness. However, as the last source of magic in the giant he was inadvertently absorbed into Godhand's sheath, preventing him from burning out.

Little did Godhand know, the sheath was acting like a magical leech, slowly turning the formless Rayse back into a human. Was his life saved? Only time will tell.

Many months ago...

In The Synthesis Shop in Fallien, an experienced rune-maker mixed the ingredients Rayse had painstakingly scoured throughout the country.

"How much longer you gonna take, old man?" Rayse asked impatiently, his breath hoarse and his clothes covered in dirt.

All around him was the vibrant display of alchemy. Behind that, many crystals leaned against the stone walls on many shelves, reflecting and refracting the light to make the whole place come alive. It was almost brighter inside than it was outside.

"Just a little longer," came a voice from the tarp behind the counter.

Rayse didn't have time. He could simply burn out and fade away from existence entirely at any moment. The Contractor would not allow fate to play such a cruel joke on him. With his foot tapping and his teeth greedily chewing on the butt of his third cigarette in ten minutes, his glare could not look any sharper despite the black rings of fatigue around his eyes.

He looked up and thought about the last thing he would like to do in this world. Maybe find the one true love out there for him and spend one last night with her. Maybe he could spend it under the Salvaran sky, looking over Knife's Edge. Neither seemed very realistic, since his hometown was likely rubble by now.

"All done!" announced the old rune-maker, handing Rayse a short, thick bottle filled with pills.

"What's this?" he asked.

The old man stroked his long, white beard and adjusted his thick glasses, "Why, the cure of course! Now listen here, and listen carefully... No more than two per day. I've mixed in the ingredients into liquid form, added a touch of this and that, and encased them with some thin wax. The side effects are irritability and a loss of clarity; Which means it'll be harder to think clearly. Just take two of them for the next sixteen months and you'll be fine."

"What if I take more than two?" Rayse asked, staring at the bottle incredulously. How could something so small be his cure?

"Well... you would be cured faster, but the consequences would be severe. I'm talking blackouts with entire memory loss during the blackouts as well, coupled with extreme irritability and your rune will likely go haywire as well. I would not recommend it under any circumstances." Rayse hid his inner smile, knowing full well that he couldn't afford to be like this for the next two years. "Even if you did take more than recommended, taking more than two the following day would almost certainly result in a heart attack that would kill you. Speaking of which, don't get any big boosts of energy while you're taking the medication, as it could also cause the rune to go crazy."

Rayse seemed almost dismissive of the old man now, "Right. Got it. No coffee. Anything else?"

"Well, no... I suppose not."

He didn't even ask what the pills did. As Rayse left The Synthesis Shop, he looked at the bottle and grinned like a maniac. Sixteen with only two per day? So that meant what... about fourteen per week? What if he took fourteen three times per week? That would cut down his recovery time to a little over five months.

He decided. If he was going to enter hell, he would go the whole nine yards. Pouring the right amount of pills into his hand, he prepared for the worst five months of his life. As he downed the wax-covered liquid, everything turned black.

Don't go anywhere world, you'll see me again someday.

((Conclusion post.))

[Amen]

As the throng’s chant quieted, Marcus found himself one of them – closer to the action, yes, infinitely closer, but he effectively had no more influence over the outcome of these final events than Sei’s daughter or Duffy’s well-wishers. Less, maybe: his battered body would not be able to carry his sword to all of the enchanted daggers, not before the elemental turned its malevolence on him, and so it fell on the remaining heroes. If they failed, Book died.

Success seemed unlikely, and the paladin's shoulders were tense despite his sombre resignation. The man called Striker was rendered a blur of colors, which swept the slim shape of Lillian Sesthal out of harm’s way and, after a moment’s pause, flung her bodily into the air with such force that Marcus feared that it was Godhand’s intention to kill her by battering her small body against the shield.

She plunged through the roiling steam and the churning cloud, as quick and graceful as a darting sparrow, and just as quickly she became indistinguishable from the rest of the shield above – there was just too much going on. Marcus couldn't see her knives coming from above with uncanny accuracy and untraceable speed, and the only sign of her success was the palpable change in the atmosphere: the temperature stopped rising.

Striker completed the deed with equal speed and expert timing. The monster was done, the last sign of it sinking into the red river that spawned it amidst flames that danced and faded in the space of a breath. The paladin sighed and let the tip of his sword fall to the ground, and he willed himself to walk.

Godhand landed with his partner in hand, both safe, and Marcus limped over to them, dragging the end of his blade on the cooling stone of the arena floor.

“I think we can end this here,” he heard Lillian say. Book imagined that her voice was a pleasant one normally, but now it was raw and cracked, ravaged by the inhospitable air.

“We could always hack at each other until only one of us is left,” the girl continued, “but from what I understand, these people need survivors for the next round. We’d profit more from staying bruised and battered than teetering on the break of death, post-revival.”

The paladin coughed and spat, and the result was tinged scarlet. He lifted his eyes and realized the young woman was speaking to him: “Don’t you think?”

Book glanced at Godhand, half expecting the second giant to pull his pistol and negate the need for him to answer, and then his eyed turned back to the young librarian.

“Gods, yes,” he croaked.

This is my concluding post.

[Godhand]

Godhand had been about as careful as he could have been, barreling through the air towards the girl at terminal velocity. He'd spread the impact out as best he could but he imagined she'd still have the wind knocked out of her. Still, it was a lot better than dying a miserable burning death. Well, he thought so, anyway.

Still, the girl didn't miss a beat. She was all business and was begging to be hurled into the air as soon as the mercenary had managed to whisk her out of harm's way. He was extremely reluctant to let the girl go, obviously, but she seemed to have a plan and Godhand knew it was probably all up to her at that point. That goddamn monster would manage to catch up with him sooner or later and the sheath only prevented it from maintaining cohesion; it didn't make the natural lava disappear, and getting showered with burning magma probably felt the same whether it was in the shape of a fist or not.

And so, with the steam and soot and generally oppressive heat throttling him down like an unfriendly drunk, he threw the girl in the air and hoped for the best. He'd managed to measure his force enough that he didn't think she'd collide against the force-field. If anything, she might not even make it that high. He'd been THAT careful; that's how much he cared.

Sure enough, though, the little NWO member that could managed to dispel whatever ugly voodoo was holding the lava creature together. Magma limbs hardened and fell off, until all the was left was a quickly sinking coffin of cooled volcanic stone. Godhand didn't want to take any chances; he thought that prick had died on three separate occasions and with his lava controlling powers, it was definitely in his interests to make sure. With that in mind, he leaped into the air and swung his blade right through the lukewarm, malleable rock. It fell in two and sunk into the magma, and Godhand was satisfied. If he came back from that, well, he deserved to win.

And then FUCK HIM if he didn't have to save the stupid goddamn kid again. He soared through the air and managed to catch her, but not without the toe of his boot dipping into the lava when he landed.

"Son of a BITCH! What the fuck is your problem!?"

He didn't habitually curse but the heat and blood and pain had soured his mood.

"I am nearly forty years old. Do you know how my knees feel whenever I make a jump like that?"

He might not have said it, but he was worried about her. She seemed to have suffered a lot of wounds and whether or not they were life threatening, they'd slow her down. You didn't want to be slowed down in The Cell. He wasn't in the best shape either, to tell the truth; the blood was flowing down his arm and abdomen free and clear. Some of it wasn't his. Most of it was. The mercenary could fight on but he wouldn't be comfortable fighting, say, Letho Ravenheart at the moment. He knew Dahlios had signed up for the tournament; hopefully he was in better shape than they were. He could also be dead, come to think of it, but what were the odds of that happening?

It was as he pondered this that Lillian had seemed to make a unilateral decision to spare the new guy. Frankly, he didn't care. As far as he was concerned the paladin could live forever or die that second.

Still, the little girl had really put him through Hell. With that in mind, he swung her around, grabbed her by the cheeks and kissed her on her soot-covered lips.

No tongue. It was all very chaste.

"Never change."

Conclusion post. Kiss stolen WITHOUT permission. Fuck the po-lice.

[Max Dirks]

A few general comments: watch the power gaming. Convenient escapes are one thing, but acting completely beyond your character’s level and Althanas physics are another. Individual comments, as well as EXP totals are below.

016573 – You didn’t strike a good cord with me right off the bat with your door attack. The only reason why I didn’t DQ you in game was because I caught it too late. Otherwise, your character development following Lillian’s injection was phenomenal. You had the best conclusion of the group.

Story: 15/30
Character: 19/30
Writing Style: 19/30
Wildcard: 1/10
Total: 54/100

Amen – You were a pleasant surprise in this battle; however I could tell as a reader that you struggled to push your character in a particular direction during the middle of the battle.

Story: 16/30
Character: 16/30
Writing Style: 16/30
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 53/100

Ataraxis —You took the crown in this battle for two reasons. First, your writing was very clear. It was easy to follow your characters actions and your opponent’s actions due to your character’s observations. Second, you interacted with the field the most. You planned ahead and worked with other writers to advance the story. Also, in your next profile update I’d like you to specifically enumerate the “boost” ability, as I was only able to derive the ability from your Widow power.

Story: 20/30
Character: 17/30
Writing Style: 20/30
Wildcard: 4/10
Total: 61/100

Duffy Bracken--The number of NPCs you used in the battle made your writing unclear. Without reading your profile I would be at a loss to all of the NPCs you mentioned in the battle. A profile scour shouldn’t be necessary when a one or two line introduction would have sufficed. Finally, your pacing would have received the lowest score of the bunch. In my mind, based on what I was reading, a single one of the songs Duffy or the troupe were singing could have lasted the entire duration of the battle.

Story: 15/30
Character: 15/30
Writing Style: 17/30
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 52/100

Godhand –You surprised me the most in this battle. Your writing is still a bit choppy (you tend to jump tenses and perspectives), but your actions are well defined. Furthermore, aside from a single instance of metagaming, you did not powergame the entire round. Though if they hadn’t power gamed some writers might have scored higher than you, in my mind this is a well earned second place finish.

Story: 17/30
Character: 16/30
Writing Style 18/30
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 56/100

Hysteria –You’ve got some room to grow on your writing style. Avoid prepositional phrases and run on sentences and you should be fine. I can give you some additional tips outside of the tournament judgment if you’re interested. I thought your action was bland, but I did give you an extra point for your attempt to “catch” Sei and sacrifice Talen to win. Avoid sentences like, “Sometimes someone could pull an amazing move out of their arse and save themselves…” in passive language because it sounds like your taking a shot at the writer and not expressing what your character would think. That’s metagaming.

Story: 16/30
Character: 15/30
Writing Style: 12/30
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 47/100

Neville –You had a fairly good start to the battle and your interactions with Lillian and Godhand were fun, but it’s hard to ignore some of the power gaming done. I didn’t punish you as much as 016573 because your violations weren’t as grand, but your area effect actions (like heating the dome and breaking the ground) were excessive.

Story: 15/30
Character: 18/30
Writing Style: 18/30
Wildcard: 1/10
Total: 52/100

Silence Sei –I’m a mixed bag with you. On one hand you had the best character development of the group. Not only did you interact with those Sei knew, but also those who he didn’t. However, you hurt yourself in the end by letting Sei carry on for so long. It’s like I read the same conclusion three times. Furthermore, of all the setting manipulation done, second to Neville, yours was the most questionable. Lions I can accept due to the nature of the Would? spell. However, making the sun appear when I described the rain as torrential (given the fact that your character benefits from sunlight and merely minutes would have passed since I described that) is unrealistic. Also, you took some excessive liberties with the shield that you’ll notice I had to account for in my writing.

Story: 15/30
Character: 19/30
Writing Style: 18/30
Wildcard: 2/10
Total: 54/100

Ataraxis, Godhand, 016573, and Silence Sei advance to round two!

Rewards: Ataraxis receives 2500 EXP, Godhand receives 2000 EXP, 016573 receives 1750 EXP, Silence Sei receives 1750 EXP, Amen receives 1600 EXP, Duffy Bracken receives 1250 EXP, Neville Longinus (Rayse Valentino) receives 1100 EXP, Hysteria receives 750 EXP.

Each participant receives 500 GP.

[Max Dirks]

Updated EXP rewards:

016573- 2490 EXP
Amen- 2195 EXP
Ataraxis- 2760 EXP
Duffy Bracken- 2130 EXP
Godhand- 2630 EXP
Hysteria- 1820 EXP
Neville Longinus- 2080 EXP
Silence Sei- 2495 EXP