The Treslizn Chamber

[Max Dirks]

This chamber will host the following players:

Ailnea
Arsène
Atzar Kellon
Bloodrose
Christoph
Dissinger
Esmerelda
Kade Underbough
Letho
Mutant Lorenor
Riftslayer
Ulysses

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.

Note: Chosen of the Gods and Sapphire Eyes have withdrawn from the tournament. Letho and Mutant Lorenor have replaced them.

[Max Dirks]

After four long years the gates to the Mistician Assailing Arena in Radasanth were open once more. Thousands of people, heralding from the southern tip of Fallien to the northern reaches of Berevar, had gathered at the Arena to watch their favorite warriors 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.

Above them all, sitting on top of 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)

[Dissinger]

It had been too long…

It was hard to think, that Seth had been a part of the carnage that had last called itself the Cell. When the former champion, an enigmatic fur ball calling itself hushpuppy had taken over the crowds and started a riot. Back then he had been alive, had a girlfriend who wanted him to fight, to push himself and overcome temptation. Little had he known, his little sister had signed up as well, and then promptly delivered a wonderful blow to his ego, when she distracted him long enough for the vampire assassin Witchblade to unleash a devastating attack of dark energy upon the two. It was a succinct ending to their family feud gone public, much to her satisfaction, and even more to his ire.

That had been an awkward conversation later.

Still, Seth had his reasons for returning to the largest cluster fuck he could possibly have jumped into the heart of. He didn’t enter with fanfare; there were no theatrics or desires. He was singly minded on his mission, a goal decidedly morbid in its thoughts. Having died Seth learned many things that were never told to the ghoul in life. People seemed looser lipped on rumors that surrounded Seth when they knew Seth was dead. Little did they know the monstrosity that stood on the other side of the counter was the fallen Lavinian Demon, and so the stories he wasn’t supposed to hear, made it to his ears regardless of the best intentions on protecting him from it.

One rumored of a tryst between Liliana Ambria, the sole source of happiness in his emotionally fucked up life, and Max Dirks. Now, Seth had raged, he had fumed, and in the end even destroyed a wall or two in his temper, but he was over it. He knew that rumors had a kernel of truth, and so Seth was searching for that kernel. He needed to learn the truth, and who better to get his answers from, than the de facto candidate of the rumor, the alleged other half.

If the man resisted, that was so much the better, especially if the rumor was true…

So, he had signed up for the Cell, under the alias of Dissinger. The name was one he had plucked from an old mistake made during the time he had fought in the Theater of War. Back then the group running it had apparently ran into a man named such, a flame magician from the sounds of things, and had accidentally confused this man with Seth. The result was arguments from both men, until the error was corrected, the proper fights attributed to the proper people, and a splitting of ways. Seth had never seen the pyromancer in the years to come, and had attributed it to good luck. The guy sounded like a dick personally.

The rain poured in torrents, the ghoul’s face hidden under the wide brim of his hat appropriately. The wind ripped and tore at the leather duster he had taken, long since becoming as ratty and frayed as the rest of his clothes. The shirt he wore, still bore the killing blow to his chest, right where his heart was. The skin was now flawlessly smooth, healed when the Grave keeper Edorad Graves, member of Xem’Zund’s Necrosition, had hit him with a bit of dark arts. Still he remained calm, standing in the small cage that was meant to keep him safe from the other competitors in the cell.

The force field had caught the ghoul off guard, who had been hoping to rely on the water to keep him safe. Everyone nowadays seemed to like fire, some kind of magical fad, and the ghoul hated fire to begin with. The fact that he was flammable did nothing to change his opinion on the matter. Still he remained resolute; sure that anyone who just decided to open fire would be making a target of himself either way. Part of the cell was in not attracting attention. The other part, was in making sure to attract some attention, idle people attracted attention just as surely as showoffs. He tugged idly on the gauntlets on his hands, almost feeling a beating rhythm to his heart in anticipation of the battle to come.

The thick adamantine walls made for an unforgiving battlefield, and the idea of throwing some people onto them was appealing. Further he was more than certain they could take the weight of the ghoul, who could perhaps use a trick or two to catch someone off guard. This of course relied on him fighting someone much less experienced, but a plan was a plan, and even a veteran could be caught off guard by an unforeseen tactic. He remained calm, listening for the start, when it occurred, all the doors in the cells opened immediately. He raised an eyebrow to the theatrics, or perhaps lack there of but entered the chamber slowly, looking about the area to assess threats.

Bringing a hand up to his hat, he brought it forward and low, covering his face, no need to attract too much attention. Being tall was bad enough.

Limited Bunnying of Seth is okay with me, and I grant permission to do so. Anything more involved than a few swings should be PM'ed to me ahead of time.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

A funny series of coincidences lead Lorenor to the tournament.

First, there was the vision. During one of his particularly intense meditative periods, the mutant's mind had cleared. Visions poured into his brain, as he fell the presence of N'Jal within his very soul. The dark lady spoke to him, revealing to him a truth about matters that were unfolding slowly. A prominent truth was burned into his minds. As it manifested from the dark, the image of an old nemesis blurred into being. Not like most of his enemies, this enemy was an indirect foe. Someone whose fortune and resources almost rivaled Lorenor's own.

Focusing on the man, the vision from N'Jal became a solid construct. He studied the vision and was shocked to learn a name from the vision itself, an ancient name. The name of a certain criminal. Max Dirks. Spoken to him in the tongue of the Spider Magi, th e mutant listened carefully as N'Jal instructed him.

Listen my childe. Listen very well. The one known as Max Dirks will be involved in The Cell. Do-not allow him to gain anymore influence. The man is an enemy of the Spider Magi. Thus, he is an enemy of N'Jal. He is an enemy of you. Do your best to destroy this enemy and claim his soul in my name, in my honour. Do this task for me Lorenor, and you shall be rewarded.

Thinking back to that vision, the mutant wore a small grin on his face as he walked towards The Cell. It was named after some hero of the past that he cared not for. To someone like Lorenor, the past was simply one ocean, the future however, consisted of many oceans. Fans nearest to the mutant looked at him, and there was a hush that came over the crowd. It had become quiet, deadly quiet.

Secondly, the mutant traveled to Radasanth from Raiaera. His name was stricken into the records of The Cell by pure chance. Several of the contestants that originally signed up for the boisterous tournament were nowhere to be found. All the better for me. Taking care of previous business in Corone, Lorenor started a miniature free-for-all battle of his own for practice. It had paid off. When the tournament was first announced, Lorenor went into a deep meditation. Fasting for many days on end, Lorenor prepared for the blood-bath that would ensue. It was a chance to openly sacrifice in the name of N'Jal.

As a follower of The Dark Lady, Lorenor's first duty was spreading the influence of N'Jal. The cathedral of The Dark Lady would spread its influence all over Althanas even as they were smack in the middle of the second age of darkness.

Lorenor stared at The Cell for a moment named after a man called Treslizn.

The grin on his face moved even wider and the mutant began to laugh. It was a strange sort of gesture, for only the truly insane would find humor in a bloodbath. As Lorenor laughed, his eyes spotted the man-in-white.

He was the enemy of N'Jal, and thus, an enemy of Lorenor.

"Max Dirks." Lorenor said to himself as he stared at the arrogant human. The powers of N'Jal would not be contained by trickery or forbidden arts. Having left his precious items in safe-keeping, the mutant had long since memorized the verses within The Necronomicon. He could pull upon those verses when needed. The mutant only had a few carefully chosen objects with him. Objects that were hand-picked by himself and N'Jal. Lorenor's senses detected the force field that was present in the cage, this caused the mutant to frown. Archaic powers were in play here.

Lorenor thought about the third coincidence that lead him to The Cell.

Traveling through the streets of Radasanth after several ventures into The Citadel, the mutant was contacted by one of the many Forsaken spies placed into Radasanth's economic stronghold. Seeing that the spies informed him about the tournament, the coincidence was two-fold. Firstly, the mutant knew that The Cell was somehow involved with his past. At least, one possible past, from his current point of view. It was a chance to gain information about one of his past lives. Secondly, another matter presented itself. Many legendary warriors and magi will be present within The Cell. His informant had told him. It would be a chance to test his skill against some powerful targets.

Lorenor grinned at that thought. Though it was a series of coincidences, Lorenor did not believe in such. Lorenor believed in faith. For the mutant carried his goddess within. Placing his hand upon his chest for a moment, Lorenor prayed to the dark lady for strength and guidance. Only one member of the tournament roster had entered The Cell so far. Someone who strangely enough, gave off dark-powers.

As the first droplets of rain began to pour down into The Cell, Lorenor looked up at the sky. His bane was completely covered by the dark thunder-clouds. This impressed the mutant greatly, he would be at full power. Adjusting the weight of the prevalida longsword on his back, and adjusting the dagger at his side, the mutant was prepared. Also made of prevalida, the dagger would be useful. As the crowd stared in silence at the High Priest, the mutant walked forward.

He wore flowing, black robes that were masterwork in tailormanship. They were embroidered with solid gold. The robes had the markings of the Spider Magi etched upon them. It was a terrifying visage, one that would command respect from most. The mutant had a horrible aura about his person that glowed with the very manifestation of The Living Dark. Focusing on the pages of the Necronomicon, Lorenor went over the verses lurking within those pages. He had long since committed the pages to memory.

As a High Priest of N'Jal the mutant brought something horrible to The Cell.

He brought with him the war of the Thaynes. Staring at Max Dirks with a cold, angry gaze, the mutant prepared for what would be the single most defining moment of his life. "In the name of N'Jal. I hereby ordain this game." He said plainly, dangerously. He moved his eyes from Max Dirks to the person of Dissinger. Prepared for every eventuality to occur, even his own death, the mutant began to slowly walk towards Dissinger with murderous intent.

"You there." Lorenor began. "I do believe that you have volunteered to become the first sacrifice of the day." Without making any sense whatsoever, the mutant prepared himself to attack the stranger.

Drawing his Prevalida Dagger with his left hand, the mutant began to run the rest of the distance between himself and Dissinger. Expertly, he slashed in the general direction of Dissinger. Not really aiming for any any specific body part, the High Priest slashed for the general area of the man's upper body. It was a fluid motion that maneuvered in an downward-upward strike.

With that basic but elegant attack, The Cell began.

[Letho]

People needed heroes.

In truth, for most folk Althanas was a bleak place to live, a gray world filled with violence and uncertainty and untimely demise. It was a world in which every other man seemed to have a weapon and just enough bad temper to use it. And it was a world where diseases swept thought the population like the wind, taking lives of the just and the corrupt alike. It was a world out of balance, where karma seemed to have taken a long hiatus, where gods seemed to have turned a blind eye to the plights of a common man, where good things didn’t happen to those who waited and where the evil prospered. It was a world where hope was a commodity few could keep alive, a world where people silently cried out for salvation, and in lieu of that, distraction. They needed someone, a symbol of a better life. A hero.

It didn’t matter to them that there was usually more that met the eye, that not even these shiny bastions of hope they so easily deified weren’t as perfect as they believed. It didn’t matter to them that most – Letho Ravenheart most definitely included – couldn’t live up to the stories and rumors even if they lived a thousand years. It didn’t even matter to them that most would live out their lives without as much as laying their eyes on those they looked up to. Because if they didn’t have something to look up to, they were doomed to look down on the reality of life and that was a road that undeniably led to desperation for most. But knowing (or just believing) that there is someone out there fighting the good fights, righting the wrongs, standing up for the oppressed, it made them feel like they were in the fight themselves. And that they were winning for a change.

Letho Ravenheart knew this well enough, understood the concept and the effect it had on the masses, had to after being proclaimed a hero so many times. He also knew that there was as much truth in the myths as there was horse dung. Every man he slew on the battlefield was at least doubly counted by the common man, every monster that fell to his blade was twice as large and thrice as fierce, and every step he made shook the earth beneath his feet. According to some, at least. In reality, Letho never really felt like a hero. There were as many wrong decisions in his life as there were right ones, he made his share of missteps just like any other man and put his pants on one leg a time like the rest. But a plain old Letho Ravenheart couldn't suffice.

People needed heroes.

That was what Major Leeahn Festian of the newly reestablished Corone Armed Forces had told Letho when he recruited him for the Cell. With Corone still recovering from the Civil War, the government coffers empty, the streets were packed with beggars and cripples, and the morale was so low it dragged through the gutter alongside with all the rest, the high brass needed a likable face to represent them in the tournament taking place at the very heart of their great nation. Someone to take the folks’ mind away from their empty bellies and crumbling homes, someone who fought for justice and peace and all that is good in the world. And who better than the famous Red Marshal, who according to the official story led the rebellion against the Empire and destroyed the tyrants and brought peace and all that baloney that historians liked to lie about.

Letho had refused to participate at first. He always found these tournaments pointless, mere reenactments of actual battles that allowed the cowardly to get a taste of the real thing without serious repercussions. Sure, there were still some dangers in it. The physical wounds would be healed at the end of the whole trial, but the mental ones tended to stick around, especially for the inexperienced. Getting cleaved in half or having your head crushed against the wall or getting your guts blown out through your spine was something that a person could seldom forget, and for some that was a scar that never really healed right. But hey, the people found it entertaining and “nobody was getting hurt,” as Leeahn explained to him. It was not Leeahn’s words that had ultimately changed his mind, however, but rather Lorelei’s. His daughter seemed to have her mother’s power of persuasion.

So there he was, caged like an animal with all the rest, about to slice and dice and crush and maim with the best of them for the entertainment of the masses. And even though he had been positive he would hate every moment of this meaningless competition, there was a grin on his bearded face. Maybe it was the smell of the inevitable battle that drew it out, that tingly anticipation that built up in his gut and pressed against his heart until it raised its pace to a more appropriate level. Or maybe it was the crowd that cheered and shouted and cursed, their energy descending from the stands and pouring over the competitors like an unseen wave. Or maybe it was simply the fact that, when one got to the bare bone of the matter, Letho Ravenheart was a man that belonged in combat.

Someone up above (probably that Max Dirks fellow that Leeahn named as the main organizer and Letho named the main culprit for this entire mess) welcomed them to the jungle, but it didn’t look much like one to Letho. Aside from the monsoon rain that hissed and turned to vapor as it touched the shimmering roof above, the arena looked like a rather unremarkable piece of rocky dirt. The fence that surrounded it on all sides looked sturdy enough to take quite a beating (Letho gave it a perfunctory tug as he waited for the doors to open just to confirm his suspicions), and the translucent dome that covered it looked vibrant enough to dissuade anyone from going skywards.

He stepped forward willingly enough, and even as he did the roar of the crowd amplified, rose to a new peak and spilled across the battlefield, overruling every other sound. There was no mistaking Letho for any other combatant, that much was clear. In his full body armor made of blood-red Cillu glass, he was every bit the Red Marshal that the folk imagined. In his right was a prevalida-tipped spear, his left cradling the spiky helmet in the crook of his arm, but what most folk wanted to see was strapped diagonally across his back. The gargantuan “Lawmaker” gunblade rested for now, but everybody knew (expected? hoped?) that it was only a matter of time before Letho would unleash his legendary weapon.

Grin evolving into a full grown smirk, Letho Ravenheart raised his helmet to the stands and the stands responded with ovation. It was time to give them what they came here for, to be what they needed him to be.

And people needed heroes.

[Kade Underbough]

“You’re gonna be of some use to me one way or the other, Dog.” Lionel’s words echoed in the young conscript's head, causing a slight shudder at his captain’s implication. The unlikely soldier was learning how to survive Corone’s civil war, but at what could only be considered a snail’s pace. According to Lionel, snails didn’t make good soldiers.

Kade felt a slight nudge at his back and realized he had zoned out of his current predicament. Letting his right hand rest nervously on the hilt of his steely dagger, rough around the edges from some recent use, the fearful combatant opened the oak double doors and was consumed with the cheers and jeers of the crowd. A sold out stadium of every conceivable variety of Althanas’ population almost shattered his unsuspecting eardrums and he felt a slightly more aggravated prod from his attending guide. Perhaps slave-driver would have been a more appropriate title. Or simply Guard. Known for his lack of zeal for all things violent, Lionel had practically pinned the guide to Kade’s hip to prevent him from cooking up any bright ideas.

The crowd’s passionate urge for blood reverberated through every fiber of the stadium, every fiber of the young combatant’s lean frame. Escape wasn’t plausible. Death was inevitable. Lionel would be granted his wish once more. Forcing Kade into the Citadel hadn’t satiated the captain’s desire to give his conscript the experience he needed to become a worthwhile ally. A full blown battle was deemed the next step and news of the free for all tournament called the Cell had been too obvious for Corone’s veteran to ignore. The strings had been pulled and those in charge of the sport had allowed the bandit kid’s name to be put on the list of combatants. The crowd wanted their quick deaths too.

“So, uh… ya got any tips on how ta live in there?” Kade pointed toward his ever nearing cage, hoping his guard could shell out any scrap of information. He new death in that cage wouldn't be permanent, but pain was still pain.

“Sorry lad. You’re just shit out of luck if you gotta ask that.” A toothy grin came with the rest of his response. “Those aren’t just gonna be grown men you’re fightin’. You'll be fightin' a couple o' demi-gods of sorts I'm sure.” A shiver ran down the kid’s spine. “Yer one of the lucky ones, I’d say. You’ll be seein’ them healin’ monks real quick.”

“Thanks fer the help,” the kid mumbled, finally reaching his assigned door to the cage. He noticed a few of the closer combatants matched the guide's words. Demi-gods, creatures of the dark, and quite simply overpowering foes left him, in his own humble opinion, with no logical chance.

“It could be worse though,” sneered the grizzled guard.

“Oh? How’s that?” The slightest bit of hope started to creep into the young man.

“I could be the one goin’ in there! Ha Ha ha!” the man gave his assignment a quick shove through the door, laughing himself silly as he dashed away.

Kade just tasted bile.

[Ulysses]

This Cell was his church of choice. In this grand cathedral he would worship, and pray, and even die in the name of heroic virtue, and in the name of his goddess, Cydonia. The supplicants had gathered around for miles, and they screamed their hosannas for blood. The shouting and chanting was intense, and there was a disturbing almost bestial edge to it beyond the normal excitement around such an event. Ulysses wondered what had happened to make the people of Radasanth so. Civil war, economic uncertainty and the feared Xem’zund had together forged the once noble people here into some ugly creature filled with rage and bloodlust. Hardship could change men into beasts. Even the booming thunder seemed half-hearted next to their cries.

Ulysses felt nothing. In the hours and days before the Cell, he’d been jittery and nervous, even fearful, but now, standing outside the adamantium door to the arena itself, he was filled only with a deep cold. There was no turning back now. This was it. He wondered if people committing suicide felt a similar emotion as they plummeted towards the ground.

Don’t expect any special treatment from me, The voice of the spirit Cydonia boomed within its head. The goddess Cydonia had granted him the skills and abilities of heroes of old, although at the cost of his identity and freedom. It was the goddess who had forced him to come here, and it was through her divine intervention that he had been included on the list of competitors among some of the greatest champions of all Althanas. The goddess of heroic virtue had been unable to resist the possibility of enrolling her chosen champion in an event of such magnitude and glory.

That’s comforting, Ulysses thought sardonically. The goddess missed the sarcasm entirely. Gods are not generally known for their intelligence or sense of humor.

Those you will be battling are without exception great heroes, both light and dark, and whether they know it or not, all in their day have made glorious tributes to me. You may be my chosen champion, but I smile upon all who participate in this event today, Cydonia proclaimed. I wish you luck, however, Ulysses. Remember that the spirits of old will be by your side.

How am I supposed to match up against such champions, against heroes from every continent and race? Ulysses thought.

If you want, you’ll find a way, Cydonia said, and her presence vanished from his head. He frowned.

The rain plastered his short brown hair to his head and soaked his clothes, making him shiver. The emotional cold he felt inside was deep, but it was equally matched by the physical wet and cold discomfort. It seemed he’d been waiting an eternity for the door in front of him to open. The man running the tournament, some famous champion named Dirks—Ulysses had never heard of him—was taking his sweet time. No doubt he wanted to get the crowd’s emotions to a fever frenzy before allowing the match to begin.

For some reason, Ulysses thought of home rather than the event ahead. Scara Brae, with its forests and hills and fields of wheat, called to him from continents and oceans away. The calm sea and bay in which he’d once piloted a small fishing boat was vivid in his mind’s eye. The wife he’d been forced to abandon when Cydonia had appeared to him was even more vivid. Cydonia and made him pick up the sword rather than the fishing rod and begin a life as an adventurer. Oh, what he would give to have that life again! Adventure was the most overrated commodity in the universe. Perhaps he simply resented the fact that he had no control over his destiny anymore; he did what the goddess wanted, or terrible things happened to him and to those he loved. And what Cydonia wanted today was for him to participate in this godforsaken tournament which would probably bring his death. He spat on the ground in disgust.

He unsheathed his longsword and grasped its comforting length in one hand, and clutched his buckler in the other. Fine. If that was how it would be, then so be it, he could accept that fate. He’d battled monsters of the dark and champions of the light before, how different could this be? He would fight as long and as hard as could and with as much strength as he could muster, and perhaps win some small freedom for himself.

The spirits within him stirred and awoke at the thought of heroic enterprise. The Knight, who guided his sword and shield; the Ronin, who provided him with his code of honor; the Gunslinger, who lent him his keen eyes—all were ready to use their skills to their fullest extent.

Without warning, the rain ceased its downpour. Ulysses looked up and was filled with wonder. A great invisible shield had appeared in the sky, and the rain dissolved the moment it touched it, turning to vapor. They were like insects trapped in a child’s glass cage, he realized. He wondered what would happen if the air under the dome began to run out, but guessed that probably wouldn’t be a problem. The tournament couldn’t go on that long, right?

He’d expected some sort of pomp or dramatic opening, but there was none. The door in front of him simply swung open without ceremony. He walked through the door and into the Cell, and it slammed behind him with all the finality of a funeral.

A number of warriors entered the Cell at the same time, and Ulysses surveyed them each with vague misgivings. One, the mutant Lorenor, he had battled in the depths of the Citadel, and that visage sent shivers down his spine. Lorenor began the match with an attack on the figure across from him, but he ignored that conflict for now.

Others were unfamiliar to him—all but one. From the door directly to his right emerged a man in crimson armor, and instantly his heart sang out in recognition. This was Letho Ravenheart, the fabled Red Marshal. Something about him was more familiar to his famous face; there was some deeper recognition there that Ulysses couldn’t quite name. Something in the way he moved, the way the crowd cheered when he rose his helmet, perhaps a golden glint in his eyes…yes, this was a man who had been touched by the same goddess of heroes that watched over Ulysses, whether he knew it or not.

Ulysses felt a pang of sadness and kinship towards this man. Another soul doomed to walk the earth as a puppet, touted about by society and the gods for their amusement and private purposes. Compared to the Red Marshal, Ulysses was but a pawn in the great game—but even a pawn could, in the right position, topple the fates of kings.

The combatants stared at eachother uneasily for a long moment, weighing their chances and trying to determine their opponent’s weakness. He would later remember this moment of silence—after the pain and bloodshed, after the mental scars that lasted far longer had all but faded—as the last moment of clarity and peace for a long time. Ulysses readied his blade and prepared to fend off any comers. His face was grim, his heart cold.

Overhead, an enormous rainbow grew from the droplets of vaporized water in the thin air and coated the light with its prismatic incandescence. The rainbow was indifferent to the men below, dark paladins and valiant heroes alike, and it smiled upon them all equally, and proving that nature will bring beauty to even the darkest and most violent sewer of human history.

[Dissinger]

All bunnying between me and Lorenor has been gone over via AIM and approved! Like a profile!

So much for not making a target of myself…

The words bitterly crossed the Hex Ghoul’s mind before in a succinct action both arms were brought forward. Instead of moving to intercept the ghoul’s arms, he merely crossed them, and with a flick of his wrist the sleeves on the duster choked up about his elbows, revealing the Ghoul’s first trick. His arms were coated in a few yards of chain, and the dagger slammed harmlessly into the links of cold hard star metal. Even Seth wasn’t sure what the chains were made of, but he knew nothing had destroyed them yet, and so used them as a weapon, and his defenses.

A dark grin lit up the Lavinian’s face before he spoke, “You should be careful with those things, someone could get hurt…” He slowly raised his head till he was looking the fool who had attacked him in the eyes, a predatory light gleaming within the dead irises of the ghoul. Flexing his muscles he decided to try and see if the man could take a solid hit, and exerted some of his strength at the poor sap. The wave of pressure brushed against the ghoul’s frame, enough to perhaps knock the man off his feet, or perhaps cause him to connect with the far wall if not prepared. Seth shoved the would-be assailant back with all the force of a charging bull.

He had to hold back, at least for now, showing off his full strength could get him killed, when everyone decided to gang up on the poor innocent thief turned ghoul. He almost laughed at that last thought, viewing the image of his attack sliding through the mud. He was rather pleased at his ability to hold back, had that been full strength, the poor bastard would have been a smear on the side of the Aluminum wall. Now, it just showed that Seth had some strength.

He opened his mouth about to say something sarcastic, before he noticed something off. The man who was sent flying had a hand trailing in the muddy ground, creating a furrow in the ground. This seemed to act as a braking mechanism, before with a well practiced shove, he had righted himself to his feet and came to a sliding halt only perhaps twenty feet away. An eyebrow rose at the feat of agility, before his erstwhile opponent was off again, and leapt into the air, a feral cry upon his lips. Seth could only instinctively react, covering his vital areas, the neck and head before he felt the full force of his attacker slam into him.

In the mud it wasn’t even a contest to guess what would happen next.

Now on the ground, his hat had fluttered off his head, and he was struggling to get the beast off him. No longer would he make the mistake of calling that…thing a man. Fists pounded into him, claws raking at his flesh, seeking any way possible to cause damage. It was all Seth could do to keep up before he growled out, “Alright you son of a bitch, back off!” Using one arm to bat a hand away, he brought the other up in a fist meant to go right for the wild man’s face. A haymaker for sure, it wasn’t exactly easy to do much other than dirty himself more and more in the light mud that caked the ground.

I'm playing the ground as muddy because of Ulysses' post. I would suggest others do the same, if only for continuity at this point.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Yup bunnying approved.

On his feet, Lorenor had an impressive burst of speed on the ground. Moving with improved reaction time, and overall speed, the mutant did not have to hold back against the Hex Magi. If he held back, it was his ass. In a few moments, the mutant and the Hex Magi had begun the first real battle of The Cell. No questions were asked, no flowery words exchanged. It was simply the intent and purposes of the tournament at hand.

Vaguely, Lorenor recalled envisioning the man-in-white in the back of his head. Without truly understanding why, Lorenor hated this man. Max Dirks was a dangerous individual toying with all of their lives. I will have none of this shit. Lorenor thought to himself as he reacted against everything, presumably, that the Hex Magi could throw at him. The mutant gathered himself and prepared an aerial leap at the other ghoul. He grinned as he leaped, howling with all the fury of a demon. Knowing somehow that Seth was a powerful individual, the mutant had to keep the fellow of his feet if he was to survive.

Moving back to his fighting stance, the mutant took full advantage of the animalistic quality of his unique fighting style. Of course, Lorenor hoped that his attack would connect. If it did, it could by him some time to survive just a little bit longer. Then, Seth threw a punch at the mutant's face.

Thinking quickly on his toes, Lorenor landed on the ground. Just as the fist was coming to his face, Lorenor could feel his jaw-muscles extend and tearing at the seams. The maxilla portion of his jaw (The lower jaw) extended downward and mutated. Opening up to reveal several rows of sharp teeth, the mutant moved to intercept his opponent's fist. Not bothering to try to dodge, or evade, the mutant figured it was better to take the hit face-on. Lorenor meant to keep his chosen enemy off guard.

As Lorenor moved his powerful neck, he attempted to intercept the man's hand with his teeth. With ultra-sharp teeth, the mutant hoped to be the first to draw blood...

***

Lorenor sat in the middle of his room in Radasanth proper. Thinking to the moment at hand, he sat there in deep meditation. It had been several hours, nay, several days since Lorenor had begun this meditative process. He had fasted for The Cell once he found out he was going to be in it. Not only that, he had shut himself in with only his most trusted advisers. The mutant could concentrate on listening to the word of N'Jal. This was his time to reflect, his time to think about the mechanizations of the world at large. Positioned around him were several members of the Forsaken race.

Acknowledging his comrades in arms, the mutant whispered in the native Spider-Magi tongue. This language was a fell language indeed. Three books were positioned in a certain fashion in front of the mutant as he meditated before his followers. Lorenor whispered the tongue of the Spider Magi to them, conscripts carefully wrote the words down on parchment. With the self induced trance, the mutant would utter the words of their lady.

N'Jal.

When the words were spoken, a scribe wrote the words. As a High Priest, it fell upon Lorenor's burden to recite the words spoken by the living embodiment of N'Jal. Lorenor listened to the words of the dark lady as she whispered them to him. Lorenor knew, the dark lady was always with him. I carry my goddess with me. Lorenor oft said to his followers who were loyal to him. The mutant continued to recite until well before The Cell would actually begin...

***

Lorenor saw Seth's fist coming at him quickly. Impossibly fast. The mutant had to react with all of the dark speed that he could possibly muster. He hoped he could catch the man's fist. It would hurt, but it would hurt his enemy a lot worse...

[Esmerelda]

Esmerelda stood before the cell arena unemotional as always. She had one purpose for being here. She was untested in a real battle, her file recovery had proven that much. She projected, based on available data, that she was in fact, incomplete.

The Cell, it was the perfect grounds to test herself in a real battle. Not the one on one duels usually found in the citadel, but a real multi-man melee. She was designed to be superior to organic beings, the perfect weapon of war. She managed to infiltrate sign-up perfectly, and copy the sign up lists into her data files. She recognized some of the names on the list, popular topics of myth and rumor in taverns the world over. This had its purpose, of course. Each name on the list was given its own data file, presently empty, but soon to be filled with valuable data for future, yet to be determined purposes.

Esmerelda checked her form over, it was perfect. Short, fat, and plain. No one would think twice about such a competitor, they might even ignore her, which was perfect. Her hair was plain brown, as were her eyes. Her skin was riddled with freckles, and she had her Nanites on the surface assume the form of plain leather armor.

The signal was given, and the gates were raised. Esmerelda entered the arena, and immediately backed off from the competitors, intending to watch them first and determine what they could do to form a battle strategy.

[Ailnea]

Ailnea was terrified out of her wits. How could she be this unlucky? She must've been given the short straw in a random draw somewhere, because her superiors in the order of the Aibrone monks asked her to represent them in The Cell tournament.

She didn't want to be here, she had explained such to Grandmaster Onox.

“But Ailnea my dear,” he said with patience and wisdom, “The Cell will provide you with a chance that's difficult to obtain under ordinary circumstances. You'll go toe to toe with living legends. Just think of the learning opportunities.”

“I already know what a painful agonizing death feels like.” Ailnea protested.

“Victory and success brings lessons, yes. But remember, initiate, failure and defeat bring even more lessons.” Grandmaster Onox said, as he turned and walked away.

“Yes, Grandmaster.” Ailnea said between clenched teeth.

Ailnea spent the days leading up to the tournament considering the possibility of abandoning the order and fleeing into obscurity. She didn't want to be here, and it showed, her eyes flicking left and right in fear wondering who was going to kill her in what gruesome manner.

The doors opened, and people started to file in. She didn't join the initial rush, she slowly wandered in, trying to be the last one in, hoping everyone else would be too busy fighting each other to care about her.

Her entire battle strategy could be summed up to one single word, run. She planned on running away from every fight, from every opponent. If she was going to be killed, they'd have to catch her first, she didn't even want to be here. As it was, she was hoping the sight of her monk robes, and Aibrone medallion would afford her some grace.

~~~
Like Dissinger, Limited Bunnying of Ailnea is okay with me, and I grant permission to do so. Anything more involved than a few swings should be worked out through PM's first.

[Arsène]

Minor Clarification Errors fixed in editing, and no more.

Morning gales were always the most regrettable. The rising sun illuminated a colorless sky abound in upheaval. Clear droplets whipped around the drenched ground, actively searching out the driest spots to splatter and soak. It was the morning when men are at their most disorganized; the time when most diurnal creatures would forget an umbrella. It was near dawn, or just before it, when Arsène found himself in the small backyard of a family friend; a friend close enough to allow him to sanctify the earth with the precious cargo of his paramour’s remains that year ago. A large boulder, chipped by unskilled hands, were all the remainder of a lost love that still managed to haunt the man’s waking hours.

As he stood upon ground a year earlier he would have kneeled upon, he almost managed a shameful smile. Arsène from a year ago would have trembled and wept. Arsène from a year ago would bemoan and lament, all the while plucking at the strings of his violin, and seeping drippy words of putridly pathetic poetry upon page after page of privately kept memoirs.

He had grown in the time since then; though his melancholy was as plain as the scowling nose on his face, he killed his crippling emotions through the passage of hours and minutes spent on mindless distractions and existential quandaries.

The night before his visit to the grave, he had gone to the red bricks and cobblestone streets that housed the tailor and cobbler, who refined his favorite black suit and shoes into a masterpiece, out of the mediocrity it had become from misuse. Later on, he traveled up the roads of Radasanth to the blacksmith, who sharpened his client’s blade to the best steel would allow. Finally, as the moon shone for but a brief second between the claps of thunderous clouds, he went to every temple in the area. He heard sermons as fiery as the candlelight that lapped the preachers’ faces. He hung on their words without dismissal or disgust, all in hopes of having some enlightenment at the end of the issue.

Death, that terrible fiend that choked the life out of his bride, became a morbid fascination to Arsène in the later months since her passing; but it wasn’t her death that interested him the most. Despite a suave attire and Romantic attitude that would make young Werther envious, Arsène had yet to bring himself to that tried and true method of reuniting young lovers across eternity; suicide. A month after his wife’s death, he attempted auto-defenestration, only to realize that a second flood inn window did not have the desired affect.

From Arsène’s pocket, he produced a single rose, crushed by the long walk to the house from the city. Placing it gingerly on the boulder, and with a tender kiss to the stone, he departed to an event that had peaked his interests.

“Anastasia…” He muttered, muted as he was by the wind and rain.

**

As the doors to the cell opened, he breathed a sigh of relief. At least he could dry off for a moment after his run to the city. People outside the arena, faces lit up in joie de vivre over the spectacle of it all, had no real impact on his disposition, or his mission.

Death, that constant companion that grows closer every year, was with him. He wanted to experience it, even if it was only a mock-up of the real thing. He knew the damned priests would bring him back somehow. But this competition allowed a coward to live dying, and see what his options were for future contemplation on untimely demises.

The battles had already begun, but Arsène merely found himself a quiet corner to take his jacket off. His violin and bow in one hand, and the sword in the other, he placed his jacket and sword on the floor of the cage; and despite all the sounds and cries and overly dramatic speeches going on around him, Arsène began to play a tune he knew from home. A strong and powerful number, it was the classic heroic whine of glory and valor.

Albious was inbred; there was no way to get around that fact. It was a small island colonized for millennia, where ruling families attempted to stay as close knit as possible. Because of this, the peasantry circulated rumors of the aristocrats inability to use or be affected by magic; monk's resurrecting abilities would prove all but useless if that were the case.

It was an amusing parlor story, and Arsène was about to test the plebian hypothesis.

That did not mean he planned to go down without a fight, however.

[Bloodrose]

The adamantine door barring him entry to the great arena swung open, and Teric smiled. He'd travelled so far to arrive here; traversing the length of Salvar on foot as he wound southward from the States. He'd crossed the border into neighboring, war-torn Raiaera with nothing but the clothes on his back and the weapons in his hands to fend off the undead that still plagued that land. Boarding a ship in Tennaiglini, the mercenary had plied the waves to Radasanth; a city in which he certainly wasn't welcome, and certainly wasn't missed.

Teric Barton had travelled a long way for a fight, and woe-be-it to his eleven fellows if the veteran went home unsatisfied.

"Insane" was the adjective his good friend Pembleton had used when the old war dog arrived unannounced at his doorstep, and the accountant may have had a point. Few enough were those who saw the appeal in throwing oneself into a cage alongside a dozen others with murderous intent, but even fewer still were those who actually sought such diversions.

Teric anticipated the usual tournament archetypes. There would be the heroes; warriors of both light and dark that undoubtedly attached some grander, more honorable cause to their base reasons for competing. The mercenary made a habit of avoiding this type at the onset of each battle, not necessarily because he was wary of them, but because they would most certainly be found praising the advantages of their particular beliefs, while at the same time playing doomsayer to everyone else. Later, when the exertions of battle left them with little breath to spare, Teric would test their convictions without having to suffer their flowery speeches.

After the heroes would come the green-horns; men and women too young to fully appreciate the intricacies and unforeseen dangers of an open battlefield. The Citadel this was not, and yet spectacles such as "The Cell" always seemed to draw a fair number of aspiring young adventurers. Teric was confident that he could wade through the majority of those that fell into this category without issue, but there was always the wild-card factor with untested fighters.

Lastly came the archetype Teric could most closely associate with: the fame-seekers. These were the individuals who considered their skills to be of a caliber worth promoting, and without the shackles of some cause or religion to weigh them down, were the most likely to admit why they were really here. These individuals had entered the Cell because they thought they could win it, and weren't afraid to prove it. Yes, the fame-seekers were the closest thing Teric had to kindred spirits in this adamantine cage, but even they fell short of why Teric had crossed two countries and an ocean to be here. Teric was not simply great at fighting - he actually took joy in it.

For the veteran, it wasn't necessarily about the fame, or the money, or the thrill of the kill; at least not wholly. For Teric it was the pure, unadulterated sense of competition inherent in armed combat that truly appealed to him. What other form of sport pitted individuals against one another in such a fashion? Win and you go home. Lose and you die, albeit those that fell this day would surely be resurrected later.

The adrenaline that accompanied knowing that one mistake might result in cold steel sliding between your ribs was Teric's drug of choice, and that was why Teric continuously threw himself headlong into these spectacles.

I just hope that someone in there can make me feel it. Teric almost prayed as he strode through the doorway and into the muddy arena with a cool sense of resoluteness that only age and experience could bring. Saber in his right hand, and with his sword strapped to his left, Teric started sizing up the competition.

The trip will have been poorly spent if I come out unharmed on the other side... He found himself thinking.

[Christoph]

"Just stop worrying and enter the tournament," she encouraged.

"I must say that I find this paradigm reversal between us very ironic," said Elijah, falling into his loquacious speaking habits, as he always did around Sarah. Receiving only a few odd looks, the odd pair walked through the streets of Radasanth on their way to the staging area for the curious 'Cell' competition. For once, Eli seemed less than enthused.

"Irony is by its very nature a reverse of paradigm," replied Sarah. She adjusted her gold-rimmed spectacles and rolled her eyes. "And I would argue that you find nearly everything ironic."

"My dear, I would take offense to that--"

"Were it not completely true, yes. I know." She rolled her eyes again; she did that a lot around Elijah for some reason.

He’d known Sarah for three months, but he still didn’t quite know what to think of her. It wasn’t that she defied classification, but rather that her classification seemed to shift faster than the phases of the moon.

She first approached him after Elijah had defeated a prominent Warrior to gain his position within the hierarchy, bubbling with flattery and overenthusiastic interest in his career. She played the role of a sycophant, albeit a cute one; he was partial to blonde-haired women, so it worked out. Eventually, he concluded that she wasn’t a stalker, mostly. As he came to trust her a bit more, and realized that she wouldn’t be going away, he moved her up a step in his regard to the rank of ‘helper’. From there, she rose to the classification of ‘trusted helper’, and when she expressed her eager interest in arcane studies, she even became his student – apprentice, even. And during one poorly thought-out moment in a tavern a few weeks before, he even classified her as a good kisser. For the past twenty minutes, however, only the word ‘annoying’ came to mind.

"Our charming banter aside…" sighed the Pagoda Master.

"And isn't it ever so charming," Sarah added.

"Indeed. But that aside, I do find it amusing that in most similar situations, those involving me participating in grand duels and bloody spectacles in the name of fame, glory, and money, it is I who rush eagerly forth with blind confidence in my considerable prowess and you who preach prudence and preparation. But this time it is you who pushes me into a competition on a whim, while I am less than eager to rush forward without proper caution."

"This isn't just a random duel," she explained. "It's the Cell. Run by some Max Dirks."

"I don't recall ever hearing of that individual. Is he famous?"

"He thinks he is, at least. Regardless, this is one of the largest martial competitions in the world. Famous warriors from every country will be there."

"But I don't have anything to prove," Eli replied, slipping back into his casual speech patterns. "To be completely honest, I came to Radasanth today to take a day off. I would have rather just watched this clustered debacle of a competition than get involved."

"That could have been an option if you'd brought enough money along."

"I'm not a rich person," the Hierarch reminded her. "You're the one with a good job."

"And you're one of the most powerful sorcerers in the known world, as you enjoy reminding everyone. You could make a fortune as a heat source for some duke's bathhouse. Just sitting there, being surrounded by naked men."

"And I'm sure you wouldn't mind that," Elijah teased. He dodged her punch. “I’m not fond of naked rich men.”

"Then win the Cell. That will give you plenty of money. Besides, I'll be there to watch."

"Ah ha! I get it now. You secretly love violent debauchery, but since only one of us can afford to get in as a spectator, the other needs to do it the hard way."

She waved her hands dramatically. "Oh, your brilliant eyes… how they pierce my very soul."

"I would say that sarcasm doesn't suit you, but it does." Eli grinned. "And fine. It's either spend my day setting other sentient beings on fire, or endure you the whole time."

She smiled triumphantly. "I knew you'd see it my way."

* * * * *

And thus Elijah found himself in the rocky Cell arena, listening to the crowds cheer politely when they called his name. A few people probably knew him, but he didn’t receive the same reception as some of the others, such as the famous Letho Ravenheart. Small wonder that few paid attention to the young man wearing a chef coat.

The battle sparked quickly, but Elijah hung back at first, watching, waiting, and idly twirling his sword. He wondered how many of these opponents he could lay waste to with the slightest effort – being one of the mightiest sorcerers in the known world had its advantages. While he lacked the arcane finesse of skilled wizards, even the master Bards of Raiaera couldn’t match his raw power. But who to blast into a sticky red mist first?

Then he saw Bloodrose, and his eyes centered on the aging Grandmaster. Elijah wasn’t bitter about his defeat at Teric’s hands, but deep down he knew that he could have defeated the old man if not for his own damned complacency and pride. This time, standing before a historic crowd amidst legendary warriors, Belov would have another go. If he hadn’t been on strictly non-speaking terms with Fate, he would have thanked the conniving bitch for the opportunity. Instead, he would thank Sarah. She must have known.

By then, Teric had noticed him. The two Pagoda Hierarchs stared at each other across the arena. Elijah wasted no more time; he wouldn’t allow Bloodrose to approach unhindered. With a swift whispered incantation, Belov gripped the threads of magic, drawing heat and energy inward in an invisible rippling tide. With the slightest of gestures, he unleashed the spell in a blinding lance of heat and flame.

[Ulysses]

Mud squelched up through Ulysses’ worn boots and in between his toes as he shifted from foot to foot in anticipation of the coming battle and sized up his foes. Two competitors had already begun wrestling fiercely in the center of the arena, paying no mind to the others around them. One of these was the dark paladin Lorenor, and the other was a mysterious man in a long trenchcoat. Tall, dark and ugly, Ulysses thought without a bit of humor. He had no interest in getting involved with those two, at least not yet.

The rest seemed more cautious. Two unassuming women and a pallid man with gray eyes entered one side of the arena—he wrote them off immediately as thrillseekers or fools. A more veteran warrior would have known that those with the most unassuming appearances are also often the most dangerous, but a veteran Ulysses was not.

He was far more interested in those he recognized: the warrior Teric Bloodrose and the sorcerer Elijah Belov. Their battle for the title of Grandmaster had been the talk of all Scara Brae for months after its occurrence—they were local and probably foreign legends as well. Elijah sent a fiery spell towards the veteran warrior almost immediately. Ulysses expected that their battle would be hot in more ways than one…

Being trapped in a Cell with such intimidating figures as these, along with men such as Letho Ravenheart and the foul Lorenor put something of a damper on his hopes for victory.

I never knew thou wert a coward, Ulysses. The spirit of the Knight voiced its disapproval within his head.

I’m not, Ulysses thought, gritting his teeth. To prove this, he turned to the hero Letho next to him and nodded solemnly in acknowledgement, trying to pretend as though they were equals.

“Master Letho,” he said, trying to mask the awe in his voice. Then he turned away, blushing.

Oh praise the man Jesus, is he gonna ask for the man’s aughter-graph next? the Gunslinger drawled. Ulysses moaned. Sometimes all the spirits sharing his body did grow a bit…crowded.

He looked from left to right, and his eyes settled on a young man with a bow and dagger who’d been shoved in the door directly to his left. The kid was a few years younger than him (well, probably, appearances could be deceiving) but the terror and inexperience in his eyes was evident. What in all hells was he doing here?

Picking on the weak, very noble, the Knight thought. Ulysses ignored him. It’d probably be a mercy to eliminate the kid before one of the more dangerous warriors got to him. Besides, there really didn’t seem to be anyone else he was comfortable fighting. Eventually he may have to be drawn in to the power plays of the legends around him, but for now he’d best just avoid attention.

He charged the teenager and swung his sword towards the man’s throat. The Knight, disapproving though he was of this tactic, lent his skill to the strike, and the blow was quick and clean. His opponent would counter quickly, or he would find himself unable to counter at all.

A slit throat made it hard to do that.

For Ulysses, this was the real beginning of the Cell.

[Atzar]

The show hadn’t even begun, yet a battle already raged. Thunder boomed as Atzar Kellon squinted skyward amidst the raindrops, watching the angry clouds tear into each other, their wounds bleeding rain on the sodden city far below. Brilliant flashes of lightning lanced to the ground periodically, testament to the conflict’s savagery.

The sky has no choice. That’s its purpose; to be at peace in calm weather, and to tear itself apart when the weather is foul.

The mage glanced back to the great complex in front of him. He’d yet to even enter the arena, and already the buzz of the massive crowd was audible. Lightning flashed, thunder crashed once more.

The sky does it because it has to… What’s my excuse? Butterflies stirred in the tall, lithe figure’s stomach as he realized what he was doing. The strongest warriors, the most powerful mages, the most lethal assassins would surely enter the Cell. Atzar wasn’t delusional; he knew he had no realistic chance of winning such an encounter; yet here he was, throwing himself headfirst into the middle of it.

What’s my excuse? But the unspoken question was mere rumination, the musing of a nervous mind. He knew very well why he was here: he wanted to be here. There was part of him that relished the danger. He knew that one mistake could mean death – hell, he might battle flawlessly and still die – and he wanted it. The mental and physical struggle, the thrill, the quest for victory, for quest for survival – he wanted it all.

So he mounted the stairs, aware though he was of the way his legs trembled at every step.

***

Even inside that adamantine ring, the storm raged. The thunder’s claps could even be heard above the audience’s growing roar, and the rain had reduced the ground beneath his feet to slick stones and slimy mud. Rain dripped from the mage’s long, dark hair, his soaked garb, his nose, yet he no longer even noticed. The battle had commenced; his attention focused entirely on those around him.

Most of the combatants were doing the same thing. They warily looked this way and that, hands on weapons, backs to the wall, suspicion written clearly on their faces. On the other side of the arena, a couple of skirmishes had already begun, though blood hadn’t yet been spilled.

A sensation filled the mage’s mind then. It tingled down to his fingertips, and the hair on his arms stood on end in spite of the rain. He looked to his right to see a curious sight. The lad looked as if he belonged in a kitchen instead of the Cell – he was wearing what could only be a chef’s coat. Atzar wondered if perhaps his senses were in error, but then the young man swiftly removed all doubt. A burning inferno burst forth from the chef, roaring across the ring at a grizzled old warrior.

Wow.

Had the blast been directed at him, Atzar knew it would have consumed him; he had felt the heat even though he stood somewhat apart from its source. Eyes wide, he watched the young man who had cast the spell. There was no malice in his gaze, only a desire to observe. Here was a man who practiced Kellon’s own craft, yet obviously far exceeded the mage’s abilities. To fight this man would be only to affirm his own mortality.

None of the other competitors had marked him as a target, and so Atzar was content to watch the chef-mage’s conflict.

[Kade Underbough]

It wasn’t until he picked himself off the ground, swatting chunks of mud from his shoulder, that he realized he was wet from the rain. A few more quick moments passed before it dawned on him that the rain was no longer hitting him, falling harmlessly onto an invisible, yet sturdy, barrier of some sort. It seemed that magic was a necessary aspect of all sporting arenas, Citadel or otherwise. He held no wonder or awe in the observation. There was no time, as isolated combat quickly erupted.

The first two men, or creatures as they were, showed no desire for the formalities one might inquire of before a competition. Rather, a blow was thrown that sent one body flying in a way Kade couldn’t imagine recovering from. The receiving end of the blow did just that with as much ease and style one could hope for. It was enough to show the conscript that he was outmatched by at least those two. Their power struck a cord of fear in him. It also force fed him an idea.

Bring on the attack!

In all matters considering war, the bandit kid had always been a coward. Many of the combatants seemed to be much more like himself that he would have thought; uninterested in making any sort of first move that could quickly become a mistake. The fear he felt toward those men showing such reckless and violent intent told him that mimicking that aggression could be a key to survival. It dawned on him that possibly the more experienced warriors, those that obviously knew how to survive, were the ones already engaged in the fighting. In the most flawed, illogical bit of logic, they were the ones most likely to move on from the cell under their own power.

Is that the lesson Lionel wants me to learn here?

There was only one way to find out.

Forgoing his dagger, the bandit kid whipped out his choice yew bow, notching not one, but two oak arrows to its tough string. Then he let them fly, not bothering to look at where they were going. Rather, he brought forth two more of his handcrafted projectiles. He didn’t care where they would land. From his few previous battles, he had learned that luck was the most important factor to his survival. Luck that he might take out an enemy. Luck that he might draw the attention of the correct foe. Luck that he could reasonably fight against that foe. Luck that everything would go his way. From his few previous battles, he had learned that luck was on his side. Until that moment.

Just as he was bringing the string back to release a second haphazard volley, the thick plumping sound of beating, burly boots through the mud came at Kade from his right. Or was it simply movement out of the corner of his eye. The crowd's enthusiasm made any other sound a somewhat moot point. Regardless, instincts kicked in. He turned to face the coming foe. Stumbled back to avoid a quick death. Tripped. His notched arrows sprayed from the bow, having been unable to hang on to them. The bow quickly followed suit, as he his inexpert dodge sent him sprawling on his back. The mud almost enveloped him, welcoming him to its odd, lonely world. The bandit kid hoped the arrows had accidentally felled his attacker. If only he could be that lucky.

[Letho]

Nice kid, was Letho’s initial impression of the boy that emerged from the adjacent door. The lad did all but salute him, but it was the manner in which his greeting was done that caught Letho’s interest. Most youngsters that age reacted by expressing either reverent awe or hidden rancor towards the legendary swordsman. This one showed neither. There was respect in his voice, but not of the fawning kind that he saw all too often. No, there was strength in this one, or at least determination to shield his true emotions with a mask of toughness. It reminded the Marshal of himself twenty years back, when he had been young enough to feel invincible and dimwitted enough to actually believe it to be true. This faint resemblance was enough to decide that he liked this kid. Perhaps not enough to leave him unharmed for the duration of the round, but just enough to leave him for last, give him a quick death, and then maybe buy him a cup of ale afterward.

There was little time to dwell on the peculiarity of the greeting, however; already a number of combatants picked their targets and made their opening moves. Since none seemed to have their crosshairs on the Marshal yet, Letho’s eyes had ample time to make a sweep of the field from the shadow of his helmet. His mind disregarded the polite greenhorn and did what it was trained to do, what it was honed to do by years of training and decades of experience; it ascertained and analyzed the threats, then cataloged them accordingly. The small fat woman was filed away in the back row of his mind first, then the sickly looking man with a violin (downright harebrained that one looked with his musical instrument in the midst of this chaos), next the one with long black hair that looked to be stupefied by the fiery razzle-dazzle, and lastly the blonde that looked barely out of her teens. Low priority that file was designated. Letho wasn’t about to tire himself eliminating the pawns when higher value pieces were still very much in play.

Of those left unsorted in the first sweep, four seemed to stand out, but it was the magician that caught Letho’s interest. Plain dressed and plain looking, the young man summoned a spear made of fire and launched it at the elderly fellow. A wizard. Letho hated wizards (or sorcerers, or mages, or whatever the hell the snooty bastards liked to call themselves). The very type of combat they preferred – sit back and fling spell after spell until the world around them was a scorched wasteland – went against everything the swordsman was taught about the honor of battle. He reckoned that these mages felt similar contempt toward the likes of him, possibly found swordsmen brutish and obtuse, but then again these people also liked to wear dresses (and call them robes), so Letho didn’t think much of their personal preference.

Testing the grip on the muddy soil with his right boot, he gave the battlefield another swift glance. His left gauntleted hand clenched into a fist as he did so, and the instant it did a transparent sphere formed around the legendary warrior. The vague outlines of the anti-magic barrier were visible for but a moment, no more than a temporary shimmer that reflected the lightning that cracked the sky overhead, before they faded back to invisibility. He was yet to find someone able to break through his summoned shield with their magicks. Maybe this fellow would prove more of a sport than those before him.

He took a couple of measured steps first, then accelerated gradually until his remarkable bulk was moving at full sprint, the weight of his armor and his armaments hindering his mobility not at all. The roar of the crowd seemed to rise proportionally to his speed, however, an evident sign of his approach for anyone with functional pair of ears a bit of brain between them. Fame didn’t look like such a marvelous thing as he slid on one knee and extended his right arm, thrusting his spear at the chest of the mage.

Trying to skewer Elijah. That’s what you get for picking on the elderly; Chris. ;) If need be, minor bunnying of Letho is allowed.

[Ulysses]

While the true champions battled in the center of the arena, the younger heroes held their own duel at the edge of the battlefield.

Two arrows flew haphazardly at Ulysses as he closed the gap between him and his opponent. One simply went wild and flew into the floor at his feet, but the other struck him right in the chest. It felt like getting punched in the chest—although thanks to his vest the arrow couldn’t pierce the upper layer of his clothing. The arrow snagged on his clothing and hung down, limb.

His forward momentum was too great to be stopped, however. The boy had managed to dodge his sword strike, but hadn’t compensated for the almost frictionless surface the thin layer of mud had created and had gone toppling onto his back—his bow had scattered across the floor. He was now completely prone on the ground, with Ulysses standing over. The swordsman placed his blade at the enemy’s throat, point nudging his Adam’s apple. No sooner had their skirmish began than Ulysses had the upper hand.

Time for the killing blow, the Ronin thought.

Maybe this Cell thing ain’t gonna be as hard as we thought, eh kid? the Gunslinger agreed.

Ulysses ignored them. He ripped the snagged arrow from his shirt and tossed it on the ground. So there were advantages to that damn heavy small-ringed chainmail he wore after all.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Ulysses asked the boy on the ground. The boy had shown no combat aptitude at all. It was some cruel joke that he’d been thrown in here with the likes of Ravenheart and Bloodrose. There was something incredibly pitiful about the child—like a puppy thrown in a cage with lions.

He’s no child—he’s almost thy age, the Knight noted. That was true, but Ulysses had the years of experience of his guardian spirits at his side.

Ulysses readied his sword once more for the single chop that would end this farce, but once again he couldn’t find it in himself to kill the boy. So what if he would just be revived later? Having your head chopped off was something of a harrowing experience. This wasn’t a battle—this was murder.

He wondered if the same thing would happen if he ended up in a battle with one of the more famed contestants…except in that case, he would be the one on the floor, and they would doubtless have no qualms about chopping his head clean off.

He gulped and hesitated just a moment more. As it turned out, that was just a moment too long.

[Arsène]

The cheering and jeering of the crowd ruined anyone’s chance to listen to the brilliance of Arsène’s craft. He finished the final notes of his tune as unassumingly as he had begun. It was clean, crisp, and inspirational (if slightly out of tune, he should have visited the damn music shop before the battle began.)

Arsène rose from the cell’s floor; above the mud he could see all the commotion that had begun since he started his song. Two ghouls were off clawing each other like wild beasts, and mages let flame fly furiously from their fingertips. It was all tripe. These were creatures from children’s stories; human Aesop characters to teach morals and virtue and run fear into the spines of kids.

”How droll,” he whispered as the wind rolled round and round him. The clash of titans proved only a mild distraction, but he had a task at hand. Scanning the fighters, he quickly settled upon an unassuming man who watched the mage-on-swordsman brawl with an eerily fascination, considering the sounds of death and groans of pain were everywhere.

He placed his violin upon his jacket, careful to keep it free of mud; the damn thing might no sound right, but it had history that spun Arsène’s head. Lightning cascaded above in the sky, reflecting off the melancholic’s blade. It was cleaned and polished only a day before, and sent a shiver down Arsène’s spine.

He was a noble; trained from birth to uphold a man-made code through blood and iron. He began a small sprint towards the unassuming man, swords at readied in his hands. Sliding with a sense of grace and finesse, moved forward by his momentum in the mud, he lunged the steel straight towards Atzar’s gut.


Going at Atzar. Sorry the post isn't up to par, but I'm a little lightheaded from the cold and medicine.

Also drinking time.

[Christoph]

Strangers rarely knew what to expect from Elijah Belov. At first glance, they saw a chef who could have just stumbled out of a noble's kitchen. That was until he set them on fire with a casual gesture. Then the image changed to an oddly-dressed sorcerer. People rarely even noticed his sword, and if they did they assumed he kept it just for show. He often actively encouraged that perception, because then his foes engage him under false expectations. Sorcerers aren't supposed to be good fighters, but Elijah had fought with a blade for a very long time. It formed the perfect counterpoint to his magic: plenty of finesse, but not much power.

Therefore, Eli did not recoil before Letho Ravenheart’s charge. His first and strongest emotion was not fear, but annoyance. An interruption, taking attention away from his primary target.

The sorcerer continued his incantations until the very last moment. He drew the threads of power inward, infusing his flesh with magic, changing and expanding his physical capacities well beyond mortal limits. His muscles tightened and his movements grew swifter. The world seemed to slow around him.

Seconds later, Letho was upon him. Elijah spread his feet and drew his sword, sweeping it in a blinding arc to parry Ravenheart’s mighty thrust. The legend followed with another jab. Belov knocked it aside. While his motions seemed casual, he actually staggered beneath the attack’s crushing force.

He grit his teeth and jumped out of reach. He felt the subtle hum of Letho’s aura. He knew it well – it was some form of counter-magic. Were he not about to get skewered, he would have sighed and shaken his head. Leave it to those ignorant of magic to hide behind a defense made by magicians. The protective field was potent, but so was he.

With a feral snarl, he unleashed a blast of fiery wrath. Raw power erupted from his fingertips in a wave of flame and shattered earth. He lacked fine control of his pyromancy, but he possessed truly legendary raw power. With a series of sharp gestures, he intensified his sorcerous assault into a ceaseless explosion, focused and furious. He could feel the anti-magic field’s resistance, but that only drove him to push harder than he ever had in his life.

[Ailnea]

Ailnea hovered at the edge away from the fighting, her thoughts wavering from fear of death and the more powerful competitors, to a desire to at least not humiliate her order. That was the only reason she hadn't simply fled when she had the chance. But the other competitors, they seemed so powerful, and she was not very much evolved yet.

Her evolutions, the secret to Aibrone power, becoming more than what you were. She was alittle faster than normal, but that was the only advantage given to her. Yet, looking at some of the other competitors, that didn't seem to help her much.

Ailnea watched legends battle in the center, and other not so legendary contenders battle on the sides. So far, no one had taken any interest in her, she was safe. With a chill of fear, she heard footsteps squelching in the mud, coming towards her, picking up speed with every step.

“Forget the order's honor, if they had any, they wouldn't have selected such a weak member to represent the whole order!” Ailnea thought.

She took off running with all her speed, weaving through the two main areas of battle, hoping a blow that missed someone else would hit her pursuer. She spared a glance back to see if she was still pursued, she was, and her opponent was a plain freckled woman, who had just ripped her left arm out of her socket by all appearences!

“What in blazes are you?” Ailnea yelled breathlessly as she turned back to concentrate on fleeing.

[Bloodrose]

The gods must have been listening intently to Teric's prayer as he entered the arena, for the mercenary was almost immediately confronted by an old opponent. Elijah Belov, Master of the Dajas Pagoda and former challenger to Teric's reign there, locked eyes with the old mercenary and both were struck by a silent, mutual understanding. Despite a judge's decision in Teric's favor, their last battle - in the eyes of the combatants - had ended in something too closely resembling a draw for their liking. It was the sort of situation that could only be settled by a rematch, and the young sorcerer didn't waste any time in initiating one.

So little time was wasted, in fact, that Teric didn't even have a chance to size up many of the other competitors.

"Fucking magi." Teric groaned under his breath as Elijah very deftly, and quite unceremoniously, shot a fiery bolt of raw magic in his direction. On the outer edges of his senses, the veteran could almost hear the collective shifting of asses to the edges of seats. He could almost feel the audience willing the object on, urging it to fly faster as they waited with abated breath to see if this bright, shining salvo would result in the day's first death. No matter how fast they willed it to travel, however, it wasn't fast enough to catch Teric - especially at range.

Of course, he probably already knows that. He just wants to get my undivided attention.

The mercenary made it seem almost effortless as he sidestepped the projectile well before it whizzed harmlessly by on its predetermined course. The raw power of Elijah's pyromancy exploded against the adamantine wall behind him, and Teric didn't even so much as turn to survey the damage. Instead the veteran was already striding purposefully across the arena, his gait sure-footed and even despite the rough, muddy terrain. Weapon grasped firmly in hand, shield at the ready, Teric was just outside comfortable talking distance of the sorcerer when the battlefield-esque nature of the Cell interrupted the monogamy of their duel.

And we hadn't even gotten started yet. The veteran lamented.

Letho Ravenheart, resplendent in his red Cillu plate mail, arrived like a charging bull on Elijah's flank. The tip of the Marshal's spear slammed forward, intent upon skewering the mage-chef's heart, and Teric couldn't decide if he should have been happy or disappointed when it missed. The Pagoda Master's sword turned away the dangerous end of Letho's spear with practiced ease, and the young sorcerer countered almost immediately with an impressive explosion of raw elemental power.

Sorcerer and Hero alike disappeared from view as Teric's line of sight was obstructed by the bright fiery bits and displaced earthen bits of Elijah's impressive show of force. It occurred to the veteran that most people - at this particular junction - would stop and wait to see who emerged still standing on the other side. At the same time, however, it also occurred to Teric that this wasn't shaping into a brawl between most people. Somewhere in that haze of fire and smoke would be a sorcerer obviously skilled enough not to combust himself, and a legendary hero who's reputation alone was unlikely to be laid low by a simple explosion.

Time to get involved!

Those sitting in the lower seats of the arena grandstands would later swear they saw a smile lurking beneath the mercenary's chin as he unleashed an X-shape blast into the dissipating aftermath of Elijah's explosion.


Teric is making good use of his "Cross-Slash" technique, hoping to catch both Elijah and Letho while they are in close proximity to one another.

[Esmerelda]

Esmerelda had surveyed the crowd enough. Some appeared to weild magic, some didn't. There wasn't anything special she couldn't contend with, therefore she didn't need any special strategy. Time to begin, starting with a blond woman who clearly didn't belong on the battlefield.

Esmerelda started towards her, intending to simply skewer the woman on her spikes and give her the mercy of a quick death. Her steps were squelching in the mud, as her Nanites that composed her feet worked quickly to free themselves of mud with each step.

Blast, the woman had noticed her coming, and like a coward chose to flee instead of facing a quick death. Esmerelda gave pursuit, this woman would be her first victim, and she would not allow anyone else to have her.

While running through the crowds of competitors, and in full view of many of her future opponents, Esmerelda had her defensive spikes pop out all over her body. This brought a murmur of curiosity from many onlookers in the stands. Still not finished, she removed her left arm from its socket, though by all appearences she had simply ripped it out of place. This was not true of course, she had taken the .03 seconds necessary to disengage the locks.

Now it seemed the crowd of specators wanted to know what she was, as did the blond woman she chased. Should she tell them? Why not, what could they do about it? Nothing, in fact, it might inspire a more intense competition.

“I am a machine, created by Western Military Labs in The Astorian Union for the purposes of advanced interstellar warfare. I am superior by my very nature to you, and all other beings within this Sphere. You shall die, and in the end, I shall survive, proving my superiority to outdated notions that organics have some sort advantage over machines. Now stop fleeing like a coward.” Esmerelda returned.

She was glad she didn't need air to speak like organics did, her voice box was a speaker. This woman didn't seem to be showing any sign of stopping, so Esmerelda returned her arm to its place instead of turning it into a mace. Next, she plucked a strand of hair from her head and turned it into an arrow, and fired it from the crossbow in her arm.

[Atzar]

It was as if the blast of flame had been the catalyst for the entire battle. Before the young man launched it, there had been a great deal of caution and suspicion, but not much action. But then the fiery beacon had set the arena aglow with its incandescent light, and it all went to hell.

The sounds of battle were all around him now, drowning out the crowd outside the circle. The metallic clang of steel on steel rang through the ring. One fighter had bitten off more than she could chew; she fled about the arena, screaming and squelching across the mucky ground. The sorcerer, the one Atzar had dubbed ‘Chef-mage’, found himself beset by a pair of imposing warriors, and he answered the barrage with a massive burst of heat and flame that made the first strike seem but a candle.

But Kellon’s fascination was cut short as danger was loathe to leave him unchallenged. The mage didn’t even see the man who attacked him; he only saw the silvery sword held adeptly in his attacker’s grasp. Jumping immediately to action, he sprang away, a move that would have been infinitely more graceful if not for the mud that sucked at his feet. Nevertheless, the blade bit only air, and Atzar quickly regained his balance.

The muck that had so nearly betrayed him also offered him an idea. The mage’s blue eyes narrowed as he looked to the ground beneath his assailant. A single thought, a single push with his conscience, and the mud swelled up over the man’s feet, halfway up his shins. The slop’s suction would make movement difficult indeed.

Atzar felt a wave of heat to his side, reminding him of Chef-mage’s combustive presence. Glancing quickly between the entrapped man and the enflamed wizard, Kellon made a quick decision. His attacker wasn’t going anywhere until he freed himself. Meanwhile, his fellow mage threw everything he had into the blaze, trying to bust through the warrior’s shield. He did feel a certain professional kinship with the man, but more than anything he saw an opportunity to gain a valuable ally.

Taking a few quick precautionary steps away from the mud-bound man, Atzar began feeding his own magic into the blaze, strengthening it, making it hotter. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he watched his assailant. He wouldn’t stay stuck forever, and the mage had to be ready to move when he inevitably came after him again.

My actions affect Arsene, Christoph, and Letho. The bunnying of Arsene has been approved.

[Max Dirks]

It was only moments into the battle, but Dirks was already bored. Unlike the crowd, which cheered for every attack, Dirks was only interested in seeing competitors fall. Of the two chambers, the Treslizn was the least intense even though it held some of the biggest names on Althanas: Bloodrose, Arsène, Letho, and Lorenor. Of the four, Dirks only knew the vampire personally, or at least he used to. It was thanks to him that Dirks carried the prevalida katanas on his back. But this mutant wasn’t his friend; it was an abomination of everything Dirks had admired in the vampire. Lorenor had been twisted by the N’jal, a bogus dark arts religion and it was only proper for the vampire to be his first example.

In a swift motion, Dirks reached into his coat and withdrew his ‘patented’ Beretta 950. Though it hadn’t been fired in the better part of a year, it felt warm in his hands. Without remorse, he took aim and pulled the trigger, sending an iron bullet flying at the mutant’s head. The moment he fired it, Phagan raised his hand and a small gap the size of a basketball opened in both force fields along the trajectory of the bullet. Once the bullet passed through the gaps were immediately closed. A smirk appeared on Dirks’ face in anticipation of the kill, but the smirk quickly turned into a frown. Instead of striking his intended target, the bullet went wide left and struck a competitor who was just standing there, cowering in fear.

“Hmm, I must be rusty.” Dirks said, turning to Phagan. “Who was he?”

“Rancore Rasperian,” the magician hissed in response.

Dirks shrugged. “Never heard of him,” he said, turning back to the chamber. Dirks lifted his gun once more and pulled the trigger. The bullet left the gun and Phagan opened the field once more. This bullet struck closer to home. As Lorenor was engaged in combat, Dirks wasn’t immediately aware of what happened. “Did I get him?” In the next moment, Lorenor grabbed the man in the hat’s fist and slammed him to the ground. The man in the hat convulsed momentarily but then stopped. A pool of blood appeared under him and Dirks realized that it was his bullet, not vampire’s slam that killed him.

“Damn it, who was that?” Dirk’s asked Phagan once more.

“A man named Dissinger.” Phagan responded.

“I’ve never heard of him either. No loss in any event.” Dirks turned to Lorenor once more and was about to pull the trigger when he saw two women about ready to duke it out. Particularly intrigued by the confrontation, Dirks lowered his gun and walked to the edge of the platform with a crooked grin on his face. One of the women was beautiful: she had blond hair and a stellar body. The other woman, well, the other woman was a troll. “What the hell is that?” Dirks asked. He looked down and saw the short, fat form of Esmerelda.

“Esmerelda,” said the magician. He already knew who Dirks was referring to.

“How appropriate,” Dirks said. “And the other?”

“Ailnea…”

“Ailena…” Dirks repeated. He stared at her for a moment and imagined what it would be like if she won the tournament. Ailena would come up the podium and walk to him. She would stick her neck forward and bend in for a kiss. Dirks closed his eyes momentarily, but when he opened him he could see only the troll. Disgusted, Dirks shook his head and refocused on the chamber. “I’m going to help her.” Dirks said.

With a quick motion, the criminal reached to his back and pulled one of his katana’s from its sheath. He grasped it with one hand, lifted it over his head and sent it plunging down into the abyss. The katana spiraled through the air towards Esmerelda. Moment’s before the katana struck, Esmerelda fired an arrow which struck the sword. It did no damage, but knocked it off its trajectory, causing the katana to land right in the middle of the two women. “God damn it,” Dirks said.

(Riftslayer and Dissinger are disqualified. Lorenor has 6 hours to post or he will be DQed (this is happening because he presumably was waiting on Dissinger’s response). Esmerelda, according to my clock you were three minutes late in your post. I assume you were writing it as time passed so you’ll get by with just a warning).

[Kade Underbough]

Rubbing a bit of the muddy grime from his eyes, the foolhardy competitor quickly wished he hadn't. He could have just lain there, allowing his attacker to end their farce skirmish in short time. Death would take him without him having to see it. He wouldn’t have to endure that fear. Instead, he ridded the dirt just in time to see the young warrior’s sword press lightly against his throat. The fear hit and he sucked in a gasp of air as a pathetic attempt to avoid his slit throat for just one more second. Beads of liquid streamed over his forehead, down his cheeks, and it was impossible to tell if it was the leftover rain or his own sweat that sent the remainder of the mud streaming away. Kade wasn’t ready to die. The pale swordsman seemed ready to grant him that wish.

“Why am I here?” the bandit kid mouthed, too afraid to speak with any sort of vigor in case it were enough to cut himself against the lethal blade.

It was a good question, considering his obvious ineptitude in combat. The answer however, was simply too long to give. It was a tale of burglary, failure, loss, betrayal, and then more failure. It was the story of a young lad too foolish to realize his brother couldn’t be freed and the folly that soon resulted in his own imprisonment. Then, as luck would have it, he had been sent to a captain hell-bent on turning the frail thief into a legitimate sword of the Empire of Corone. With the blade still pointing to his doom, all those thoughts were a mere flicker of flame matched against a sun. To answer seemed pointless.

Then the warrior seemed to lose focus for a moment. Kade’s hand rolled onto the hilt of his dagger with a mind of its own and with a skillful slight of hand even his father would have been proud to witness. The pale man above him seemed to grow younger, less experienced from whatever inner struggle that was delaying the final blow. It was growing clearer that this young man wasn’t as capable an executioner as Kade had originally thought.

Luck over prowess. He wished there was time to smile.

With all the speed he could muster, the conscript’s wielded dagger exploded toward the sword with all signs pointing toward glancing the blade off track by just enough that the prone combatant could roll the opposite way and escape. For good measure, he allowed one leg to fly toward the swordsman’s thighs, hoping to knock the man off balance. It was a flurry of movement, with so many opportunities for things to go wrong. Or, if Lady L. could look out for the bandit kid yet again, he might just get back on his feet. Then there was only one more idea brewing in that numskull head of his.

Run. Fast.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Pat I am going to go ahead and post without you dude. I don't want to get Dq'ed.

Something happened. For a moment, Lorenor had tasted the flesh of the man who he'd chosen to be the first victim of the night. Then, there was a loud shot like a thunderbolt, and the mutant had to move quickly to evade the incoming attack he felt against his sensory array. Lorenor frowned when he saw that his opponent lay dead against the ground. Damn that Max Dirks. Lorenor thought to himself as he readied himself for imminent combat. The mutant shifted his body weight and carefully saw the various events passing around The Cell.

Seeing these events occurring, the mutant observed the combatants, keeping dagger in hand. Suddenly, his eyes stumbled upon a dreadfully familiar individual. When his mind pieced together who she was, the mutant's face widened with terror. Her! What the fuck is she doing here!? Lorenor thought to himself as he spotted the form of the Eldricht Horror named Ailnea. Casting all other objectives aside, the mutant forgot about the man-in-white for a moment and immediately ran towards the maiden-nun.

Protect the child. One day she will conspire to carry your children. He heard N'Jal whisper in the back of his mind. Nodding to nobody in particular, Lorenor ran towards the nun with determination in his eyes. He recalled a brief encounter with the Chef-Magi named Elijah and decided to ignore his current battle for now.

Lorenor ran at best speed over to Ailnea's position. Reaching out to grab her person, the mutant called out to her. "Ailnea, it is I, Lorenor." He said with a grim sounding tone of voice. "How in the name of all things in Haidia did you end up in this nightmare? Have the Elders gone mad to allow you in The Cell?! It doesn't matter. You're here now, and I'm here. I will protect you for as long as my powers of darkness hold out and keep me alive." Lorenor said once again reclaiming his role as Ailnea's legendary protector. With the other members of The engaging Elijah, Bloodrose and Letho, the mutant found himself with a brief moment to devise a tactic.

Spotting the battle between the two kids, Kade and Ulysses, Lorenor's face twisted in a particularly eerie expression. With his dreadlocks flapping in the wind, Lorenor returned his gaze to Ailnea. He was still attempting to grab her by the shoulder so that she might stop whatever it was that she was doing. Also noticing a hot blond-chick, the mutant assessed the thread level from her. It all went to shit quickly and the cluster-fuck began. Pissed off that Max Dirks stole a kill from him, the mutant shot a glance at the man-in-white. The stare was brief, however, and he returned his gaze to Ailnea who seemed lost and confused.

"Ailnea. Listen to me very carefully. Follow my lead and stay close by to me. Together we can survive this thing. Just pace yourself carefully."

He whispered words of reassurance in a chaotic and hectic environment. The mutant could taste fear emanating from the nun. Lorenor was afraid, hell, he recognized the likeness of legendary Letho from the stories he'd heard carving his path through the underworld of Radasanth, Narhenad, and Knife's Edge. Planning on his next move, the mutant decided that his place was protecting Ailnea. After all that was said and done, he could pick off the remaining survivors from the cluster-battle with Elijah. Remember his previous encounter with the Chef-Magi, Lorenor dreaded the man's intense pyromancy skills.

There were many other entrants in The Cell now, but for the time being, Lorenor was in the clear. I have a mission now. Lorenor thought to himself. The mutant suddenly decided to hand Ailnea his prevalida dagger. He wore a determined expression on his face. "Take this Ailnea, it will save your life. Give it back to me after The Cell is over." Once the task was completed, he drew his prevalida longsword. His eyes became focused as he stood by his chosen mark, and then stared at everyplace and no place at the same time. Grim expression on his face, Lorenor was ready for the next sacrifice to begin. Hopefully that bastard, Max Dirks, does not rob me of another kill.

Lorenor has reached Ailnea. He has lent her a prevalida dagger won during the FQ and drew his prevalida longsword. He is standing alongside Ailnea and waiting for the next event to occur.

[Ulysses]

The boy sprawled on the ground beneath chucked a dagger inexpertly at Ulysses’ own blade—enough to intercept his sword and distract him for just long enough. The kid wriggled free and scampered away toward another part of the Cell. Ulysses didn’t care much. Where did the kid have to run? This battlefield was tiny. He could be dealt with later.

A fat woman shouting some incomprehensible nonsense in an oddly mechanical voice ran past Ulysses. He considered going after her, but what would the point be, really? She was weird, but nobody seemed to be paying her any attention, so she couldn’t be much of a threat.

Two gunshots rang out, and Ulysses immediately looked upwards. The man known as Dirks wielded twin guns, and with them he eliminated two members of the competition. It was hard to tell if the shots had their desired effect, but both looked clean. Trying to spice things up, Ulysses supposed.

That Dirks fellow sh-ure is a good shot, the Gunslinger said in admiration. I’d like to get a hand on one of those guns!

Not likely, Ulysses thought, but some part of him agreed.

Meanwhile, the conflict in the center of the arena escalated. Letho Ravenheart and the chef-magi known as Elijah Belov were locked in close combat—the chef poured out all his fiery sorcery, but Letho seemed able to resist it…for the most part. Sweat beaded on the Red Marshal’s brow, and Ulysses wondered how long it would be before the scales were tipped. The veteran warrior Bloodrose seemed intent on somehow getting involved in the conflict as well.

A second mage poured his power into the conflict, helping the chef, and Ulysses gritted his teeth. Letho Ravenheart, slayer of a thousand monsters, savior of much of Althanas, hero of the ages, overwhelmed by two parlor magicians as these? No, it couldn’t happen! It couldn’t be allowed to happen. He had heard and told stories of the noble Letho for years, he had modeled his own bravery after the man, and he would not allow his hero to go down in the blazes. If Letho’s famous red armor could be shattered, so could much of Ulysses’ (naïve) worldview, in which the good guys always won, and went home at the end of the day, and then lived happily ever after, gods damn it. The good guys did not get burned to a crisp in the first ten minutes of the fight.

The spirits within him agreed in the nobility of this goal. Devotion to a heroic cause beyond the half-hearted “training to increase his abilities” gave him strength. Ulysses’ normally golden eyes flashed from gold to blue to green to blue again as he allowed the Knight and Ronin to partially possess him and guide his sword arm. His stance became more expert, his grip on the blade firmer and more confident.

“Don’t give in, sir Ravenheart!” he shouted to Letho, hoping that the hero would hear his words of encouragement over the fiery roar of magic.

He sprinted for the second mage who had entered the fray—not Elijah, but his helper or minion or servant—and slashed at the wizard’s arms, hoping to at least distract him for long enough to stop some of the poured onslaught of magic.

[Letho]

Not bad for a bloody wizard, Letho thought as he saw his savage jabs met by the mage's blade and parried deftly. It was rare to find one of these dress-wearing conjurers (though this one in specific didn't actually wear a robe, Letho figured he probably had one stashed in his closet and thus classified him as such) with sword skills, let alone decent sword skills. But surprisingly this didn't irk the Marshal; if anything, it stretched the grin inside his helmet just a tad more. If this lad could attack as well as defend, he might even break a sweat during this clash.

But then he bounced away and fired another salvo of fire, and Letho was disappointed again.

“Again with the fire?” he murmured inside his helmet, his voice probably reaching none save his own ears as the vibrant fiery surge exploded against his summoned barrier. The sphere around the swordsman flashed and became almost corporeal, looking like a veil made of the thinnest while silk. It held, as Letho knew it would, as it always did against these one-trick magicians that eventually always returned to their tried-and-true ways. There was some punch behind it, certainly, enough for him to feel the sheer power of it pushing against every fiber of his being like water pressure, enough even to feel the heat of the raging inferno bursting through little by little, but it held. But then, just when he felt confident enough to charge forwards once again, a whole lot of things happened almost at the same time.

With thick smoke spreading around his magic-diffusing sphere, there was no way he could predict the movements of other combatants. So it wasn't surprising that he noticed the next attack when it was almost too late. The gray smoke shroud was suddenly torn in what resembled a cross at his flank, passing through his barrier without as much as a pause. Letho had just enough time to drop to one knee and cover his side as best he could before he felt the impact of the invisible blade crash against his pauldron and breastplate, scattering a myriad of tiny shards of Cillu glass. Not enough of them, though. The toughened glass of Fallien was as hard as mythril and the unseen blade broke through but a layer of it.

Hurts like a son of a bitch, tho- was a thought that tried to pass through his head as he tried to regain his footing when another stream of magical fire made contact with his protective shield, this time from a different direction. And this time the damn thing did waver. He felt like a diver that kept sinking deeper and deeper, only instead of the coldness of the deep blue sea, he could feel the heat, as if he was standing in an oven and somebody kept adding logs on the fire. As if he was diving towards hell itself.

Somewhere distant, almost as if coming across some great distance, he could hear the crowd quiet down as their hero disappeared from view in a maelstrom of fire and smoke. And also, something else. A voice that was almost familiar. Had he heard it somewhere before? When he snapped his head sideways, he realized that he had. It was the kid, the nice kid from the very beginning of the battle, the ballsy one that all but saluted him and then darted away. Now he charged in the direction of what looked like the second fire salvo. Despite sweat dripping from the edge of his graying eyebrows – he cursed his helmet for preventing him to wipe it away – Letho allowed himself a smile. It seemed that not everyone was out to take down the Corone hero. He decided to help the lad out.

His knee still in the mud below (and it seemed to him that it was digging into the mushy surface deeper and deeper with each second), his free hand reached for the menagerie of weapons strapped at his back and fished out the hilt of the adamantine bastard sword with perfect precision. “Hey, kid! Use this!” he belowed, tossing the sword at his direction. The youngster had seemed eager enough to help; might as well have the right tool for the job. The sword landed in the brown mush at the boys feet with an audible plop lost in all the clamor.

As for his own predicament, it was pretty clear that it wouldn't do to just sit there and tire the magicians out. Even if he could actually do that – he reckoned he could, albeit not without extreme difficulty and possibly extreme burns all over his body – there was still a question of the one behind the smoke screen. The one that bruised his ribs with his invisible slash. No, Letho had to make his move. And his move woke the crowd anew.

He took a couple of swift steps forward and into the fiery onslaught of the stronger of two mages, shutting down the barrier even as he did so. And even as the sphere flashed out of existence and the flame tongues came surging at him, he slapped them away with his dragonscale gauntlet in one smooth swipe. The enchanted piece of armor bounced the stream away from the Hero of Corone and towards what could've been the point of origin of the invisible cross moments before. Chances were that the ancient-looking swordsman had moved away from that spot by now, but even if the fire struck close, it would serve to keep the man on his toes. He finished with a leap, his mighty muscles propelling his hulking armored figure above the flames just enough for those in the stands to see him bringing the spear down on the wizard with both his hands. His left hand burned from the deflected shot, burned as if he stuck it into fire, but that only made him swing his spear harder.

Threw my adamantine sword to Ulysses (have fun with that, kid ;)), took down the field, shoved Elijah's flames away with my enchanted gauntlet and in general direction of Teric and once again tried to skewer Elijah. This time, it's DEATH FROM ABOVE!!! Bloodrose, I played it so your attack went through the barrier because the way you described it in your profile, it's not magical in origin, just air pushed forwards really fast by the edge of the blade, and as such would not be susceptible to the effects of the sphere.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Arcane forces of all sorts were flying through The Cell. The mutant lost sight of Ailnea for a brief moment after handing her the dagger. At least she can defend herself better known. Titans within The Cell were locked in combat against one another, and suddenly, an opportunity revealed itself. Lorenor stared at the exposed back of Letho Ravenheart. Seeing that his foe was busy against the strong pyromancers in The Cell, Lorenor decided it was time to make his presence now. Taking advantage of the situation at hand, the mutant began to run quickly, at best speed, towards the chosen target's back.

Holding his prevalida longsword with both hands, the mutant moved skillfully from one position to the next. He was watching his opponent bound towards Elijah and decided that he was going to the bastard in the group. Roughly a few paces away from Letho Ravenheart, Lorenor jumped through the air like a twisted bird of prey. He jumped several feet in height arching toward Letho's exposed back.

Hoping that he was taking advantage of Letho Ravenheart's previous actions, the mutant rotated his weapon in mid-air. After a few moments, the moment struck like a coiled serpent. Every bit the back-stabbing bastard, Lorenor knew he would have no chance against titans like Elijah and Letho. So Lorenor plunged his sword in a downward arch towards the spinal column region of Letho's body. Lorenor was attempting to quickly finish his opponent, or at least, maim him severely so someone else could finish the self-proclaimed hero off.

This is what happens to Heroes, they fall you bastard! Containing the urge to laugh like a maniac, the mutant saw his marked target coming closer and closer. Perhaps there was a certain bravery in that series of actions, but perhaps, it was more like the actions of someone who had nothing to loose. Lorenor thought back to the nun, Ailnea. Rest easy kid, I'll take care of the bastards for you. He thought as wind rushed past his face.

Lorenor wore a cloak, it was a thick-hide cloak that was Salvarn in origin. This item danced with the wind. Rain-water was still in the air even as pregnant clouds still flowed over head. The mocking adamantium structure of The Cell surrounded the mutant in all directions. However, he took skyward. At about mid-jump, the mutant activated his powers of Flight. Capable of extreme acrobatic maneuvers in that situation, the mutant was attempting to call upon every advantage and dirty trick he could conceive of. Lorenor hoped that N'Jal would guide his blade true.

[Bloodrose]

"Enough with the pyrotechnics!" Teric growled under his breath, waiting and watching as tendrils of smoke curled inward where his cross-shaped attack had pierced the dark veil. Belov and Ravenheart were still obscured, and the mercenary was eager to see what carnage, if any, he'd caused.

What is that?

Teric's gaze was pulled to one side as a sword came tumbling end over end out of the smoke and fire Elijah had generated around the two brawling titans. Larger than something he would have chosen for himself, the mercenary couldn't help but notice the obvious quality and craft of the blade - even at a distance - before it landed unceremoniously in the mud at the feet of another competitor. That competitor, a young swordsman the mercenary hadn't noticed before, was busy attacking another man standing to the left and behind Elijah. There was yet another man in that area of the battlefield as well - a black haired swordsman who appeared to be stuck in the mud.

I need to pay more attention to what's going on around me. The veteran resolved. Focusing my attention on Elijah is bound to get me killed otherwise...

Thinking about the chef-mage brought Teric's gaze back to the hazy splotch of smoke and fire obscuring his view of the far wall, and just in time. True to expectation, the Red Marshal wasn't about to be felled by a little pyromancy - and more importantly - seemed intent on letting Elijah do some of his work for him. By some unknown force, the Hero of Corone diverted the Pagoda Master's inferno in Teric's direction, while at the same time redoubling his efforts against the sorcerer. All-in-all, very impressive work, but the agile veteran had little cause for fear.

Screw it, I'll just let them wear each other down a bit. The veteran decided as he tested his footing. Time to thin the herd a little.

In the eyes of the audience, it would have seemed like Teric simply ceased to exist in one place, while at the same time blurring back into view a little ways away. Redirected fire consumed the space the swordsman had occupied just a second before, but the mercenary was well out of harm’s way. Instead, Teric now stood twenty feet closer to the unidentified fighter he would later come to know as Ulysses. Before the boy could bend down to retrieve Letho's discarded weapon, the old warrior rushed him from the flank, leading with the business end of his shield while whipping his blade in a vicious arc behind it.


Teric is breaking away from Elijah and Letho to go after Ulysses. Expect him to try and bash with his shield and then try to finish with his sword. Ulysses has my permission to bunny Teric to this end, as well as in any other way he needs to in order to respond.

[Arsène]

The proud, romantic tradition of warrior poets of old was dead to Arsène. He had paid the rightful price for his hubris, to wind up stuck in the mud as he looked on at the chaos that surrounded him. The petty battles between legends seemed a small and inconsistent matter, as the melancholic watched on with bitterness in his eyes as his recently chosen target went after bigger prey.

”Filthy witch.” Magic was foreign in his homeland; outlawed by priests and feared by every God fearing man.

Using his sword, he stabbed deep into the muddied earth of the cell, and pushed with all his awkward might to strain against his earthen restraints. As thunder roared and bullets felled the unwary, Arsène pushed himself to (what he considered) Herculean lengths. Finally, with all the grace of a stumbling drunkard, he broke the muddied shackles and fell to his knees, wheezing all the while.

His target, the plain-clothed mage, would notice his captive’s escape. Arsène had not the time to regain his composure, or wipe some dust from his dirtied shirt. With a short prayer he uttered (and didn’t believe), he clumsily began a forward charge towards Atzar. His blade, marred as his shirt, he prepared for the sloppiest horizontal slash of his life. He'd cleave the wretch in half it it cost the melancholic his life.

Death was one thing, dishonor was something entirely different.


Charing at Atzar for a horizontal slash. It's clumsy, but strong.

[Esmerelda]

Esmerelda stopped short as the Katana came flying at her, the chances of the arrow she had fired at Ailnea were statistically impossible to achieve, but it happened. She stepped on her arrow, the nanites became apart of her nanite Swarm once more. Then she grabbed the sword, and looked at it.

“Prevalida perhaps? It looks, interesting.” Esmerelda said.

She put the end of the blade in her mouth, and bit down hard. It wasn't steel, whatever it was, so it would take longer to devour, but would yield stronger nanites. Esmerelda went to a quiet corner of the arena, and holding the sword above her, melted into her liquid state letting the katana rest in the middle of her swarm. Sparks visibly flew from the sword as trillions of nanites attacked the sword, breaking it apart molecule by molecule, using them to build newer, stronger nanites.

“Perhaps I should find out who that man is, and send him a thank you card after The Cell is over, for this generous gift.” Esmerelda thought.

Esmerelda is spending this post devouring Max Dirk's katana. It will take 1-2 more posts for it to be entirely devoured.

[Ailnea]

Ailnea couldn't believe her luck, Lorenor, here! He must have scared off that strange woman spouting nonsense. She never saw the sword that was thrown their way.

Now she was here, with Lorenor's Prevalida dagger. Courage filled her, knowing her protector was so nearby. She looked around the arena, flames were flying everywhere, someone had flung something liquid against a wall, a sword was inside, shooting off sparks.

Letho, everyone seemed to be ganging up on Letho. There was also Teric going after a young man. But Lorenor was going after Letho. He helped her out, she had to help him out. Ailnea charged Letho from the side, since he was concentrating on someone shooting fire. Moving with all the speed she could muster, she got there right after Lorenor attacked Letho in the back. She went for his front, to stab him in the chest, aiming for his heart. Even if she failed, and Letho somehow survived, she would likely be enough of a distraction to allow someone else to do serious damage to him, provided he wasn't already dying from Lorenor's attack in the first place.

[Christoph]

Even with the unexpected help of the tall, black-haired wizard, Elijah quickly realized the need for a change in tactics. Even amplified, his fiercest fiery onslaught couldn't smash through the seemingly infinite might of Letho's anti-magic defenses. Fortunately, Eli had enjoyed the privilege of sitting in at a seminar on the subject of anti-magic at the Radasanth Wizard's Guild. He'd learned many interesting things, such as how nobody really knew how the stuff even worked. A popular theory said that the existence of these inexplicable anti-magic objects and techniques was a cruel joke played on the wizards of the world by some bitter old warrior gods who'd grown tired of their martial champions erupting into pillars of humiliating fire.

Belov quickly adjusted his methods. He diverted some concentration away from his fiery assault and wove another spell. He laced the threads of magic through the dirt and earth beneath his feet, transmuting a fair amount from mundane rocks and soil into an extremely volatile material. He had never figured out what the stuff was, but this 'field alchemy' had saved his skin many times.

He spared an instant to scan his surroundings, spotting the other sorcerer first and smiling at the stranger's continued assistance. Everything else had fallen into chaos, as though the entire battle converged on his fire like moths. He knew to ready himself when Letho's sword appeared from the flame and smoke, landing in the hands of some nobody. Then Bloodrose appeared again, intent on splattering the poor boy. Last, a skinny pale man arrived, intent to spill the blood of Eli's mysterious helper.

He clenched his teeth, wanting to help his fellow sorcerer. Then, he remembered Letho. He looked up just as the armored warrior leapt out of the flame and sailed toward him, a bit scalded but still in fighting shape. Through instinct and his magically-enhanced agility, Elijah lunged out of the way, but not fast enough to avoid the spear entirely. It cut a painful gash across his side, drawing his first blood of the fight.

Belov cursed his carelessness; he should not have let himself be struck by a brute whose only apparent skill was stabbing with a spear (he felt sorry for Letho, really -- not everyone could shatter reality with their will). Then realized that Letho's infuriating anti-magic field had vanished, replaced with a focused aura coming from his gauntlets. From what his aetheric sense could discern, its effect was not nearly as wide-spread as the protective shield had been.

He acted instantly to take advantage of the legend's error in judgment. Jumping back and performing three fluid gestures, he prepared his own defenses before unleashing a blast of flame, not at Letho, but at the ground beneath him -- the ground that Elijah had so recently transformed into a deadly incendiary. The earth ignited in a furious blast of heat, burning rock, and kinetic force. Belov raised his arms like a maestro conducting the climax of a fiery symphony. From Ravenheart's position, it would be as though the onslaught rushed in from all sides, like the walls of hell closing in.

Eli's ability to transmute earth is described in his profile. For a reference, think of things whose components can be found in the composition of dirt and rocks -- calcium carbide or perhaps thermite, or maybe extracted sulfur even magnesium, among other things. It would be quite a blast on its own even if Eli wasn't intensifying it, so others nearby will also have to worry.

[Ulysses]

A bastard sword flew from the smoky haze surrounding Letho and the chef-mage Elijah and plopped unceremoniously into the mud at Ulysses’ feet. His heart soared—any weapon provided by Letho would surely be of the finest make. He broke off from his attack on the mage to bend over to examine it, but in the end had no time. Something hard and wooden—a club? a shield?—crashed into his back and sent him plunged into the mud. Only instinct gave him the sense to grasp the weapon he’d been tossed’s hilt as he fell, although at the cost of his own longsword and buckler scattering away into the mud.

He lay face down in the cold mud for a moment, nearly unconscious from the blow. Darkness closed in around him, and he began to sink into the stinky ooze. Surely this was the end. Dazed and confused, Ulysses’ consciousness submerged, but the heroic spirits within him would not yet say die. The Knight wrested some control from the amateur swordsman and spun his body around, just in time to meet the oncoming attacker.

The veteran warrior Bloodrose bore down on him like a charging bull. The Knight grasped the bastard sword with both hands, swung it around and just barely managed to meet the incoming slice from above. Wielding such a large weapon while laying on his back in the mud was difficult, but nonetheless the blade sung in his hands. It was of perfect make—of some unearthly light but nonetheless strong material and the finest craftsmanship.

It’s as though I’m wielding Excalibur itself! Or my old blade, Arondite! the Knight thought excitedly.

Huh…? Ulysses thought, still in a daze from the shield bash.

The Knight shoved forward with the bastard sword and managed to push Bloodrose far enough to rise to his knees in the mud. Their clash of blades broke off, and the Knight swung in for a counter-slice, but the enemy, clearly a highly skilled combatant, parried him without any difficulty at all. Even with the Knight’s experienced aid, Ulysses’ skill with the blade was nowhere approaching that of the Grandmaster of the Pagoda.

A blast of heat distracted both swordsman from their give and take, as the chef-mage and Letho seemed to explode in a volcanic eruption of fire and earth. The heat was tangible, and the hot air shoved them away with invisible hands.

At almost the same time, a strange and beautiful sound emanated from somewhere outside the arena.

The sound grew in strength and intensity quickly and surely. It was…singing? Yes, coming from the direction of the other arena—probably coming from the other arena—were beautiful harmonized voices singing a ballad about heroism. Ulysses paused to listen, and felt his attention to anything else at all draining as the song wove its spell. It sounded suspiciously like the singers of an acting troupe famous in Ulysses’ home city of Scara Brae, the Tantalum, but that couldn’t be right.

As the singing grew louder, twirling lights appeared and did dazzling cartwheels in the air, forming and re-forming their strange ballet twenty feet over the arena. They combined and merged with the already existing rainbow and created a dazzling light spectacle that could no doubt be seen for miles around.

Ulysses felt himself warmed from the inside and taken away to the green flowing fields of Scara Brae for an instant. The warm sun beat down on his face, and the sung words of encouragement and heroism were woven around him like a soft cradle. Don’t give in, the song said. Don’t!

When his attention returned to the battlefield, he was filled with renewed vigor. He swung the bastard sword inexpertly once more, but with enthusiasm. While he had no hope of coming out on top in a confrontation with Teric Bloodrose, he perhaps could hold in just long enough for someone to come to his aid. And Letho would come to his aid, right? Though the spirits inside him were skeptical, Ulysses honestly believed this to be true.

It’d all work out alright in the end. For now, all he had to do, all he could do, was hang on to whatever scrap of hope he had left.

Ulysses abruptly halts his attack on Atzar to deal with Bloodrose. The shield bash sends him flying into the ground, but with the Knight’s intervention he’s still able to grab and wield the bastard sword—though at a serious disadvantage. He might be able to hold it out for another post, but without intervention, no longer than that. If anyone else starts attacking Ulysses, he’s simply doomed. :P The explosion from Christoph’s post then shoved them both away from the center of the arena. Just after that, the singing from the other arena became audible.

As for the singing, I’ve cleared this with Duffy, and it’s true, the singing of the Tantalum should also take effect in our arena. There’s no real physical effect beyond making some fancy lights in the air and cheering on the “good” characters.

[Kade Underbough]

Run he did, though there wasn’t enough room in the cage to put any adequate distance between himself and any more would-be attackers. Pyrotechnic explosions seemed the theme of the game. While one intimidating competitor tried to bring the crimson armored man to cinder another helped to enhance the blaze. One of the demonic creatures that Kade could only assume to be the victor of the Cell’s initial skirmish also seemed intent on bringing down the armored man, followed by a cute girl looking to help her teammate. At first glance, it seemed the only one on the crimson armored man’s side was none other than the pale swordsman, obviously unperturbed by the bandit kid’s escape. His assistance was quickly halted by a threatening man possibly twice his age. Another man took the pale swordsman’s place in attacking the secondary fire caster.

It seemed everyone was occupied in some fashion. Two bodies lay crumpled on the muddy ground; cause of death unknown. It dawned on him that while those currently in the fray seemed capable of juggling several individual battles, trading enemies when appropriate, Kade could barely manage one foe. He wondered how awkward he looked to the crowd, standing idly on the sidelines. His fear was replaced with simply not knowing what to do next. One other combatant seemed left to her own disposition, though watching the troll woman begin swallowing a sword amidst the blood sport let him know not to get involved with her.

He heard gun shots in the direction of the other cage and turned on his heel just in time to see the tournament director shooting idle combatants through the bars. It was the motivation he needed to get moving again. Spotting his bow several yards away, the conscript dashed toward his weapon. As he neared it, he chucked his dagger back into its sheath and bent over to pick up the ranged weapon. His spare hand reached over his shoulder to pull out one of the arrows that hadn’t spilled to the ground when he had fallen. .

Who to bring down? Who to bring down?

He was alone, hidden by his own anonymousness, and thus feeling much braver, confident in his chances to survive for the first time. Training his prepared arrow from one combatant to the next, a twitch of excitement traveled the course of his tense body. Uncontested, he was in his element.

The original fire mage also seemed to be in his element, using the very ground they all stood on to fuel his fiery flurries. More than flurries. An explosion of energy and heat pushed Kade several feet back, falling to one knee to maintain his balance. He could only imagine the effects had he been closer. The mage looked capable of burning every man, woman, mutant and troll to ash without bias. The bandit kid had found his target. With the man’s arms raised to command his magic, Kade aimed and released the projectile with a twang, hoping to strike the man down from the side, just below his armpits. Then he notched another arrow, prepared to launch it on anyone wanting to respond.

((Anyone deciding to attack Kade feel free to bunny him shooting at your character. He'll basically shoot an arrow at anyone that looks at him the wrong way. ))

[Atzar]

In one moment, Atzar had joined with the stronger mage to break through the red-armored warrior’s shield. In the next, his world erupted into chaos.

It just came too fast! The mage expected the first swordsman to free himself from the mud and come back after him eventually. The other man, however, caught him completely off-guard when he entered the fray, shouting encouragement to the beleaguered fighter and slashing at Atzar. He didn’t have time to dodge the attack; only to turn away to escape the worst of the blow. The sword bit into his right shoulder, and he gritted his teeth against the pain that shot down his arm. He felt telltale drops of warm liquid ooze from the wound, saw their crimson trails as they ran from under his sleeve. Kellon staggered away from the attacker and nearly blundered straight into his original enemy, who had extricated himself and returned to the fight with a vengeance.

The cut came parallel to the ground in a wide, silvery arc, and the wizard’s momentum carried him to the ground beneath the blade. He twisted as he fell, landing on his back in the mud with a wet splack. The forlorn figure loomed over him, sword in hand, and Atzar knew his next move would determine whether he died or lived yet awhile longer.

He wasted no time in extending his uninjured arm above him, creating small, jagged chunks of ice in his palm and firing them into the face and chest of his assailant in a frigid flurry. In the next instant Atzar rolled to his feet, intent on dealing his attacker a more permanent fate this time.

Then came the explosion.

The shockwave immediately threw him violently back to the ground, this time face-first into the muck. He lay stunned for a second, shoulder throbbing from the gash, head ringing from the concussive blast.

After a moment, Atzar slowly pushed his hands into the slop beneath him, rising to all fours and finally to his feet. Wiping his hands as best he could on his grimy garb, he reached up to clear the worst of it from his eyes and face. He looked ghastly now, gunk clinging to almost every inch of him. His hair was disheveled, his clothes nearly invisible beneath the sludge. The wound on his shoulder stung and oozed blood to mix with the mud, but otherwise didn’t seem to be debilitating in any way. Nonetheless, the mage doggedly set his jaw, ready to continue the battle.

He wished privately, however, that Chef-mage had warned him in some way before rocking the arena with his explosion. It did seem like the polite thing to do, especially since Atzar was helping him.

My actions affect Arsene.

[Letho]

“First blood! First blood!” someone was shouting from above, some comically elated spectator from the first rows. The fact that Max Dirks (who seemed to be some sort of an overseer of the entire battle) already sent a pair of men sprawling with holes in their heads didn’t seem to register to this fellow; so focused he was on the clash of might and magic. Letho had just enough time to acknowledge his bloodthirsty cry and the impact his attack had made on the mage before everything went to hell in one fiery handbasket.

A fraction of a second after he had landed and his spear drew blood from his enemy, somebody leapt on his back and pain shot through his torso like electricity. The blade didn’t go through his armor cleanly, but it did punch through, the pure might of the blow shattering the crimson glass and grinding the shards it into his skin as the metal mercilessly plunged deeper. It lodged itself in between his spine and his left shoulder blade, the anguish and the momentum of the impact bringing the Marshal down to his knees. With no time to ponder on how it was possible to be blindsided so easily (in some distant back-of-the-mind manner he reckoned his peripheral vision might’ve been hampered by his helmet), he jerked his torso left, then right, trying to shake the backstabbing bastard off. The third attempt sent the man sprawling, but the blade remained, an epicenter of the pain that quaked his body.

There was no time to try and pull the sword out, no time to even take a single deep breath and exhale the fire out of his lungs. Even if he could reach the blade (which he doubted), already there was another threat to consider. The blonde teen, one from his low priority file, came straight at him with a thrust that would’ve been aimed at his chest had he been standing. But since Letho’s knees were still in the mush from the last attack he suffered, the sword was coming straight at his face. The jab was strong and fast, albeit sloppy, the girl overzealous and overextending her arm. He jerked his head sideways, at the same time leaving his spear in the mud and bringing his right hand up to trap her wrist. Instead of trying to stop her momentum, though, he deflected it, yanking her sidewards and down towards the ground at his side.

He never got a chance to follow it up, though; never even got a chance to see the effect of his defensive move. Even as his fingers coiled around the nihon wood of his spear, another explosion erupted from beneath him. Such was the force of this detonation that it tore Letho’s boots and greaves apart and sent him soaring and spinning through mid-air. The parabolic trajectory ended abruptly as he crashed against the cage walls, face first, then slid down to the ground like a piece of underdone spaghetti. The crowd, exuberant by the wounding of the boy wizard, went almost completely silent.

The picture in front of his eyes was one of a dark sky covered with elaborate fireworks. The sounds in his ears were muffled to the point where everything sounded as if he had stuck resin into his ears. His legs burned as if someone put them in hot sand and left them there to bake in the hot sun. And his back hurt as if there was a blade sticking out of it. Which there was.

There was definitely some punch in that, was an almost jovial thought that came to him first as he struggled to push himself up to his feet. His vision went from dark to blurry gray rather quickly, but it seemed to refuse to evolve into sharpness. After a few seconds of this Letho realized that it wasn’t his eyes that were faltering, but rather that the blast that nearly blew him out of this world left another cloud of smoke that still hasn’t subsided. It gave the swordsman just enough time to regain his bearings. He took off his stifling helmet, relinquished it to the ground below, then tried to summon his protective field again. But even the motion needed for him to clench his fist amplified the surge of pain in his system. If felt as if every muscle fiber in his torso was somehow connected to the wound in his back, making every action a testament to pain. Still, he pushed through by sheer will alone and the sphere shimmered into existence anew.

“He’s alright!” someone was shouting, reviving a portion of those up on the stands and bringing forth a round of half-hearted applause, but the Marshal felt far from it.

By then, the smoke was dissipating, and, as it gradually revealed those previously enveloped by it, so did Letho react accordingly. He first noticed the ugly bastard whose blade was still in his back emerging from the smoke. Lips locked in a snarl, he pulled back his healthy hand and let his spear fly with all his might. Such was the ferociousness behind his throw that the wooden shaft of the weapon seemed to quiver as it was propelled towards its target. Next, there was the mage, bloodied but not nearly as maimed as Letho would’ve hoped. The swordsman gathered his focus anew and a pair of shimmering portals came to existence at each of his flanks, each letting through a silver-furred wolf. One was muscular and strong – the alpha – and the other smaller and swift – the female. Without as much as a moment’s pause the beasts bolted towards the mage, their sentient minds aware of their master’s plight.

Lastly, he could see the kid who seemed to be his only ally amidst the Cell participants, hard pressed by the old man who moved like no fifty-year-old Letho ever saw. Quite lively for an old man, are we not? he thought, not entirely without admiration. With thirty-seven years on his back, Letho could already feel the strain of age and hard life weighing him down, bones cracking when they shouldn’t, reaction time no longer instantaneous as it used to be, hair more gray than brown. That made this man that much more remarkable in Letho’s eyes. And that much more dangerous.

His right now free, Letho reached over his shoulder once again, this time wrapping it around the wooden butt of his gunblade. In one smooth motion – which brought the pain to a new high, made his eyes squint and his teeth clench together so hard he thought his jaw would snap – he drew the Lawmaker out of the leather scabbard on his back and leveled it with the spry geezer. He didn’t fire immediately, though, despite the urging from the crowds. Instead he waited for a few seconds, waited for another lightning to flash across the sky, and when its companion caught up with it and thunder broke over the battlefield, he fired a shot at the veteran.

“To me, boy!” he bellowed, his aching left clumsily jerking on the reloading mechanism and ejecting the empty chamber. With his helmet gone, his boots scorched and his greaves reduced to tatters and bits of chaffing glass, he no longer looked as magnificent as he did at the beginning of this mass brawl. But with the titanic gunblade in his hands, he was still formidable. His weapon reloaded, he aimed it so he could cover the boy's approach. “Rally to me!!”

Threw a spear at Lorenor, sent a pair of wolves at Elijah and tried to shoot Teric. Keep in mind, folks, that if Ulysses decides to make a run towards Letho, Letho will shoot at anyone who tries to stop the boy, so you can bunny him doing so if needed. Also, Chris, you have full freedom to bunny the wolves as you see fit. They’re sentient, so they will probably try to work together to take Elijah down.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Okay gang. This is my Conclusion Post.

Letho Ravenheart quickly was able to shrug the mutant off like a rag-doll. Moving with Letho's actions, the mutant was able to react quickly enough that when he was tossed aside, a simple quick, mid-air maneuver helped the mutant recover any lost balance. Lorenor was gifted with solid reaction and speed, but mid-air was slightly different. His speed was still impressive however. Turning his gaze towards his chosen target, the mutant was going to go finish him off. However, the mad chef-magi decided to act instead.

Within the frame of a few precious seconds, the mutant had a chance only to think of one thing. I must protect Ailnea at all costs. He hadn't had a chance to see Letho act but could sense the thrown spear the moment it hit his sensory array. Reacting quickly, the mutant barely had enough time to muster any kind of reactive movement. Adjusting his body position, Lorenor moved upwards so that the spear would connect with his front-leg. Flinching with the pain of the spear's penetration, the mutant began laughing.

Then, Elijah attacked. It was all happening so quickly. In a moment or two, the heat of the arena began to increase dramatically. Lorenor had the chance to only make one set of actions. Protect Ailnea. She was the only person in The Cell, next to Elijah that Lorenor gave a shit about. Lorenor had previous experience with the chef-magi from an encounter that took place a while back.

Moving at best speed, right as the explosion pillar was about to burst out of the ground, the mutant limped towards his only target. Ailnea. Despite the severity of the injury to his leg, Lorenor was able to move in mid-flight with some degree of skill. He hovered off the ground and used his own body in a sacrificial maneuver to protect Ailnea at all costs.

His leg was partially useless with the spear jutting out of his thigh. Lorenor pondered removing it but there was no time. He had lost too much in this battle already. Lorenor decided that he was going to cover Ailnea with his own body. Fire suddenly erupted from the ground as a devastating, magma-pillar.

It spread quickly in a circumference movement. Lorenor had no chance. However, he moved in an attempt to grab Ailnea. If his grab was successful, he would push all his weight and power in an attempt to throw the frail girl away from the threat. As the movement was complete, the mutant felt intense fire at his back. He felt peace. I was able to help take down Letho Ravenheart. He thought to himself, and he had also taken down Dissinger. Overall, two sacrifices in the name of N'Jal were better than nothing.

Lorenor's body mass served as a buffer against the magma. He watched Ailnea to the point of his death. Winking briefly towards the nun, the mutant wore a strange lopsided grin on his face. There was no scream of terror, no pain. He went out peacefully unlike the majority of the combatants of The Cell. I have nothing to loose. But everything to gain. Remember my name you bastards. My name is Lorenor!

Laughing the whole time even as he perished, the mutant mustered up the will power to call out one war-cry. "My name is Lorenor!" And that was the end for the mutant. Magma licked the High Priest, burning his body. His flimsy robes never had a chance to decently protect him. However, he had come to The Cell to prove a point. And as he died, he looked at Letho Ravenheart one last time and felt a swelling of pride of in his chest. Even a titan will fall. The last thing Lorenor recalled was the image of Ailnea's frightened face. She was so beautiful. Perhaps...

And then the darkness took him. Lorenor was no stranger to death. His body was touched by the magma and his belongings, as well as he, burnt into purple glowing ash. His skeleton remained briefly, but even this too, burned into ash. As a Ghoul, the mutant had a racial weakness to the elemental fire in all its form. And Elijah was an expert pyromancer. Lorenor never stood a chance. But he had done damage.

Respect would be hard won.

Fin.


Note: Lorenor took the hit from Letho's spear and Elijah's explosion attack. Lorenor moved to -throw- Ailnea to a safe distance. I had a lot of fun working with you guys. Its a rare treat to work with the best that Althanas has to offer. Make it a good one you guys!

[Kade Underbough]

He couldn’t grow complacent. The director’s loaded gun danced from competitor to competitor, the man behind the barrel almost as giddy as a school child told not to work the farm because of the rain. Something told him that shooting people from above hadn’t been a part of the written rules during the developing stages of the bloody game. It didn’t seem viable in a civilized world, though civilized wasn’t quite the word to describe a tournament called The Cell. He wondered if the man prefered to enter the cage himself if given a chance, a madman wanting applause to satiate his need to kill. Kade was pretty sure standing around, waiting for someone to initiate a scuffle, would surely get him executed faster than any fire casting mage or devouring creature of shadow. The crowd thirsted for action, blood, and would have it one way or another.

The eruption of magic left large areas of the caged environment shrouded in a dense fog of smoke. Some combatants were missing. The crimson warrior had managed to stumble out of the ashen smog, pieces of armor shattered and bloodied, with a blade stuck clean through his back. He looked an absolute wreck, damaged more than any common man could take. The grimace on his face was overpowered by a sheer will to continue with the foolhardy endeavor of winning a silly tournament.

I reckon these types of things are important for some people.

The explosion had left a small void in the otherwise jumbled, high octane battle. It was enough time that, in a show of incomparably determined power, the man now colored with variants of crimson and soot managed to unleash a volley of responses to his many foes. From his view, Kade thought the man looked the part of a hero, down but not out. His final action of aiding the pale swordsman, wielding the gun blade like a lightning rod, cemented the image.

What had been advertised as a free for all battle was quickly becoming a competition of temporary alliances. He wondered just how long he could survive without one. Not long.

From a stranger’s perspective, joining the most injured man on the field, and his fallen comrade, appeared to be the most dubious of decisions. He expected that after his death, stories would be told of the teenage bandit that had been a fool to join the clearly most gimped group of the bunch. Well, he [/I]was[/I] a fool. In his naïve awe, the crimson warrior looked to be the juggernaut of the field, nigh impossible to take down. Joining him looked like the obvious choice. The pale swordsman had attacked him, yes, but he had also spared him. It could have been weakness that stayed his hand, but it showed a human quality not expressed by the others. It was enough to draw the young conscript back into the fray.

“I’ve got yer back too, dude!” Kade exclaimed, pointing his bow in the general direction of the crimson warrior’s intended target. He knew the man had shot at an enemy, though the smoke hid the unknown creature from his particular angle in the cage. Ever the believer in his own luck, the bandit kid shot at the invisible being. In another moment he had summoned another arrow to his yew weapon, edging his way slowly to whom he hoped would accept him as an ally, taking care to keep the adamantium bars at his back.

((Kade's shot is intended for Bloodrose, but its a blind shot. Anyone in his vicinity other than Ulysses could possibly be effected. The same allowance for bunnying is applied to Kade's newly readied arrow, though he is now inching closer to everyone in general.))

[Arsène]

Eyes blinded by fury and teeth grit like an animal, Arsène resembled nothing like the epic heroes he’d hoped to be compared to. He was sloppy, poorly equipped, and generally ill prepared for the true measures it would take to succeed in the endless melee of the Cell. His blade, shimmering between the speckles of filth, missed his target by a wide margin, furthering his frustration at the entire event. He cursed his inadequacies and let loose a flurry of foul language that was drowned out from the cheering bystanders above and the ever present shout of thunder. Compared with Letho and Teric, true masters at butchery, he was an amateur. Compared with Elijah and Atzar, his feeble martial prowess was dwarfed by their awe-inspiring arcane arts.

He had neither the time nor training to react to his mage-rival’s next attack. The cowardly fiend had practiced the escape routine far too many times, it seemed. Shards of razor-sharp ice skimmed through the air and met flesh in a frozen frenzied assault. Arsène lost grip of his sword, sending it flying across the battlefield to crash into the nearby barred wall. He let lose a scream of pain and panic that sent shivers down his own spine. He wasn’t dead yet, he knew that. The cold missiles had done a terrible deed to his body, there was no doubt, yet he still managed to remain conscious and aware the entire time, even with iced blood spilling from his wounds.

One thing became dreadfully clear; he had lost the use of his right eye. Dismayed, he frantically felt around the area, only to notice the river of warm blood melting away the evidence of any attack. He felt jagged, sharp pain in his chest and shoulder too, but nothing like the sheer freight of being blinded.

“You bastard,” he growled behind his teeth. Before he’d even had the time to clench his fists, an explosion rocked the coliseum and sent him flying backwards before tumbling face down in the mud. The flash was terrible, and the noise as shrill as a harpies shriek. The ringing in his ears was the only distraction from what seemed like a freshly broken arm the blast had just given him.

He cried out now. His shirt was ruined; rendered half blind by the ice, deafened by the blast and arm snapped by the shock of it all, Arsène was a pathetic sight to behold. He writhed in agony on that muddied ground, far away from any competitor. He wasn’t dead, and that was the problem. He was far from it; a living death marred with the shame of inadequacy and pain from his own damned hubris.

He didn’t fear death. But dying didn’t hurt this damn bad.


Arsène is sent flying back and ends up on the ground screaming. He's still very much alive though.

The glories of war.

[Bloodrose]

Bunnying of Ulysses was approved.

On a battlefield as hectic as the Cell's, when no one competitor could possibly keep track of all the others, it was surprisingly easy for skill and strength to fall in the face of poor luck. Misfortune could strike anyone at the most inopportune time, laying the best laid plans to waste, and there was little an individual could do about it. Knowing this inalienable fact to be true, Teric would be forced - when looking back on the day - to submit that he suffered the single most crippling minute of bad luck to ever strike a man...

First there was the fate of the young swordsman, Ulysses. Laid low by a strike from Teric's shield, the young man was all but guaranteed a swift death at the hands of the mercenary, had it not been for Elijah's ill-timed explosion. Knocked a step to the side by the concussive force of the blast, Teric found his flesh warm to the touch, and his nose filled with the scent of burning hair. His ears rang as if popped, and it took several seconds to shake the haze from the edges of his vision; time enough for Ulysses to rise and mount a defense.

It was a defense that proved unnecessary, however, as Teric was quickly beset by another setback. Fired from the barrel of his infamous 'gunblade', Ravenheart's 14mm slug struck the veteran with all the surprise and force of an invisible battering ram. Having missed the tell-tale shot of a firearm on account of the rolling thunder overhead, Teric had no time to brace himself for the impact. The bullet took him in the gut, forcing the air from his lungs and staggering him back a few paces. His hands instinctively reached for the painful epicenter just below his ribs, where they found the metal links of his chainmail hot to the touch and fused with the deformed remains of Letho's projectile. If not for mythril's legendary strength, the bullet may have easily made its home in the veteran's entrails - rather than simply laying him low like a colossal punch.

Drawing air back into his lungs to try and recover from Letho's unexpected offensive, the last of Teric's bad luck hit him even lower.

"Ssssssst!" Teric sucked in a sharp breath and almost fell as a stray arrow hit him in the leg from somewhere off to his right. Had it been on his left, the nearly spent munition might have struck the lower edge of the veteran's buckler, but instead it burrowed into the thick muscle mid-way up Teric's thigh, flooding the old man's system with pain signals.

Of all the stinkin' luck in the world...

Oddly, Teric began to chuckle - because really, what else could he do? Having grown so accustomed to being one of the strongest, fastest, and most feared fighters around, the mercenary had almost forgotten what it felt like to be uncertain of victory. Now, in a matter of seconds, three unrelated acts had all culminated in rattling Teric's normally unassailable confidence; and the man was almost enjoying it. He was wounded, vulnerable, and beset on all sides by enemies, and Teric finally found himself having to fight to survive.

This was why he was here.

Ulysses was scrambling over the crater left by Elijah's spell, bee-lining it for Letho's side as the Red Marshal rallied the boy to him. Settled against the adamantine edge of the arena, the Hero leveled the barrel of his ferocious weapon at Teric a second time, almost instinctively aware that the mercenary would give chase. The man's instinct proved correct, but the sly old veteran didn't give him a chance to fire a second slug unhindered.

Going back to the tried and true 'flashbang' trick he'd learned so many years ago, Teric flooded his corner of the arena with a brilliant flash of white light accompanied by a thunderous boom. The veteran kept his eyes tightly closed even as he started forward, his first few steps painfully slow as he willed his body to ignore the arrow still stuck in his leg. Teric was assuming that, in order to aim his weapon properly, Letho would have gotten a nice eye-full of the blinding light. That theoretically gave the mercenary a closing window of opportunity to catch Ulysses.

But if he isn't blinded, Teric tried not to think, I'm running in the wrong direction.


Teric has attempted to blind Letho (and anyone else looking in his direction) with his "Flashbang" skill. At the same time, he'd giving chase to Ulysses.

[Christoph]

Finally, the endless explosion died. The raging inferno diminished and the searing wind, which had howled like the lost and damned, ebbed. The smoke and dust cleared, revealing Elijah standing in a crater of black glass and ash, wreathed in a fiery anima of raw power. He looked, he fancied, like an ancient god of wrath. The half-burned chef coat probably diminished that image, though.

The spell had taken quite a bit out of him, but he still felt all right. Blood trickled down his cheek; somehow, an arrow had made it through the blasts of hot air and flame, coming close enough to give him a nice cut across his temple. He thought he heard singing, but he didn't have time to worry about it. Where had that helpful wizard gone off to?

He saw his mysterious ally nearby, a little burnt up but still apparently alive. Well shit, Elijah thought. He would have warned him, but that would have tipped off Letho. Speaking of… Belov spotted the crowd favorite across the arena, though by then he seemed less hero and more pile of burnt meat. Yet, the tenacious bastard wasn't dead. He had to respect that; he would have liked to fight Ravenheart in single combat, but the Cell was an entity of chaos and destruction, not honor. Then Letho summoned his wolves.

Even as he'd scanned the arena, arcane mumblings had already begun spilling from his cracked lips. Flame washed up around him like ocean waves, cloaking him. He had once read that of all four elements, fire most closely resembled the soul and spirit, for it was not bound by shape or measure. It was pure passion, pure power. What were the other elements but fuel to be consumed?

Without wasting an instant, the sorcerer pressed his palms together and muttered an ancient Raiaeran phrase, which roughly translated into ‘Fire mirrors the soul." With a burst of light and heat, two fiery forms took human shape next to him, flickering and contorting at obscene angles. Elijah grinned wickedly at his two fiery shadows; as fast and strong as their master, they would serve him well. Letho's wolves snarled and sprinted toward him, splitting off to assail him from two sides. They had not anticipated his own summoned minions.

"Destroy the wolves," he commanded, and barely paid them another notice, even as the fiery apparitions fought the wolves in a clash of embers and flesh. He spared a quick glance at the other wizard. "My apologies," he said quickly. "Stay close and I think we can assist each other."

A bright flash brought Elijah's attention back to Letho. He struggled to stay focused amidst the chaos (chaos that he had catalyzed). On both sides, his shadows fought back the wolves, defending their sorcerous master. One of the wolves yelped in pain as a rippling blade of pure heat bit into its flesh. Focus! His shadows would keep him safe.

His first goal was to finish off Ravenheart, but he still had those anti-magic gauntlets to contend with. Fortunately, as part of that seminar on the subject, he'd learned some practical means of dealing with them. One merely needed to form his magical attacks so that they can exist under their own power (without further magic) by the time they reach such a barrier. Then, all the anti-magic in the world would mean nothing.

Without further hesitation, Eli scooped up two huge handfuls of scorched dirt. It stung his blistered hands, but he ignored the pain. With two inaudible syllables, he breathed life into a spell. The dirt and glass floated from his grasp, swirling, glowing, and reforming until it took the shape of a sharp molten spike -- amusing that the closest he usually came to subtlety or finesse in combat sorcery, the scalpel approach to magic, was a flying lance of lava the size of his arm. With a blast of will and magic, he launched it at Letho with crushing force. Still, it was suitable nail for such a legend's coffin.

[Esmerelda]

Esmerelda continued to devour the sword, her sensors taking in all available information, analyzing it while she waited, and filing it away. Someone outside was singing rather loudly, and causing lights to appear. Gunshots were ringing out all over the arena, but most importantly, it seemed the world famous hero could survive even nearly every opponent dogpiling him at once.

Still she sat there quietly, watching, waiting, strategizing. Soon she would be able to go on, and fight on further. The sword was now just a stick. Its edge was gone, its handle destroyed, only the core lump of metal remained. The new Prevalida Nanites attacking the resources availible to them.

“How foolish,” Esmerelda thought “to throw valuable resources at your enemy, enough to weaken yourself, and strengthen them.”

small post to notate she's continuing her previous action. Sword is halfway destroyed.

[Ailnea]

Ailnea lay there on the ground trying desperately to catch up with everything that had happened. First her attack failed, she was thrown to the ground instead. An explosion ripped the ground open, a great column of fire reaching for her. Then Lorenor had thrown her away from the attack, sacrificing himself to do so.

He was dead now, and Ailnea herself was sweating heavily. Ailnea stood in the corner away from battle. There she wept quietly for the loss of a dear friend, no matter how temporary his death was. She clutched his dagger he had given her.

Revenge. They hurt her friend, she couldn't allow that to go unpunished. He was a monster, and if her gods were right, which they probably were, someday she would be just as monsterous. Monsters needed to stick together.

Drying her tears, she gripped the dagger with more intensity, intending to at least make someone pay. Walking forward, she looked around for a likely opponent.

[Ulysses]

Ulysses scampered away from Bloodrose and slid and slipped across the mud to follow Letho’s rally to arms. The explosion had picked up the Marshal and thrown him against the wall like a rag doll tossed by a child in a temper tantrum, but Letho was still in the fight. He called, and Ulysses followed.

A blinding flash came from behind, accompanied by a roaring boom. Ulysses’ vision was temporarily clouded, but the glare quickly faded as the blast came from behind. Ahead of him, Letho bore the brunt of it.

The Red Marshal raised his gunblade at Ulysses and prepared to fire. He hesitated and pointed behind him and then back at Ulysses again. Ulysses thought quickly. Evidently the blast had blinded the hero enough that he couldn’t distinguish between the two.

“Shoot the other guy!” Ulysses shouted. Letho looked indecisive for one moment more, and then he did just that. He didn’t see the effect of the shot, but hopefully it bought him enough time.

When he made it to Letho he paused and panted for a moment from exertion and looked up into the face of his injured hero. Letho looked bad. He was covered in burns (both major and minor) and grime and dirt were caked into his face and armor. His helmet was gone, and his boots and greaves were in shreds. Nonetheless, there was a stark, stubborn refusal to accept defeat that filled Ulysses with hope. That and the massive Lawmaker in his hand. The legends and myths surrounding the gunblade were almost as thick as those surrounding Letho himself—it was a weapon as he imagined gods had weapons.

“See if you can’t pull the blade from my back, kid,” Letho said, and he turned around and bent down. Ulysses grabbed at the hilt but didn’t pull just yet.

“If we’re going to die together, you ought to know me as more than ‘kid,’” Ulysses said with a frown. “My name is Ulysses.” With that, he jerked the blade stuck between Letho’s spine and shoulderblade out in one pull. The red-clad warrior grunted in pain, and blood oozed out of the wound, but at least it was gone. The same wound would have felled Ulysses easily—it was miraculous that Letho was still alert.

It was miraculous as well that Ulysses’ hadn’t yet been injured in this battle, or at least not too severely. He was covered in bruises and cuts from his skirmish with Bloodrose, and minorly singed from the chef-mage’s explosion, but at least so far he was still standing and not in too much pain. Perhaps it was indeed miraculous, and the goddess Cydonia was watching after him after all.

He doubted that his luck would last much longer, divine or otherwise.

At least he was standing beside his hero now. The two stood shoulder-to-shoulder, backs against the walls of the Cell. Letho held his enormous gunblade, and Ulysses grasped the adamantium bastard sword. Together they were ready to meet any and all comers. Come hell or high water, the master and the novice would fight together, meet victory together, or die together.

He grinned. Though the bitter taste of adrenaline filled his mouth and his body jittered with fear, in that moment, Ulysses could not have been happier. He was beside the hero he’d admired for years, and together they would stand and be true. At the beginning of this tournament, he’d thought there could be nothing attractive about the heroic lifestyle to him. After battling by the side of Sir Ravenheart, however, he could see that there was something of value about it after all…something noble and good.

He sidestepped towards Letho and opened his mouth to say something brave—maybe something along the lines of “Let’s do this!” or similar cheese—but he never got the chance to.

The next feeling he experienced was impossible amounts of burning and agonizing pain coming from his abdomen. He looked down and saw that he was…on fire? Some sort of great lance had skewered him like a kebab.

“Oh,” he said, more in surprise than pain. Then he crumpled to the floor, guts spilling out of his stomach like a burst bag of raspberry jelly. He raised one arm in an unintentionally melodramatic gesture, looked up once more into the face of Letho Ravenheart, and then lost consciousness entirely.

And that was that.

The irony about Ulysses’ death on that day was that it wasn’t any sort of heroic sacrifice at all. Like most deaths, it was a cosmic accident, as absurd and ultimately as meaningless as a fly swatted with the Sunday newspaper.


* * *

Ulysses floated in the darkness. A beautiful woman bent over him and kissed his forehead, then looked at him. Her eyes were the same regal gold as his own, and her expression was easily readable: disappointment.

“Not good enough,” said the goddess Cydonia. She vanished, and then the darkness consumed him once more.


* * *

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”

“Supposed? Supposed? There is no ‘supposed’ in the Cell,” the medic said, chuckling.

Ulysses shrugged. “I don’t know, that just didn’t seem right. We were about to make a stand! The brave heroes fighting off the forces of evil! It was…I don’t know. It shouldn’t have ended that way.”

The medic narrowed his eyes and was silent. Around them the crowd roared—they were at a special area set aside for the purpose of reviving competitors who died early in the tournament. He lay on an uncomfortable flat bed. The hole in his abdomen had been healed as though it never happened, but it still ached horribly. His brain very clearly thought that he ought to have an enormous gaping hole there, while his body insisted that this was not the case. The resulting conflict was unpleasant at best and nightmarish at worst.

“You know what your problem is, kid?” the medic said. He had the universal and easily identifiable accent known as lower class.

“What?” Ulysses said, with just a hint of sarcasm.

“You think in stories. The world ain’t like stories. There aren’t ‘good guys’ and ‘bad guys,’ and things sure as hell don’t always work out alright in the end. Live long enough in Radasanth and you’ll learn that helluva quick.”

“I guess so,” Ulysses said, although he wasn’t quite sure what the young man meant. He thought back to the things that Cydonia and the Knight and the other spirits had told him time and time again, and tried to reconcile that with what had just happened, but couldn’t. Maybe the thoughts of gods—all primary colors and bold shapes—really were too simple to apply to the real world. He’d never thought of himself as naïve (inexperienced, maybe, but never naïve) but something about today made him wonder. Mostly he just wasn't sure what to think. "I'm confused," he admitted.

"Yeah well, that's life for you," the medic said, with more unexpected wisdom.

“Ya think?” the medic said.

"I guess so," Ulysses said, and he found that was all the certainty he could muster anymore.

This is my closing post! This has been an absolute blast, let me tell you, and I’m incredibly pleased that I got to write with people I would never otherwise have gotten the chance to, and you guys are awesome. I’ll still be following the thread for sure. Good luck everyone! :D

P.S. Dirks: If that bit at the end after he’s revived doesn’t fit with what you have in mind, I can remove it or change it around as needed, just let me know.

[Atzar]

Chef-mage’s hellish spike erased one of Atzar’s attackers from the battle, reducing the once-energetic, fierce fighter to a sorry heap of charred flesh. ’Good,’ the wizard thought as he looked on in bleak satisfaction. Under different circumstances he might have recoiled from the gruesome corpse, but now was no time to be soft. Which left… where was his first assailant? The mage scanned the arena, looking for the swordsman. He didn’t seem to be…

A muffled cry caught his attention, made him turn around. There he was. Ice flowed through the mage’s veins as he approached the prone figure. 'Live enemies are dangerous enemies,' he knew. Kellon had tried once to simply trap him, and the man had come back and nearly taken his head off. Atzar wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. There was one way to be safe from the swordfighter, and that was to kill him.

The figure cried out once again. The mage prepared for the death blow, casting a block of ice in his palms that could crush a man’s skull with ease. He heard Chef-mage call out to him, urging him to take a place at his side, to work together. That could wait; this came first. He reached his foe, and that’s when Atzar saw the damage he had done. The man’s right eye had collapsed, and crimson liquid poured down the man’s mud-caked face. His broken arm dangled uselessly in the mud. The ice in his blood wavered, began to melt, and resolve turned to regret. He had to! It was necessary, he couldn’t have the man attacking him when his back was turned. Face set in a grim snarl, Kellon lifted the frozen mass and prepared to finish him off.

The sad face looked up at him with one good eye, the unspoken words written upon his face: Are you going to kill me? As Atzar looked down, a version of the same question began to grow in his own mind. Am I going to kill you? Doubt suddenly gnawed at his insides. Did he have what it took to do this? Did he have what it took to kill – no, to murder him? A life hung in the balance as Kellon wrestled with his conscience.

Finally his arms dropped, the ice falling harmlessly to the mud as he lost the inner struggle. The breath exploded from his lungs, and his snarl was replaced by a look of resignation. No. He couldn’t do it – not while his adversary lay there in the mud like that. He was soft after all.

A thought occurred to him, and he located the man’s blade, lying near the wall not far away. He quickly retrieved it from the muck and returned from the fallen man’s side, where he crouched.

“If I give you your sword, will you attack me?” It was a stupid question, perhaps; what manner of idiot would say ‘yes’ in that situation? The one-eyed fighter looked at him, then slowly shook his head.

“Then wait here. I’ll see if the Aibrone monk can help you. When you’re healed, I need you to go after Ravenheart.” He was referring to Letho, of course, using the name he had heard Ulysses use earlier. Kellon turned, intending to get the monk's attention, but the downed man stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“No,” the man said. Atzar turned back questioningly as the agonized man struggled to rise. “Help me up, give me my blade.”

The mage stared at him for a second before offering his hand, pulling the injured man to his feet. He hesitated a second, and then pressed the grimy weapon into the swordsman’s unhurt hand. He knew it was unwise - foolish, even - but he'd lost his inner battle. He didn't have the guts to kill him, and this was the alternative. He knew that the man would likely kill him rather than attack Letho - indeed, he had no reason to go after the red-armored warrior. But that was the price for being soft on a stage where soft competitors died.

But without another word, the man turned and limped across the ring in the direction of Ravenheart. Atzar watched him go, puzzled. It was brave, certainly, but why not seek the treatment of the monk first? But the wizard didn’t have time to ponder; he shrugged to himself and joined Chef-mage near the center of the arena.

Bunnying approved by Arsene.

I'm not attacking anybody in this post.

[Kade Underbough]

As the ashen air cleared, Kade watched the elderly brute stalk the pale swordsman in spite of his many wounds. He looked almost maniacal, with a slight chuckle to himself, though the bandit could not think of anything funny about how the day had gone so far, especially with a shot to the gut, burns, and one of his personal oak arrows embedded in the man‘s leg. He trained a second arrow on the man, though took a moment’s pause as he realized the silver haired combatant seemed much more interested now in the crimson warrior. Probably because that particular foe had a gun blade pointed in his direction.

Better save the arrow for someone else, the conscript noted, figuring his chosen ally could get the job done rather handily.

The crimson warrior didn’t get his shot off fast enough however, and Kade immediately felt a shock to his irises that came so quickly he had no idea how it had happened. A cascade of color flooded from his vision, leaving his eyes to behold nothing but an empty blackness, dark as the deepest gorges in all of Haidia. The boom had likewise assaulted his senses, though his hearing quickly recovered, just in time to hear a second boom, most likely from the crimson warrior’s firearm.

His sight showed no improvement, and the archer let one more arrow fly somewhere behind him before discarding the weapon. He felt it bounce once against booted foot before landing softly in the mud, useless. He heard the voice of the pale swordsman introducing himself as Ulysses and the conscript opened his mouth to try again to earn their help. He was close to the two he had chosen, but neither heeded his claim for an alliance.

His mouth quickly shut as he felt a heated missile glide in front his torso, singing the soft fabric of his shirt before landing with a soft plump in the area of Ulysses and the crimson warrior. He heard the surprised sigh, the sound of burning liquid freefalling to the ground, followed by the sickening thud of a body collapsing. Something had done something to someone, but Kade was blind and had no clues as to why. His uncertainty spread to his face, forcing a down facing crescent on his thin lips and his sightless eyes to quiver.

He stumbled backward, pushing his back against the bars of the cage as hard as possible, as though he might undergo a metamorphosis to slip through and escape. A trembling hand brought out his dagger, held not like a weapon, but with a gentleness one would give while holding an egg. The steel felt awkward in his hand, the strength and will to fight receding from the surface of his mind. It gave him no comfort of sense of security. He tried to hear anyone that might have chosen him as the next victim of the violent battle, but he found it impossible to single out any one sound amidst the numerous battle cries and cries from the crowd. Even a lighthearted song echoed against the bars of the prison, though he couldn’t find any hope in it. His spare hand traveled to his eyes, where he began to rub vigorously, ignoring the tears as best he could.

“Thayne,” he whimpered to himself. “I need to see.”

[Letho]

His vision started to normalize just in time to see the boy slump to the ground with a hole in his gut.

Letho's eyes were still far from clear; a combination of instinct and reflexes had made his eyes squint when the old man conjured the flare, but not nearly fast enough to cancel out its effect. So now the world was covered by a hazy whitish film that blurred the edges of everything that stood within twenty paces of him and erased everything past that mark. But even in such a debilitated state, he could see the fate that befell the green swordsman. Hell, he could even smell it. The gruesome sight of a torn abdomen was accompanied by a sickly sweet scent of burning flesh, as if someone forgot the world's worst pot-roast in the oven. The light in the lad's golden eyes went out quickly, as unceremoniously as if somebody just blew out a candle. There was nothing Letho's healing powers could do; the wound was just too severe, bringing death in a matter of seconds.

“You did good, kid,” Letho said. Still on his knees, the Marshal risked a second to close the eyes of his departed ally, then remembered. “Ulysses.” The boy said his name was Ulysses, just moments before he took a hit that surely would've been the end of Letho's campaign in the Cell. “I will see you on the other side.”

His back still ached and throbbed as if someone was pouring liquid fire into his open wound, but he made his left work despite the pain, prying his adamantine sword from Ulysses' fingers. And as he rose, a vibrant white aura exploded around him, pearly flames enveloping his husky figure completely. Letho's muscles bulged and expanded, first straining the straps that held his armor together to their limit, then snapping them and forcing the cuirass and the spaulders off his frame. The metamorphosis was completed by erasing his irises, painting his eyes bright white. Unhinged might pulsed throughout his entire body like a second heart, begging to be unleashed. But it was a sword that cut both ways; the expansion and strengthening of his muscles also tore the gash in his back even further, magnifying both the pain and the bleeding. He wouldn't be able to sustain his Righteous Might for long, he knew.

“You,” he turned to the archer who still seemed to be struggling with the effects of the blinding flash. With most of his armor either blown off or torn off, and with his face grimy and visibly jaded from the blood loss and the strain, and with a six-foot gunblade held in one hand and his trusty bastard sword in his right, Letho was far from easy on the eyes. “Retreat to your left,” he directed him along the line of the fence and towards a relatively vacant portion of the arena. “And cover me if you get a chance.”

And with that said, he was off like a bullet from a gun. The muscle growth quadrupled his speed easily and turned his every attack into a possible death blow, so when he swept down towards his opponents, he moved like a gale, a tornado of blades with a brilliant white light in the eye. He thundered past the spot where his wolves (well, wolf, since the alpha seemed to be reduced to a pile of smoldering fur and flesh) fought the infernal apparitions that the resistant mage had conjured, sweeping both of his blades sideways at the monstrosities without as much as a pause in his sprint. His deadly charge led him past the wobbly one-eyed man next, the Marshal's bastard sword making a slash aimed to sever the leg at the groin as he zoomed past. He skidded to a halt a couple of paces from the musician, spun and dropped to one knee and fired a shot towards the lesser of the two wizards. And even as the lead slug left the barrel of his six-foot weapon, he was on the move again. This time he had his sights set on vengeance, vengeance for the boy named Ulysses who came to his aid when most sought a way to bring him down.

Letho bore down on the pyromancer with a flurry of blows, his blades swung in sweeping arcs easily powerful enough to cleave a man in half. He did this at full speed, his momentum aimed to push forwards until he either killed the man or knocked him down into the dirt. And if this occurred, he was more then ready to trade one of his weapons for a chance to crush the wizard's face with his bare hands.

Used Righteous Might (speed x 4, strength x...a lot), took a swing at the apparitions, Arsene, shot at Atzar and came at Chris like a freight train. I apologize if this is a bit much, but I do have a lot of stuff coming at me at the same time and I'd already be dead if I dealt with it one at a time. ;) If anybody has any complaints, I'm more than happy to oblige and edit accordingly, though.

[Arsène]

As Arsène writhed on the gritty ground, he couldn’t help but laugh between painful sobs. Like the Ancient Mariner, he had been denied the deaths of either Ulysses or Lorenor, and instead was forced to endure the torment of a more beautiful Living Death. His mark of shame was a missing eye as blood tears streamed down his face. However, unlike the Mariner, even cursed he’d never utter a single word of this terrible humiliation.
”At least the Mariner killed something.”

As Teric’s flashbang sent searing light throughout the arena, Arsène thought for a brief moment he was ascending into heaven itself, where his agony would cease. He was far enough away, face down in the muck, not to be blinded, but that shining glimmer of hope sent shivers down his spine. However, it became all too clear that he was still alive, and still in tremendous pain. As he turned over, he caught sight (or half-sight) of the blasted witch that had caused him such grief. The magi prepared a large block of ice to smash in Arsène’s skull. With one eye, the melancholic pleaded with his attacker to hurry the hell up and kill him correctly. Yet Atzar took an entirely different message from the bloody face.

”Pity. Wonderful.” He was being spared; showed mercy in the most humiliating way possible. Not mercy for its own sake, but mercy out shame. Marcus Aurelius would have wept at the sorry affair.

As the mage helped his victim up, he offered him his sword in exchange for a target to use it against. Had Arsène a dagger, he would have gladly plunged it into the man’s throat at that point. But since he only had a sword, his track record kept him from making any further attacks. At the very least, he would scrape by some dignity by clashing with the titan of a man, Letho. That seemed the plan now; all would gang up on the beast with his brand of anti-magic and retard strength. Reading his blade in his working arm, he could almost feel the hot breath of the crowd aching for his blood.

Atzar had scampered off before Letho began his charge; a charge that began with Arsène. The melancholic had no time to react outside a gasp of surprise. The marshal’s blade took his leg clean off; the soaring limb provided the ground with its own dubious brand of rain, thick and red. Arsène’s voice was far too hoarse for any real screaming this time. As he collapsed to the ground in a violent fit of agony, he could only gurgle and gasp in shock.

He began his death throes, shaking back and forth uncontrollably. The marshal had not granted him a quick enough end, but as his blood spilled faster and faster onto the ground, he would be dead soon enough. Unable to speak, he was trapped within himself, trapped in a terrible tremor-filled death that was entirely his making.

Books that glorified war, books that romanticized the end were dime store hogwash; filthy lies packeted to the masses in hopes of a sale. His vision dimmed quickly enough, and all he was treated to the roar of the crowd as they lapped up every minute of his struggle for life and its eventual end. The Conqueror Worm had conquered.

Death was nothing like Arsène expected, and he was glad it was only temporary.


I'm out.

and fuck you Letho.

[Bloodrose]

Bunnying of Elijah's summoned allies approved by Christoph.

Things were happening too fast to register now, the battle reaching a frenzied pitch as combatants began to fall in quick succession. Having opened up a window of opportunity by blinding Ravenheart, Teric had been quickly closing on Ulysses when another of Belov's tricks yet again ruined the veteran's sport.

"Bastard!" Teric had wanted to reprimand the young and dangerous sorcerer. "He was mine!" The old swordsman halted his advance on the side of the crater nearest Letho, a sort of sixth sense telling him to hang back. That sense would soon prove useful, as Ravenheart took the death of his young ally as a good a reason as any to escalate the conflict.

Incredible! Teric watched transfixed as the Red Marshal, Hero of Corone, transformed into a hulking abomination of his former self. His muscles bulged to the point that his armor could no longer contain them, and the man's eyes seemed to roll back in his head, leaving grisly white irises in their place. A visible aura of power began to radiate from the champion, and where once a wounded soldier knelt now stood an imposing, violently powerful titan.

The bards would later recount that as Corone's hero transformed, the sky above the arena parted, and the first sunlight of the day beamed down upon him...

Letho was off like a shot, and the first to fall were the apparitions Teric knew so well. He'd fought them in the Pagoda when Elijah had vied for Grandmaster, and so he knew just how deadly they could be. That may have been why Teric was so impressed when Letho blew through the fire-shadows like a hurricane, snuffing them like so many candles as he hurtled onwards. Next to fall was one of the black-haired men that had been scuffling behind Elijah for most of the fight. In one fell sweep Letho took the man's leg and carried on like a train, leaving the poor bastard in the mud with his life quickly ebbing away. Having successfully dispatched his first few targets, the empowered Hero leveled and fired his gunblade at the mage who was not Elijah, before finally turning his attention on the pyromancer.

Excitedly, Teric reached down and snapped off the shaft of the arrow buried in his thigh. It was hard to tell if the mercenary was smiling or gritting his teeth (or possibly both), but in any event, the crowd lost sight of Teric for the second time that day.

Strangely, the veteran did not reappear in a more advantageous position like he had last time. This time Teric blurred back into existence directly in the line of fire between Elijah Belov and the murderous giant bearing down on him. One had to question the sanity of such a decision, but this was what the grizzled old fighter wanted. He had been craving a battle with someone or something greater than himself, and now that Letho Ravenheart had finally supplied the opportunity, Teric was damned if he'd allow Elijah to have the honors.

"Fuck off, mage." Teric warned the young sorcerer sternly. "Steal my thunder this time, and it will be you I look to put in the ground next."

With that, Teric met Letho's charge head-on. Like two locomotives converging on the same stretch of track, mercenary and hero bore down on one another without fear. Before they could collide, Teric aimed another cross-shaped burst of air at the titan's chest.

"Ravenheart!" Teric bellowed in what a wizard called Blueraven had once described as his 'Voice', "You're mine!"

[Letho]

This post is a mere filler. I need to reset the clock because tomorrow I'll have limited time to write. And since not everybody (Atzar, Christoph and Kade) responded to the actions from my previous post, I won't proceed with any real action until they do. Bloodrose, I hope you're OK with the minor bunnying. If not, let me know.

Transformed, Letho was faster than most humans, but the old man was somehow quicker. So much so, in fact, that at one moment Marshal's eyes and blades were set to scourge the mage, and then a mere fraction of a second later the ancient war dog was standing in his path. And when his saber moved in a blur before Letho was even in range, the charging swordsman sidestepped and pivoted, remembering on some primal, instinctive level the smoke-tearing cross from before. The deadly wind gust passed by his side harmlessly, and even as it did he brought both his weapons upon the interfering swordsman, the Lawmaker from above and the sword from the side. Utilizing his uncanny dexterity, the silver-haired geezer evaded the overhead strike and locked his blade against the bastard sword. The metallic pang of adamantine meeting mythril echoed across the battlefield, amplified by the sheer power in the hands that wielded them.

Letho's muscular legs pushed forward and onto the saber, bringing the two grizzly faces mere inches apart. And just then a peculiar thought darted through his head, when the stern eyes met in the midst of all the blood and sweat and fire and death; it was almost like looking into a mirror, one that perhaps added fifteen years on one side and took away the same amount on the other. There was the same knowledgeable gaze on both sides, same brutal determination, same aura of experience exuding from every line on their face, every scar on their skin. It seemed Lorelei was right.


Several days ago...

“I think you should do it,” the redhead teenager said matter-o-factly, as if she just made her decision on the most trifling matter ever. They were sitting at the dinner table, Letho Ravenheart on one side, Lorelei, his thirteen year-old daughter, on the other, and a roast chicken between them. She cut off one of the legs and nibbled at it without much interest.

“It is idiotic and pointless. I will not participate in a pissing contest just to entertain the sheep,” the Marshal dismissed the idea, and not without reproach. It wasn't intentional, this sharpness in his tone, but he was irked by this Cell tournament already and it hadn't even started yet.

“Well, I am not saying you should do it for them,” Lorelei continued, dissuaded by his words not at all. That trait alone, this suave determination that emerged once she formed a solid opinion on something, reminded Letho so much of Myrhia. It was enough to hear her out. “Do it for yourself.” Letho waited. There would be more, he knew; there always was. He chased some peas around the porcelain plate, waiting for the punch line. “Do not misunderstand me, Father. I do not wish for you to put yourself in harms way, but it is clear that you wish so. You need to be amongst your peers, match your sword against theirs, their might against your might.”

“That is not true.” The response was instant, the tone uncertain.

“You know it is. I can see the way your eyes clear up every time you draw a sword. So instead of moping around the house or chasing some wild adventure to calm your blood, why not do this?” the skinny girl asked, her eyes locked with her father's. They were the same, these two sets of eyes; Lorelei might've gotten her mother's figure and hair, but he had his eyes. Warrior's eyes. “There is bound to be someone in there who you can respect. And if you turn out to be the hero for the people...” She shrugged, tossing the bone away. "Now, where is the harm in that?"


Present...

He was doubtful then. He wasn't doubtful anymore, at least not about the respect part. Whoever willfully put himself in the path of almost certain onslaught was either seeking death or a worthy challenge. And the old man before him didn't look very suicidal.

[Christoph]

“Well, that’s annoying,” Elijah grumbled when his lava spike struck Letho’s hero worshiper instead of the hero. He was about to repeat the spell when Ravenheart lunged to his feet and… changed, becoming larger and mightier. This Belov realized, was the Letho Ravenheart of legend, the one the tales described. Elijah grinned.

Letho exploded out like a whirlwind, quickly dispatching of the fiery shadows before cleaving a random nobody with his massive sword. Elijah stood ready, perfectly still, emanating the controlled intensity of a forge in the face of Letho’s impending assault. His corona of flame brightened and intensified; it was as though he had completed a transformation as well, from an unknown chef magician to Elijah Belov, master of the Pagoda. The sorcerer warlord of Salvar.

Then Letho leveled his gunblade toward the wizard standing at Eli’s side. Belov knew enough about guns; while often unreliable, for that first shot they were brutally fast and unforgiving weapons. Yet, what was faster than a thought? A thought was all Elijah had, and all he needed. Without even a word or gesture, the air in front of the pair of sorcerers rippled and shimmered. The gun fired, and its bullet struck this translucent barrier with a muffled crack.

Then Ravenheart turned his wrathful attention toward the sorcerer, charging like a bull. Elijah was ready to face the living legend, his sword glowing bright orange like an iron brand. And then Bloodrose appeared between them in a gust of wind and spite. The old man lunged at Letho, a hammer into a falling boulder.

“If the old man wants my leftovers, fine,” he sighed. “I can occupy myself.” He turned quickly to his mysterious cohort. “All right, whoever you are, ready to raise hell?” he asked, already weaving another swift spell. “There are too many stragglers on the field. Can you aim?”

Without waiting for an answer, Elijah raised his arms into the air, drawing up a swirling vortex of flame. Then, he swept his hands in both directions, unleashing a fierce barrage of flame in several directions. He directed several explosive fireballs at each of his remaining foes, save for his cohort and the two titans clashing in the middle. He only aimed the first volley himself, depending on his ally to target the rest while Eli focused on drawing forth more power.

This post affects everyone save Bloodrose and Letho

[Esmerelda]

Sunlight broke through the sky, warming Esmerelda. This natural weather phenomenon meant nothing to her, aside from the fact that if the battle lasted long enough, the ground would become dry. If enough fire magic was thrown around, Esmerelda theorized it would be dry even sooner. This was good. Cracks meant that she would have places to hide, no matter how shallow those places might be.

She was done. She had completely absorbed the sword thrown her way, and transformed it into a collection of Nanites. She had enough of the new metal to make one object out of Prevalida, the spikes in her shoulders, her teeth, something.

She began moving forward, reforming as she went. Who was a likely target, who wouldn't see her coming, and provide the best target? Action kept happening every second, so she decided to stop and analyze the current battle situation, before plunging in headfirst.

That was when one of them threw a fireball at her. Esmerlelda dodged to the left, and began striding forward.

[Ailnea]

Ailnea watched, as Letho continued to prove just how amazing he was, and rushed Teric for a titanic struggle. A fight between those two in this condition would be a sight to behold. A fight between those two, when both were in a state of complete health would be nearly historic.

She noticed the strange woman that had pursued her earlier was back. Perhaps Ailnea should take her down. No, surely someone else would find her tempting. Lorenor had been killed by fire. That meant that whoever was throwing fire magic around would find an enraged monk coming after them.

Yet, things happened so quickly, that Ailnea had no clue who was using fire magic. There were a pair who seemed to be standing off to the side, they were likely subjects. Ailnea kept an eye on them. Suddenly, one threw a fireball her way. That was him, he was the one who was going to pay.

Ailnea was faster than a normal person, even still, the back of her robes were singed. She moved towards the pyromancer, intending to spill his blood, even if it cost her her own life.

[Kade Underbough]

It hadn’t been a prayer. His upbringing had taken place on the outskirts of society, amongst a world of thieves. His morals, while existing, had never been refined under the devotion and guidance of anything remotely considered religious. He only knew that he couldn’t stomach some things a destitute life had called on him to do. Burglary. Theft. Those were sins his family and adoptive family alike had burned away from his conscience. Otherwise, he could have passed for an ordinary, law-abiding citizen. In the city of Radasanth, it was hard for anyone born in poverty to discover the power of worshipping any god. Thayne was no deity to the bandit. Just one of the many curses he knew, yet seldom used.

Therefore, when his vision finally, gradually, began to clear, he would later claim it as simple luck. On the other hand, maybe the blinding light wasn’t intended as a permanent hindrance. In any case, he saw the blackness recede, replaced by shadows, the vague images of the combatants still on their feet. One of them seemed to charge Kade, and the young man pointed his dagger outward in a feeble defense.

“Cover you?” The crimson warrior’s instructions recited themselves in the young man’s head several times. The voice had been filled with an energy, an anger, and a command that reminded him strangely of Lionel. A true leader. It was the type of command that could turn anyone into an able-bodied soldier, if only temporarily.

A sliver of confidence touched his nerves as a small assortment of blues and greens returned to his eyes first, followed by the rest of his healing spectrum. He followed his orders without question, rushing to recover his once more useful bow before making his way to the barren part of the cage. He saw his veteran ally, but the man was changed. He radiated of unnatural energy, skin almost bursting from the bulging, belligerent muscles. He looked devoid of all pain, despite his wounds.

Looks like I picked a winner! Kade thought enthusiastically. A slew of devastation marked the crimson warrior’s path, blocked by the one man who appeared equally undeterred by his comparable variety of injuries.

The conscript readied his bow, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. He only needed his ally to move just a bit in order to have a clear shot on the silver haired man. The fierce deadlock made waiting and watching just as good a source of adrenaline as any physical activity. As luck would have it, and from his vantage point, he was able to keep the other dangerous combatant, the devastating fire mage, in his sights. As luck would also have it, he found a ball of fire launched in his direction.

“Yaaarrgh!” bellowed the frail thief unflatteringly, diving back in the direction he had come. His arrow snapped against the cell’s floor as he attempted a somersault. He half succeeded, shoulders touching the ground, head curled between them and his legs, which still stuck out in the air above everything. The universe, ever a place of contrasts, also allowed him to half fail, and the ball of flame still exploded within range.

In a shower of flames and an explosion of pure energy, the youngling was flung into the nearby bars, his back bruising in several places against the strength of the adamantine metal. For just a second, his body was comically plastered upside down, the unburned portions of his shredded shirt falling over the top of his head. Then he fell to the ground, where he writhed and moaned for many seconds more. Large chunks of his pants fell from his burned legs, which had taken the brunt of the spell.

He shivered and quaked, the realization of how close, how easily he had come to turning into a crisp remnant of a human being. He wished to be gone from the cage, eliminated from the bloody tournament. Dying though, wasn’t the most pleasant option.

He didn’t want to feel what death felt like and he didn’t want the mental scars of knowing he had once been mutilated by those far more powerful. In order to avoid those scars, he would have to get up. He did. Mustering the strength, he ignored those bruises on his back, which he knew would heal. The burns on his legs were uncomfortable, but he had avoided the worst the explosion had to offer. He brushed away at the ashen remains of his slacks, leaving little more than a misshapen loincloth to protect him. He looked at the area surrounding the explosion and found that he had dropped his bow too far away to simply run up and retrieve.

Covered in soot and mud from head to toe and carrying only his dagger once again, the teenager looked like one of the savage Salvarian nomads he had heard bedside tales of as a child. Lean, starved almost, he looked the fiercest he had ever been, pushed to a primal desire to survive.

[Atzar]

Atzar didn't have time to flinch as the barrel of Ravenheart's weapon spat death in his direction. Luckily, he didn't need to; his ally saved him, and even now he watched the titanic struggle as if from behind a window. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds and bathed the ring in its radiant light, and that’s when Atzar first realized just how much the arena had changed since the beginning of the melee. The crowd no longer buzzed in anticipation, but rather roared in scarcely-controlled bloodlust, screaming each time the crimson sprayed. The ground near the center was no longer muddy – Chef-mage’s fondness for spewing gouts of flame in all directions probably had something to do with that – and a scorched crater had been blown out of the floor, testament to the power of Elijah’s blast. Several bodies lay crumpled or mangled near the walls, lifeless as the blood-spattered ground on which they rested. The metallic stench of blood and gore filled the mage’s nose.

The wizard’s eyes lingered for a moment on Arsene’s grisly remains. He had spared the swordfighter’s life… only for that to happen. His own weakness had forced the man into a demise worse than anything Kellon could have contrived. Grim anger filled his thoughts as he promised himself one thing: next time, he would not be so frail. Next time, he would have the guts to do the right thing, if death could ever truly be considered right.

As if he could read the mage’s thoughts, Chef-mage immediately gave him an opportunity to prove his newfound resolve. The powerful pyromancer did his best imitation of an erupting volcano, spraying lethal fireballs in every direction. The lesser wizard didn’t savor the task that had been set upon him, but with a sigh he gritted his teeth and jumped in headfirst.

It felt like wrestling with a rampaging bull. Controlling Chef-mage’s onslaught of fiery power was easily the hardest thing Atzar had done in his life. Immediately sweat carved rivulets down his mud-caked face as he exerted everything he had, wielding his own inferior magic to coax death to its intended targets. His muscles twitched spasmodically, his lungs screamed for more oxygen, and every gasp of hot air did nothing to alleviate the burning in his chest.

But control it he did, to an extent. The fire stopped crashing against the walls, the forcefield, the corpses and instead arced through the air at the three other fighters. A boy with a bow, an Aibrone monk, another unidentified female (where had she even come from, anyway? He could have sworn she wasn’t there a moment before); he had no personal quarrel with any of them, but nonetheless he unleashed the furious salvo at them all, a hellstorm of fiery death. In a twisted sort of way, he reasoned, it’s for their own good; better to die instantly than to be hacked to pieces and left to bleed out.

The mage’s jaw locked until it ached, and a shudder ran through his body. “I don’t know how long I can keep this up,” he grated to Chef-mage.

My actions affect Kade, Esmerelda, and Ailnea.

[Esmerelda]

Esmerelda felt the heat coming toward her as the fire came back for a second try. She wanted to dodge, but her Nanites couldn't work fast enough. The fire impacted her head.

...Warning, Fatal System Error, engines overloading!...

Esmerelda couldn't stop it, her operating system was fried, and soon she would die. But at least her death should count for something. She rushed the nearest opponent, the black haired man. Bolts of an exotic energy source began arcing across her body giving clear warning something was about to happen.

...Warning, engine breach in five, four, three, two, one...

Right as Esmerelda got between the fire mage, and the black haired man, or at least where they were on her sensors last, she exploded with tremendous force. Esmerelda didn't run on electricity alone, she ran on a quantum reactor. One the size of a human heart, like hers, could be lethal if it exploded in the right place. When hers breached, it exploded, with a twenty foot blast radius.

The crowd, impressed as they were, cheered, thinking her explosion had been done by the mages on purpose.

going out with a bang, literally. This affects Atzar and Christoph directly, as she was aiming for the spot between where they were as of my post. Anyone close enough will get caught up in the blast. Nothing unusual, standard fiery explosion, only its source was odd, but still, nothing worth mentioning.

[Ailnea]

Ailnea had moved closer to lorenor's murderer. Suddenly, a fireball caught her in her side and laid her low. Slowly she got up, moaning, determined to continue on, to avenge her friend's death. She moved closer, and right as she got close to her chosen enemy, something strange entered her vision.

The strange woman that had chased her earlier, was glowing. She was close to Ailnea, then, she just exploded. Ailnea's senses filled with fire, then, darkness. This was familiar, the dense black void of nothingness before she was resurrected.

"Interesting, a machine comprised of Nano-molecular machines, from that universe. I thought it was destroyed. She is perhaps, a survivor? Regardless, I think I shall set the watchers in the night on the contestants of this contest, both the survivors, and losers." A male voice was saying.

The voice was familiar, as though she should know it. It gave her a chill of fear, as though its sounding meant only unpleasant experiences to come. Movement, she was moving through the darkness.

Out on the battlefield, Ailnea's dead body finally dropped Lorenor's dagger, giving no sign of the mysteries her spirit was encountering.

Last posts from me.

[Bloodrose]

Dialogue provided by Letho, bunnying approved.

Teric normally considered himself a strong man, but as he locked blades with the Hero of Corone, it became stunningly obvious who between them was mightier. In trying to hold back Letho's two-handed blade with only his saber, the mercenary might as well have been trying to hold back the morning tide. Adamantine and mythril shrieked together as the larger blade slid to the basket-hilt of Teric's sword, even as the Grandmaster's feet dug twin burrows into the soft earth while Ravenheart forced him back. Their faces came within inches of one another as they struggled, and the older man could almost feel the begrudging, yet mutual, respect blossoming between them.

"Out of my way, old man! I have a score to settle with that cowardly scullion yonder," Letho growled through clenched teeth. Almost as if to emphasize his might, the Red Marshal shrugged his arms forward, and the force was enough to stagger his opponent backwards. Their blades came apart with a metallic ring as Teric regained his footing, but Letho didn't press his momentary advantage. It was obvious that he was far more interested in Elijah Belov.

"No." The veteran replied sternly.

Letho moved as if to circle around the older swordsman, but Teric moved with him. Wordlessly, the Hero again went to pass around the obstructing fighter, this time to the other side, but again Teric impeded his path. Frustrated, the younger man gave a derisive snort and fixed the older one with a determined look.

"Are you that desperate to claim my life that you would forfeit your own for a chance do so?" As if by way of explaining further, the Hero pointed over Teric's shoulder, indicating the two magi conjuring and raining fiery death all around them. "Surely you realize that those two will end us both if we allow them to run rampant."

"The sorcerer will not interfere." Teric offered by way of an excuse, but the words rang hollow in even his own ears. Ravenheart, judging by the expression on his face, was equally unconvinced.

Just fight me, you! Teric wanted to shout. He'd been waiting all day for a new challenge, and since Elijah seemed intent on burning the entire arena to the ground, this was likely the warrior's last chance to get Letho one on one. If he let the big man through, there was no guarantee that the pyromancer wouldn't just incinerate him, and Teric would yet again be robbed of his opportunity for a martial challenge. There was a moment's hesitation as the old warrior contemplated the next few seconds of the battle, and Letho cleared his throat as if to prod the old timer along.

"Fine." Teric's shoulders slumped in disappointment. After boiling it down, the veteran had zero confidence in Elijah's ability to keep his nose out of their duel once he ran out of others to explode, and so then Teric had little choice but to yield. "Have your revenge then."

"Once I am done with them, you shall get your duel. You have my word." Letho offered.

This time it was Teric's turn to snort. It was hard to suppress a mental image of Elijah roasting Corone's Hero alive with jets of magical flame, laughing manically as he ruined the mercenary's fun. Try as he might, and he tried hard, the veteran just couldn't seem to replace the image with one of Letho cleaving the smug sorcerer in half and then pissing on his corpse.

"Once you're done then." Teric agreed, turning away from Letho as he readied his arsenal. The Marshal's target was clear, and so then the mercenary was left to scrounge for another target; one upon which to both vent his frustration and with which to occupy his time. In the short period they'd been left unhindered, Elijah and his mysterious ally had brought death down on the heads of several of the arena's remaining competitors, and so the pickings were starting to get mighty slim.

For the third time, likely the last time his injuries would allow, Teric seemed to flit from one spot to another in an instant. His movement carried him in the direction of earlier said mystery man, the black-haired mage that seemed to be controlling Elijah's unbridled magic. Teric didn't understand how that worked, exactly, but the mercenary didn't concern himself with the workings of the arcane. He simply used his speed to make a hasty charge for the man while he was preoccupied, intent upon skewering him.


Teric is looking to stab Atzar in the gut.

[Letho]

That was... unexpected. Witnessing the determination and gall of his weathered foe, Letho believed he would persist in his intentions regardless of the words spoken. There was steel in those blue eyes, unrelenting solidity and sharpness of a man that knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to take it. It subsided but a little, this razor sharpness of the ages, when the promise of a duel was spoken, but it was still there. It spoke without words, without a sound, that this man would most definitely hold him to his word. There would be a reckoning once the masters of the fiery razzle-dazzle were taken care of, and it was bound to be one that Letho would lose.

Weapons felt heavy in his hands... No, that wasn't right. His very arms felt heavy by now. He had the strength of over a hundred men pulsing through his body, and yet it took every ounce of his will to sustain that surge and put his body in motion once again. It was the wound, he knew. The damn thing was sapping the very life out of him, its effects doubly fast now that he pushed himself to the limit. Despite the inferno of the arena, he felt coldness creeping over him, like a myriad of tiny droplets of icy water tickling his skin. Dizziness would come next, Letho knew, first just a minor distortion in the world before him, then a major one that would bring him down, his human instincts telling him to take it down a notch. He shook his head, then shoved the weakness aside with his mind. He couldn't afford to yield to human weaknesses. After all, wasn't he supposed to be a hero?

On most other occasions, Letho would've taunted the mage with some hogwash about justice and cowardice and honor and all those fancy words that the masses liked to hear. Too tired for that now. Tired of the heat that made him sweat, tired of the crowd and their insatiable lust for blood, tired of the stink of singed flesh and hair that made him want to heave, tired of dealing and evading death. But most of all, he was tired of that content, almost bored smirk on the young wizard's face, that expression of a spoiled child that remained on his face even as he sent people to their fiery graves. He would end this boy. For Ulysses, for the crowd, for the boils on his legs and the jadedness in his muscles, he would end him. Not because he was a hero. But because it felt right.

The old man was already on the move, doing his now-you-see-me-now-you-don't routine that to most looked like a teleportation spell. Letho knew better, saw better. There was nothing magical about it, just a whole lot of speed and momentum. Still, it got him where he needed to be, close enough to stab the lesser of two fiery evils. With a nod, the Marshal made his move towards the greater one.

His arms stretched wide at his sides, his hands holding the two weapons parallel to the ground below, Letho Ravenheart looked like a tattered bird of prey as he darted towards the mage. There was nothing tactical about his approach, nothing smooth and classy like the vanish-and-thrust combo his temporary ally employed. It was all about pure, unbridled power, shoved forwards like a fist of a boxer in a slugfest. He brought his blades upon the chef-mage's barrier in a horizontal double swipe, shattering the translucent barrier upon impact. He figured the sorcerer would try to scuttle away again, put some distance between them, just enough for him to unleash another barrage of his spells. Letho wasn't about to give him a chance. Sacrificing technique for power and speed, he pressed forwards, weapons swung in wide arcs aimed to sever the boy's body at the waist.

“Now... you... DIE!!!” he squeezed in between blows, channeling every bit of wrath and pain and annoyance into his attacks. He would kill the magician or he would lose his life trying to do so.

[Kade Underbough]

The explosion still rung against his eardrums, drowning out the sounds of everything around him. He saw the charred corpses of those that hadn't fared as well as he. In his state of mind, the reality of his situation barely registered. He was little more than a wild animal, shaking in a violent combination of fear and rage. Sweat permeated from his breathing, flaring pores, hot and exhausted from the fiery blast. His naked legs, once pale, now resembled a raw hide, blistered from long exposure to the sun.

Survive

His thought process had dulled; it refocused on what was important. The Civil War, Lionel, his imprisoned brother Ramis, they were all forgotten as he became a purely instinctual creature. He saw another fireball come his way and rolled on his heels to his left, hissing from the pain of moving his burned legs. The flames lightly licked his right ear, but it passed him by. He ran, hoping to avoid the explosion, and turned to see that the magic had turned full circle. Redirecting itself, it headed for the intended target once again. The second time around it looked fully committed, blazing toward him like a heat seeking missile.

He somersaulted for the second time in a span of minutes. That time, as he leaped toward the ground, the fireball followed suit. He landed and quickly rolled, the ball thumping into the caked, nearly dry mud where he had been a fraction of a second before. He was hit by another blast, but that time the ground absorbed much of the likely damage. He ricocheted off the ground as though someone had ripped a rug out from under him, losing balance and control of his athletic endeavor. He landed right-side up, one foot hitting the ground before the other, causing him fall to his knee to avoid a rolled ankle. The rest of his shirt was gone, either torn or burned away. The lesser burns on his back suggested the latter.

He rose back to his feet, the palm of his hand bleeding around the hilt of his dagger as his white knuckled hand clutched the weapon. He looked for another unnatural flame to be thrown his way, but the battle scene had changed. The two swordsmen had parted, each hounding his own personal magi. Both men looked to be on their last good leg and the crimson warrior appeared on the verge of losing that as well. Their alliance of two appeared to be over before it had ever come to a full blossom. Hell, it hadn't even started.

The ravaged, wild kid gritted his teeth. Each man could easily kill the impish child of the cage, yet his survival rested on the death of every single combatant. Even the crimson warrior. Like any small animal, his choices were limited, but clear. Prey on who he deemed weakest.

He pushed off like an injured track star, keeping up a respectable speed despite visible limps in both legs. The blisters covering his calves and thighs ruptured in the first few steps, oozing droplets of pus and blood in his wake. It didn't take long to get anywhere in that cell and he was quickly within range of his chosen victim. Without so much as a grunt, the stealthy teen lunged at the crimson warrior from behind, jabbing his dagger at the man's exposed head, just below his skull.

(( Kade pulls bitch move and attacks his friend. :( ))

[Atzar]

Body quaking uncontrollably, breaths coming in short, ragged gasps, the wizard felt the reins slip from his grasp. He saw the fire as it ventured further and further from his marks, gradually returning to its own natural, random ferocity. He was spent; he knew it.

The blonde girl crackled with electrical energy after Atzar struck her. Any living creature would have died instantly, but she crept closer, ever closer. Even in his exhaustion he felt the heat of panic rise up within him. No! The mage vainly tried to reassert his control, to strike her down before she reached him, but he had nothing left. No! Stay away! Finally one of the molten missiles found its target of its own free will, and she exploded.

She hadn’t gotten close enough to kill the mage, but nonetheless the edge of the blast ripped at him violently. The concussion rocked him roughly to the ground. The fire seared and blistered his flesh and he screamed aloud, eyes screwed shut in agony.

And then it was over. The fire was gone, leaving his unimaginable pain as the only evidence it had ever existed. He pried his eyes open and saw Ravenheart charging Chef-mage near the center of the ring. He had to help. By sheer force of will, the exhausted mage rose to his hands and knees. He had to find something left inside. Struggling mightily, he rose to one knee. He had to survive. And then he saw it. The figure shimmered into existence above him. The grizzled old warrior stood there, sword poised to strike, and Atzar knew that he gazed into the cold blue eyes of death.

The blade took him in the midsection, passing though his body as if it were no more than water. There was no more pain; rather, he felt as if he were in a dream. The sword in his chest, it wasn’t real; only a nightmare. His lips moved vaguely, but no sound escaped. Weakly he grasped the man’s wrist as if to remove the weapon from his entrails, but the veteran’s grip didn’t waver.

In his peripheral vision he perceived a familiar form. He turned his head, and there he saw the crumpled, mangled remains of the melancholy fighter, whom he had sent to a gruesome demise. More than that, he saw a reminder. He saw the promise that he had made only moments before: I will not be so frail. I will not be weak.

Elijah stopped spewing flames, and the last of the blazing missiles arced high into the air. I will not be weak. His once feeble grip strengthened on his killer’s wrist, but he no longer sought to get away. Instead, Atzar strived to hold the powerful warrior in place. A crackling scream ripped from his throat as he put his might, his very life into one final act. The lethal fireballs changed direction in midflight, crashing down on him with a series of sharp detonations.

But Atzar Kellon didn’t hear them. The savage sounds, the sickening sights, the severe suffering all mercifully faded away.

My actions affect Bloodrose.

I need one more post, but my impact on the battle at hand is over.

[Christoph]

Admittedly, Elijah hadn't expected treachery from Teric or Letho. He had been too preoccupied, standing within a column of flame and weaving his spells, with his own treacherous plots. That was why, when the sudden attack came, Belov kept his calm. But then everything happened too fast.

Teric made the first move, appearing like a specter so very close to the heart of the inferno, and cut down the other mage. Another explosion ravaged the arena, this one amazingly conjured by Eli's cohort. I didn't think he had it in him. He faltered and staggered backwards, drawing up his best defenses against the unexpected blast. Then Letho appeared, and Eli could focus on nothing else.

The Coronian hero barreled through the waning flame like a man possessed, his mighty sword swinging with uncontrolled fury. So much like a wildfire, Belov thought. The sorcerer sprang backward, narrowly avoiding a crushing slash. Letho pressed the offensive with reckless, almost desperate abandon. The chef-sorcerer grinned; now he would battle the living legend face to face. The crowd cried out for more. Many cheered for Letho, but Eli could hear a different chant growing as the two mighty warriors clashed. Chef! Chef! Chef!

And so they fought, Letho fierce, unrestrained might against Belov's desperate speed. Elijah stayed in motion, his movements resembling the unpredictable flicker of candlelight and his speed still magically enhanced to supernatural levels. Even as his foe rained blows upon him, he dodged and weaved. A single misstep would spell very painful disaster.

Tired of giving ground, Elijah snarled and took the offensive. He sprang forward, his blade burning orange. He lashed out with blinding speed, his sword dancing through the air and seeming to strike from several directions at once. Despite the fierceness of his assault, he remained focused, centered -- a forge to Letho's wildfire. Flesh burned every time Eli drew blood, until Ravenheart seemed a walking, fighting mass of charred flesh.

Yet, it felt like beating back the tide itself. Letho weathered the onslaught and advanced with a smoldering finality, unstoppable, constantly forcing Elijah back with his crushing slashes. Then the ground ended and his foot struck the arena wall. Letho struck. Eli blocked. The two legendary swords crashed together and Belov's legs buckled pathetically beneath Letho Ravenheart's mythical strength. He crumbled to the ground. The hero of Corone loomed over him, and for a fleeting moment he felt heartbreakingly small; the chef from some backwater town. A nobody.

Then the spark returned to his eyes. I will not die on my knees! Letho is not my better! He was Elijah Belov, one of the most powerful men in the known world. He lunged forward defiantly, thrusting his sword at Letho's torso with all his might.

Bunnies approved by Letho.

[Bloodrose]

At long last, Teric's blade tasted its first blood of the day. The nameless black-haired magician had no opportunity to react, no time to conjure a spell or even whisper a final prayer. The man's eyes just sort of glossed over as he stared dumbfounded at the razor-sharp instrument of death that seemingly grew from his own body. His lips moved as if speaking, but no words were audible as the man struggled to remain upright.

Cold, sweaty fingers closed around Teric's wrist, and the mercenary stood silently watching as the life drained out of the man impaled on his sword. Some individuals, at this juncture, would have taken this opportunity to whisper a quiet prayer or say something poetic. Still others would have found this moment - that short window between inflicting a mortal wound and when death finally took hold - as an opportune time to degrade, belittle, or otherwise sully the dying individual for being weak. Teric did none of these things, and not because he couldn't think of anything to say, but more because he didn't really care.

You'll be up and walking around in less than an hour. The veteran knew.

The grip on Teric's wrist tightened, and the mercenary's eyes narrowed warily. The magician's life - what little of it remained - seemed to well up inside him as he fixed his killer with a resolute stare. Even before the gurgling, final scream tore from his throat, Teric knew something was amiss.

"Never trust magi to die quietly." The veteran remembered someone telling him once.

The mercenary hastily wrenched his arm free of the dying mages' grasp, and had just enough time to turn away and raise his shield before the fireball exploded. Teric was thrown bodily by the force of the blast, and he hit the ground shoulder-first and bounced like a rag-doll across the earthen floor before coming to rest several meters away. Pain tore through his limbs as they were bent every which way by the uncontrollable nature of his tumbling, and the veteran's lung burned as they sucked in air scorched and rendered oxygen-less by the explosion.

Teric ended up on his stomach, one leg folded awkwardly beneath his hips and with his shield arm up behind his head. It hurt to breathe, and all he could smell was the raw, burnt inside of his own nose, but the mercenary was alive...


Bit of a hasty post - had to get it up while I'm at work. I'll likely put up a conclusion post later tonight.

[Letho]

Bunnying approved by Christoph
Focus, boy. I swear, your emotions shall be the death of you.

Some twenty-odd years ago, Savion's master-at-arms had spoken those words to a young stripling called Letho Ravenheart, and they rang true even today. Especially today. The mage had been a thorn in his side from the beginning of the battle, a rash that just wouldn't go away no matter how he treated it. And up until now, that was pretty much all the Marshal saw in the cocky spell-weaver: a nuisance, a bug that kept on buzzing until you squashed it against the wall. And yet there appeared to be more. Faced with the certain death at the edge of Letho's blades, the youth opted to stand his ground instead of beating a retreat. Furthermore, he actually possessed some skill with his light blade, evading when the heat was too great, countering when Letho recovered from one of his sweeping slashes, always an inch away from the edge that would end his life. It was a trait that the Marshal would've respected on any other day. But not today.

Today he was jaded and annoyed and in so much pain that it felt like every reckless swing was his last. As if that wasn't enough of an irritation, every time the magician's sword licked his skin, it left a burning sensation that spread through Letho's veins like magma, scorching him from the inside out. He felt it creeping through his system, this unnatural fever, and it was worse than the cold perspiration that bathed his skin now, felt wrong somehow. And for briefest of moments he acknowledged the possibility that he might lose this battle, might actually suffer a defeat to a dress-wearing boy with a pocketful of parlor tricks.

As if he smelled this fraction of a second worth of doubt, the mage lunged forward and under another one of Letho's mighty slashes, trusting his sword at the warriors chest. Letho's left moved to intercept, swat it away the way it did countless times before, but his muscle cramped up under the torrents of fiery pain and he was just a little slow. Just a little short. The sword went through him as if he was a training dummy filled with straw, the metal feeling as hot as a poker fresh out of a fire. He tried to take another breath, but the perforation in his lungs cut him short, then sent blood back up instead of used air. His stern gaze went to the pommel of the sword sticking out of his chest, then to the boy. The mob in the stands quieted down with a surprised wooaaaah! Was this the end of a titan, that sound asked.

“Not... good enough... boy!” he managed, blood pouring through his clenched teeth, soaking his beard. His armored right hand dropped the monstrous gunblade in the mud and wrung its fingers around the young man's throat, digging into the taut muscles and slamming the wizard against the adamantine bars. The aura that encompassed his entire body wavered, its pearly vibrancy paling by the second. Not a lot of time left now, not a lot of fuel to burn. He was about to bring his bastard sword in for the kill, then noticed the slightest movement in the brown eyes of the mage he was about to choke to death. Years of experience kicked in once again, and combined with the remnant of his power and the warrior's instinct they were enough to make Letho turn sideways and face the backstabbing move of the archer. The very same archer that blindly tapped his way around the arena while Letho conveniently drew the fire onto himself. Some people.

He brought his sword to parry a little too late again, but was still quick enough to shove the dagger away from his neck and towards his shoulder. It left a deep gash there, but by now it was a small matter. He was a dead man already, just too stubborn to accept it. One hand still wrapped around the mage's throat, he slashed with the other at the treacherous bastard with a downwards cut, aimed to open his from shoulder to hip. But it was more of a defensive move, aimed to buy him enough time to finish his business.

He turned back to the mage at hand, felt one of his hands feebly punching him in the gut, the other trying to twist the sword in the scabbard of Letho's flesh. The Marshal's strength was failing by now, seeping from his system proportionally to the blood that soaked through his clothes. There was enough time for one more attack, enough strength to bring this battle to a close. His lips stretched into a smirk, a crimson, ugly thing that showed too many teeth. And then he brought his head forward, slamming his forehead into the face of the persistent magician with every bit of might he had left. The white light that enveloped his bloody form went out, as did the light in the lad's eyes.

“OLD MAN!” he shouted as he discarded the body of his foe, stumbling as he walked away, one hand gripping for the fence, the other dragging the sword through the mud. He was bleeding from so many holes in his body by now that he had lost count. The mage's sword was still jutting from his ribcage, sending a flare for each step he took. “COME HERE! COME, LET US END THIS!!!” he summoned the veteran mercenary, his voice the only part of him still up to the task, strong and rumbling like a thunder. He noticed the white-haired geezer - sprawled in the mud, but still alive - some distance off, tried to lift his blade up, take a defensive guard, but instead it slipped from his fingers, the blade too heavy, the muscles in too much pain to bear its weight. His knees buckled next, as if they were made of the same mush that sucked at his boots, and his vision grew dim and hazy even as they did. He thrust his will against this weakness again, but it was like trying to push a sandstorm; it simply swept over him and claimed every bit of his strength.

Letho Ravenheart's bloody campaign ended with the legendary hero on his knees, leaning on the cage bars, taking shallow breaths that gradually grew slower as blood poured out of him and saturated the already damp earth. His hands somehow found their way to the grip of the bastard sword, holding the mucky blade against his chest. And still his voice insisted on keeping the promise, slowly fading towards a whisper.

“Come on.... Old... Man...”

Coughing gobs of blood now, feeling his consciousness slipping.

“There is still... some fight...”

Blurry world darkening, senses shutting down, heart beating its last groggy beats.

“...left... in... me...”

But there wasn't. His mind, finally forced to face the defeat, broke strings with reality and Letho exhaled his last breath. And after several moments of grave silence, his departure was met with applause.

Conclusion post, in case you didn't notice the whole bleeding out and dying part. :P

[Kade Underbough]

There was a fraction of a second where the crimson warrior began to turn, to meet the young combatant’s engagement. Ample enough time to change one’s course in the heat of battle. The panicked kid rejected that chance, knowing if he didn’t take the man out at that moment, there wouldn’t be another opportunity. He witnessed his steel cut deeply into the man’s shoulder, but anything non-lethal was a failed attempt at that point. The freight train of a warrior gave Kade a parting present as the conscript landed and foolishly turned to see the results of his strike.

A jagged feeling of ice tracked its way down his body, opening him up in gruesome detail. Pain. He stood there for a moment, dumfounded, as a rush of air and blood spurted from his body, adding more crimson to the leg of Kade’s assailant. Incredible Pain. With the rush of air departed, he felt the immense pressure of a collapsed lung and staggered back. His abdomen released its contents; food, drink, and intestines all slipped from the wound like butter. Insurmountable Pain. He would have vomited had his body allowed him, but was left with retching as he stumbled to the ground.

He laid there, halfheartedly and to no avail trying to hold his skin in place, but soon quit. His arms fell as he ground his teeth, writhing on the ground like any common animal. It was a prolonged death, but no time was spent in pained reflection. Only pain. No mark of discipline or dignity would linger on the tale of his death in the Cell that day. He hadn’t accomplished anything. Vague memories would recall him as the one that lucked his way to a death side by side amongst the titans. Shadowed by those men, no one would remember his name. He had gained nothing from the tournament.

Only a scarred memory.




Conclusion Post.

[Christoph]

Pain. Yes, he should have been feeling pain, instead of the endless warm numbness that enveloped his shattered body like a lover's embrace. He'd been bested, he knew, but as a nameless philosopher once said, 'the mighty seldom fall alone.' Even as his vision darkened, he glimpsed his foe, the legend, give his last breath. I did that, he thought. I have slain a legend.

Eli turned his dying gaze to Teric Bloodrose, perhaps the last man standing. He grinned a bloody grin, a smile that said what his mangled throat could not: "Looks like I stole your thunder again, old man." And then his flame went out. Even amidst the smoldering arena, with the fresh sun shining on his face, he felt cold… so very cold.

* * * * *

He awoke feeling slightly less cold. Lying on a cold slab brought back many memories of the Citadel and Pagoda, some less pleasant than others. Groaning, he hauled himself up, fighting down sharp pain in his chest, throat, and face. What sort of half-ass healing job did they do? Then he remembered; they didn't. They patched him up enough so he could stand and breathe, but little else. Splendid.

He shambled through the sterile white cells beneath the arena like the walking dead. He glanced about, seeing some fighters he recognized and some unfamiliar faces. Then he spotted the mage, still covered in burns but otherwise alive. Belov smiled, feeling gratitude and respect, as well as a certain camaraderie toward the other arcane practitioner. While his own powers vastly outclassed this other man, he knew talent when he saw it. He gave the other arcanist a friendly wave, beckoning him over.

I'll be wanting one last post after Atzar.

[Atzar]

Later

The smell of blood intruded on his peace. Atzar was alive.

Then everything else came back at once. His sight revealed the plain white quarters that housed him. His ears picked up quiet groans from neighboring rooms; clearly he was but one of many revived fighters. But more than anything, his body felt the experiences of the battle. He felt as if he’d just been pulled out of an oven. Every inch of his flesh was burned and blistered, but at least he was alive.

The revived wizard tried to sit up, but with a grunt he sank back to the cool stone beneath him. His life had returned, but his strength and his energy had not. He felt as if there was a space, an absence inside him. Not long ago, he had controlled an intense barrage of fire, even if only for a short time; now, he wondered if he could summon the power to snuff out a candle. He lay still for a moment, breathing deeply, the battle replaying in his mind.

One particular memory held his attention. He had exhausted himself utterly directing Chef-mage’s inferno. Yet, while he was dying on the old warrior’s sword, he summoned the power for one last hurrah that had nearly been enough to destroy his killer. It felt as if he’d put his life, his very soul into the blast.

Almost on command, Atzar saw the powerful mage walk by in the hall outside. When he noticed the lesser wizard lying on the stone tablet, he stopped and waved. Weakly Kellon waved him in. He wanted to ask him about the end of the fight.

“When I died, I used energy I didn’t think I had left,” he began with no preamble, his own voice sounding weak and foreign to his ears. “It felt almost like I put my life into the effort – like I killed myself for one last shot. How did that happen?”

And this is my conclusion. I went about two hours over my deadline because I needed to see Christoph's post first - that's allowed under the amendment to the time limit as I understood it.

Thanks for the effort, everybody. This was a blast.

Several, actually.

[Christoph]

It felt strange for one so accustomed to the role of learner to play the teacher. It was a curious change. New, but not unpleasant. Elijah had never before thought of himself as wise or experienced, yet somewhere along the way he had become so. He allowed himself a moment to bask in the glow of possessing knowledge that another lacks.

"Fire is a… passionate element," he said, cringing at the raspy croak of his own voice. He gave a dry cough before continuing. "It most resembles vitality and the human spirit. All four principle elements possess a sort of inherent sympathetic link to an aspect of our being. Earth is most linked to our physical bodies, our flesh and bone. Water, being the second fully material element is linked to our blood." He paused, and the other mage nodded for him to continue.

"In elemental air, we find a force, an energy, more than a material. While we 'breathe air', its true elemental aspect is wind. As such, it is tied to a less substantial part of our being: our intellect. Our thoughts, like air and wind, are shapeless and unbound, seeping through all cracks. At least, that is our thoughts should be. And of course, fire is passion and emotion, that spark that drives men. In all these instances, the might of one is tied to the might of its counterpart."

Elijah paused and studied this new 'student', who merely listened. The other mage seemed weak, more than weak, as though he had lost the initiative that moved him during the battle. He expected as much. Hopefully his answers would prove helpful.

"As with many things, sacrifice empowers," he continued. "You feel spiritually weak and lethargic, do you not? In your final moments, you unknowingly sacrificed bits of your spirit, your passion, to empower your final spell. It's a risky business unless you have the knack for it. And don't worry; your passion and vitality will return to you in time."

With that, Elijah left, shuffling painfully through the hallway. He knew that the next battle would start in minutes, and if he moved ahead, he would be in no shape to fight. He'd never mastered healing magic, as focuses as he was on spells of gratuitous destruction. He possessed one tool that could help him, and he was loath to use it: the Abyssal Blade. He drew the mighty weapon from its sheath and ran his blistered fingers across its rune-covered surface. He could feel the malignant presence stir within it. The weapon could renew his magical reserves, though he was loath to rely on it, to give its malign sentience a greater hold over him. What else could it do? Did he dare find out? Could he trust his own force of will enough to resist its influence?

Yes, he heard himself silently whisper as icy tendrils of power slithered up his arm. Yes he could.

Closing post.

[Bloodrose]

This is my conclusion post.

Through the ringing in his ears, Teric could hear Letho calling to him.

"Here." The veteran groaned into the dirt, his voice raspy and uneven. The same heat that had burnt his nose raw had dried Teric's tongue and parched his throat, making it hard to utter even the shortest words. "I'm... over... here."

The mercenary's fighting spirit refused to let him lay dying in the dirt, so after a long moment of waiting for the ringing and the fogginess in his head to pass, Teric shifted himself. His limbs - contorted at strange angles and aching from torso to digits - righted themselves as the old timer lifted himself off the ground and tried to stand. He'd lost his sword somewhere in the blast, and his buckler hung broken from the strap still secured around his forearm, but still Teric tried to find the source of Ravenheart's voice.

"I'm over... here, you... bastard." The veteran mumbled again, his voice trailing off as he pitched forward back into the ground, darkness closing in around him.

-----------------

The next time Teric opened his eyes, he was sitting on a bench in a white room, his back propped up against a wall. There were others here as well - all the fallen warriors from his cell and many others that the mercenary didn't recognize. An awful large number of competitors showed signs of being burned, and the result was that the medical bay smelled terribly of scorched flesh.

Or maybe that's just me. Was Teric's first conscious thought, recalling that his sense of smell was probably ruined by the burns inside of his nostrils. Inhaling flame, the veteran noted to himself, is not a good idea.

"Ah, you're awake!" A voice caught Teric's attention, and he turned to find a monk standing next to him. The robed, tonsured man carried a water skin in one hand and a bandage in the other. He was smiling, as the cheerful Ai'brone typically were, and he seemed rather surprised as well.

"You make it... sound," Teric coughed, "like I shouldn't be."

"I'm sorry." The monk apologized. "It's just impressive is all. I think you're the only competitor from Treslizn who didn't succumb to his injuries."

"Letho Ravenheart?" Teric asked inquisitively. "Elijah Belov?"

"The sorcerer is up and walking about somewhere." The monk answered politely. "The elders are working to revive Marshal Ravenheart as we speak."

So the pyromancer got him after all. Teric nodded, unsurprised. He hadn't seen what happened to the big man after they'd agreed to deal individually with the two magi - Belov and his mysterious ally - but he could have sworn the hero had been calling to him towards the end. I suppose it doesn't matter if he was, the veteran concluded, since I don't remember much after that blast.

"Alright then," Teric acknowledged the monk's presence again after a moment of reflection, "patch me up."

The was a second's worth of expectant pause as the monk just sort of stared at the mercenary, his eyes blinking rapidly as if trying to think of something to say. Teric's brow arched upwards, as if to say "Hurry up you!", but all the monk seemed capable of was standing there, quietly.

"What?"

"I'm so sorry." The Ai'brone apologized, dipping his head respectfully. "We've been instructed not to tend to the injuries of the competitors. We are of course reviving those who passed away, but only so much as to get them ambulatory again. Their injuries are also going untreated."

Almost as if by way of apology, the monk finally offered forward the water and the bandage he held in his hand. Teric accepted the two items silently, his eyes still questioning. Without waiting for another inquiry, the monk apologized again, quite quickly, and then departed.

You've gotta be kidding me. Teric thought, shaking his head. He splashed water onto his face, and tried to ignore the stinging pain and the large flakes of dead, burnt skin that sloughed off under the cool deluge. He gargled a mouthful and spit, and then drank heavily until his tongue felt refreshed, and his throat wet again.

Pulling the dirk out of his boot, the mercenary gritted his teeth and began making an incision over the flesh where the arrow-head still rested in the meat of his thigh. A man didn't survive thirty-five years of warfare without picking up some battlefield medicine, so if the monks wouldn't help him, Teric resolved that he would have to help himself.

[Max Dirks]

This chamber was excellent. The pacing was a bit slower than in the other chamber, but fortunately there was little to no power gaming in this section. Furthermore, I had to make a particularly hard determination on who would advance to the finals here. Well done to everyone. Individual scores and rewards are below.

Ailnea—You lacked writing depth compared to some of the other participants, but your character shows promise. It seemed like you were always chasing someone else’s story in this battle instead of forging your own. First it was with Lorenor then Christoph. Atzar gave a great hint: you are an Ai’bron nun, maybe you should have run about trying to heal folks. I also noticed that you mentioned that Esmerelda pulled off her arm before she said it, so I assume you’re the same writer.

Story: 12/30
Character: 10/30
Writing Style: 13/30
Wildcard: 4/10
Total: 39/100

Arsene –Please excuse the lack of an apostrophe as I spell your name. Quite frankly your second to last post was amazing. I think you made the most vivid descriptions in the battle, which is generally one of your strengths. I would have liked to see more of a connected story, though. I think the lack of interaction with other players and your cold hurt you here.

Story: 16/30
Character: 16/30
Writing Style: 16/30
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 53/100

Atzar Kellon –In many respects I think you fell to the same “chasing” issue as Ailnea. However, what differentiated you in this battle was that you seemed to be the glue that brought the action portion of the battle together. You interacted with almost everyone (at the right time) and had one of the best conclusions of the match.

Story: 17/30
Character: 17/30
Writing Style: 17/30
Wildcard: 5/30
Total: 56/100

Bloodrose – In general I thought you did particularly well. The only thing I didn’t like was the odd interaction you had with Letho following your characters’ remarkable clash. The pacing was off and the battle lost what could have been an excellent climax. It may have been preordained with Letho, but unfortunately you posted it so I was forced to have it affect your score more than his.

Story: 18/30
Character: 18/30
Writing Style: 18/30
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 59/100

Christoph—your dialogue is excellent. It was easily the best individual effort of the first round. Your round was very solid; however, I would have liked to see you expand on your introduction a bit. Stronger references to Sarah and to an ongoing (or ended) feud with Teric would have helped your score. One thing I think you do better than most (at least in the beginning of the battle) is use your writing to affect pacing. You lost some of that luster in your conclusion posts, though.

Story: 16/30
Character: 17/30
Writing Style: 17/30
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 55/100

Esmerelda—you have a very interesting character concept, but I want you to expand on it more. Why is she (it) here? What are her objectives? Does she feel? I wasn’t able to give you a very high story score either because of your lack of interaction. You basically ate Dirks sword then exploded. Unfortunately, I am unable to approve the acquisition of prevalida to your character’s nano-machines. It is up to the Realm of Greeting moderator to do so at your next level up.

Story: 8/30
Character: 8/30
Writing Style: 13/30
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 34/100

Kade Underbough—You were certainly a surprise for me. After a slow start, you managed to raise your score significantly with your conclusion posts. It seemed like the interaction with Letho was enough to fuel your creative fire. You’ve got a small problem with run on sentences and pronoun usage. You can work on that with other moderators or in the workshop. I’ll give you some tips in private if you’re interested. Good twist at the end, but as a reader I needed a bit more justification for Kade’s assault.

Story: 15/30
Character: 16/30
Writing Style: 16/30
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 52/100

Letho—Well, you get the gold star for the first round. This time it wasn’t for your writing, but rather your interaction. You included other players, helped develop their characters, and managed some pretty epic scenes. The clash between Letho and Teric was amazingly written. My only qualm, and what hurt you later, was the suspect middle portion of your conclusion. It wasn’t well written, at least in comparison to the second half of the post. It make it look too convenient.

Story: 19/30
Character: 19/30
Writing Style: 21/30
Wildcard: 4/10
Total: 63/100

Lorenor—You jumped out a bit too early. Interaction is key in the Cell, but for what it was worth your part was interesting. Like usual, Lorenor had a good back story. You’ve gotten much better with your descriptions in your writing, but you still need to work on your brevity. You can easily cut down on your post length by not repeating things (albeit in different ways). Trust your reader to fill in the gaps.

Story: 15/30
Character: 14/30
Writing Style: 15/30
Wildcard 5/10
Total 49/100

Ulysses—your start was rough, but by god your end was excellent. It was so climatic and anti-climatic at the same time. I truly cringed at Ulysses’ misfortune. It really fueled Letho’s encounter with Teric, as well. On a writing note, you use far too many commas. In turn, you have a lot of run on sentences. For a good example of using other punctuation tools to direct the pace of your writing, check out Christoph’s work early in the thread.

Story: 18/30
Character: 17/30
Writing Style: 17/30
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 57/100

Letho, Bloodrose, Ulysses and Atzar Kellon advance to round two!

Rewards: Letho receives 2750 EXP, Bloodrose receives 2400 EXP, Ulysses receives 2250 EXP, Atzar Kellon receives 2000 EXP, Christoph receives 1900 EXP, Arsene receives 1600 EXP, Kade Underbough receives 1250 EXP, Mutant_Lorenor receives 1000 EXP, Ailnea receives 500 EXP and Esmerelda receives 300 EXP.

Each participant receives 500 GP.

[Max Dirks]

Updated EXP Rewards:

Ailnea- 1630 EXP
Arsene- 2085 EXP
Atzar Kellon- 2325 EXP
Bloodrose- 2630 EXP
Christoph- 2280 EXP
Esmerelda- 1480 EXP
Kade Underbough- 1975 EXP
Letho- 2800 EXP
Lorenor- 1915 EXP
Ulysses- 2410 EXP