The Mazrith Chamber

[Max Dirks]

This chamber is for the following participants:

016573
Ataraxis
Atzar Kellon
Bloodrose
Godhand
Letho
Silence Sei
Ulysses

The final round will begin Friday, April 30th at 12 AM CST. Like before, I reserve the first post. All fallen characters (everyone except for Ataraxis, Bloodrose and Godhand) will be revived as described in my entry post. Gambling should be available later tonight.

[Max Dirks]

Max Dirks stood with his arms crossed, watching both chambers from the edge of his platform. Combatants were falling like dominos and in moments the tournament would be over. Soon it would be time to reveal his charade. Despite popular belief, this tournament was not about a ‘grand return’ to Althanas. It was not about showboating or getting flashy kills from an indestructible podium. It was about revenge, pure and simple. This entire tournament: the Magician, the crowd, and the combatants were all just pawns in Dirks scheme to release his vengeance on those who had sent him into dismay.

Suddenly, a loud cheer erupted from the Treslizn Chamber. Dirks uncrossed his arms and peered over the edge. At first he didn’t see anything but scattered corpses, but then, in the near the middle of the chamber he found a survivor. When Dirks saw who it was, a large smirk appeared on his face. Teric Barton, champion of the Dajas Pagoda and mercenary for the Company had been victorious. Without a word, Dirks aimed his gun at the Bloodrose’s head. “One down…” Dirks whispered, tightening his grip. He was about to pull the trigger when a loud “BOO” erupted from the Aequitas Chamber. Dirks turned his head towards the other chamber for a moment and then looked back to Teric. “Damn it!”

Dirks lowered his arm and started walking to the opposite edge of the platform. Below, Godhand Striker, Lillian Sesthal, and Marcus Book stood idly. Apparently after sharing a long kiss, Godhand and Lillian had refused to continue fighting and had granted Marcus amnesty. This sent the crowd into a furor. Even Dirks was angry, as it left one additional combatant to deal with. Dirks reacted without thinking. With a grunt, Dirks quickly brought his ‘twin’ Beretta to bear and fired it intentionally at Marcus Book’s sternum. This time the bullet did not err. Combined with the kick of the gun and the strange angle that it was shot, the bullet travelled directly into Book’s forehead and killed him instantly.

“DIRKS, DIRKS, DIRKS” the crowd cheered, but the criminal did not hear them. It was finally time for him to kill those who had wronged him. But then something strange happened. Someone in the crowd shouted “We want more!” and it turned into a massive battle cry from the stands. “NO!” Dirks shouted in response. It was met with by “BOO” that quickly transcended the entire city of Radasanth. The low volume and immense power rattled the very foundations of the platform Dirks stood upon. Soon, the “boo” was replaced with an ever vigilant “WE WANT MORE.” Dirks turned to Phagan.

Dirks turned to Phagan. “Killing them now will certainly complete your revenge, but in doing so you won’t be let out of Radasanth without being branded a coward.” The magician smiled.

Dirks cussed and turned to the crowd. “THEN WHO DO YOU WANT TO SEE.” The crowd erupted into a flurry of names. After a moment, it became clear who the favorites were: Joshua Cronen, Atzar Kellon, Letho Ravenheart, Sei Orlouge, Ulysses, and of course, Godhand Striker, Lillian Sesthal and Teric Barton. “Revive them,” Dirks hissed at Phagan.

“I can’t heal people,” Phagan replied. “I’m a necromancer.”

“Then control them!” Dirks yelled. “They’re all dead anyway. Just make it look real.”

With a wave of his hand, Phagan complied. The first to rise was Joshua Cronen from the Aequitas Chamber. Earlier in the battle he had dived into a pool of molten rock and his body was badly burned. Moments after rising, the burns around his vital areas began to heal, leaving disgusting scars. Phagan left the third degree burns on other, non important parts of his body. Cronen started to breathe. Atzar Kellon rose next from the Treslizn Chamber. His body had been gutted by Teric Bloodrose. When his feet touched the ground, a strange brown mud filled the hole in his stomach and blood was able to flow regularly. Phagan did not heal the mage’s shoulder and was content to leave him partially disabled from Esmerelda’s concussive blast. Still, he was breathing and able to fight. Next to rise from the Treslizn chamber was the marshal, Letho Ravenheart. His skin was like a sponge, torn apart by numerous sword wounds. Phagan did not fix this. Instead he filled the warrior with mud and cast a spell that would raise his adrenaline. The mud would cling to his blood cells and he would breathe a new, albeit a short life, until the effects of the adrenaline wore off and Letho’s blood thinned once more. Then Sei Orlouge rose from the Aequitas Chamber. Burned and defeated, the mystic no longer look liked an angel. He looked like the spawn of Satan. His wings had been ripped apart, and only the delicate bone structure remained. His arm was still missing, lost somewhere in Neville’s abyss. Like with Joshua Cronen, Phagan only healed the burns necessary to survive, but he was still alive. Finally, Ullyses rose from the Treslizn Chamber. The fiery rock that had impaled him was removed. It appeared to have forced his lung into his heart and when it was removed, his lung settled back into place. Phagan used the same strange mud to heal his stomach wound and new life crept into him.

“There,” Phagan said once he had finished. “I warn you though Dirks. These people’s souls have not yet had time to pass. They may very well take back control of their own bodies and seek revenge on the one that woke them.”

“Good,” replied, opening his arms. “THERE, IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?” He asked the crowd? They cheered and started chanting “DIRKS, DIRKS, DIRKS” once more. “Get rid of the inner shield,” Dirks turned and said to Phagan.

“What?” he replied, surprised at Dirks’ comment.

“Just do it.” Dirks said. Phagan nodded and suddenly the tortental rain fell to the ground. Only Dirks and Phagan, safe beneath their inner shield, remained dry. (Sorry Sei, ignoring the sunshine bit). The rain immediately cooled Neville’s molten rock, leaving what was the Aequitas Chamber a playground of jagged rocks protruding from the ground. The Treslizn side, on the other hand, quickly filled with pools of water (since the ground was already soaked, apparently).

“Warriors,” Dirks said to the revived combatants. “The crowd has decided to give you a second chance at victory. You can enact revenge on those who defeated you and rise to take the crown. I remind you, though, that there is only one winner of the Cell. Only one of you will climb this podium and claim your prize. Until there is one person left, you are at the mercy of this arena, this crowd, of me.” Dirks looked to Godhand and Lillian. “All alliances will be destroyed.” Dirks looked to Sei, temporarily forgetting he was merely a reanimation. “All attempts to rescue others will be fruitless.” Dirks looked to Ulysses. “And all attempts to run shall be punished.” The crowd roared.

“Have at it,” Dirks whispered, turning to his seat. He slumped into his throne, angry that he was forced to appease the crowd to avoid suspicion. Even so, this night would not end with the crowning of a new champion. It would end with the deaths of Godhand Striker, Lillian Sesthal and Teric Barton, three of the six living people that had destroyed his life.

(This round will last for two weeks. Take note that I’ve dropped the magic field, but on the same token I expect everyone to stay in the arena. Phagan is also tricking Dirks. All of your characters have actually been healed using dark magic and are not reanimated. So don’t worry about incorporating that stuff into your posts. I didn’t add it to this introductory post because I couldn’t fit it in anywhere without it being corny. Finally, I’m going to do a text drawing of the arena to help you guys out. Just imagine it circular instead of square. Before I made it seem like it was two arenas that were completely circular but in fact I meant it was two circular arenas in a big arena)

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[Breaker]

Weightless.

Josh spiralled upwards, lighter than air, laughing at the scarred ground below. He witnessed the shadows and rainfall beneath the clouds for a fleeting moment then passed through them.

The sun's golden rays made the tops of the stormclouds look like blue-grey stone. Suddenly the image of a monk shimmered into existence. His soft sandles rested atop the cover of clouds as if it were as stable as any road. Josh recalled every detail of his old mentor; the bald shaven head, wide expressive eyes, a scholar's soft hands with laquered fingernails. The monk wore a plain brown habit and a smile of joy.

"Medsan!" Cronen only realized that he too had a body as he spoke the name.

"Do you remember why you have come here?" The monk asked directly. Those wide eyes seemed suddenly hard, the soft hands locked together.

Images flickered through Joshua's mind. Recent memories. A vicious battle against mages of legendary power. The taste of blood as powdered glass shredded his lungs. The oily stench of burning death seeping into his nostrils. An arena, its ground ravaged by combat but its walls unscathed. Indestructable.

"I'm ready, my old friend," Josh said, "I'm ready to ascend, to explore the very nature of existence itself. Show me the way."

"No." Medsan's monosyllabic response should have struck Cronen's balanced hapiness a fatal blow. But he did not understand; his handsome face remained in an open grin.

"Why not?" He pressed the monk who had saved his life so many times. And then, in spite of unrestricted sunlight, a shadow fell across his face. It pooled in his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks.

"You are not whole. And you will not transcend the physicial realm until that is repaired." Medsan said, but the explanation was unecessary. Josh knew. The sociopathic persona who had tormented his waking years now threatened to stop him from reaching the afterlife.


*

Breaker scuttled backwards into a fissure in the side of a basin created by the re-shaping of land in the Aequitas Chamber. Once concealed in the little cave his hands went to work with the speed of twin lightning bolts. He had managed to scour an armful of his possessions from the hardening ground and take cover with them. Sei Orlouge's glass shrapnel spell had sliced most of the clothes from his body seconds before the resulting dust filled his lungs. He sifted through the pile of clothing, weapons, and gravel, taking everything that seemed useful and leaving the rest. He did not know how his lungs worked again. He did not know why the black-and-red burns on his limbs and head had not killed him. But the pain provided him with great pleasure. A comforting pleasure to brighten the darkness of his hiding place.

On the surface he could hear combattants moving about and the crowd chanting. The heavy rainfall hitting the ground sounded like drizzle on a thatch roof. A horrible grin split a face covered in blisters and burn scars.

Breaker would remain invisible just a little while longer. Then he would emerge to stalk his prey.

[Silence Sei]

He could feel it again. The sensation of rain upon his face felt like the Gods trying to wake him from a horrible dream. He had done all he could to make things right in this tournament, and he failed. Perhaps the cool water was one of the rumored vitalization chambers he had heard Ai’Bron monks used in extreme cases. As Sei Orlouge opened his eyes, he had realized he was still in the nightmare known as The Cell.

He placed his left hand upon the ground and barely managed to push his weight up until he was standing. He looked up as Dirks ranted about something new. Since when did The Cell have a second round? Sei looked at the crowd cheering for more bloodshed and found his answer. Leave it to Max Dirks to cater to the whims of the crowd. Sei probably would have done the same thing. Focusing his gaze back to eye level, Sei began to realize something was amiss. He could only see out of his left eye.

His face had been planted on steaming hot soil for so long, the mute’s entire right face was charred. Slivers of pale white skin barely hung onto the mute, and the corner of his cheek showed hints of bone. The blackness that had become his face was blocking his left eye from seeing anything, provided it had not popped due to extreme heat and was now a gelatinous liquid buried in the dirt. The cold rain was accompanied by a cool burst of wind, both which served in the excruciating stinging pain upon the mute’s destroyed face.

His wings had sprung out after death and were burned to the bone by the sheer fiery air Rayse had created. The reaction did not surprise Sei, who began to retract the boney wings back into his spine. His wings were not unlike a normal person releasing their bowels after they had left this world. Reflecting upon this, Sei was grateful that he had not soiled his name by soiling himself.

His right arm was in sheer agony, what he could feel of it at least. It was much too obvious to the mute that his arm from the shoulder down was completely gone. Aside from the pain, Sei had no qualms with this. The mystic spent three years fighting with only one arm when he had first welcomed Anita into his home, and into his heart. It might take some getting used to, but the disarming was no big deal for Sei Orlouge

His spine had felt like an acupuncture session gone horribly wrong. While most of the glass had been shaken off during his various confrontations in the cell, the pieces that remained had melted into his back. While this served to seal some of the bigger holes in the mystic’s back, it was merely a temporary fix.

He could feel two of his ribs on his left side were bruised, if not completely broken. Sei had fallen from atop the arena in the last round thanks to Max Dirks. The telepath held winced as he took a step forward, sending the crowd into an absolute uproar. Sei kneeled to the ground and felt around for a moment, picking up his small s-shaped Gemini Blade. The mute stood back up and shifted his good eye to the rest of the ‘zombies’ Phagan had revived.

Lillian Sesthal and Godhand Striker both seemed to be doing okay. That was good, as Sei had not wanted his friends to die. Looking across from them however, Sei saw the stilled body of Marcus Book on the ground. Sei sighed in resignation as he looked at the pool of blood under Marcus mixing with the rain. Sei had spent so long trying to save the youth, only to fail by dying himself.

Sei’s eye moved around to find several others’s recently resurrected. There was a youth who had a hole of mud where his stomach was normally placed. There was another youth who had suffered from some damage as well, and seemed to have the same makeshift repair as the other young man. Sei could tell just by assessing these two that the other chamber also had very few survivors.

Then Sei’s eye fell upon two titans. Teric Bloodrose, the Pagoda Master. Sei had heard tales about this man’s capabilities with a sword. He was a dangerous foe to be fighting, and he seemed to be about in the same condition as Lillian and Godhand.. He would probably be the most difficult to take down, provided Sei would be able to take anybody down at all. Perhaps if Sei and Teric were fully healthy, the mute might challenge the veteran to a one on one battle. No deaths, just a friendly competition to see who the better warrior was. Something about the man stirred the warrior’s spirit in Sei.

The second titan Sei saw was Letho Ravenheart. The famous general of the Corone Armed forces stood before Sei in the flesh. The mute himself had been the chief strategist of Alerar’s Armed forces for a time, so the telepath had heard all of the stories of the Crimson General’s ferocity and bravery on the field of battle. Looking at what was left of the outstanding soldier, however, Sei could not bring himself to fight the man. While Teric Bloodrose got Sei’s fighter blood boiling, Letho brought out Sei’s soldier side.

The mute approached Letho carefully, trying to show the general that there was no animosity. “General Ravenheart, I presume? Do not be worried by the voice in your head. My name is Sei Orlouge, formerly chief strategist for the Army of Alerar. I have heard so much about you. It is an honor, sir. I ask that while I am standing you let me aid you in this battle, for what good I’ll be able to provide. Also, I sincerely apologize for being so underdressed for the situation.” Sei smiled at the joke regarding his appearance. He then shifted his eye upwards to Max Dirks, the smile still around his face.

“Odds against me, magic depleted, using one arm against opponents who should for all intents and purposes be my better….just like old times, eh pal?” Sei decided that if he was going to die anyways, it would be on his terms. He would go down making this fight as lighthearted and fun as possible for all involved. If he had to drop a few bodies along the way….

…Well that was what the monks were for, right?

[Bloodrose]

Teric was sitting on his bench beneath the arena, carefully excising the arrow from his leg when something cold and wet hit him in the face. It wasn't a splash, like someone had thrown a drink in his face, but it was there; a single droplet of water on his cheek. 'Strange' was the only thought the mercenary could muster, ready to discount the droplet, but then another hit him. Annoyed, the man stopped what he was doing and looked around for the source of the water, searching fruitlessly for some leak in the ceiling above him that could explain why more and more water was falling on him...

The veteran opened his eyes, and as he did so, Teric did not find himself sitting warm and dry beneath the arena in some white-walled room. Instead, the veteran was on his stomach in the mud, his limbs splayed oddly about him as the rain poured down. It took him a moment to realize that the cold rain only drizzled on the left side of his face, and that this was because the other side was pressed firmly into Treslizn's soft, damp floor. His brow felt feverish, and even though he couldn't decide if the fever was real or just the tingly, burning sensation of his heat-flashed skin, the mercenary was glad for the coolness of the mud and the rain on his face.

Not real? A delusion then? Teric pondered, gathering his limbs and pushing his body up on hands and knees. He'd lost his sword somewhere in the blast that had sent him tumbling to where he rested now, but the veteran couldn't remember where; he could only remember that there had been an explosion. He remembered Letho Ravenheart and the pyromancer, Elijah Belov, grinding away at each other somewhere off to his right. He remembered the young swordsman, Ulysses, dying in Letho's place before fire rained from the sky. The battle that ended just moments ago came back to the mercenary in pieces, his mind still foggy after being thrown bodily across the battlefield.

The eklan buckler, a longtime staple of the mercenary's armory, slipped uselessly from Teric's arm as he lifted himself upright into a kneeling position, his body slumping to rest heavily on its haunches. The whole arena swayed unsteadily around him, and that was of far more concern than the broken straps and shattered face of the shield on the ground next to him.

If I'm delusional, that means I've lost... am losing, too much blood.

Like the version of himself in his delusion, Teric knew enough about battlefield triage - based on personal experience alone - to diagnose his own situation. There was a throbbing ache in his leg, a stiff reminder that he carried a razor-sharp souvenir from the battle in his thigh. He'd broken the shaft off the projectile during the fight, but Teric knew if the arrowhead didn't come out he would continue to lose blood at an alarming rate. Like the version of himself in his delusion, Teric pulled the knife from his boot and made an incision in the skin over the puncture site. The cut itself didn't hurt; surprising, given the sloppy, hasty manner in which Teric delivered it. It was what came after - fishing around inside the wound with stiff, numb fingers - that made the mercenary grit his teeth and tremble in pain. That brutal second of agony was rewarded, however, as the warrior pulled the arrowhead from his muscle and cast it unceremoniously into the muck.

Silently, the mercenary unbuckled and yanked off his belt, looping the accessory around his thigh and pulling it tight like a tourniquet. That done, Teric slowly rose to his feet, and once upright, he eased his weight onto his wounded leg to measure just what it could handle. The result was a less than favorable wobble in his hip and knee - like his joints were made of noodle - but it would have to do.

What now?

Movement caught the veteran's eye as he kept easing his weight to and from his aching thigh. Prone figures nearby - the corpses of men who lay dead just a moment before - began to stir, and even to rise. Amongst the bodies shuddering back to life, Teric counted Ulysses, the hero Letho, and the black-haired man whose magic had delivered the fireball used to fling Teric like a rag-doll. All had been dead, Teric knew, and yet life seemed to creep back into them.

"Magic." Teric spat, casting a disapproving glance towards the crowd above the arena, and more importantly the solitary podium lording over them. "Always trust magic to interfere with a good fight."

Almost absently, the Pagoda Grandmaster noted that somewhere in the dark period between the fight and his reawakening, the battlefield had gotten bigger somehow. It was much more open than it had been previously, and the familiar muddy terrain of Treslizn now bled into an equally sizable area of charred, jagged earth that had once been Aequitas. Figures - most unrecognizable, but one Teric knew - occupied this space. From a teenage girl to a pale man with orange hair and a burned face, Teric sized up those bodies that still seemed alive before finally resting his gaze on the face he did recognize.

Godhand Striker. Teric allowed himself a sly, half-smile. He'd be lying if he said he was surprised to see the legendary brawler amongst the survivors of the other arena.

I guess a warrior's work in never done. The veteran resolved, taking his first hesitant stride back towards the impact crater from which he'd been thrown. But first, I need to find my sword...

[Letho]

It was the first time that Letho Ravenheart died.

In all the years of his reckless life the legendary swordsman had walked the edge of the proverbial blade, dancing with death at arms length, never too far from its cold grasp, but never close enough to be caught by its finalizing grip. He had fought enough battles to lose count, picked up ample scar tissue along the way, warred in the trenches when the trenches were filled with blood and guts. He had crossed his blade with men, crossed them with elves, crossed them with just about anything that had the audacity to stand in his path. And he had fought in the Citadel as well, where monks did their magic hoodoo, and death was banned and pain was as real as you allowed it to be. And through all these belligerent encounters Letho Ravenheart emerged victorious. Often bruised, sometimes bleeding, but never giving in. Until today.

And the most ridiculous fact about that was, as he felt his consciousness depart and tear away from his corporeal body, his last thoughts weren't one of regret or nostalgia or even pain. Instead, it was shame that overcame him, shame of not being up to the challenge, shame of being brought down by paltry mages and weaklings. Quite a few of them, true, but still. Wasn't he supposed to be the hero? And as such, wasn't he supposed to be the only one left standing?

As if some celestial power heard his final thoughts somehow, he felt his conscious mind being shoved back into his body. It was far from a smooth and easy process, returning to life. No, reanimating something that was by all accounts supposed to be dead was a violent, vile procedure that defied the laws that defined the very foundations of the world. His senses returned all at once, a blast of sensations that overwhelmed him; pain and fatigue in his limbs, the burning of his skin wherever it was broken by some weapon or other, the clamor of the crowd that hammered in his eardrums, the sound of his heart thumping again, thumping like there was no tomorrow, thumping...

And just like that, Letho was alive again.

His eyes opened to the sight of rain bearing down upon the battlefield again, filling every hole in the muddy earth with murky liquid, each drop rippling the surface for a fraction of a second before the next one disrupted it again. It felt good, this rain. It was cold and soaked him right though, but it was good to feel it. Right. It meant he was either alive or he wound up in just about the dampest version of heaven, and after seeing a number of others rising from their wounds as well, he was rather certain it was the former. The fingers of his left hand squeezed, squashed a fistful of mud; his right squeezed and it made him smile. His gauntlet was still coiled around the hilt of his bastard sword. Lothirgan would've been proud. If there was one thing that the ancient master-at-arms taught Letho well, it was how to hold on to his weapons.

Getting up was a testament in pain; his joints were creaky, his muscles reluctant, but his will was up to the task, dragging the rest behind. He stabbed the adamantine blade into the mush, then pushed against it until his knees popped and his spine straightened. He expected to feel woozy, expected maybe to keel over like a drunk after one too many, but he actually felt surprisingly good. Pretty great, actually, for someone who was supposed to be dead. He took his sword out of the sheath of mud, gave it a lazy twirl just to test his grip, and then the applause washed over anew. Maybe they were cheering for him. Then again, maybe they were cheering for the one-armed man that was walking towards him. Letho brought his blade up in a defensive guard.

The man's voice didn't come to him over the pattering of the rain and the clapping and cheering of the stands. It materialized somewhere in his frontal lobe, forcing words into his mind. It was a disquieting sensation, but not one that was unfamiliar to a seasoned adventurer such as Letho. He waited for the shirtless man to finish his telepathic disposition, and once he did, the Marshal was glad he hadn't swung his blade at him.

“So, this is the Dark Knight of Radasanth fame?” he responded, his sword still a safeguard between the two. He had heard of Sei Orlouge and his endeavors in the Corone capitol. Letho's official standpoint was that people such as Sei were reckless vigilantes that felt they were above the law, spreading their own kind of justice. Off the record, though, Letho respected the man; he had been doing nothing that the legendary swordsman hadn't done once or twice in his life. Some wrongs couldn't be righted by law alone.

“I am not certain whether to arrest you or salute you,” the bearded swordsman said, his stern eyes affixed on those of the crippled Hero of Radasanth. But then the severe look on his face was cracked by another one of his grizzly grins and he dropped the blade at his side. Backing away a couple of steps to retrieve the massive Lawmaker gunblade soaking in the slop, Letho offered his response. “But given the situation, I reckon an alliance would be wise, regardless of what that scoundrel up there is bleating. We heroes ought to stick together, right?”

He holstered his bastard sword in the leather scabbards strapped to his back, rolled out the cylinder of his gunblade, found it half empty, snapped it back in its place and sheathed the monster weapon as well. His eyes scanned and analyzed the battlefield next, the way they did when he initially entered the cage, only this time around there were none to put in the low priority file. Well, maybe the tiny black haired teen that stood next to... Godhand? Godhand gods-be-damned Striker. Letho wasn't certain whether to scowl or smile. The two of them were always somewhere between cautious friendship and outright animosity. Given the setting, Letho was rather certain that it would boil down to the latter. And that bastard packed quite a lot of heat and could punch out god. The spry old geezer from before was around too, limping around probably in search of his armaments (Letho remembered owing the man a duel, and hopefully a good beating as well). The lesser of the two mages was up and running as well, but without his superior counterpart. That horrible pain in the neck at least didn't make the transition.

When he finally located Ulysses, the aged swordsman did smile. The kid got through as well, the courageous rookie that took a magma spike to the abdomen instead of him. “Mister Orlouge,” Letho said, drawing his blade with one hand and beckoning the boy towards them with the other. “it seems we will have another swordarm joining our plight.”

[Breaker]

Joshua Cronen sucked in a lungful of damp soil and collapsed against the wall of the cave, coughing to the memory of razor sharp dust in his windpipe. Kneeling, he assessed the situation Breaker had left him in.

A tunnel. Dirt under the fingernails, grime all over, Breaker had been tunneling with his bare hands. The battle in the Aequitas chamber had tormented the clay and stone in the ground. The musty smell made it feel like a tomb. Then he felt a zephyr and realized the exit stood just in front of him, blocked by a large rock. He placed hands wrapped in dark fabric on the rock and pushed.

"There!"

He had almost stepped on an innoccent trio of rounded stones the size of the ball of his thumbs. He could tell what Breaker had done to them. "They may as well be impact grenades." Even seared through the skin and wrapped in a shredded cloak, his hands moved with speed and precision. He placed the three little stones in a pouch fashioned from shards of the same cloak.

It seemed Breaker had responded to the necromantic situation the same way he would. By surviving to assess and destroy all threats.

Josh smiled as he searched through the assortment of burned and torn clothing he wore until he found the patch which Breaker could not have missed gathering. He placed it over one eye and instantly could see the Mazrith chamber in its entirety, from the perspective of a bird. He could not help smiling as he remembered Medsan's words, the ones which had spurred him back into his body.

Breaker has shamed your name and your humanity. Is this how you would have the world remember you? Go back and give the people a true martyr, and then you may reach enlightenment.

The other combatants didn't know it, but the cell was about to become a mine field.

[Ataraxis]

“Son of a- what did I ever do to you?” Godhand was bellyaching again, the whole of his rain-slicked face crimped in pain. He was looking down at the girl tending to the obscene gash in his abdomen, doing his best impression of a scorned devil as he stared her down with blood-red eyes. This was the gaze that could make hardened warriors buckle their knees in terror and wet their frocks, the same hell-born gaze that sent the meek scuttling away like cockroaches at the first sign of light… but much to his dismay, the stern scarlet of his eyes had become, in his current state, no more intimidating than those of an albino rabbit.

“Nothing comes to mind?” Lillian asked as she completed her suture with a final yank. The raven-haired teenager grinned, finding a measure of delight in the brusque ‘oomph’ the mercenary had held back with puffed cheeks. For a moment, he watched the strange black threads meld into his skin: they staunched the hemorrhage at once, and were now fusing his raw flesh back together as if the bleeding folds were nothing but putty. It would still be a while before it scarred and stopped hurting like all the circles of hell, but even then it was miles better than before. Lillian had also done the same to his wounded arm and his burnt toes, enough for him to hold his sword and walk without screaming murder. With that done, the girl drew to her feet and dusted the muck from her knees, all the while out-staring him with the glacial eyes of an incensed harpy.

“Look, you're angry. I get that. I'm angry too, you know? Angry at myself.” He faked an attempt to appease her, then went on to argue that it was ‘how everyone showed respect back home’, familial ties and all – like a light smack from uncle to niece. Of course, Lillian wouldn’t buy any of it; instead, she busied herself on mending her own cuts and scrapes. Godhand grinned, dropping the act. "You loved it."

Lillian snorted, and left it at that. Bits and pieces of glass still poked out of her skin like the quills of a hedgehog, mementoes of Sei Orlouge’s somewhat loose understanding of truces. Painful regions had begun peeling, scorched and scalded by the hissing steam and deathly heat that had almost turned this chamber into the heart of a volcano. The worst of her injuries, however, was the messy gunshot wound under her right clavicle, courtesy of Joshua Cronen. While the cocoon of webs she’d weaved under her skin had stopped the bullet, the impact had blown off a coin-sized patch of flesh, and the ribs underneath had become a network of hairline fractures. Those would take the longest to heal.

Only then did she bother looking to the side, at the corpse of paladin they had spared. Specifically, at the black hole in his forehead. Lazily, she looked up to his murderer, the smirking, gun-toting man who stood by a lavish throne. Godhand and Joshua Cronen had used their firearms sparingly, but the organizer of this tournament had clearly been trigger-happy all throughout the first round; she wondered if he might have been overcompensating for something. Then again, perhaps he was only a man-child, enjoying his toys while forcing everyone to watch.

Lillian shrugged. Whichever it was, who was she to judge?

The man muttered something to his subordinate, and the ethereal barrier fell away immediately. Lillian had been welcomed with a torrential rain, and her lackadaisical mood had been uplifted at once. She raised her arms, smiling from ear to ear as the fresh drops ran along her figure, washing away the glass and blood from her punctured skin, her frazzled hair and the summer dress she had worn to shreds. The damp breath that came with the storm, the pitter-patter upon mud and cooling magma, the great rush of water from the other chamber: everything was a rejuvenating balm to her worn mind and battered body. Whoever the gunslinger was, and regardless of his kooky antics, she at least had to thank him for this.

That had been her last coherent thought, before the dead came rising. Lillian spat an oath as deceased men pushed themselves from the sodden ground of the Treslizn chamber. The most imposing of them was a beast of a man, wearing the shattered remnants of what had been a full-bodied armor of red Cillu, one of the strongest forms of glass that hailed from her homeland. Thankfully, what little was left would not impede her task of collecting blood samples; after all, what could be easier than taking the blood of a man who spouted the vile stuff like a fountain? ‘Even better, he’s all eyes for mister Godhand… I’m just a blur to him.’

There was an older warrior not too far, grizzled and beaten up as well, but still about as hale and hearty as Godhand or herself. Obviously, he was not one of the waking dead, but she knew he would prove excessively problematic: any surviving man on this battlefield who was even greyer than her mercenary friend would have to be worth his salt and blood. Behind the veteran codger was a youth, rising next to a charred corpse that was stewing in a water-filled crater, and she could guess very little from his appearance outside of likely weapons of predilection – sharp sticks. Even so, she would not make the mistake of underestimating those who looked the meekest.

That was everyone else’s job, not hers.

From their own chamber, Sei had been the only one to rise, and that had left her with a mixed-bag of feelings. He was suffering, forced to fight again; she would have much rather seen him resurrected after the end of this sordid affair, but there was no helping that now. The girl looked every which way, hoping to find a familiar face rise from the dust. Alas, she could see Joshua nowhere, and her heart sank at the confirmation of his death. It seemed that the Pagoda Warrior had taken the precautions to ensure the permanence of his passing, and even the nefarious arts of a necromancer could do nothing to remedy that.

The announcer spoke to the participants in turn, his stentorian voice reaching over the storm in an unnatural boom. He even addressed her directly, spouting some cautionary words about broken alliances with all the melodrama of a thespian threat. With that done, the organizer muttered under his breath: in the most unassuming way, he’d given the signal announcing the beginning of the end.

Lillian picked the crystal blade she had embedded into the soaked earth, twirling it to cut a ringing swathe through the falling ropes. Walking a few feet forward, she picked up a discarded sheath with her free hand, admiring the masterpiece of Prevalida and Liviol before throwing it back to Godhand: it was his magic-neutralizing sheath, after all. Once he caught it, the scabbard would completely halt the work of her healing webs, but she deemed that the mercenary had already been treated more than adequately.

‘Here we go again,’ Lillian thought half-heartedly, lips curled in a corner smile. With a sidelong glance, she gave Godhand a playful wink. “Shall we?”

[Atzar]

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

In his ringing ears, the thundering crowd clashed with the thundering skies. Rain pelted the mud to complete the Cell’s cacophonic symphony.

His eyes snapped open as consciousness crashed into him. The angry storm churned above, dousing him with its ire.

Death. That thought triggered more memories. The blonde girl's explosion. The old war dog's sudden appearance. The steely crunch of sword on bone. He recalled drawing the last of Chef-mage’s fire to him like iron to a magnet, trying to take the veteran with him. Weakly his arm rose from the ground to feel his chest, to explore the hole that surely exposed his entrails to the elements. But instead of blood and gore, he felt a strange, mushy substance.

The pain. A million red-hot needles stabbed into his blistered flesh, filling mind and body alike with unbearable agony. His breath came in ragged gasps. A crackling cry escaped his burnt lips, and he curled into a pathetic ball of charred flesh. What was this? He’d expected to be healed. Atzar had thought he would leave the Cell no worse for the wear, with nothing but stories to indicate the melee had ever taken place at all. But this! He’d been brought to life only to hover on the brink of death. Revival was no blessing, but instead a sick, twisted curse. In turn he cursed those responsible for his suffering.

Between wretched, wracking whimpers he heard voices. Fuck them. Fuck them, fuck the blood-glutted audience, fuck Max Dirks – whoever he is – for hosting the battle, and fuck whatever divine powers allow this monstrosity to take place. He didn’t want to fight anymore. All he wanted was the cold, dark mercy of death.

Another choked sob ripped from his throat. Silently he yearned for somebody to take away his pain. There was no difference between a kind hand and a swift end – Atzar would gladly accept either one.

[Godhand]

Godhand winced as a splash of blood hit him in the face after the tournament organizer shot their new friend in the head. He thought to himself how lucky he'd been not to have any brain-matter splatter on him, then instantly hated himself for being desensitized enough that he could ignore blood since it wasn't something WORSE. And, of course, it was unfortunate the knight had been killed, but he hardly knew the man and even if he did, what could he do? He wasn't a mage and as far as he knew Lillian couldn't raise the dead either, so he was out of luck.

Shortly afterwards he'd set aside his sheath after being directed to do so by Lillian. He was extremely nervous about leaving his most valuable and powerful piece of equipment out of arm's reach, but the seamstress insisted something had to be done about his wounds and the magic-vacuum would have instantly negated anything she could have done with her magical threads. Personally, he didn't feel he was doing so bad. He was bleeding in a lot of key areas and his foot hurt like Hell, but he deemed he had a good ten to fifteen minutes before passing out from bloodloss and he was fairly certain the healers could get to him in time.

But, of course, dumb fucking luck the tournament wasn't over. And not just for the reasons he'd expected, either. Instead of forcing him and Lillian to fight, which, really, was about as likely as a man shitting a live chicken, he'd instead opened up an adjacent battlefield and resurrected those who had fallen there. Godhand had had no idea there was even another arena, and the fact that Dirks had revived the fallen combatants instead of leaving it at Bloodrose meant that the gunman was going RIGHT on the mercenary's fucking list.

But, Lillian had had enough time to work her magic. Already he could feel his flesh healing itself, the hideous gashes mending and the blood ceasing to pour out of his arm, stomach and chest. She'd even managed to fix his foot, and for that he was most grateful. The other wounds might have been more life-threatening but they didn't pack quite the painful punch dipping your toe in molten lava did. As soon as he felt his body regenerate to where he felt he was in relatively good fighting shape, he turned to find his sheath only to see it sailing through the air towards him. He caught it breezily and turned away, but not before giving Lillian thanks and a quick wink.

And so he gazed upon his competition. There were a couple of no names mixed in with the revived heroes. Sei, too. He wasn't in any shape to do anything though and even if he was, their truce was likely still in effect. He was much too honorable to turn on his allies mid-battle. Teric Bloodrose; Jesus, there was a fucking problem. He'd gotten the best of Godhand once before and even though he liked to believe that was because he'd been cocky, the truth was he could likely do it again wounds or no fucking wounds.

And, of course, Letho Ravenheart. Was there ever any question? Whatever the mercenary did, the general was RIGHT THERE to shout him down for it. The yin to his yang. The light to his dark. The pompous self-righteous blowhard to his paranoid-psychotic incidental vigilante. Well, now the folks at the stands would really see a show. It was the fight they paid to see!

'Good' versus 'evil'.

He turned to Lillian and held out a hand.

"Hey, up here!"

The little librarian knew right away what he was looking for and timidly slapped his hand with her own. Godhand smirked and nodded a couple of times, hands tightening on his sword and sheath.

"Let's do this."

[Silence Sei]

General Ravenheart had the exact reaction the mute expected. The man obviously held the same mutual respect for the mystic that Sei did for him. Sei nodded the suggestion of a truce between the two of them and looked to Lillian and Godhand. The two may have been Sei's friends and allies, but he could not allow either of them to touch General Letho Ravenheart. He was too important to Radasanth, and Corone as a whole.

"General Ravenheart, I'm opening up your mind to where you will have a second set of eyes on the field. My daughter Anita is in the stands and is watching us overhead. I can't do much in the shape I'm in, but I think I can take out at least two of these competitors before I go down."

"General Ravenheart. A pleasure " A new voice came into Letho's head, "My name is Anita Orlouge, and I look forward to us working together."

Sei stood beside the general when the youth with the mud-stomach had approached them. The boy was probably Letho's ally in the previous engagement leading up to this climax. The more held the two of them had, the better, Sei thought. The mute brought the back of his hand to rub his scarred face, tiny bits of black falling to the ground like pepper being seasoned on a bland meat. It was becoming increasingly obvious that the rain was starting to irritate the burns Sei had suffered from the Aequitas Chamber.

"I can only assume the one with the similar injury to the boy is -not- another ally, sir? I believe I can take on him and the older gentleman before I fall. That will leave you with Lillian Sesthal and Godhand Striker. Do you think you can take them, or do you propose we strike at one target together?" Sei would take the orders from The Crimson General and follow them to a T.

Placing his eye on his opponent, Sei began to feel a bit nostalgic. Each of the opponents here reminded him of a foe he had faced in the past. They each brought back memories of a warrior that had either disappeared from this world, or retired their weapon long ago. He began to set his eyes on Teric Bloodrose, the Pagoda Master.

An older warrior who fought with everything he had. Sei's mind began to watch Teric's sword take the form of a cane. The hair of the veteran began to form a derby, and Terics old face began to reshape himself. His size decreased and before Sei knew it, he was looking at Sir Leopold Stevens, Esquire. The mute smiled as he shifted his eye to the one the mute would later know as Atzar Kellon.

Sei could feel Atzar's magic capabilities, mostly drained due to the last round. As his focus on the youth became more concentrated he became slightly taller. His hair grew longer and a bow formed around his back. The elemental wizard slowly began to take the form of the ice elemental, Ashiakin. Sei would have to avoid the long range abilities of this foe, as well as the elemental magic he conjured up.

His eye went to Lillian who was at this point growing hooves. Her form began to lose its clothing and her beautiful raven hair changed hues to red. With a taller and older appearance, Sei Orlouge stood across from Tshael Nito of the Moontae Clan. She was a powerful wizard in her own right, using vines and the earth to lure her foes into death. Sei needed to make the battle with her up close.

Godhand had been around as long as Sei, but even he too began to shape up differently. Shirking in size, he sheath transmuted into the infamous sword used to slay so many. Thinking he heard the crowd go into a frenzy for the newly shapen figure, Sei had every idea which hero was now before him. Devon Starslayer would be a good opponent, and probably be the one most likely to slay the mute.

"This will be a good fight, General," Sei said, not realizing that his mind was starting to form a mask around Letho's face...


Sei is starting to hallucinate due to his injuries in the first round. As such he sees each warrior on the field as a legend of old. While I will refer to you each by your characters actual names for the most part, know that Bloodrose- Leopold, Ataraxis- Tshael, Godhand- Devon, and Atzar- Ashiakin. If I survive long enough, Sei will hallucinate new 'forms' to Letho and Joshua as well.

[Bloodrose]

Teric found his sword lodged in the mud approximately halfway between the crater from which he'd been thrown and the spot on the ground where he'd ended up. The razor-sharp blade stood out of the soft earth like an arrow spent in flight, the tip buried deep while the basket-hilt stood out at an angle several inches above the surface. As he passed the weapon, the veteran wrapped his hand around the familiar grip and his forward momentum pulled the sword from its earthen sheath. Teric paid no mind to the mud that tarnished the white metal; what muck clung to it was sent flying when the mercenary gave the blade an expert twirl.

Dirk wielded in a reverse grip in his off hand, sword gripped tightly in his right, Teric mounted the crest of the impact crater where his last battle had ended. He recollected the man who'd fallen here; a black-haired mage that spent most of his time playing second fiddle to Elijah Belov. Strangely, given the circumstances of his death, Teric would have assumed the man had been blown into a dozen pieces. Indeed, despite having seen a hint of movement in this direction before, Teric still fully expected to find a man blown apart as he swept his gaze over the site.

By the Goddess... The veteran swore silently. What he found was far worse than a corpse.

The mage known as Atzar Kellon, as Teric would later learn, lay curled up in a ball of scorched, almost unrecognizable flesh. A greater portion of the man's mid-section - where the fireball he'd brought down from the sky had torn him to shreds - was a spongy mess of brown, damp, pseudo-organic material. Having yet to see any of the other revived competitors up close, Teric had simply assumed they'd been risen by the same magic the Ai'Brone used, or at the very worst risen in a manner similar to those walking dead that served Xem’zund in Raiaera. Healed competition Teric could have dealt with. Zombies, even, the veteran could have dealt with. This though... this was something else; something sick...

"You poor, miserable bastard." Teric spat, trying not to cringe in disgust. The entire crater reeked of burnt flesh - an odor so powerful that even the falling rain couldn't scrub it away. The magi's pained, whimpering sobs were audible over the patter of heavy droplets in the growing puddle at the center of the arena's wound, and the Pagoda Grandmaster wasted no time in doing what needed to be done. He stepped over to what remained of a man and brought his sword to bear.

"Not even a mage deserves to suffer this." Teric offered by way of an apology. He swung, and hoped for Atzar's sake more than his own that nothing would keep his blade from ending the miserable man's lingering existence.

[Letho]

Two voices accompanying his own in the old noggin were about two too many for Letho Ravenheart, but when the young woman spoke, the swordsman didn't set his will against the intrusion. Instead his eyes went to the stands, swept over the ecstatic faces, round and round and round over the circular auditorium. Finally they came to a halt on the teen that waved her hand towards the heroic duo. Nice kid it seemed; reminded him a bit of his own daughter, Lorelei, albeit a couple of years older.

“I appreciate the help, lass,” the sentence formed in his mind. Uncertain if this connection worked both ways, he nodded and raised his hand in acknowledgment just in case. “Just try to watch our backs.”

Another batch of words from Sei were thrust into his mind and snapped his attention right back to the situation at hand. The maimed mind-reader proposed a course of action that would set him up against the old man and the young mage, leaving Letho with Godhand and a girl he called Lillian. On any other day, the Marshal would've found this acceptable, but he had a score to settle, a due he had to pay. He had promised the gray veteran a duel, and while Letho Ravenheart had been a lot of things over the course of his life, he was never one to back out on a given promise.

“I have some unfinished business with the...” But he never got to finish his sentence. From somewhere up above, an unnatural thunder cracked over the heavy downfall and several paces from Letho and Sei, Ulysses' head burst like a ripe cherry. Blood as dark as ink and rosy chunks of brain splattered over Letho's heavy boots, followed by the lithe body of the kid that crumbled into Letho's arms like a sack of dry sticks. By the time the swordsman grabbed the boy by the shoulders and tried to straighten him, there was nothing but surprised blankness staring back at him and through him. Letho's fingers went to Ulysses' eyes for the second time in minutes, closing them. His own, filled with fires of wrath under his bushy eyebrows, went up to the podium where Max Dirks and his dress-wearing friend lounged.

“You know what? I have had just about enough of that varlet up there, playing god with the rest of us.” His hand went over his shoulder, feeling for the wooden butt of the gunblade and brandishing it in fluid motion. He snapped the loading mechanism open with a flick of the wrist, then shoved it back, loading the cartridge, then reholstered the Lawmaker. “I am going to bring him down to earth. And I reckon I will need your help.”

Without waiting for a clarification, his hand went to Sei's shoulder, his fingers getting a firm grip on the flesh below. And with a mere thought, Letho's hand burst with white light which washed over the telepath, enveloping him completely. The flesh below this conjured veil started to knit together, every laceration closing, every bruise fading until there was naught but smooth skin. The missing arm didn't emerge from the scar tissue on the man's shoulder, though; there were limitations to Letho's healing, but every other wound was effectively gone. Just as suddenly as it spread over his ally, the pearly aura diminished and the meaty fingers released the shirtless man.

“There, you should be feeling better now. Now, I am going up there,” Drawing his adamantine bastard sword, he pointed up the cage wall and towards the throne beyond the shimmering sphere. “If you cannot follow, do what you can down here. It will not take long.”

And with that, Letho Ravenheart was off, darting towards the edge of the arena at full sprint, his heavy footsteps splashing in the mud, each one a miniature earthquake. When he was some ten paces away from the adamantine wall, he called upon his Righteous Might again, the sonic boom exploding around his impressive hulking form, leaving behind an aura of white flames. He didn't start scaling it, though; he leapt at it like some carnivorous animal, his expanded muscles propelling him some solid eight feet up the vertical. His fingers coiled tight on the grip of his blade, the Marshal slammed it into the solid surface with every bit of strength and momentum. Even with all that power behind it, less than a quarter of the length of the sword went through the smooth surface, but it was all that Letho had needed. Using it as leverage, the swordsman pulled himself up, balanced his feet on the flat of the blade and launched himself up the rest of the way. Once he was on the narrow walkway above, he brandished the Lawmaker and pointed it towards the due behind the veil.

“MAX DIRKS!!!” his voice silenced any other in the arena, drawing every eye to the figure at the top of the adamantine cage. “Your games are done. I am the law around here, BOY!”

And with that he threw himself at the protective globe of energy, strength of over a hundred men behind the edge of the dehlar blade. It was down to physics; either the metal would give way or the magic would. And Letho Ravenheart put his stock in cold metal any day of the week.

Max shooting Ulysses approved by Dirks, healing Sei approved as well

[Breaker]

If not for the Breaker Boots, Josh might have died alone in that tunnel. The only part of his body which seemed to fully function, the only part not bearing angry red blisters, were his feet. They propelled him forward, one baby step at a time, while the enchanted eyepatch allowed him to watch the action above. Very few things about the situation felt right, but something beyond the burns and bullet wounds gave him an overwhelming feeling of wrongness. He found it embedded in his arm.

"Lillian."

The little witch. He had thought her his only ally on the battlefield. And when she was at his mercy, when he could have torn her head from her spinal column, he had merely offered her a truce. And she responded by stabbing four prevaldia needles in his arm. They seemed to have some innate power, some magical signature, but he couldn't determine what it meant. He had to force his arm up at an unnatural angle in order to pull the needles out with his teeth. His tormented hands could not get a grip on the petite metal objects.

In the Mazrith Chamber, something stirred beneath a large pile of rocks. A dull hazel eye peered out from drab cover. Josh resembled a stone golem now more than ever before. Dried mud plastered his body, covering skin and ragged garments alike. The spear strapped to his back had soil smeared across the head to dampen any shine. His camouflage blended perfectly with the war-ravaged landscape. He was invisible. He closed his uncovered eye, opened the one beneath the patch, and he could see everything.

The stand-off reminded him of the beginning of the first round, when the ground of the Aequitas Chamber was still smooth. Everyone had stood around sizing each other up, and now the finalists perpetuated the same stereotype. "Are none of them hungry for this? Do I have to get everything started again? Wait..."

His bird's-eye vision zoomed in on the only combatant who had moved on any of the others; Teric Bloodrose. Joshua knew much of the mercenary from when they both worked in the Dajas Pagoda. Rumours had reached his ears whispering that Bloodrose was almost as indestructable as him. Back then, Josh would have loved to challenge the old mercenary to an honorable duel on the beach of his jungle arena.

But there was no room for honor in the Cell. A grime-smeared head and powerful shoulders popped up between to sharp rock fingers. To overcome seven of Althanas' finest warriors would require all of his consierable skills and cunning. A hand wrapped in fabric, daintily clutching a small stone, snapped out in a blur. "Time to test the water," he thought as raindrops slicked the slime further into his hair.

And then Cronen disapeared again, leaving the tiny meteor to bloody Teric's nose.

I changed the needles to small, ordinary stone. Won't do much even if it strikes its target. I'll have to change the rest later, I'm on my way out the door.

[Silence Sei]

The gun shot had stopped Sei's mind from completely forming Throacis' mask around Letho. Rather, it snapped Sei a bit back into the reality of things as he turned around. General Ravenheart placed one of the massive appendages he called hands upon the mystic’s shoulders, and began to concentrate. Sei could feel his injuries starting to recover. The bone structure that was his wings was slowly forming the muscles and tissue back together. His scars were quickly starting to heal up, and he even managed to open his left eye.

As his eyelid rose, the char that had been covering his eye fell harmlessly to the ground. He could now see everyone with both of his orbs, though he still wore a half-mask of ash upon his frame. The mute looked down to the body that had been Letho's ally as the general started his assault towards Max Dirks. Sei had attempted something similar in the Aequitas Chamber, only to suffer the two bruised ribs that had now been healed for his efforts. Sei knew that Letho Ravenheart was not going to get Dirks out of his ivory tower, no matter how much strength the man had.

Sei turned around to focus back on the fight. Though the physical wounds had been healed, most of the mental ones had not. The gunshot allowed Sei's psyche to determine three people in this battle were their true selves. The first was Letho, who was now about to try and attack the mute's rival. The second was the now dead body of Ulysses', who was forming his own pool of blood to match Marcus'. The third was the one who had taken the form of Ashiakin.

When Sei's eyes settled on the latter, he saw the old warrior he thought was Leopold Stevens coming towards him. The mute watched as Leopold began to raise his cane. Sei knew that there was a secret blade hidden in the everyday object, something he assumed Atzar did not. Sei wasted no time in making a mad dash towards the young mage. As he did, his eyes got the reflection of light in his eyes. Sei quickly looked down with a smile as he pointed his sword downwards.

He scooped up the half of the chakram that Godhand Striker had broken in the last round. Sei twirled his sword around as the half-ring of metal spun around the blade due to the resulting kinetic energy. Stilling his blade, the sharp ring half flew towards the knees of Teric Bloodrose. Sei was merely trying to incapacitate the man he saw as a friend from doing something he would regret.

Sei had been right behind his speedy projectile, moving too fast to hear whether or not the sharp weapon found its mark. The mute was in front of Atzar in no time, his S-shaped blade held straight into the air to block the sword. The force of the blow sent Sei's heels digging into the soft soil. Looking behind him, the mute could hear the boy’s pain as he groaned.

"Get up child! If you can manage anything, use it while you can! I'll try to talk to him!" Sei's eyes focused on those of 'Leopold Stevens' as he held his ground against the veteran. "Leopold, my friend. This is unlike you. You wouldn't attack a dying child, grab some of those bandages of yours and heal his wounds for the sake of Santh Til' Garos!" Sei would have come off as delusional to someone as experienced as Teric Bloodrose, but maybe the mute had bought just enough time for the younger mage to try his hand at something...

[Ataraxis]

Cool runnels of rain slid along her sword, playing games of light and shadow over the pale crystal with every clash of thunder and lightning. Lillian was slinking across the arena on the tip of her toes, hopping from the few uneven excrescences of volcanic rock that had not been submerged by the pooling mud and waters. Fording through would have exhausted her, and though she was far from invisible, the incessant splashing and squelching noises would have made her an especially easy mark to those with easily irritable ears. Soon, however, she ran out of stepping stones, and the girl stopped before the vastness of the Treslizn chamber, cratered counterpart of her previous battleground.

Poised upon a buckler-shaped lump of obsidian, the teenager surveyed the area with quick, scanning glances. That was when she heard an all too familiar deflagration, and she trained her eyes from the thumping corpse of a participant to the giggling gunman atop his impenetrable tower: he was posturing again inside his bubble of safety, likely fancying himself a wondrous god of death. Lillian looked away, no longer paying him any heed, and instead hopped into the frigid pools on the other side of the battlefield, resuming her sprint into enemy territory. As she ran over the spattering muck, Lillian saw that the hulk of a man clad in broken red Cillu had bounded high, to perform exactly what she'd dreamed of doing all along: a swift execution of the fool on the tower.

The grizzled veteran was the first to move, and for a moment of disbelief the girl thought he’d decided to cross swords with her. It was quickly dispelled, however, when the warrior stooped low to inspect the mass of flesh inside that had was half submerged in a rocky basin, and she realized that the wreck of charred flesh and darkening skin was not corpse. Another participant, revived at the very brink of death, and Lillian froze in a horror she had never expected to feel here, in the bloody theater of a thousand clashes and of a thousand deaths.

There was no meaning in this. This was not suspense or showmanship, not even sport. ‘This… is torture.’

The old man knew of mercy, and she thanked him silently when she saw him bring his blade to bear over the poor boy’s heart… but when Sei intervened, she had felt like crying. The broken chakram flew true, and the mute mystic dashed in time to slip over the agonizing man and stop the descending sword. He was now spouting words of survival and heroism like a deranged madman, ordering the man he had almost killed to save the boy who only wished for deliverance. Lillian did not understand him: Sei was suffering too, but his wounds paled in comparison to the boy’s. The mute had also been resurrected against his will, forced to battle on and on, yet now he was forcing this broken youth, whose only remaining sense was unspeakable agony, to stand up and fight as well?

“Damn it, Sei!” she cried out, throwing her arm in a slashing arc of desperation. Darkness trailed in the backwash, unleashing a swarm of inky webs that almost seemed to devour space itself. They wrapped around the young man’s prone body, coiling about his muscles, his skin. Sei was about to respond to her sudden assault when she stared him down, and those arctic eyes had told him that any idea of truce, of mercy would be forgotten if he dared move. The boy groaned, feeling a new pain from the constriction, and so Lillian hurried: bringing the crystal blade to her down-facing palm, she sliced clean across the skin, drawing a rush of warm blood that washed across the dark strings like liquid fire.

Empowered by the essence of her very life, the threads began to shimmer, becoming filaments of light so bright it seemed they’d caught the very stars in their tender grasp. A wave of blinding cold emanated from the star-bound boy, numbing the pain like a gentle cascade of rain that soothed the soul. He gasped, but there was relief in the sudden breath. Replacing the sedating chill was a wave of fire that did not burn, but fuelled every aching muscle, every creaking joint and surviving patch of flesh. Unseen to all, her threads worked their silent magic: the worst of his burns were being replaced by raw skin, torn muscles were sewn back together, and the greatest breaks in his bones were fusing back to structural functionality.

The light eventually died, shying away under the dark and baleful storms overhead. Lillian was catching her breath, tending to the painful gash within her palm. Then, with a worn and weary gaze, she watched the boy slowly push himself from the crater that would have been his grave. Her wan smile at his successful recovery, however, was quick to fade when she turned to face the mystic.

“Don’t tell people what to do with their lives,” Lillian spoke sadly, almost snarling through grit teeth. She held her wounded hand up, cutting the blood flow as her webs began knitting the flesh closed. All the while, she stared at Sei with glazed and swollen eyes full of pain and contempt, every one of her tears washed away by the unrelenting rain. “Unless you’re willing to do everything… everything in your power to ensure they can stand up and walk… then you let them die in peace.”

Healing done with Atzar's approval. Web Therapy from her profile has been boosted by a good amount of her own blood and infused lifeforce, as it was cast in conjunction with the boost-by-blood properties that come with Stygian Arcana (http://www.althanas.com/world/showpost.php?p=161089&postcount=36).

Also, as for Numbers' attack on Bloodrose. I PMed both of them (And IMed Numbers) pretty much at once to tell them that in the Aequitas thread, Lillian recovered the four prevalida needles from his arm before he swan-dived into the lava. Thus, Joshua would not be in possession of them, and would be unable to, well, use them. Numbers never could get back to me, so I think maybe he left home before he got my messages, but at the very least Bloodrose is aware of the situation. I hope we can sort this out without trouble, since it seems to be honest misunderstanding.

[Atzar]

For the second time, Atzar saw the old man loom over him. This time there was no fear. As the veteran mercifully raised his sword to strike, the mage only felt relief. Kill me, he pleaded silently. Please… kill me. But a new figure stepped in the way and blocked the blow. The wizard moaned in longing for the slash that never came, for the freedom that his “savior’s” blade had denied him. He felt as if the man was speaking inside his mind, but the words of encouragement went unheeded.

He heard a new voice then; a female’s voice, light with youthful clarity. Even through the agony, the mage’s mind noted that oddity. What was a young girl doing here, of all places? Then the silken strands enveloped him, and the pain intensified. Another groan gurgled from his raw throat. What more could they do to him? Was he a fly, to be eaten by some monstrous spider? Was death such a great thing to ask for? In a blood-soaked battleground littered with corpses, demise only found those who wished to live; those who yearned for the end were left to suffer.

But wondrously, the pain diminished. Could it be? He lay absolutely still, not daring to breathe lest it prove only a cruel hoax. Yes! The burns faded bit by bit, and the searing agony cooled. Miraculous. His ruined flesh gave way to new, healthy skin, and the gash in his shoulder even closed. Then the webs fell away, their magic exhausted. Atzar greedily sucked in air, relieved beyond belief. The pain hadn’t completely abated, to be sure, but the remnant was certainly tolerable.

Reality crashed back in. The one apparently known as Sei still stood over him, staving off the old veteran’s lethal strike. The mage scrambled to his feet and leapt out of the crater away from the pair, noting as he did the somewhat renewed energy that flowed to his muscles. “Stop!” he cried to the man known as Bloodrose. “I’m not your enemy!” He counted on the assumption that the man’s action came from mercy rather than malice. Perhaps he bore Atzar no ill will, after all. Perhaps he had only killed him out of self-preservation – he had been spraying fire like water.

Then he saw her. Even younger than he’d imagined, she bore the same telltale signs of battle as everybody else. Her teary eyes were the most shocking, piercing blue that Atzar had ever seen. He walked to her, holding his healed hands out in front of him. “You did this?” His voice no more than a whisper, it barely carried above the distant roar of the audience. “…Thank you.” The simple words didn’t encompass the depth of his gratitude, and he knew it. Instead of more meaningless utterances, the mage placed himself at her side. She had granted him new life, and he would use it to aid her in any way possible.

[Godhand]

Godhand versus Letho. Boy, he really wanted to know how Dirks had decided to advertise that. The hero of Radasanth versus the 'hero' of Raiaera. Here were two men who little kids pretended to be, who had been the source of more than one playground fight after an argument over which was stronger got too heated. Teenage girls liked Letho. Women liked Godhand. Old men liked Letho. Young punks liked Godhand. What the mercenary ignored and what likely made the ranger so hostile to him was that he knew, unconsciously or not, that at one point they were essentially the same person. He had been a highborn prince of Savion and Godhand a worthless disposable thug, yes, but underneath it all they were very similar. They'd simply come to a fork in the road and the general had picked one path and the mobster the other. The prince had been reared to see the goodness and inherent nobility in people and the sanctity of all life, and so had chosen to be Corone's messiah. Godhand had not been reared by anybody, and he'd seen firsthand just how ugly people were if enough things went wrong. As for the sanctity of life? Well, the mercenary had written a little couplet to remind himself what was what when he did something some people might not find too agreeable.

If you really got to think,
If you really got to justify,
take a breath and look around,
lots of people deserve to die!

And that, essentially, was the handle. The crux of his world-view. It didn't matter how bad anyone had it, they had no right to complain because no matter who they were, they deserved much worse. And that's what made it easy. That's why he never gave it a second thought. Those people he was hired to kill HAD to die, didn't they, and hell, SOMEONE had to do it. It was like digging a ditch or laying bricks. It was a job. In the end, though, it boiled down to the fact that the prince fought for fame, while the mercenary fought for money. And what bothered him was how easy the roles could have been reduced. Godhand versus Letho? Nature versus nurture. Letho Ravenheart was the hero people wanted. Godhand Striker was the hero they deserved.

But, just as Godhand prepared to advance on the ranger, the hulk summoned forth what ever mystic voodoo gave him his monstrous strength and hurled himself up and at the shield. He was angry, apparently, at yet another one of Dirks' incessant attempts to put himself over with the crowd. Some young kid had gotten it this time; he might have been a little younger than the knight. The general had managed to fight his way up to the gunman's little crow's nest or throne or whatever it was he was cowering in only to periodically emerge and take potshots at wounded competitors. Godhand sincerely hoped he succeeded but he didn't want to risk joining him; he hadn't seen the commando's body float up after he'd thrown himself into the lava but he knew there was a very good chance he was still skulking around and ready to shoot him in the spine once he gave his back to him.

And so he turned to Bloodrose. Good man, he supposed. He kept up his end of the bargain, anyway, and that at least was something to be respected these days. He didn't really want to fight him; truth be told he still had a little fear of the man. He'd beaten him once and logic dictated he could do it again.

Keeping this bit unofficial since the needles might not exist:

But before he could decide whether to attack or try to make an alliance with him, the glint of prevalida caught in the corner of his eye as what looked like tiny slivers of the metal flew at the mercenary. Without even thinking about it, his old alliance mentality sprung up.

"Hey, killer! Watch out behind you!"

[Bloodrose]

Several things happened all at once, each individual event somehow managing to involve Teric, and each crowding one after another into the span of only a few seconds...

Focused on the soon-to-be dead mage beneath him, the Grandmaster didn't notice the flying piece of metal debris until it busted him in the shin. It even hit him in his bad leg, so one would have to consider it a boon that it struck where it did. Steel rang off the iron buckles on the front of the mercenary's footwear, but aside from smarting a bit, did little real damage.

In short order, another metallic clang went out over the arena - muffled by the falling rain - as the wild-eyed ginger Teric had spotted with Letho earlier interceded on Atzar's behalf. Up close the man seemed healthier than he had appeared at a distance, almost as if he'd regenerated a little bit on the trip to where he knelt now, blocking the veteran's blade. His health, however, didn't have much to do with the feverish, almost delusional look in the man's sapphire eyes.

Words rushed into Teric's mind; words not spoken and heard, but forced there. They formed a message, almost as if someone were pleading with an old friend, but none of it made any sense to the mercenary. Whoever this Leopold was - whoever this plea was meant for - Teric was not him, and with that the veteran knew his orange-haired competitor was delirious.

More words, this time shouted and in a voice he recognized, caused the veteran to jerk reactively. Even before his brain could decipher the meaning of the words from their sound, Teric had turned instinctively to locate the source of the voice, and so the two slivers of prevalida thrown from afar hit the mercenary in the shoulder instead of the neck. They clinked harmlessly off the mythril haubergeon protecting Teric was neck to waist, and in fact, their mass was so minute that the mercenary didn't even register the blows they struck.

Is everyone in this damnable arena trying to mess with me now? Teric somehow managed to think in the chaos. Am I Letho now?

The Hero, Ravenheart, had single-handedly taken on an overwhelming majority of the chaos that had raged in Treslizn Chamber. Pyromancers, a N'Jal assassin, a would-be opportunist, and even the legendary mercenary himself - Letho had taken more of a pounding and dished out more repercussions than ten men could have handled. The combatants had focused on the Hero of Corone because of his fame, and even without proof, Teric got a sinking suspicion that he might be garnering the same attention.

There was a flash of light, and a wave of cold, and Teric turned back to his original target only to find the black-haired mage scurrying away. Healed apparently, as he was infinitely more spry and vocal than he had been seconds before. The man even shouted something, but the mercenary was just so overwhelmed by the sheer volume of things going on at once, that all he could do was react.

"ARGH!" The war cry that tore itself from Teric's throat wasn't recognizable as any word. The veteran just yelled, venting his sensory overload in a single, deep-chested bellow as he lashed out at the closest competitor. Metal shrieked against metal as Teric ran the edge of his blade along the flat side of the weapon that prevented him from killing Atzar. He took a swing at the feverish ginger's head, and if that didn't work, the mercenary could easily follow up with the dirk in his off hand.


To borrow Dirk's term, I'm going to 'work through it' and acknowledge Number's actions. Despite reading through Aequitas and confirming that the needles were indeed removed, I think it'll be better for everyone if we just keep this rolling and not get bogged by this. Using items you don't have is an issue for the judge anyways.

[Max Dirks]

Max Dirks lowered his gun after killing the Ulysses puppet and continued to watch the battle unfold. Despite his command, alliances were still being made, and what’s worse is that they were being made by the undead puppets that Phagan controlled. Moments ago, undead Letho had healed himself and undead Sei Orlogue and Lillian had just healed undead Atzar Kellon. The gunman was getting impatient. He turned to Phagan, who appeared calm and in control of the situation. This made Dirks frown. The old magician was certainly putting on a show, but Dirks questioned how much of it was necessary. For now, he would have to trust the old codger’s decisions.

Soon Dirks’ attention fell on Teric Barton. Much of the recent action in the arena centered on him and Dirks wanted to make sure that no matter what happened the Grandmaster would survive. Dirks pulled his gun to bear and aimed it at undead Joshua Cronen, who seemed to be instigator. Before Dirks could fire a loud buzz rang out across the platform. Dirks spun around, aiming his gun at the source of the commotion. When he heard Letho’s war cry, he frowned.

“Is this really necessary?” Dirks asked Phagan. The undead Letho Ravenheart had climbed to Dirks’ platform and was now relentlessly slamming his sword into the shield. Dirks turned his attention back to the chamber below and readied his aim once more. However, he was unable to focus with the constant buzz sound coming from Letho’s assault on the shield. “That’s so fucking ANNOYING.” Dirks rang out. He turned his body once more and fired a single bullet towards Letho’s forehead. However, the bullet bounced harmlessly off the inner part of the shield. Seeing this, Dirks immediately came towards Phagan.

“What the hell are you doing, you stupid mage?” Dirks reamed. It was time to do what he'd set out to do. “This is my tournament, my revenge. Look, I let you put on your little charade and the crowd seems happy, but it ends now.” Dirks twirled his finger in the air. “Make all the puppets kill themselves! Do it now.” Letho kept pounding away at the shield, but Phagan did not move. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” the mage smiled.

“Do as I say, or I'll make it so that you won't have your revenge either.” Dirks lifted his gun and aimed it at Phagan’s forehead.

“Oh, you’re wrong about that.” Phagan replied. “You’ve said it yourself: Drax Piston is just a pawn. The true architect of my demise, Mr. Dirks, was you…” Dirks raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I would have forgotten? It was you who unleashed the holy magic that defeated my army at Gisela and it was you who enabled Drax Piston to shoot me down. No Dirks, I haven’t forgotten. I’ve orchestrated this whole battle from the start and it’s going to end with your bloody demise.”

Dirks grit his teeth, seething with anger. He pulled his gun back and slammed Phagan in the nose. The mage dropped back and his nose started bleeding. “Wrong answer...” Dirks replied, aiming his gun at the mage’s throat. He did not realize the buzz from Letho’s continual assault had stopped. “Say goodnight, old fool.” Dirks said, not realizing that Phagan had just unleashed the most powerful, non-undead, and angriest man on Althanas on him.

(Shield is down, have at it Letho)

[Letho]

Bunnying approved by MaxIt felt like trying to cut his way through stone with a piece of wood. Each slash Letho made at the protective sphere sent monstrous vibrations down the length of the gunblade, rattling him to the bone, numbing his arms up to the shoulder. The Lawmaker itself lost much of its tawny splendor during this relentless assault, the dehlar blade chipped and cracked on so many places that it looked like the world's worst saw, its teeth jagged and uneven. And yet the Marshal persisted. His blood was boiling, his head afire, his ears buzzing with clangor his attacks sent echoing across the battlefield. He could see the two men behind the shimmering veil arguing over something, two distorted outlines which no longer calmly sat on their thrones and brought death above like gods brought rain. Perhaps it was his assault that planted a seed of disagreement between them, perhaps not. Letho didn't care. Before the day was done, he would have Max's head or he perish in an attempt to acquire it.

The rain kept touching the world with its cold figertips, hissing as it struck the sphere and forming an unnatural layer of mist some twenty feet from the ground. It made the air so damp that Letho felt like he was breathing in water drops and breathing out steam, but it lessened his attack not at all. And such bullheaded approach, seemingly futile at the beginning, started to pay dividends as the Marshal kept hammering at the barrier. The energy field seemed to be losing some if its vibrancy, fading into a paler shade of its original color. And then, without any kind of announcement, without any particularly flashy fireworks, it was gone and the crumbling blade of the Lawmaker struck nothing but air and raindrops.

Finally setting his foot on the smooth stone of the plateau that kept the gunslinger and the mage above the rubble, Letho leveled the barrel of his gunblade with Dirks' face with the eerie calmness of an assassin. His eyes, oddly white and with no noticeable pupils, stared down at the meddling varlet, pulsing with righteous rage. “It is time for you to feel the taste of gunfire, scoundrel,” the ragged swordsman, awash with pearly flames, uttered in a guttural tone. “I am Marshal Letho Ravenheart, and I deal in lead!” And with that, he pulled the trigger and sent Max Dirks to the eternal hunting grounds.

Well, that was the plan at least.

The reality, however, was far less theatrical and far more treacherous. There was naught but a dry click coming from the firing mechanism of his gunblade when he pulled on the trigger, nothing but the rumble of thunder spreading across the battlefield, and nothing but disappointed Oooohhhs! from the stands. Perhaps it was mud and grime that prevented the mechanism from doing its job, perhaps it was the punishment the entire weapon took from the vibrations during his fierce assault on the podium. Either way, he had lost the initiative, and judging by the look on Max's face – which went from annoyed surprise to smarmy satisfaction in moments – the gunman knew it too.

Max Dirks brought his pistol up to eliminate the threat in what most people saw as a mere blur of flesh and cloth and dark metal, but charged up as he was, Letho was faster still. He covered the distance between the two in the same amount of time some people took to form a thought, staying true to his approach so far and charging straight at the loaded barrel of the gun. There was a faint fiery flash before him, the shot a mere firecracker compared to his own but crisp and clear, just like the pain that detonated somewhere in his gut. Didn't matter. There was far too much momentum in Letho's approach, too much anger and unhinged power to be stopped by a single bullet. He struck Max like a chariot at full speed, throwing both himself and his target over the edge with the finesse of a bowling ball striking a solitary pin.

The world didn't slow down. Life didn't flash before their eyes. Their rapid descent from up above was short, their landing in the mud below unceremonious, creating a pair of splashes a couple of feet apart.

Landing face first, Letho got a mouthful of mud as his body tried to replenish his oxygen supply. His right hand still wrapped around the smooth wood of the Lawmaker, the mud-covered Marshal rolled to his left and pushed himself back to his feet, spitting out the earthy slop. The pain in his abdomen, that pulsar of fire that seemed to emit another wave of pain with each beat his heart took, seemed to be numbed down to a tolerable level for now, countered by the adrenaline pumping through his veins. His hands went to work simultaneously with his eyes, the former trying to reload the chamber of his weapon while the latter sought out his enemy. The reloading lever refused to budge when he tugged at it lightly, then snapped clear off when he applied some pressure. He spat again, this time less to clear his mouth and more out of frustration. It seemed that he would have to end Max Dirks with cold dehlar instead of hot lead.

[Breaker]

The Mazrith Chamber became his jungle.

He moved in a prone position, one with the ground as he scuttled about, finding shelter in every outcrop and fissure. When he breathed, the earth breathed with him. The rain, fierce as it might be, would not strip the camouflage from his skin. Instead it blended it, making him shapeless in his stillness, the same color as everything around him.

What he saw through the angel eye made little sense, but it was what it was, and it demanded patience.

"How can so many of Althanas' top warriors be so reluctant to engage?"

The irony of course was that Cronen had no intention of making his location known. He had tried the "hero's way" in the first round, and been attacked by everyone in the Aequitas Chamber as a result. He had died as a result. But now he lived, and he learned, and he would bide his time, a spider in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.

[Silence Sei]

The events unfolded almost simultaneously. Lillian webbed up Atzar as if she were Spider-Elf, Dirks' wizard pal betrayed the gunman in exactly the same fashion that had happened with Sei mere minutes before the two chambers had become one, and Teric Bloodrose was shoving off the mute's block and following up with a swift counter. Sei quickly tucked his head down towards his chest as he jerked his whole body into a squat.

Sei's eyes caught the fist that would follow up the sword swipe, and quickly attempted to bring the hilt of his sword into the hand of his competitor. Sei had no experience in engaging the foe known as Teric Bloodrose, but he had plenty of knowledge on the style of Leopold Stevens. It was almost as if he were fighting the same warrior in a different age. The feverish mute had not seen the actual dirk in his hand (as he didn't recall Leopold ever wielding such a blade), and so was unaware if his secondary block had knocked the knife out of his hand.

Still kneeling, Sei launched himself upwards towards his opponent. His goal was to knock Teric off of his feet. However, the cool mud caused the mystic to lose his footing. As a result, the right shoulder Sei was attempting to slam into Teric's stomach was now aimed a little lower and at a more valuable area. Sei's body didn't feel the force of the blow due to the adrenaline rushing through his system, and thus did not realize if the accidental strike rang true.

His face splashed into the brown mud, causing droplets to cover his previously unstained face. Sei attempted to scurry back to his feet as he held his sword tight. The mud had covered the better of Sei's two eyes, so it was hard to locate the man he thought of as Leopold Stevens. All the mystic could smell was wet dirt, and the taste of Atzar's blood mixed in with rainwater and mud...it didn't sit well on the telepath's tongue to say the least.

Spitting out the horrible taste in his mouth, Sei looked around at the legends that were still engaging one another. A loud booming sound caused him to recall his epic fall from Max Dirks' protective podium just a short while ago. He turned to see the crumpled bodies of Max Dirks and Letho Ravenheart. Sei had an alliance to uphold with the General, and looking at the two warriors, he knew that Dirks was bound to come out on top. The man was more resilient than a cockroach.

But something kept pulling Sei away from his undying soldier loyalty to Letho. The mute wanted to engage these legends of old. He would handle Tshael's vines, Leopold's cane, the sword known as the Starslayer, and he would beat them all back. Sei had something to prove to the old school warriors. Or maybe he just had something to prove to himself? Was he worthy of having any title the people had bestowed upon him? Sei recalled an orange hair youth who hid his face behind a fan that would say no.

God he missed that boy.

Now was the time to be that person again. To always strive for the impossible when it seemed just out of reach. Now he had to strike down Leopold Stevens, Tshael Nito, and Devon Starslayer. If Max was still standing at the end of all this, he would try his hand at round three with the gunman. Sei would focus on the others later, but right now, he had to find Leopold, apologize to the elderly man for using such a low down tactic, and propose a duel of honorable man.

But where was the damn geriatric?

[Max Dirks]

Max Dirks similarly landed in the mud face first, but he was much slower to get up than his assailant. The falling rain was being absorbed by Dirks’ trench coat, consequently burying him deeper into the mud. To make matters worse, it felt like the criminal’s left wrist had been strained in the fall. Careful not to put any more pressure than necessary on his injury, Dirks spun onto his back and slowly climbed to his feet. As he stood, a sharp pain erupted through his chest. It felt like one or possibly more of his rips had been broken, though it was impossible to tell whether it was from the tackle or the fall.

When Dirks gathered his bearings, he observed Letho attempting to load his gun blade. This reminded him of his own gun, which had fallen to the ground next to where he landed. Dirks hastily picked it up, ignoring all pain from his chest. He passed it from his right to his left hand and found that he could still hold the Beretta and fire it with little discomfort. It was turning his wrist that was the problem. Still, it would have to suffice, given the fact that he had just been thrown to the wolves. Next, Dirks examined the condition of the gun. The barrel was relatively clean. Dirks doubted the advanced semi-automatic weapon would have the same difficulties firing as the marshal’s gun blade had just had. Satisfied, Dirks turned to Letho.

“Damn it, Ravenheart,” Dirks said, barely above a whisper. “My battle isn’t with you.” For a brief moment, Dirks forgot that the warrior was just a hollowed out puppet being used by Phagan to kill him. Dirks wiped the mud from his face and off his chest and then started sprinting. He didn't achieve his top speed, owing to the weight of the coat and his bruised ribs, but he wasn't crawling either. The criminal was no stranger to the Cell. It was ‘his’ tournament after all. Where others tried to isolate their opponents engaging almost in mini-battles, Dirks knew the trick to being successful was to always stay on the offensive. But before his true onslaught begun, he had to make a small detour straight through the mess of people surrounding Teric Barton.

As he ran, Dirks quickly recalled the number of bullets remaining in both his guns. He had four left in his 'twin' Beretta and ten in his ‘patented’ Beretta, the latter still holstered beneath his trench coat. With great difficulty, owing to the pain in his chest, Dirks managed to withdraw the ‘patented’ Beretta mid sprint. He quickly crossed his arms to keep his wrists stationary and began to fire. His shots weren’t aimed particularly well, but they were headed into the general vicinity of specific combatants. The first two shots from the ‘patented’ Beretta rang out towards Godhand, who was lazily observing the Bloodrose fray and the first two shots from the ‘twin’ Beretta headed towards Aztar Kellon. The second two shots from the ‘patented’ Beretta were pointed in Lillian’s general direction. Once those bullets were off, Dirks uncrossed his arms and aimed at Teric Barton. But before he could shoot, a sharp pain erupted from his left hand. Apparently, he turned his wrist too quickly given the strain. Cussing, Dirks pulled both the guns into his side and instead tried to focus on where he was running. At any moment he could be attacked, but he wanted to make sure he got to his destination unhindered.

(Dirks left Letho, and is running between the two groups (Godhand and Lillian in one and Teric, Sei and Atzar in the other). While running, Dirks shot two bullets at Godhand, two at Atzar, and two at Lillian. None are particularly well aimed, so I'll leave their trajectories and the like on you. In case any of you want to stop him, Dirks is running towards the remnants of Esmerelda to recover his prevalida katana).

[Godhand]

Sei was losing it, and that's if he hadn't gone over the edge already. Not only was he hallucinating old acquaintances, but he'd also managed to summon up some sort of megalo-messianic outrage at the AUDACITY of 'Leopold' to want to put some poor piecemeal man out of his misery, encouraging him instead to 'bandage him up'. To be perfectly clear, this was a man that was not only more dead than alive but also had less of his own biomass attached to his body than there was painting the walls. He was basically just a head and about half of a torso.

Teric had ignored the pebbles or needles or whatever it was that'd been thrown at him, and was now instead decided to give Orlouge a quick and justifiably brutal death. The mercenary certainly wasn't going to stop him; he hadn't actually managed to damage Godhand with his consecutive glass-blasts but it certainly wasn't for lack of trying. Sure, his sheath protected him, but the mystic didn't know that at the time.

Just as Godhand was about to check who'd hurled the ineffective projectiles at Teric, though, there was a sound like God cackling. An incessant, thunderous BOOM that made his eyes water, teeth shake and ears pop. He looked up at the source and sure enough, Letho was hacking away at the magical shield like the little dumbass that could. He doubted he'd ever get through but that was a problem considering that A) He was a stubborn imbecile and B) Godhand could actually feel his eardrums shuddering and then dying with each peal of man-made thunder. The swordsman was ready to go up there, negate the shield with his sheath and then murder Dirks just to spare himself premature deafness.

And yet, he didn't have to. He couldn't believe it, but Letho had apparently managed to break through the shield. It surprised him, to say the least; Letho was several orders of magnitude stronger than Godhand when going full tilt, but that force-field was reportedly indestructable; a coward like Dirks would accept nothing less when dead in the center of a brawl consisting of the some of the most powerful human beings on Althanas. And though he couldn't quite get the clearest of pictures from his vantage point, both the gunslinger and Letho plunging haphazardly from their tower had confirmed his suspicion that the first thing the ranger would try to do was try and gore him like a drunken rhino.

What happened next was almost instant. There was a moment of dead quiet as the crowd watched to see if the tournament organizer was dead or alive, a raucous of cheers as he pulled himself up to his feet, and then

BANG!

The son of a bitch had tried to shoot him. Personally, he hadn't ever really intended to attack Dirks during the battle. After what he did to his manor, the dew was off that rose. But then the sniveling little sniper had had the balls to take a shot at him unprovoked. Well, unprovoked THAT DAY. One of the messily placed shots missed him by a hair, while the other had managed to graze his shoulder after the mercenary dove out of the way. Even on the run after taking a twenty five foot fall, the man was still a decent shot. He'd give him that.

And then he saw him level the gun at Lillian. He could try and dive in front of her, but no way was he faster than a bullet. And so, in his desperation, he hurled his sheath at her with a good deal of oomph behind it and hoped it was heavy enough to knock her down and out of the bullets' path.

That did it. Dirks had finally given him a reason. And so, Godhand dug his heels into the muddy ground and leaped into the air, reprising the technique he'd tried to use on the commando. He hoped it would have more effect than it'd had on him even as he unholstered his revolvers and opened fire on Dirks from above.

Sorry I posted so late. Lillian needed my post to make hers so here it is.

[Atzar]

The visceral roar with which the old dog answered Atzar’s appeal meant more than any words: no deal. The veteran had gone berserk, or close to it; he’d hack at anything within reach of his sword. The mage considered himself lucky that Sei remained between that deadly edge and his own flesh.

He had to do something.

Kellon found himself torn. He wanted to protect the girl. She had healed him, had pulled him away from death’s precipice, and he owed her. But at the same time, Sei had meant well too. He’d just forgotten one tiny detail: cooked meat cared little about defending itself. Regardless, the mage moved forward, steeling himself to use magic once more. It would be like dipping water from a dry well, but he had to try.

Then something happened that settled the mage’s priorities.

A pair of wet thuds shook the ground behind him, and he turned. Ravenheart lay in the mud, joined by the killer known as Max Dirks. They both looked to their weapons. Instead of shooting the hulking man, however, Dirks hissed something inaudible to Atzar’s ears and bolted.

The wizard’s eyes went flat as the gunman approached. Here was the real enemy, the monster behind the deathtrap known as the Cell. He had to be killed. Kellon wanted to protect the young girl, to help the man who still struggled valiantly with the veteran a short distance away. And what better way to do it than to kill this assassin, who had offed more people than any other fighter?

As if he had read the mage’s mind, Dirks pointed one of the pistols in Atzar’s direction and fired. Neither of the shots found their mark; one flew wide to the right, and the other sailed over his head. He ducked in anticipation of more fire, but the gunman had already moved onto other targets. When he pointed the firearm in the girl’s direction, Atzar acted.

The wizard conjured a fist-sized ball of ice in his palm and rocketed it at the fleeing form of Max Dirks. It was easier than it should have been. Kellon had utterly drained himself prior to his death; he wouldn’t have been able to summon a snowflake. Perhaps the revival had restored some of his energy, or perhaps the girl’s magical webs had imparted him some of their power. He had yet another reason to be grateful to her, then.

No matter. Pressing his advantage, the wizard drew up another frigid missile, and then another, launching them in rapid succession at the gunman. Even with the new energy, Atzar could feel the strain that the magic put on him; each projectile drained him more than the last. Soon he would be exhausted once again, but in the meantime he’d use every bullet he had left.

[Ataraxis]

The young man had thanked her, and Lillian suddenly felt a strange surge of self-consciousness. Though her senior, the mage who’d escaped from the very brink of death was not much older than she was, and he was now standing so close to her in the torrential rains that had soaked her through and through. She drew away on instinct when he approached, bringing her arms up to subtly hide what curves were showing under the clinging cloth and looking down sheepishly to the pattering mud.

Only then did she hear the man speak his gratitude. The teenager felt a fool, and wondered why she’d been so timid when the downpour had done its bawdry work long before the barriers fell. Perhaps it was the same reason she’d not blushed when Godhand had stolen a mischievous kiss from her, the same way she never minded the wet smooches a devilish six-year-old boy had purloined from her, so long ago. Unlike this man, Lillian had never seen those by many years her juniors or her seniors in such an alien light… and she shook her head, spraying drops amidst the falling ropes as she chided herself. ‘This is not the time for you to blush and gyrate, Lily!’

Her head spun when she heard the wet splash of two titans falling. From the tower of adamantine, the gunman came crashing with the crimson warrior, but he’d picked himself up like a wet rag and scampered away to safety. It wasn’t long before he ran clear of his assailant, bringing his firearms to bear and releasing a hail of lead and smoke that exceeded that of Joshua Cronen in the previous battle. Lillian had shifted her feet across the muck, bending her knees in preparation the bound away when the deadly barrel came toward her, but a sudden impact at her side had stopped her from any further thought of safety.

The blow was powerful, almost enough to shatter her lower ribs, but the sheer force had sent her sailing instead, leaving a filigreed imprint on her stomach as she crashed into the muddy waters. The wind was knocked from her, and she had already been weakened by her efforts of saving the young mage, but at least the large and blunt projectile had cleared her from the bullets’ path. It was a moment later before she realized Godhand had pitched his sheath to save her. ‘Finesse aside… thank you, Godhand.’

Pushing herself up from the wet silt, Lillian strapped it to the weapons belt cinched around her waist – she would return it to the mercenary later. Save for the man she had healed and herself, no one else in the circular arena seemed to wield any sort of arcane magic. In her current state, however, sorcery was of no use.

‘Only strength will help me now,’ Lillian thought as sanguine rings formed around the glacial cobalt of her eyes, reminiscent of the hellish gaze of her mercenary friend. Her muscles were pulled taut, and a wave of power surged from her petite frame – much like Godhand’s strength, the power she’d long ago borrowed from him was unaffected by the neutralizing sheath at her side.

Grime flew in cakes and chunks from the arena floor as she dashed ahead, catching up with the gunslinger who’d been thrown into a cage of beasts. Producing a dagger of prevalida from her pockets that was attached to a long string of silk, and with a flick of the wrist it scythed through the air in wide circles, spinning, ever spinning. It sped up as it spun round and round, cutting through the rain like a saw until she threw out her arm and let go… and the blade made a beeline for his torso as fast as a crossbow bolt, intent on sinking its poisonous fangs into his flesh.

Lillian dart ropes Dirks using a poison dagger, with its speed and lethal damage boosted by her Gargantua's Might.

This would be the confusion referred to in the Cell discussion. I will be docked story points because of my alleged misuse of the three-hour rule.

[Breaker]

Cronen crouched in the lee of a pile which contained both rocks and human entrails. The rain couldn't cover that smell. It encouraged him to accelerate the plan, but he knew patience was his most precious weapon at the moment. And the odorous compost heap made an excellent hiding place.

Through the eyepatch, he analyzed the unfolding battle. The titans of the cell threw their energy about recklessly. Josh conserved his, refusing to allow the flow of adrenaline to numb the pain. He would feel it for now, because it belonged to a dead man. A fleeting need to fight, and the presence of Max Dirks, kept him from providing the gunmen with an open target.

In the chaos of the arena, Cronen's priorities shifted rapidly. He needed to put Dirks down, more to eliminate the possibility of another jarring revival than to neutralize his firepower. But then Godhand Striker created an opening too good to resist. Like any true fighter, he seized the opportunity by the throat.

Striker flew into the air, firing his weapons as if he were in a circus rather than a battle. Josh drew three small not-so-harmless stones from a makeshift pouch then hopped onto the compost heap for height. Flipped the eyepatch off for better depth perception as he timed the soaring shooter's landing just right. Threw an improvised impact grenade, compliments of Breaker, at the site just as the clown came in for a landing. Hoped it would kill him outright, and not just blow his legs off. Cronen had no real desire to fight the second fastest person he'd ever seen face to face.

And then he ceased all movement. Well camouflaged and crouched on the unpleasant pile, he looked like a part of it. Unless one of the other warriors had spotted the blur of his hand through sheets of rain, his concealment remained uncompromised. Like a gargoyle he gazed across the field of combat, hands behind his back, still waiting.

[Bloodrose]

Bunnying, although very minor, approved by Sei.

The orange-haired meddler proved to be both nimble and adept, ducking one blow and deftly countering the other with an effective (if unorthodox) maneuver. The man essentially smashed the hilt of his own weapon into the fist wrapped tightly around Teric's dirk, and if not for the fact that his bones were accustomed to such a pounding, the veteran very well could have lost the use of that hand.

"Oomph!" Teric grunted as his delirious and truly unconventional foe tried to ram him with a body tackle. The ginger's willingness to press the issue was commendable, and his employ of tactics most wouldn't risk in close range with Teric was a refreshing change of pace. Had he not been focused on pushing downwards on the man's back with an elbow, turning the slipping combatant's momentum away for his... jewels, Teric might have tried to learn his foe's name.

It's obvious he doesn't realize who I am. The mercenary concluded. But I don't know who he is either...

A loud crack - louder than the thunder occasionally rolling overhead - commanded the attention of the entire arena, and both Teric and his opponent found their gazes drawn towards the podium. The tournament organizer, who had before stood safely above them all, picking off competitors left and right with his firearms, had been brought down to earth by the Marshal, Letho Ravenheart. How the titan had broken through the protective shield that safeguarded the dais all this time was a mystery, but the fact that he had brought about a swift and sudden change on the battlefield.

If Teric had been worried about being the center of attention, he needn't worry any longer.

Everyone still drawing breath inside the cell had seen the mystery man on the podium dispatch at least one competitor, and while he couldn't speak for everyone, Teric knew that he resented the interference. So now, given the opportunity to return the favor, most of the combatants fell on the man like wild animals. 'You reap what you sow', the old idiom went, and with Letho, Godhand, the girl, and the newly revitalized mage on his case, the gunman was likely to be reaping real soon.

With the attention of his competitors shifted to a new target, at least temporarily, Teric made to finish the orange-haired stranger that had robbed him of his mercy killing. As quickly as he could muster with his wounded leg, the Grandmaster slipped to his foe's side as the man turned his attention back to their scuffle, and the veteran was rewarded. Despite his delirium, the ginger quickly registered that his opponent was gone, and darted his head around wildly to find him.

Gotcha! Teric thought, raising his sword high. He brought the weapon down like an executioner's axe, hoping to catch the man in the neck and put an end to him quickly. Who knew how long the others would be dealing with the gunman, so there was little time for games.

[Silence Sei]

Sei bit his lower lip as he thought of where the wounded old man could have gone to. Leopold had always used that cane for walking, but he seemed to be carrying a rather nasty limp along with his regular walk. The mute shifted his head back and forth to try and see where the older warrior had vanished. Looking down at the blade of his sword, Sei caught the vague image of a figure raising a sword behind him. Sei allowed the man to keep up his thoughts of victory over the telepath by not making any indication that he was aware of Teric's presence.

As the sword came down, Sei's was thrown upwards. His sword once again intercepted his foes. This time, the blade forced itself down further than when Sei had made his frontal block. He could feel his arm slightly twisting as his own blade glazed over the hairs on his neck. His foe was using both hands to wield his weapon, and if Sei had been handicapped to his right arm, his head would have splashed onto the mud below.

Sei tucked his head under his arm as if he were being spun by his partner in a dance. "Very underhanded, Leopold." Sei spoke as his feet began to give way in the slush below them. "You should know such an attack would not take Sei Orlouge off guard!" As Sei focused on his opponent, he began to notice that he was crossing blades with just that. A sword, not a sword-cane. It seemed as though the more he was focusing on his foe, the less effective his minds trickery was becoming.

Sei noted the whiter skin, the streaks of silver peeking out of Leopold's derby, even the change in eye color. The majority of the form still belonged to Leopold Stevens, but Teri Bloodrose was starting to break out of the self-induced image. Sei was unsure who he was actually fighting at this point, but he noted that the swings of the weapons were still like those of the mute's friend. Sei's legs found themselves springing the mute back to get some distance between him and this new warrior.

His eyes shifted back to Dirks to find that the entire arena was going after the gunman, save for Sei and his opponent. For a moment, the telepath thought that the man he was fighting was a true illusion, but retracted the thought when he recalled the force of his sword meeting with the mystics. No illusion could make the mute stumble like that. This was a real fight. And Sei was enjoying it.

Twirling his sword around in a circular fashion, Sei dashed towards his opponent once more. As he ran, the mystic plated his right foot into the ground. This caused Sei to form into a slide towards Teric Bloodrose. The mud on the mute's heels caused the warrior to move a bit faster than he normally would have. Splashing speckles of brown in his wake, Sei pulled his sword to his side. As he closed in on his Foe, Sei attempted another upward strike, this time seeking to strike the forearm of his enemy's preferred hand. Sei had hoped that the blow would cause the older man to drop his weapon. Sei didn't like the idea of this fight costing him and his opponent an arm and a leg. Two arms and a leg, however...

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

Anita Orlouge sat in horror as she watched the events unfold. Her father had gone crazy, her friend was chastising the hero, and a man her father respected took out the only non Orlouge she loved with all of her heart. The fight was starting to become too much for the girl. As she had watched Max Dirks' epic fall, she began to weep for the gunman. Her father barely survived the drop, what chance did Max Dirks have? Anita closed her eyes as she awaited the rising Letho Ravenheart to finish Dirks off.

The crowd's uproar caused Anita to open her eyes. A smile crept across her frame as she was watching Max Dirks run from his foe. It was a good choice, but it caused her Godfather to jump out of the frying pan and into the fire. Godhand Striker was raining bullets as if he were a Salvar Rifle Association President, Lillian was trying to sink the tooth of her blade into the gunman, and some nobody...was he really throwing what seemed like snowballs? Anita's hand slapped her forehead as she darted between Sei and Max.

Her father was busy with that Pagoda guy. Anita never paid much attention to what went on in Scara Brae, but she was sure if he was important she would have heard of him. Furthermore, Sei only had one opponent he was handling his own against (Anita didn't question how her almost dead father got better). Dirks on the other hand had the rest of the fight squared solely on him, and he was bringing a knife to a death camp shower.

Anita decided that, at the very least, she would help her Godfather out. There wasn't much she could do physically, but she could cause severe mental damage to at least three of the competitors. Closing her eyes, Anita prayed that her father's lines were still open to the three combatants in question. Perhaps an apt distraction would be all Dirks needed to gain his bearings and slaughter everyone.

"Lillian, don’t! The wizard is casting something in your direction! You hit Dirks and his pal kills you!"

"Mister Striker! Behind you! The ice mage is trying to kill the both of you with that ice attack!"

"General Ravenheart, stop! Those... things that are on the ground. They're armed with some sort of enchantment, I can sense it. You go after Dirks and there’s a chance the resulting magical backlash will kill everyone in the area!"

Anita opened her eyes once more. She had hopefully sewn seeds of distrust. Hopefully her father would forgive her for being so deceitful. Though what she had to be truly forgiven for, she didn't know. Wasn't it okay to be the death of someone if you were saving those you love?

Sei goes after Teric with a sword thrusting towards his forearm while sliding in the mud. Anita tries to contact the three 'allies' of Sei in an attempt to make them stop their attacks on Max.

[Letho]

Even in mid-stride, racing after Max Dirks with a bleeding hole in his gut and his heart racing hard enough to drum in his ears, Letho's eyes saw everything.

On one flank of his fleeing quarry, the mercenary Godhand Striker vaulted skywards and unleashed a salvo of gunfire from mid-air towards the Marshal's target. "Always a showoff," was about as much of a thought as Letho could spare on his old acquaintance. Down below the flying gunman stood a girl far too lovely to be Godhand's daughter and far too young to be his lover. Far too green for the Cell too, but he wasn't one to chastise; he had a daughter even younger than this petite thing and she had a knack of getting herself in trouble as well. This lass, however, seemed to have her aim and her dagger set on Max as well, and Letho could have none of that. And as if this uncanny couple wasn't enough, on the opposite side of the arena was the young magician that only moments before committed fiery suicide. He seemed rather zesty for a dead dress-wearing coward, though, summoning icy projectiles and directing them towards the man who suddenly became everyone's worst enemy.

Letho couldn't exactly blame them for their dislike towards the cocky varlet; hell, he wanted to put the man six feet under the muck himself. Which was turning out to be somewhat of a problem. With the majority of the surviving combatants turning their gazes – and more importantly, their tools of destruction – towards Max Dirks, it was far too probable that one of them would strike their mark. And thus robbing Letho of his vengeance.

It was a ridiculous pursuit, Letho knew, this vendetta for the false death of the youth the Marshal didn't even know properly. At the end of the day, when the bloodwork was done and people went home, they would all awaken on a cold slab with a bald head of a monk hovering over them, telling them to take it easy. Telling them it was all honky-dory. Telling them that the arm they lost in the fighting was successfully reattached, that the gory mess of their spilled guts was just a gruesome memory, that their death hour has come and miraculously gone. No hard feelings, no grudges; it was all as fake, make believe, like a street performer pulling a rabbit out of the false bottom of the hat, right? Only it wasn't. After feeling the heat of the battle so many times, Letho Ravenheart knew that men showed their true faces when their blades met and their blood soaked the soil. Taking that piece of insight into account, Max Dirks proved to be not only a deceitful scoundrel, but a cowardly one as well. And while those traits alone weren't enough to warrant an permanent death, Letho felt that a temporary one could do the man good. Make him taste his own mortality as he chokes on his own blood. It was a lesson Max clearly needed to learn and a lesson that the Red Marshal decided to give him personally.

"Can't do that if the man is dead," was his concluding thought, and even as it occurred to him, a course of action was plotted by his mind. It was less of a conscious decision and more of a battle reflex, sort of a compulsion that had a life of its own and kicked in when required. Still dashing after the gunslinger – a rhinoceros chasing a cheetah, it looked like, but a damn quick and pissed off rhino – Letho brought his trashed gunblade to his chest with his right and then sent it flying with a fierce backhanded motion. Six feet worth of brown metal spun on a deadly curved trajectory that meant to connect two particular points in the arena; the spot where the tiny dark-haired lass was standing and the one where Godhand Striker was supposed to land.

He didn't stop to acknowledge the effects of his attack, didn't have the time. The wizard had already begun his icy barrage, intent to bombard Max until the gunman was either frozen or bludgeoned to death by his missiles. "Can't have that either." Letho wasn't swift enough to catch the first one, but by the time the second ball was airborne he slid to a halt between the ice mage and his target, swatting the projectiles away with his enchanted gauntlet. Compared to the sheer power of those the chef-mage fired at him minutes before, turning these away felt like knocking irksome wasps.

“AWAY WITH ALL OF YOU!!!” the Marshal hollered, conjuring his anti-magic field. The next globe of ice crashed against the sphere harmlessly, exploding in a rain of crystal. He could feel their eyes on him, not just those belonging to the competitors, but those inquisitive ones from up in the auditorium. His hand reached for the last weapon in the scabbard on his back, the motion making him wince as the pain flared in his stomach. He could feel weakness creeping up on him, the familiar feeling he experienced already once today, but it was still faint, reminding him of the blood he kept spilling down the length of his pants. And once again he willed it aside and brandished a plain looking dagger, pointing it towards Max Dirks. “His life is not for any of you to take!”

And even as he spoke those words, the gray metal of his dirk seemed to lose coherence and liquify as if it was made of mercury. And more importantly, it seemed to grow in size, bubbling outwards and expanding until it was roughly the same size the Lawmaker had been. In a matter of seconds the simple miniature blade evolved and reformed itself into a double-bladed sword. Letho held it at midpoint single-handedly, like one would hold a spear, pointing one of the tips towards the man in the trench coat.

“It is mine.”

And with that, he charged at Max Dirks once again. He thought he heard another voice in his head, sounding vaguely familiar, but he was far too furious, far too strained, far too dead set on vanquishing his enemy to decipher the meaning of the words. Instead Letho did what he did best, and let his blade do the palavering. The double sword spun in his hands with so much speed that even the sharpest eye saw nothing but a revolving blur, the propelling motion meant to block any projectile coming Letho's way and tear Dirks to shreds.

Sent the Lawmaker spinning towards Lilian and Godhand, slapped away Atzar's icy balls (haha, Atzar's icy balls) and I'm coming for YOU again, Max!:D Also, just to clarify, Letho is using his Vorpal Blade and it looks something like this (http://thedarkblade.com/wp-content/uploads/double-agent-sword.jpg)

[Bloodrose]

Again, bunnying approved by Sei.

Sly bastard. The mercenary had to give his opponent some measure of credit, albeit begrudgingly. The orange-haired man's sword again came up to meet his own, and while Teric made a decent effort at forcing his weapon through the man's guard to draw blood, the wiry ginger managed to gracefully extricate himself to safety. Then the man spoke, and the whole duel between them took on a different tone.

Sei Orlouge? Teric's brow furrowed. He knew that name, but it was one he hadn't heard uttered in a dog's age. The mystic? 'Hero of Radasanth'? I'd heard he was dead...

When exactly Teric had heard that name last, or where he'd heard the mystic's death rumored didn't seem to matter much when the mercenary was confronted directly with the man himself. Men didn't garner titles like 'Hero' without doing something to earn the moniker, and so now the Grandmaster was forced to reevaluate his situation. The man standing across from him, deftly twirling his sword, was no longer a no-name, orange-haired lunatic who may have (for all Teric knew) wandered into the cell more by happenstance than by purpose. No, now in his place stood Sei fucking Orlouge, a somebody...

A real dangerous somebody.

Sei didn't give Teric any more time to contemplate just who it was he was dealing with. All the mercenary knew of the man was that he was a 'mystic' - and even that didn't help greatly given the dozens of various sub-sets of conjurers, magi, and sorcerers that adopted the title. The Grandmaster suddenly wished he'd kept a far greater eye on the exploits of 'old' heroes, so that he'd have at least some idea of just what Orlouge was capable of.

Regardless of whether or not he possessed some higher powers that could have assisted him, however, the mystic came sliding in through the mud with his weapon ready. Were this an educational encounter, the veteran swordsman might have lectured Sei on the dubious merits of purposefully compromising one's footing, but this was neither the time or the place for lessons. Instead the veteran parried, hard and with purpose, knocking aside the mystic's upward strike and leaving the man's chest open to a counter. What followed was less gracefully, but decidedly more effective.

Despite their similarities in height and probable weight, one might have found it difficult to argue that Teric was not the brawnier of the two men, and the mercenary used that to his full advantage. Rather than sidestep or otherwise avoid the sliding mystic, the veteran lowered his shoulder and plowed headlong into his attacker as he came slipping into close range. Entangled, the two warriors fell to the ground, where Teric quickly capitalized on the planned nature of his tackle by mounting Sei like a bar-room brawler mounts a downed opponent. The rain and muck made the mystic as slippery as an eel, and with his injured leg Teric found it difficult to keep the mystic underneath him, but the mercenary didn't waste any time getting his blows in.

His good hand tied up keeping Sei's weapon at bay, their blades locked together, Teric started throwing haymakers with his left - each aimed as squarely for the mystic's jaw as he could manage.

[Max Dirks]

Chaos had erupted, and once again Max Dirks was at the center of the show. The crowd cheered his name, but the criminal was oblivious to them. His eyes and ears were on the battlefield. As such, the moment he heard gunfire, Dirks dove head first into the mud. Trying his best to ignore the immense pain, Dirks turned around mid-slide and shot a flurry of bullets towards the leaping Godhand Striker. Unlike the others, who narrowed their counter-attacks on the mercenary’s landing spot, Dirks fired continually at Godhand’s trajectory. Dirks’ Berettas had a noticeable firing speed advantage over the magnums and the gunslinger took full advantage of it. By the time ‘twin’ Beretta clicked signaling the chamber was empty, Dirks had fired six shots: two from the ‘twin’ Beretta and four from its ‘patented’ sister.

However, the firing speed of the guns was not a complete windfall in the criminal’s favor. Apparently Godhand’s aim had gotten better since the beginning of the tournament. Just as Dirks’ ‘twin’ Beretta ran out of bullets, two of the mercenary’s shots hit home. The first one crashed into Dirks chainmail vest, catching him slightly above the abdomen. Though it did not penetrate the armor, it flattened on impact and completely knocked the wind out of him while sliding. This caused Dirks’ stomach to lurch and made him start chocking. The second bullet struck directly under Dirks’ left clavicle. His skin and muscle could not stop the bullet and it passed right through his body, leaving a clump of blood and sinew in its wake.

Before Dirks could catch his breath, Lillian’s dagger cut through his trench coat and got tangled in his chain mail just above his left breast. The chain mail jammed and broke apart. Combined with his earlier wounds, the pain of the strike was so intense that it almost made his arm go numb. Shortly thereafter, adding insult to injury, Atzar’s ice ball slammed into the opposite side of his chest. The initial contact caused Dirks to lose his grip on both of his guns, sending them flying behind him. Then, like a bowling ball striking a pin, the force of the blow sent Dirks sprawling. He did three backward somersaults and eventually landed face down in the mud. However, the criminal’s fall was not entirely fruitless. As he tumbled, Dirks managed to grab a hold of the hilt of Lillian’s dagger with his right hand. Provided it was still attached VIA silk string, it was possible that Dirks might have pulled the little 90 pound bitch into the path of Godhand or Letho’s assault as he reeled.

Still chocking, Dirks’ used the brief moment while Letho warned the other combatant’s off to climb to his feet. The criminal did not even stop to think that it was peculiar for a puppet to claim a kill from other puppets. Instead, he immediately started looking around for his fallen weapons as he caught his breath. After kicking around some dirt, Dirks eventually found a single mud soaked Beretta. However, he was unable to ascertain which one it was. “There’s only one way to find out,” he mumbled to himself. Dirks reached down with his left hand and picked up the gun, the sprained wrist and the bullet wound now forced him to hold the weapon sideways like a gangster. Dirks took a deep breath and pulled the trigger. The hammer of the gun slammed into the chamber with a familiar ‘pow’ and the iron bullet flew at the marshal. Then, without any rhyme or rhythm to his shots, Dirks proceeded to mow Letho down. No particular bullet was well aimed, and each shot Dirks took made him feel like he was tearing his arm out of the socket, but still he persisted until the entire magazine was used up and the gun made a solitary ‘click, click’ sound. All the while, Dirks slowly backed away from Letho’s twirling double blade (possibly with resistance if he still has Lillian in tow).

“Damn you, Letho,” Dirks said, referring to the marshal by his first name. “But you’re not even real!” Or was he? Phagan did say that the souls of the dead could re-inherit their bodies. Or was that a lie too? Dirks was getting dizzy. Was it possible that Phagan was never in control of the combatants’ actions at all? But if that were the case, why would Letho be after the criminal so relentlessly? Because Dirks had killed Letho’s admirer, that’s why. “Shit.” Dirks said aloud. A driven and demented, non-automated Letho Ravenheart could easily defeat Dirks given his present predicament. It was beginning to look like Phagan had been the true manipulator all along. While looking into Letho’s eyes Dirks saw his revenge slipping away. Still, if Letho was himself, then so was everyone else. With resolve, Dirks tested his theory. “Sei!” Dirks cried, briefly glancing towards the mute. “Please help me.” But after threatening Anita, shooting at him and knocking him down 25 feet into an active volcano, would the cherub heed his call without explanation? Maybe, but only if Sei could escape Bloodroses’ onslaught first.

(Let’s see. First, Dirks shoots at Godhand. Then he gets shot by Godhand. Immediately thereafter he gets ‘stuck’ by Lillian and takes an ice ball to the chest. While tumbling, he grabs the dagger and tries to pull Lillian into oncoming traffic. If she let’s go, then Dirks will just use it as a regular weapon. He fires 6 more shots at Letho, by my count. Ataraxis, you’ll notice I made Dirks over think at the end. That is because his is poisoned. I am unaware of the nature of the poison, so to maintain the integrity of the battle we’ll make it slow acting (by slow I still mean within minutes unless he's healed). Finally, Dirks is crying out to Sei to have him intervene)

[Silence Sei]

Sei's blow did not make a mark on his foe. The mystic watched as his sword was nearly jostled out of his grip by the counter used by his opponent. Almost as soon as Teric had made the strike, he followed up with a unique attack of his own. The older warrior slammed into the body of the telepath, causing both warriors to be smeared into the wet ground. As Sei tried to regain his footing, his rival took the initiative by climbing onto the winged warriors form.

Teric kept the mute's arm pinned down with their sword lock. He then struck at the mystic several times with massive punches to the face. The first blow felt as if Sei's face had been met with a flying piano. Azure colored blood and spit flew out of the telepath's mouth, falling into the mud. As another blow came across the pale face of the hero, more of his ashen mask crumbled off of his features. As Teric reared his hand for the next blow, Sei heard his name.

"Sei! Please help me."

It was nothing but instinct. The call for help had to be answered. Sei only had one ace in the hole left, and now was the time to use it. As Teric's fist began to come down, Sei spoke as quickly as he possibly could.

"If I would, could you hit me again?!"

The blow found its mark and slammed his face into the ground once more. Sei's head was forced to the side as he looked upon the form of Max Dirks. He was not entirely sure why the gunslinger needed help, but Sei had done what he could. As Max stood his ground, he would start to feel the damage he had just recently received from the poisoned blade being mended up. His wrist would find itself with a new vitality. The bullet wound disappeared as if it had never happened. His ribs would not have the same ache that they had moments before.

Sei Orlouge had just healed Max Dirks.

The mute smiled, lost in his good deed as another punch made contact with his face. Sei's eyes focused back on his attacker. His eyes widened as he was now staring at the features of Teric Bloodrose. Apparently the punches had literally knocked some sense into the telepath. Though his face had become bruised by the blows, his right cheek swelling almost immediately; he now knew who he was fighting and what he had to do.

Sei quickly released the hilt of his blade and wriggled his arm between Teric's legs and his own body. Placing the single hand on the buttocks of the old warrior, Sei pushed with all of his might. The older warrior was thrown past the mute's head, and sent the older warrior flying face first into the mud. Sei rolled onto his stomach and grabbed the hilt of his weapon once more. Standing up, Sei pushed his sword outward, twirling the curved blade as if were a rapier. Sei could feel the mud in almost every part of his body now. The wet dirt sliding off of his stomach and into his pants.

He hadn't expected a spa treatment in the Cell. Teric Bloodrose probably wasn't expecting it either. Sei stood at the ready for whatever Teric was prepared to do.

Permission to bunny Teric granted by Bloodrose. Sei casts Would? with Teric being the target, it works and he heals Dirks' injuries. Sei proceeds to push Teric off of him and gets ready for whatever is to come.

[Ataraxis]

The dagger’s deflection had been met with a frown, but Lillian barreled past the small hindrance that was the gunman’s hidden chainmail. Through the rip in his jacket, she saw the links burst outward, letting the jagged edges score a red streak across his chest. Though far from deep, one cut was all it ever took: arcane chaos was now pouring through his bloodstream, spreading like a sickness. A deeper gash would have sent him to his knees much faster, but being afflicted by light-headedness and a growing sense of nausea still seemed a fair trade-off.

When he attempted to draw her in, Lillian merely smirked, steeling herself and jerking on the string in a one-sided tug-of-war. Assisted by her inhumane strength, the blade flew right out of the gunslinger’s hands, possibly taking bits and pieces of his palms with its serrated teeth. The dagger flew back into her hand, and she readied her stance for a second throw.

Another spark through her mind, and Lillian stopped dead in her tracks, cringing from the headache. The psychic warning had been like a swarm of worms tunneling through grey matter, and the teenager could barely make sense of what Anita Orlouge had unceremoniously chucked into the privacy of her thoughts. ‘Doesn’t matter, I have the scabbard,’ Lillian answered with difficulty, a hand on her thumping temple as she spoke through the same mental channel. Still, when the migraine quickly passed, she could not help but let a curious gaze wander over her shoulder.

Up high on the crow’s nest, the robed necromancer was not waving his hands in the prompt conjuration of a lethal threat. Instead, he was merely sprawled atop the ochre tower, his hand a shivering dam for his bleeding nose. Lillian broke away from that sorry sight, and as she met the nervous gaze of the Dragon’s daughter, the crimson rings about her eyes grew thicker, muddling up like boiling blood.

‘Shut your mind, Anita,’ she instructed the girl, a hiss of fury seeping from the coolly spoken words. ‘One more betrayal, and I'll be done with you Orlouges – Corone be damned.’ Hardly anything remained of the teary-eyed girl from a few moments ago. To see her now was to grasp at the vestiges of a distant memory, and to form with those hazy fragments a vision of terror, alien and unnerving…

To see her now was to peer beyond the illusion of an innocent dream, and realize the sleeping monster that had conceived it.

From the corner of her eye, she picked up the queasy gleam of spinning metal. At once, she broke away from the traitor that took after her father’s heart, coming face to face with a churning sickle of rust-colored death. Even so, she did not run, did not falter: she merely planted her feet deep into the sucking earth, finding hard purchase beneath the grime. At once, she put away her dagger next to the crystal blade, and tossed the vacuum sheath aside as it trailed across the mud. Then, within a single motion, her lithe muscles corded like steel wires, her body lowered almost to a crouch, and both her hands were thrown up in a ten-fingered bulwark.

Dark strands formed about her palms, wrapping around into silk gloves that were wound too thick for elegance – and just in the nick of time, at that. The flying sickle flew dangerously close, and with all the focus of her mind, all the honed attention that her brain could muster, she sought out the spinning handle in that deadly blur. Her hands lashed forward, and as her fingers curled to a close, she felt the blunt haft batter into the bones of her hand like a naval carronade.

Her reception had not been perfect, alas: the blade had slashed across the opposite hand, slicing through the outer layers of webs, but the weave of dehlar beneath her skin had managed to withhold the rest of the shearing force. Lillian spun to the right, allowing the projectile to continue most of its trajectory while safely placing her body behind its path, but the man had been so strong she felt all of her weight being dragged along. With a cry that belied the size of her lungs, she kicked her feet against the rain-slicked floor, digging her heels into the hard layer beneath. Fingers closed like steel clamps about the careening weapon, the girl threw her body back back with all the strength she could summon and used it as a counterweight.

Lillian splashed into the mud for a second time today, the fibers of her arms having been pulled so taut they now felt like the snipped strings of a puppet. Something cool rested on her belly, plinking as the rain fell against its burnished flat, and she let loose a sigh of relief. While it might have seemed easy, the primal fear of being severed in half had been a burden so intense during that blink of eternity that she had almost lost her mind.

Caked in bits and pieces of wet dirt, the teenager used the sword as a crutch, only barely registering its unique craft and the strange barrel within its blade. It was hard to blame her; after all, the girl was far too concerned by the burst skin in her right hand and the dark trail of blood that seeped from her left like pouring juice. Down on one knee, she seriously wondered how much longer she would be able keep her body from falling apart, and how much more of this nonsensical battle she would have to take. There were things she still needed to do, but with the gunslinger looming at the back of her mind like a constant menace, the sorceress would never accomplish any of her tasks…

And when she saw the glimmer of light that wreathed the gunman, summoned by whatever haphazard devilry the mystic kept casting, Lillian knew the time for mercy was finally over.

“Enough,” she hissed, throwing her arm toward the gunslinger, the mighty coward that had fallen. By helping him, Sei had commited the third and final betrayal, and the girl was done with the mystic. Her eyes took on the hue of black pitch, as if the blood that coursed beneath had turned to ink. Wicked waves soared across the invisible ether, lapping at and tangling with the magical energy that was being infused into the crook who never seemed to die. With a single thought that commanded queen’s authority, she ordered the strange sorcery to stop its work, to unlatch from the knave… and to come hither.

Darkness fell in a shroud about the sorceress, and columns of mist seeped from the injuries of her palms. The hijacking of the life-stream had been a most painful exertion, but the stolen energy now running through her body was enough to prevent an enfeeblement that might have left her helpless. Most satisfying of all, however, was to see the gunman deprived of the salvation he had screamed for so desperately, like a troublesome child denied his mother’s milk.

After drawing to her feet with a groggy wobble, Lillian picked up the blade she’d planted into the rainy soil, unknowingly twirling the blade of a hero with an ominous ring. She tugged at a dark string, and Godhand’s muddied sheath flew back into her grasp. At once, the darkness in her eyes vanished, neutralized by the enchanted sheath. Nothing but but a pair of scarlet rings were left behind, and in their unmoving glimmer, it was clear that thirsted for a traitor’s blood.

“You won’t suffer much longer, Sei.”

Pulled back the string and dagger, maybe cutting into Dirks' hand. Caught Letho's sword with effort and frightening damage, and Lillian's future use of it has been approved by Letho. Hijacked most of Sei's 'Healing Would?' (To Letho: haha, Sei's healing wood) using the one-time life-spell-commandeering ability, Queen's Aegis (http://www.althanas.com/world/showpost.php?p=161089&postcount=36).

[Godhand]

Godhand soared through the air, smiling as the massive .50 caliber rounds found purchase in the fleeing Dirks' abdomen.

He could run, but he couldn't fly!

There was a shout inside his head; a feminine voice warning him of some magic being wielded against him. At first he wondered who the Hell it was, but then decided it didn't matter; even if she was telling the truth and not trying to distract his attention with some cheap ploy, his sheath would protect him from any sort of arcane attack.

Godhand had lucked out of being affected by Anita's ruse simply by forgetting the fact that he'd lent his magic vacuum to Lillian. He turned his attention back to Dirks, smug with satisfaction at a well-invested 25 grand, and studied the effects of his shots.

Somehow the shyster had managed not to die on the spot, and Godhand braced himself as he saw the barrels of his pistols being leveled at him. He seriously doubted Dirks had good enough aim or presence-under-fire to shoot him out of the air while being chased by an enraged Letho Ravenheart, not to mention getting shot twice after taking a twenty foot plus fall, but even if a gun was being fired by a blind man it was still a gun being fired.

But then he saw something through the pouring rain, and all his instincts screamed at him to destroy it immediately. It was certainly unassuming; a small pebble or rock or sphere, he couldn't tell through the downpour, whose only outstanding feature was that it was glowing with a dull white. At any other time he might have dismissed it as a dud spell from a fledgling wizard, but it had been less that fifteen minutes ago that he'd dismissed a similarly glowing spear as such and paid for it by being blasted clear across the arena.

And this time the little firecracker was flying to his landing spot. He had a shot; it was a stupid, unlikely shot and an imperfect solution, but the alternative was being blown to smithereens. He grit his teeth as he felt one of Dirks' ignored nine millimeter slugs fly into his boot and then settle inside his foot, focusing instead on the magic missile.

And then shot it.

The following explosion was so loud it nearly made his ears bleed, but he'd managed to detonate the little magic grenade prematurely. Letho and Dirks were likely to get swallowed up at least partly in the explosion, but Godhand had been far enough away that he was only affected by the lesser kinetic impact of the blast. It altered his flight by first affecting his balance enough that he was sent spinning and flipping, and secondly boosting his flight distance by several meters. The crowd at first cheered at the spectacle but then began to scream in panic and scatter as the stunned behemoth was shot into the stands, several of the benches and wooden supports snapping under the impact and collapsing on top of him.

He'd never been any good at playing defense.

[Atzar]

With a grimace of frustration, Atzar’s arms fell to his sides. He could see Max Dirks on the other side of Ravenheart’s shield, but that hazy barrier made him as inaccessible as the moon to the mage’s impotent magic. Chef-mage in all his fiery fury hadn’t been able to break that barricade; the weaker wizard wouldn’t stand a chance.

Chef-mage. Only then did Kellon realize that his ally wasn’t among the living fighters. The mage located his body, not twenty feet away. Elijah’s remains sported the same burns, smears and lacerations that marred the features of every fighter in the Cell at that point. Atzar felt a pang of guilt. He hadn’t been powerful enough, after all. The wizard had fallen like wheat to a scythe when the old veteran turned those cold blue eyes and that cold gray steel on him. Had he survived, had he been stronger… then perhaps the prone pyromancer would still draw breath.

But the wizard’s senses noted an oddity. Chef-mage was clearly dead, and yet Kellon still felt something, some presence emanating from the remains. On an impulse, Atzar approached, unsure of what he would find. No, Elijah was no more alive than the blood-sprayed muck in which he rested. Still, that aura persisted.

Like magnets, the mage’s eyes riveted to the sheathed sword at the fallen man’s side. Something whispered, called to him from that blade. Atzar crouched and one trembling, burn-scarred hand reached out to touch the hilt of the weapon. The murmurs grew louder, yet their meaning tantalizingly eluded his mind. Then with one powerful yank, Kellon tugged it free from its bindings.

Countless mystic symbols glinted and glittered along the face of the blade, and the murmurs swelled to roars in his mind. He held the weapon awkwardly in one hand, the other running up the edge, gently brushing several of the runes. At his touch, one of their number glowed a sullen, angry red.

Fascinating. After only a split-second’s hesitation, Atzar pressed his fingers into the glimmering rune. He was rewarded by a dull flash of red light, and…

Whoa!!!

The power! He felt it flow into him, surging all the way to his fingers and toes, reenergizing him. And yet he knew, as he gazed with wonder at the blade, that it had only given him a glimpse, a taste. He could feel the massive power that resided within, just out of reach. Revitalized, the mage turned and surveyed the fray, picking out the figures of the young girl and of Dirks. A mysterious smile hovered about Atzar’s lips, and some might have said his expression looked a little wicked.

The blade mentioned here is the Abyssal Blade, described in Christoph's profile and used with his permission. Atzar's magic is recharged and somewhat enhanced now as per the blade's ability.

[Breaker]

Cronen heard the explosion as he moved in a swift, silent crescent through the mire. Above the screams, gunshots, and driven rain, it rang out like a starter's pistol over the chatter of a crowd. Nothing better than a grenade to draw a warrior's attention for a split second.

Next to Teric and Sei, Josh erupted from the muck. A geyser of grit and grime to blind them. He followed the spray closely and struck like a viper. The bayonet he held in an ice-pick grip bore a thick layer of dust. It did not shine as it slashed at Sei's ribcage, nor as the same motion became a stab at Teric's throat. Anxious to bite, to bathe in blood. Wash the dust away.

His footwork varied and weaved, but his trajectory stayed the same. Beneath the rags, burns, and mud, very little was left to recognize as human. Only the open hazel eyes and determined posture could remind an observer of the man who had moved on to another life.

Another world.

He heard it calling him, heard it in the panting of his opponents. Felt it from the throb of seared nerves. But all he tasted was blood in the back of his throat, and he thirsted for continued combat.

Josh is moving past Teric and Sei as he attacks, towards Lillian.

Silly Godhand. Breaker's grenades aren't magic, and they don't glow. I know how you hate to disrupt continuity.

[Bloodrose]

Sei Orlouge, Teric discovered, could take a punch. In fact, he could take several of them.

The mercenary literally pounded the skin - burnt as it was - off the mystic's face. Teric's knuckles dripped with the blood seeping from the hero's injuries, and rain was trying to pool in the oval depression where Sei's head kept hitting the ground. Over and over again the muscled veteran struck, each blow a satisfying whack of the hammer on raw meat. And yet, the mystic's sharp blue eyes kept staring up at him. Staring, of course, until a well placed hand underneath heaved the warrior's center of gravity forward and sent him belly-first into the mud.

This guy just won't lay down and die! Teric found himself thinking as he scrambled to his feet. His wounded leg dragged behind him slightly as he spat mud and turned, brandishing his weapon. He expected Sei to be right there, pressing his advantage with an immediate assault, but instead the mystic had settled for regaining his feet and settling into a defensive stance.

"You're certainly a persistent bastard, I'll give you that." Teric offered as a compliment. He was going to say something else, but his opportunity to do so was interrupted by an explosion on the other side of the arena. The blast was almost deafeningly loud, and without even meaning to, Teric found his gaze reactively drawn to the source of the blast. He caught himself quickly enough, but not quite fast enough to catch all of what happened next.

The mercenary's eyes rested back on Sei, but the Hero of Radasanth was not alone.

There was a shape bolting for the mystic's flank. It was so hard to see that at first Teric thought his eyes were playing tricks on him in the rain, but it was real. Whatever it was, its coloration was such that it blended almost perfectly with the murky brown of the arena floor. It moved in a manner that belayed description; ducking, shifting, and scuttling in various motions to make it even harder to track. The only thing that truly gave the figure away was the manner in which its body intercepted the rain, creating a brown, almost imperceptible hole in the downpour. If Teric had been the first target, as opposed to Orlouge, the mercenary very well could have missed seeing it completely.

Move!

The veteran's mind commanded and his body responded dutifully. Even as injured and flagging from exertion as he was, Teric leapt back with preternatural speed. There was nothing quite like the realization that something is about to go horribly wrong - that you stand threatened by some unknown danger - to get the limbs moving and the blood pumping. Teric's feet dug twin furrows in the mud as his momentum carried him backwards, and the mercenary's head reared instinctively. There was a prick on his neck, like someone jabbing a needle into his skin, and then it was gone. The stealth figure came and went faster than it took some men to sneeze.

"Snake!" Teric shouted after the figure as his eyes tried to track its difficult movements. Furious at the interruption to what had otherwise been shaping into an entertaining duel with the mysterious Sei Orlouge, the veteran rent his sword through the air with purpose. The rain in the Grandmaster's immediate vicinity stopped for a split instant as a cross-shaped gust buffeted the rain back into the sky, and then the deluge resumed in earnest as the attack sailed off towards... whatever it was...


Cross-Slash headed more-or-less in Josh's direction as he breaks for Lillian.

[Letho]

People liked to believe that heroes didn't make mistakes. In their delusional minds, those famous few known throughout the lands for their deeds were embodiments of perfection. Their each and every step was calculated, their victories tactically spotless, their skill with a blade peerless, their assaults unstoppable. The truth, naturally, differed from the common belief. They weren't indomitable, these champions they exalted so readily, weren't invincible. Some, like Letho Ravenheart, were pretty damn close (though that was also an argument better left for scholars and historians), but every now and then it became clear that close only counted in horseshoes and hand grenades. Like the one that detonated below the uncannily precise Godhand Striker.

The truth was, the blast was a mere finishing blow to Letho who was already on the ropes. It was the blood-loss that started the avalanche that buried him under. With the blood he lost fighting pretty much each and every competitor in the smaller chamber of the Cell and the blood he was losing from the hole in his midriff, it was only a matter of time before the great engine of Letho Ravenheart went out of fuel. As fate would have it, this depletion of life force occurred at the most critical moment, as he charged at Max Dirks with his double-blades twirling, deflecting lead death that the criminal kept sending his way. The white flame tongues that lashed at everything around the Marshal faded to oblivion, taking away his strength, his speed and the greater part of the adrenaline that kept him going so far. And suddenly his arms felt like they were made of stones, the blade spinning in his hands too heavy, spinning way too fast for his clumsy fingers to control it.

The first bullet he failed to block zipped into the flesh of his chest, puncturing a lung in the process and slowing his advance. The second one whistled past Letho's left ear, but the third one went cleanly through his neck, leaving a trail of fire in his nerves and nicking an artery, stopping the Marshal in his tracks. The fourth one finally brought the bulky man to his knees, blowing a hole in his thigh. And then, just as he expected number five to scatter his brains over the mud, the concussion blast from the shot grenade threw him on his back.

The ground seemed to embrace him, bringing eerie clarity and awareness. He could see the blood spurting out of his neck, a vibrant crimson stream for every beat of his defiant heart. He could feel the bullet in his chest, the alien piece of metal poking at his lung every time he tried to inhale. He could sense the rigid hilt of his Vorpal Blade slowly starting to lose coherence, losing its form and reverting to the original state. And he could feel the pain, of course, washing over him like the rain, only thrice and powerful, thrice as annoying, infiltrating each and every part of his body until he felt like one giant throbbing wound. This was it, the end, the insipid conclusion of their hero and oh how the mighty have fallen. To a mere crook. It was alright. Too tired now. Feeling like he could sleep for a year. Feeling like a horse ridden hard and put away wet. Feeling defeated.

“NO!”

It was one of the simplest words in Tradespeak, and yet its utterance somewhere in the far corner of Letho's mind echoed with such power that it seemed to be pressing on his very consciousness. No, not pressing on it, yanking it back, out of the forefront and out of the way. It was akin to the disturbing sensation he felt when he had perished in the first round, only instead of detaching from his body, his mind seem to be sinking back into his own skull. In the vacant spot left by Letho's departure something else started to emerge, a presence that seemed to be made of naught but wrath and belligerence, led by most basic of instincts. Letho's iron will crumbled before this rising power, shoved aside like child, and when the last bits of his sanity were siphoned into that prison of his own skull, the Beast awakened.

“I shall not be vanquished by these petty mortals.”

Despite his obviously human appearance, Letho Ravenheart howled. He was lifted back on his knees, arms stretched outwards, head thrown back, and out of his open mouth a bestial roar spread across the battlefield. Such was the might behind this inhumane wail that the entire arena quaked, the healed up fissures breaking anew, folks in the stands dropping to their seats. And at the epicenter of this ear-shattering howl, Letho metamorphosed and was Letho no more. In his place a titanic werewolf stood, its silky silver fur slowly getting soaked by the torrent. For a moment more, the wounds on the monsters neck, chest and leg gushed with scarlet liquid, and then flesh and hair closed over it, cauterizing it and beginning the rapid regeneration process.

The Beast's head moved from one side to the next, its snout sniffing at the menagerie of scents, the pair of foot-long fangs already dripping with clear saliva. There was only one directive imprinted onto the werewolf's mind, one simple command that linked each and every instinct that guided the cursed embodiment of the ancient Savion war deity, Chodan.

Kill.

And the Beast moved to obey its programming. The diminutive girl stood closest to the newly risen behemoth, holding on to the Lawmaker gunblade. From somewhere in the back, Letho recognized his own weapon, staring through his own eyes as if they were windows and he was but a passenger in a rapidly moving coach. The monster was unconcerned with such details. It scudded towards her with speed one would think impossible for something so huge, covering the distance in half-a-dozen dashing strides and bringing one of the razor-sharp claws in for the kill with a thrust to her abdomen.

Using The Blood of Chodan and going after the little girly ;). Keep in mind that Letho's anti-magic barrier IS still up, so any magic thrown his way will most likely be nullified.

[Max Dirks]

Max Dirks watched in amazement as his inaccurate last ditch shots pelted Letho Ravenheart. It was ironic that one of the greatest warriors on Althanas had been felled by iron bullets fired by a weapon from another world. In a way, the ‘hero of Althanas’ had been cheated. But put that way, all the combatants in Cell had been cheated. Not only was he using advanced weapons, but for the good majority of the battle, Dirks had also been picking them off from behind an impenetrable wall. They had every right to hate him. Even so, Dirks felt no remorse for them. Letho, if it was actually him, had forced Dirks’ hand in self defense and had to be punished. He, like the others, was still just a pawn. Besides, the marshal would have eventually died anyway. No one would interfere with Max Dirks' revenge.

Somehow Dirks had been invigorated by Letho’s death. Like magic, the pain in his wrist subsided and his nausea was swept away. His ribs were fucked up, his shoulder had a hole in it and his right hand was bleeding, but Dirks still felt in control of the situation. Until Godhand shot the grenade, that is. The impact was not as strong as Atzar Kellon’s ice ball, but it was enough send the criminal tumbling once more. He flew backwards and ended up on his back in the mud. Several rocks landed on him, some broke his skin and a wave of mud nearly buried in him the ground.

What was more concerning though, was that the flash of the explosion had temporarily blinded him. When he finally regained his sight, he was lying a mere 15 feet away from a werewolf of sorts. Was that Letho? “Shit!” Dirks exclaimed, climbing to his feet and taking several steps backwards. He felt his leg bump against something on the ground. Fortunately, the Letho werewolf was not interested in the criminal and immediately took off after Lillian. Dirks was slightly tempted to chase after it. Lillian, after all, was one of his primary targets. However, going head to head unarmed with a werewolf was not wise given his condition. For the moment, Dirks was content to let it wear here down. Somewhat relieved, Dirks finally wiped the mud out of his face and spat blood. Mud had mixed with blood and he was an absolute mess.

In the aftermath of the attack, Dirks looked down to find out what he was stepping on. There, below his feet was the body of the vampire, Lorenor. The sight of his mutated friend make Dirks remember the prevalida katana that was still trapped to his back. Dirks slipped off his trench coat off, revealing what used to be a white jumpsuit. The jumpsuit was now a dingy shade of brown. Finally exposed, the shavings from the broken chainmail vest started pouring from the hole Lillian’s dagger had created above his breast. Dirks reached over and tore the jumpsuit slightly, allowing more of the pieces to fall out. When he was no longer clinking, Dirks reached to his back and withdrew the prevalida katana from its sheath. The weapon was clumsy in his hands, especially considering he was pressing it against the cut Lillian had given him when she pulled away the dagger, but it would have to do. Out of bullets and out of luck, Dirks would have to rely on the ancient weapon to survive.

From this vantage point Dirks could see the entire battlefield and no one could surprise him from behind. Werewolf Letho was attacking Lillian. Everyone else was still entangled in a mess around Bloodrose. Everyone except Godhand. The grenade had apparently sent him sprawling into the stands where he laid by himself on a pile of spectators. Now was Dirks’ chance. However, without Letho’s leaping ability, or Godhand’s agility, how was Dirks supposed to climb over the 15 ft adamantine wall? He scanned the battlefield and his eyes fell upon his old friend, the angel Sei Orlouge. Always on the offensive…“Sei!” Dirks yelled, “What the hell are you doing? I said I need your help!” At this point, Dirks was unaware that Sei’s would? spell had attempted to heal him and had been subsequently hijacked by Lillian. Further, he was still not sure Sei was Sei. Even so, the little angel’s wings were the only thing that would carry him into the stands. Not wanting Godhand to recover and jump back down into the fray, Dirks started running towards Sei. However, even though he weighed considerably less without his coat, his injuries significantly slowed his gait. Dirks sincerely hoped the mystic would meet him halfway. One pawn was about to be promoted to Queen.

Let’s see, Lillian pulled her dagger from Dirks’ hand (but I referred it as though it had happened previously), Sei’s Would? spell temporarily warded off Dirks’ dizziness from the poison and relieved the pain in his wrist, but had no other effect because it was hijacked. Godhand’s blast nailed Dirks. It sent him flying and left chunks of rocks in his skin. The combined rib breaking and rock pummeling has reduced his lung capacity, making Dirks really slow compared to the rest of you. Dirks pulled out his katana and is seeking Sei to fly him into the stands to take out the Striker)

[Breaker]

The rhythm of rapid motion that carried Cronen across the arena halted suddenly as he watched a werewolf replace Letho Ravenheart. Putting one knee down, he untied the Colt Anaconda from his ankle and sighted along its ugly barrel, resting his arm on a small boulder. He didn't have any silver bullets - he didn't even know if silver bullets would kill this beast. But he had reloaded the cylinder with a sequence of prevaldia AP and steel hollow points. Between the pair, he could bring almost anything down.

The Anaconda roared twice in succession, spitting a blue bullet and a grey one at the wolf. Then Teric's cross-slash caught up.

Josh grunted. One of the spell's prongs had lashed his back like a whip. Not an attempt to kill. A challenge, or a warning. He felt compelled to meet either. And so with one last glance at the beast that reminded him of Breaker, he stowed the gun and slithered through sheets of rain towards Teric.

The Grandmaster had a sword, and Cronen carried nothing. "That makes us about even." His leg slashed out in a swift crescent kick, aiming to knock the blade aside. But as the the Breaker boot flashed past Josh re-drew the bayonet from its sheathe there and stabbed at Teric's face. The motion turned into a downwards cut to open the champ's throat like a fish's belly.

I suppose the rest of the cross-slash might still be headed at Lillian/Wolfman.

[Silence Sei]

Sei had watched as Teric Bloodrose began to approach him. The fight was about to reach its climax. Sei dug his heels into the ground as he prepared for whatever it was the veteran warrior was going to throw at him. Nothing was going to stop these two men from going at one another until one of them fell.

At least, that was what Sei had thought. The mute had not realized he had been positioned so closely to the compost heap. As Joshua Croen exploded out of the pile, completely camouflaged, Sei's body fell backwards, onto his buttocks. By some stroke of luck, the attempt to strike at the telepath's ribcage narrowly missed by the exact same explosion that brought the opponent back onto the field.

Sei stumbled back to his feet as he watched Teric attempt to follow the nigh invisible foe with some sort of strange wind attack. The mute would have tried to follow up the strike Teric had used with one of his own. However, the massive howl that erupted from the battleground caused Sei's head to turn towards Letho Ravenheart.

A werewolf. First lions, then 'zombies', and now a werewolf. Sei hated to think it, but this tournament was starting to become slightly ridiculous. Sei watched as the wolf man went after Lillian Sesthal (or in Sei's mind, Tshael Nito). The telepath then heard Max Dirks second plea for help. As the gunmen rushed towards the mute, his eyes shifted towards the stand, where Godhand Striker (or as Sei saw him, Devon Starslayer), laid in the middle of a fearful and shocked crowd.

Sei was faced with a difficult decision. Was he to keep battling Teric, and possibly claim a great victory over the older warrior? Was he going to maintain his alliance to Letho, and inadvertently break the one with the nWo members? Was he to help Teric take out the common opponent who interrupted the epic clash between Bloodrose and himself? Or was he to aid the only man who was his 'family' in this battle?

"Come on..." Anita Orlouge said as she looked at her father, "Do the right thing, Papa..."

Sei jumped into the air, and sheathed his blade, two massive butterfly wings sprouting from the mystic's back. The blue and orange seemed to illuminate the entire arena. Sei could feel the cold droplets of rain upon his once dry wings. The mute flapped the extra appendages as Dirks leapt into the air, Sei diving towards his friend and grabbing him by the forearm. The mute then turned his flight trajectory towards Godhand Stiker.

"You need to lay off the Concordia hot cakes, old friend." Sei smiled as he began to swing Dirks back and forth with his arm. After he had gained enough momentum, the Dragon of Drantrak threw his friend into the stands. The battle was one thing, but Godhand Striker was now endangering innocent people. The most logical person to take him out at this point was Max Dirks. As a result, Sei let his friend handle the situation as his gaze shot back down towards Teric.

The third party was attempting to steal his foe away from him. Sei dived from the air towards Joshua with great speed. Withdrawing his blade once again, Sei moved his feet in front of him and landed back-to-back with Joshua. The mute took the S-shaped blade and ran it directly behind him. He was hoping to penetrate the spine of the unarmed opponent, leaving Teric open to lay the death blow.

Then they could back to their battle, or handle the rest of this ridiculousness


Sei grabs Dirks and throws him at Godhand, then attempts to stab Josh in the back with his Gemini Blade.

[Bloodrose]

Wonderful, Teric's grip on the hilt of his weapon tightened as the brown gap in the rainfall came to a stop. It seemed, as far as the mercenary could tell, that his parting shot had just garnered him a little more attention than he'd really wanted. ...at least he didn't discharge that firearm in my direction.

The stealth figure, it seemed, was just full of surprises, and the veteran was starting to get an unsettling feeling in his gut. Firearms, speed, and camouflage - whoever this mystery opponent was, he or she certainly hadn't been in Treslizn chamber at the start of this whole mess; Teric would have remembered him. If given a moment's opportunity, the Grandmaster might have trusted Sei just long enough to ask him if he knew what they faced (after all, the shadow had tried to kill the mystic as well).

No such opportunity was likely to arise, however. As the vaguely humanoid chameleon turned its attention back towards the nearest threat, the Hero of Radasanth sprouted wings and took to the sky. Typical. Teric almost joked. He might have rolled his eyes as well, but taking his gaze off the slithering foe to come would have been a stupid thing to do.

He must have survived the last round intact. Teric concluded. None of the other revived competitors are quite as spry as this one...

Thirty-five years of experience counted for a lot, and so as the hard-to-track shadow closed quarters with him, Teric knew how best to minimize his risks. Leading with something resembling a leg, the mystery-foe tried to kick the mercenary’s blade aside as another limb reached for something close to the chest. Twirling his blade around and under the crescent kick, Teric slashed upwards towards the groin area. He didn't have time to notice if his razor-sharp blade found a home in the chameleon's flesh, however, as the thing's secondary attack found purchase of its own.

Red hot pain lanced through the mercenary's nervous system as he threw his free arm in front of his face, protecting his throat. Cold, sharp metal sliced Teric's forearm from wrist to elbow, opening up a cut so deep that bone was visible between the dissected flesh. Blood literally flowed from the wound, and the world at the edges of the Grandmaster's vision went dark as his injury screamed in agony. Any further attempt to grip something in his left hand would prove useless, but there were more pressing concerns.

The chameleon was still close enough to kill with one well placed strike, and Teric was rapidly losing the wherewithal to properly defend himself. As orange and blue wings appeared from the sky behind his attacker, Teric responded in the only manner that made sense in his pain-addled mind; he unleashed another (and likely his last) furious cross of air. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Teric knew that at this range the assault was likely to rend through titanium as easily as it might flesh, and could only hope there was nowhere for his foes to go.

It was a last ditch effort at best, and the death throes of lethal warrior at the worst...

[Ataraxis]

Even after witnessing a mass reanimation of corpses, the sight of this dead rising from his grave gave her chills far worse than the penance rain now pouring from the heavens. ‘Joshua,’ she thought in a daze, repeating the name like a mantra without seizing its meaning. No matter how badly burned, how disfigured, how beaten and battered, that was Joshua, and he was alive. Like the others, he had been drawn back from eternal respite, to do a crook’s sick and twisted bidding one last time… and the girl was torn.

He was a blur as he ran, but there were things one could simply not camouflage. In those deep hazel eyes, even as the warrior slashed and hewed at the winged mystic and the tattered veteran, she saw silent contempt pass between his gaze and hers like a hail of daggers. Perhaps he hated her now, for not saving him when he fell. Perhaps he hated her now, for the basking in the luxury of survival, when all he could do was leap to his immolating death… only to return a scorched wreck of his former self. Seeing this, seeing him begin his charge from the point of his emergence, Lillian could not help but recall how peaceful his face had been, when she’d tried to save him from his fall.

A stentorian bellow tore over the thunderstorm, the deafening sound like a thousand pinpricks in the girl's eardrums. Something in her gut told her she would have no time to make sense of Joshua’s return.

Training her eyes toward the source of the howl, she saw with awe and wonder the nightmarish creature that had had swapped places with the man who’d tried to cleave her in twain. It stood with the frightening bulk of a sentinel tower, muscles primed to such a size that she wondered how it could ever support its own weight. Bristling upon the cords of its musculature were the hairs of a silver-tipped pelt, but the noble tint of moonlit mythril was marred by sprays of blood from the injuries he’d sustained as a man, although they were beginning to seethe and close with the sheer excess of his newfound might.

When it looked her way, she saw death in its eyes as clearly and unequivocally as in the reaper’s hollows. Its feral gaze wandered to the heavy blade of dehlar in her hand, and she noticed in it a gleam of recognition, noticed as the lupine creature coiled its legs in preparation for a charge, and pounced.

Lillian was standing in the cross-tracks of two freight trains. There was a shiver through her bones, and she found herself smiling against all reason.

The weapon she would come to know as the Lawmaker was her only hope, now. Soliciting every ounce of her strength, she swept the gunblade’s tip across the muddy soil at an angle. It broke against the loose matter in an explosive wave of muck, the earth-born tidal wave becoming a spotty screen that would blind her assailants. Rather than stopping her momentum, however, the girl kicked at the ground to accelerate…

And at the end of her rotation, she let go of the sword in a catastrophic throw, aiming at the mystic as he flew back from the grandstands. “Go fetch!”

The werewolf hesitated as it watched the familiar weapon fly like a tawny sparrow. Capitalizing on the staccato pause, Lillian dashed, closing the gap even while fully aware its speed surpassed that of Cronen. When the beast resumed its onslaught, it found that stick of a prey so much closer than it had been before, almost burning holes into its flesh with those eyes like wildfire.

With every bit of honesty, Lillian was incapable of seeing the blur of its lashing claws: she never even bothered trying. Acting on pure instinct, she skipped sideways, knowing the move was a far cry from evasion. The limb that was thicker than a tree trunk, ripping against her ribcage and cutting ribbons from her forearm as she went for his armpit. Lillian screamed in agony, her skull afire; even so, she snatched a bloodied tuft of silver fur from the creature’s underarm, then plunged her other hand into the gash of its abdomen before it could fully close. Two bullets struck the beast as she did so, one going right through the shoulder and the other lodging into its back: she would never know, but they had slowed the barreling wolf-man just enough to save her life.

Lillian dropped beneath its center of gravity, an easy feat considering their differing heights. Drilled into the earth with her feet, she twisted her body backward, knocking elbow into groin while dragging its fur along with the other hand. The beast was the clearly the mightier of the two, and even with the immense strength at her disposal, Lillian would never triumph in a contest of brawn: her only option was to redirect as much of that unstoppable force as she could and use it against the furry bastard, regardless of the risks.

With the upward thrust of her forearm and the yank of its fur, its feet left the ground, and even as it rolled off her back and flew, for that single moment she felt the weight of the entire world upon her shoulders.

Unbeknownst to Lillian, the werewolf soared into the path of the sickle cross. She hadn’t even noticed that Cronen had broken from his dash to have at the old man. In that moment of freedom, of lightness after brushing with death, she realized with unwonted clarity the torture of mortality. Her right arm was fractured in four points, messy breaks that might never heal. A great patch of cloth and skin was missing from her side, exposing ribs under a network of dark webs. One side of her only functioning arm had been turned to crimson confetti.

Yet even as Lillian fell to the ground, she kicked with a stubbornness she had never suspected in herself. Her body slid across the mud, far from the melee and the monster that had sprung from the grimmest of fairy tales. The sacrifice, she believed, had been worth it: in one hand, she held a bloody patch of silvery fur, and in the other, the girl felt only viscera, perhaps a chunk of liver – she couldn’t be sure. With a tired sigh but satisfied smile, she put them away into the satchel at her side, increasing her gruesome collection by one.

“Three down…” she muttered under her breath, so low it seemed the whisper of a ghost. With a swollen and spastic eye, she looked to the elderly legend.

“One to go.”

Bunnying approved by Letho. Lillian used the Lawmaker to sweep up a blast of mud meant to blind Wolf-Man and Cronen. She continued the spin to throw the whole damn thing at Sei while he’s returning (around the time Cronen breaks away from Lillian), distracting wolfy at the same time. She then ippon seoinage’d Twi-Letho on the fly, who should fly far enough (also, it was confirmed that Righteous Might ran out before he used Blood of Chodan, so they're not stacking right now). She then stole bloodied fur along some pieces of what you can find inside someone’s abdomen.

Also added the part where Letho gets shot by Cronen, at his request, so that he won't have to backtrack and acknowledge the action.

[Breaker]

Cronen leaned in as blood rinsed the blade of the bayonet. He strove to drive it's point past the mercenary's forearm and into his neck. But the old man matched his strength as well as his speed. Josh had calculated the risk of Teric being swift enough to slash under the kick, and with clockwork efficiency his body counter-attacked.

They were in close, the range of dirty boxing, lethal damage, and grappling. Josh managed to stop his foe's sword arm, his own forearm sweeping down to meet it like a damaged pendulum. Rather than try to stab Teric again or spin out of the awkward position with a sword so close to his groin, Josh leapt off the one foot he had on the ground and attempted a flying armbar.

His free arm swam through to hook the grandmaster's sword arm elbow-to-elbow. His hips twisted in midair so his left leg drove towards Teric's chin and his right shin at the small of his back. Kept the bayonet in his other hand loose and ready as he watched the cross-slash he barely avoided tear up the air between him and Sei.

Josh could barely remember a time when he found fighting two opponents difficult. The individual impacts of his body parts destroyed Teric's structural integrity. Each piece of the complex technique clicked perfectly, the gears of a well-designed machine. Cronen slammed the Grandmaster on his back in the mire, landing in a seated position beside him. The backwards thrust of the gemini blade missed them both completely.

The legs covered in scars and broken heat blisters squeezed like a battle-hardened python, threatening to constrict the flow of blood to Teric's brain. Josh leaned back with the arm still hooked, which would be enough to turn the elbow inside out. He was at home with another human's heartbeat up to his discretion. He was at home on a battlefield where everything looked like death.

Bunnies approved by Bloodrose.

[Godhand]

It was cool and dark under the rubble. It was...Nice. He didn't really want to leave. He hated the thought of going back to that hellish morass of flying spells, snarling werewolves and giggling psychopaths. He'd been in this situation before, once; he'd tried to gore Teric Bloodrose in a pagoda battle and instead plunged full-bore into a wooden palisade, getting buried underneath the shattered wood. He didn't know what would happen if he went down like that again in another battle that involved Bloodrose. People would either think the grandmaster had his ticket, despite the fact that he hadn't had anything to do with his current predicament, or that he had some sort of strange vulnerability to wood. Either one was totally unacceptable for an ego like his. Still, that didn't mean he had to go diving back into the fray just yet.

He groggily pushed aside a massive support beam that had fallen on his chest. His lungs hurt. Badly. It was possible one of them had collapsed from the impact. Apart from that there were some bruised ribs and a low-level concussion, though it had certainly FELT like his brain had been forced to bounce terminally off the walls of his skull. But, he could still see light through the broken timber. That meant he'd only been knocked out for a couple of seconds. That was the way it was with concussions; you either went down for a ten count, a day, or the rest of your life. Nothing in-between.

As he shifted under the pile of broken wood, he swore that he'd find the suicidal commando that made those grenades and kill him for good this time. Boy, after he finished with that little prick the cops wouldn't know what to think.

He emerged from the wreckage to the delight of the crowd, and right away dozens of spectators converged behind him, picking up splinters and staves of wood as souvenirs. The t-shirts would probably read "I was at ground zero." He paid them no mind as he surveyed the chaos before him. The little commando thought he was invisible, but he wasn't. The rain bounced off his wounded form clear as day when he wasn't neck deep in mud and slithering about like a snake, and now he was attacking Teric Bloodrose. Having fought both him and the commando, he gave it to the pagoda grandmaster by a country mile.

His attention was drawn more urgently towards Lillian, however. She was the only stake he had in this fight, and right now she seemed to be fighting some sort of huge werewolf. His eyes darted around the arena, searching out anybody that was missing so he could tell whether someone had shape-shifted or Sei had summoned more animals. He noticed Letho was missing and he grit his teeth, hand reaching for his muramasa.

Before he could leap off the stands and bury his blade hilt-deep in the Were-Ranger's spine, however, he heard the flapping of dainty wings and turned to see the deranged Sei Orlouge carrying a wounded Max Dirks to him. Right away he realized the reason for the tournament, the shield, and all the other nonsense. Dirks was still angry over their takeover.

But when the fairy dropped the half dead criminal off at Godhand's feet, he couldn't help but laugh. He was wielding a blade for god's sake! Against HIM! Godhand reached for a revolver to finish the man off, but then he thought...Why waste the bullet?

And with that, he leaped into the air and delivered a savage pump kick to where Dirks' head was. As soon as he had, however, he cursed and began hopping on one leg, trying to ignore the flaring pain from the bullet wound in his attacking foot. He craned his head towards where Dirks would be sprawled after the full-speed, full-strength, full-bore attack and smiled without even looking at him.

"Next time bring a spare clip. Maybe then you'll have a chance."

And so, knowing that the chances were he WAS carrying a spare clip, and not certain the attack had killed Dirks but not wanting to take the chance checking and getting shot in the gut, he dove back into the fray.

[Atzar]

Kill…

It felt like a dark fog had enveloped his mind. He couldn’t reason, couldn’t think. He had only room for three thoughts. The girl; she had helped him when he had needed help the most. Dirks; he caused more bloodshed, more pain, than anybody in the stadium. He had to be stopped. As for the third one…

Kill...

He didn’t know it, but the blade had tainted him. A malicious presence had colored his thoughts red. He spotted the young girl not far away, and even through the haze he winced at the sight of her mangled form. Both or her arms were torn up, and she sported a series of fearsome gash in her side. The rain poured down his face, dripping from the lips that curled in a hateful snarl. His narrowed eyes picked out the form of the werewolf. Yes. He must have been responsible. He was the only one equipped to do that kind of damage.

A series of icy spike manifested and shot toward the shielded beast, but to no avail. They shattered into a million tiny fragments against the magical barrier. He felt like screaming with frustration. That blasted shield thwarted him at every turn. He would not, could not break it. Helplessly he scanned the battlefield, looking for another target. He wanted to vent his aggravation. His eyes fell on the injured form of the veteran.

How fitting.

Not a moment ago, Atzar had viewed the man’s attack as a benign gesture, in a way. He had tried to kill the mage, but at the time it had been what he wanted. Now, it represented nothing but a reason, a motive. Not even an old dog deserves to suffer this, he thought, his words twisting Bloodrose’s earlier ‘apology.’ He conjured another icy thorn, meaning to fire it into the wounded fighter’s brain.

A formless being descended on the grizzled old man, taking him to the ground. This time, Atzar did scream. No! The shadowy figure had taken away his vengeance. The wizard couldn’t bear it. Just as he vented his ire, so did the blade’s voice in his mind shout its simple desire.

KILL!

The projectile darted through the air at the camouflaged shape. Blood boiling, teeth grating together until it hurt, Atzar fired bolt after frigid bolt at the man who had robbed him of his target.

Attacked Letho, but it didn't break through the magic shield - that thing sucks! :p

Then, I attacked Numbers. How many spikes I fired is up to you - probably no more than a half-dozen or so.

[Silence Sei]

His blade had struck nothing but air. The mute's wings began to retract into his back while he did the only probable thing there was to do. Take cover. By attacking the exposed back of Joshua Croen, Sei also exposed his own vulnerable backside. Pure instinct fueled the telepath as he quickly began to lower his form to the ground. But he was too late.

The slashing from the cross slash had grazed the magician's backside. The powerful blast of wind felt similar to a sword tip barely finding a hone down the line of his spine. There was searing pain from the wound, which lead all the way down to the muddied mute's lower back. The force of the blow also knocked Sei's face into the ground once again, and for the third time in this fight, the mute tasted wet soil.

It just so happened that the timing of the two attacks aimed at him were so well placed. The cross slash had slammed into the legendary weapon that belonged to Letho Ravenheart. The meeting of the two projectiles dissipated one, while changing the trajectory of the other. Sei raised his head from the floor as he watched the gun-sword fly into the adamantine wall, and lay dormant upon the ground, a good fifteen feet or so away from the mystic.

Sei looked to his arm, the cross slash had knocked his sword out of his hand. Sei reached behind his back to find that the same attack had displaced the second Gemini Blade as well. Sei was out of weapons, his cheek was starting to swell bigger, and he could feel himself starting to dizzy from the blows Teric had wailed into him. It seemed as though the adrenaline rush the older warrior had given Sei had began to wear off, and man did his body ache.

He had to push through the pain, though. He couldn't leave Max Dirks alone with the legends that were trying so hard to kill him. Sei pushed himself up with his single arm, looking at the stump that had once been his right appendage. The severed area had been caked over with both dry and wet dirt. The mute feared an infection may come as a result of this battle, but quickly began to focus on who was left in the fight.

Tshael was holding what seemed like a piece of the wolf-man's body. The shock of being able to obtain such materials from such a monstrous beast must have shocked her. Dirks was busy with the Starslayer, so Sei's gaze did not even go to the stands, and Teric Bloodrose looked like he was being done in by their previously well-hidden opponent. Finally, the young mage seemed to possess a sword he did not previously wield, and was chunking razor sharp icicles at the foe attacking Bloodrose.

Sei began to run towards Teric's last stand when something caught his foot, and the telepath fell into the hard surface once more. Looking at what caused him to fall, Sei found the body of a large man in a coat. His hat had fallen to the wayside. If Sei had only known that the corpse that had hexed his initial run was that of Seth Dahlios, he would have had a laugh about it. For now, the mute could only focus on the materials he could use off of the man's form.

Sei grabbed the hat, looking to the body for a moment and hoping the stranger would forgive him. Pushing himself back up, Sei ran towards Teric's assailant. The mute moved swiftly in the rain, trying to take a page out of Joshua's book and hide in the downpour that surrounded them. It was a difficult task when you had orange hair, but Sei was still going to attempt it.

Shifting himself around so that he was once again facing the back of his foe, Sei leapt with as much speed as he could muster. The mute quickly attempted to wrap his legs around the hips of his foe from behind, locking his ankles in place to ensure a lower risk of being thrown off. The mute then threw the hat in front of the mystery fighter’s face. The mystic released the hat and shot his hand down to try and find -something- on his opponent's form that would harm the man.

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

Anita Orlouge had never been told to 'shut her mind' before. The girl simply reacted the best way she could to someone who was being a total jerk. "I hope the werewolf eats your entrails!" she yelled while her eyes shifted over to the stands ten feet away from her.

Her father had in the span of a couple minutes delivered Max Dirks to the grand stands. His target had been obvious. It was Godhand Striker. The girl covered her mouth in shock as the larger man reached for his gun. Anita was not one to typically engage in direct combat with others, but this was the man who was to take care of her if Sei had died, for Gods sakes! Aside from her 'sister', Kyla Orlouge, Max Dirks was the next best family she had ever had.

Anita let out a rather high pitched and distracting scream. The girl threw off her enchanted backpack as she climbed the stairs of the stands while trying to make her way towards the fight. As Godhand attempted to boot Max in the face, Anita leapt at him, trying to imitate her father and hold the much stronger man for a second...

...but Godhand dove back into the battle afterwards.

Anita flew through the air as her eyes met the gaze of Max Dirks. "Sorry Uncle Dirks," she said in resignation, "I tried..."

[Letho]

"Didn't see that one coming," Letho said, his words unspoken and heard by none. The legendary Marshal was confined to a mental prison within his own mind, demoted to a mere spectator as the cursed creature borne of his own blood controlled his transformed body. Controlled it quite poorly, the swordsman concluded as he watched his furry self get thrown by a child-sized girl. The thing that wore his flesh like a suit was as smart as a rabid dog and had about as much finesse as a rolling boulder. It didn't have a one-track mind; indeed, it seemed to have no mind whatsoever. It charged like a bull and struck like a train, but when he thought about it – and Letho certainly had time to do that, what with being thrown in the back seat – that wasn't so surprising. This Beast wasn't so different from himself, now was it? If one took away his years of experience and quieted his tactical mind, then amplified his worse trait – recklessness – wouldn't the result be something like this?

When the tough little, black-haired hellion made her move, time for introspective – in the most literal sense, to be sure – was over. The Beast was flung over her shoulder like a sack of wheat, and thrown straight into the path of an invisible pair of blades. When they crashed against the soaring werewolf's flank, Letho felt it as much as the Beast, more so given the fact that all he could do was watch and muse and feel every wound as if it was his own. Which it, sort of, was. Now he could feel his flesh being torn asunder, his triceps cut about halfway to the bone, his ribs breaking and stabbing at his lungs. Combined with the twin pulsating gunshot wounds in his back, the pain made him close his eyes – or rather his mind's eyes – and grit the teeth he no longer had. When he managed to unclench both, he was staring at the dirt and his side felt as if somebody tore it clean off. He could see one of the clawed hands disappear from sight, reach to touch the wounded side and return back to vision all wet and sticky and bright red. And then the Beast raised its head, snorted through its snout and locked its eyes on the origin of the shearing strike. The old man.

"No! Idiot, get the girl! The girl! She is wounded!" Letho shouted from somewhere in the back. He remembered the claws ripping through her skin, remembered the expression of sheer exertion painted over his visage as she flung her assailant, remembered the flowery smell mixed with blood and sweat. Chances were she didn't have much left in her, which made her ripe for the picking. But the sovereign consciousness didn't hear the Marshal, or maybe it did, but opted to pay him no heed. Instead, it brought the impressive mountain of fur up to its feet, let out another of its dreadful howls – which, from Letho's point of perspective, seemed like an extremely dumb thing to do, telegraphing his approach to all with a grain of brain matter between their ears – and charged once again.

"Lovely. Here we go again," Letho muttered, not quite enjoying the ride. If he had the stomach under his own control, all these moving pictures and rapid swaying motions would've made him hurl by now. Alas, all he could do was bear with the discomfort and watch as the Beast bore down on the veteran and those around him. The wounds hidden beneath the monster's fur – the deep gash at its side, the laceration on his arm, the two (Or was it three now? Who's counting? Certainly not the Beast) holes in his torso, the cracked bones – were already mending, the blood coagulating, the muscle fiber slowly intertwining and repairing itself like a well-oiled machine. Their presence was debilitating enough to slow down the werewolf's assault by a fair half, its clawed feet not quite as fast as they were when it aimed to crush the petite teen. But it was still freakishly fast, the stuff of nightmares.

Not to mention strong as a herd of bulls. The Beast leaped gracelessly over the last dozen paces, its thick arms stretched outwards with the foot-long claws extended. It brought them down on the three closely packed warriors in a double swiping arc moments before it landed. But instead of burying itself in the spot as it landed, it carried the momentum forward, aiming to crush whatever it failed to cleave.

DEATH FROM ABOVE for Joshua, Teric and Sei if he's still close enough. Also, all those who want to attack Letho have my permission to make it so some of their hits hit Letho. The Beast is careless at this point because it knows just about any wound it takes would heal back up. Gotta love that regeneration. ;)

[Bloodrose]

If three decades of armed combat had taught Teric anything about the battlefield, it was that victory was never assured. It was the nature of a battle to be unpredictable. With the right amount of luck, any green novice might land a killing blow to a legend. With enough misfortune, even a hero might accidentally draw the ire of someone the fate's favored more. Mistimed spells and stray projectiles were commonplace, and the wounds they inflicted could lay low even the most powerful warriors...

Boil away the legend and the mystique surrounding him, and Teric Reginald Barton was nothing more than an old man with a sword; a man just as mortal as the rest.

Both of his arms hurt. The wound in his leg, a remnant from an earlier fight, ached. His lungs burned inside his chest as powerful limbs constricted over his throat, choking the life from him. As darkness closed in around the edges of Teric's vision, the veteran tried to piece together where exactly he'd gone wrong. Unfortunately for him, and for any other warrior really, it was hard to isolate just one act in an activity as ferocious and fast as armed combat that - if done differently - might have made for a completely different outcome. He tried to think about Sei, and about the camouflaged snake wrapped around his arm and neck like a boa, but as the blood to his brain trickled to a stop, Teric found it impossible to think about anything.

Simple fact of it was, sometimes it just wasn't your day...

The veteran didn't even feel the tremendous impact that tore him bodily from the grasp of his mystery foe. If asked, all Teric might have recollected to anyone was the image of a hairy grey limb sweeping down on him like a scythe. Dimly, somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind, something might have registered the fact that his arm was broken, and that the paw compressed his chest so greatly that the ribs all down one side of his body snapped like toothpicks. If he'd been aware enough to realize what was going on, the veteran might have been grateful for the mythril chain weave that kept the dangerous claws from his flesh even as his bones shattered. Thanks to his chameleon friend's powerful choke, however, there was little left of the Grandmaster's consciousness to worry about such things.

The deadly arc of the creature's swinging arms flung Teric like a child's plaything - the mercenary's body twisting awkwardly as he bounced once off the squishy ground and then slid unceremoniously to a halt several meters away. There was muck and debris packed into his nostrils and mouth, but Teric didn't move to get up and clear away the mess. He just lay there, one eye open, as the patter of the rain drowned out the dull roar of the crowd.

It was romantic to believe that, as he lay there dying, Teric enjoyed some sort of epiphany - some manner of enlightenment that would forever change the course of his life after the Cell. They always claimed that life flashed before your eyes in these final moments, and that this rare instance of reflection allowed a man to truly measure the weight of his deeds. What they always seemed to neglect, however, was that a battered fighter had no more ability to reflect on the actions of his life than a prize-fighter does after being knocked out in the second round.

There was no epiphany for Teric. In fact, there was no thought whatsoever running through the old man's mind as the warm embrace of death slowly crowded in around him.

[Ataraxis]

Relief came over her when the silver mutt perked its ears, forgetting all about the girl’s transgression when, with a few whiffs of its snout, it picked up in the muggy air the scent of something older. Once the beast charged for the cluster of rundown warriors revolving around the bearded veteran, Lillian did not dawdle in fixing whatever she could of her own beaten body.

As was quickly becoming a habit, she threw the scabbard to avoid its magic vacuum, wondering with a frown when the mercenary would finally come to reclaim it – the only reason she’d even lugged it around was because the man was a stickler when it came to his belongings. ‘Unlike you, some people can’t solely rely on their equipment and physical strength.’

Lillian tried to amuse herself with light thoughts such as these, bright and vivid memories, anything that could distract her from the terrible pain she was in. The teenager was too afraid to look at the raw flesh and peaking white bones at her side, thankful enough that most of the blood had been stemmed by the resilient cocoon of webs over her ribs. Her forearm had not been so fortunate: the werewolf’s falcate claws had ripped right through the weave. With enough focus, she had managed to repair the torn webs, but there would be no recovering the pints of red life that had gushed from the wound.

Though she could heal bone, Lillian had no time to mend her broken arm, and so instead she sought to brace the fragments tightly together, if only to avoid further deterioration. Dark threads coursed beneath her muscles, winding about the multiple breaks and pulled taut to secure the splinters. Once done, she could even close her fingers into a fist, although the attempt had left her crying.

There was a wet thud, and she felt mud splatter over her just in time to cover the exposed portion of her ribcage. The old warrior lay in a dirty heap, pelted by the incessant rain, his worn blue eyes seeking out the absent blue skies. Lillian rushed to his side, crawling through the muck on her knees and one good hand. All this time, she thought the man would only be accessible through a long and torturous fight that would have challenged both their endurance when hanging to life by a thread.

“A bit anti-climactic, but I’ll take what I can get,” she said to herself with a chuckle, placing a hand against the obscene gash in his forearm. She uncapped a vial from her satchel, running its glass lip against the wound until it filled up halfway. She looked at it oddly, as if not quite realizing that her collection was finally complete.

Joshua Cronen, a warrior who even now was proving himself indestructible for the second time this day. The cloaked fighter from Aequitas, an arsonist that had become one with fire. Then, the blood of a werewolf stronger than even Godhand. And now, her hands were clasped around the blood of the man she would one day know as Teric Barton, the Bloodrose Wolfe.

A pained moan broke her from that moment of wonder and reverie. Looking down, she realized that the man was still alive. “Hey… hey!” she began palpating his chest, looking for wounds. Now that her mission was complete, she no longer cared about this sordid tournament, no longer cared about triumph. “You’ve shown mercy to that boy… and while our methods may disagree, I can be merciful too.”

Though Lillian knew that after this, she would be unable to weave anymore of her sorcerous strings, the girl had a feeling she would not regret it. She pressed her palm over his chest, infusing him with her blood and a multitude of filamentous threads that clung into his open wounds. They formed a dark barrier, impermeable to his own blood, and though they could not fully heal his injuries, he would no longer bleed to death. His broken bones did not mend, but much like her arm, they would remain structurally sound within a sheath of webs. With one last push of sorcery, she slipped her fingers across the slash that ran from wrist to elbow, knitting it closed as well. Her work was not quite as stellar as it had been with the mage, but it was all she could do.

His eyes opened weakly, blinking, and she stared down into them with a wan smile. It was obvious to both that they were under quite a deal of pain, but she knew the man could bear it, now. He would be able to walk, to swing his sword, and not scream for sweet deliverance at every step. It seemed he understood this as well, and so decided not to slit her throat right then and there, much to her appreciation.

“I don’t have any good reason to fight anymore, and I doubt I’ll be able to keep this up much longer,” she told him with a weak sigh. Still, the teenager ended that statement with a half-smirk. Lillian stood up with effort, offering her hand to the old man. Groggily, he accepted her assistance, and she pulled him up with relative ease. She yanked at a string, and once more the scabbard flew back into her grip, glinting even with the layers of mud that marred its masterful craft.

“But I’d like to see a certain roach with wings go down before I do.”


Lillian sutured her wounds to avoid bleeding to death, but they are barely healed. Her broken arm is kept in place by webs, and the bones are not mended. Same healing as with Atzar was done on Bloodrose, but not as effective. All bunnying done with Bloodrose's approval.

[Breaker]

Nothing made quite the same sound as a shattering forearm. But Josh concentrated his well-tuned ears on Sei's approach. He didn't make much noise for a wounded mute running through a rainstorm, but the martial artist heard the mystic's breathing before he got within striking range. It gave him an audible target to deflect the ice spikes at. A snarling werewolf filled his vision so he flipped the eyepatch down and took a look around from above. Got everyone's positions in his head, as well as potential obstacles.

Sei got to him first, landing on his back and applying a weak body lock, a lost hand questing to deal damage. Rather than executing one of a half dozen counter moves Cronen focused on escaping, and demonstrated that Sei had broken a rookie rule in attempting to wrestle someone who has a knife. Releasing the senseless grandmaster he exploded sideways and stabbed at Sei's exposed armpit. The mud and blood made it easy slither out of the body lock.

The world seemed to stop breathing as silence replaced the pounding of clawed feet. From the perspective of a sparrow Josh watched the lupine beast descend upon him and his enemies.

It would make a fine death, surrounded by other famed warriors at the apex of a legendary battle. But the symphony in the madness called him for one last dance.

He chose to live. Threw an impact grenade straight down and disapeared before it exploded.

The burst of speed ended some twenty yards away as Cronen appeared, seeming to have teleported, in a thrower's final stance. The bayonet flew like chain lighting as the grenade roared its thunder behind him. The blade spun with the speed of his throw, nearly invisible until Josh spotted it a few feet from biting into Godhand Striker's thigh.

[Godhand]

Godhand felt good. He'd just laid down a carbon footprint unto the face of someone who deserved it. That wasn't an opportunity that came along every day. He smiled as he felt the gentle pounding of rain on his back, surveying the arena like a satisfied hawk. The commando and mystic seemed to be struggling with each other, although that was only a brief one-sided battle. A rejuvenated mage kept flinging spike after spike of magical ice at the slithering snake, and the mercenary certainly couldn't blame him. The pretty-boy just had one of those faces you wanted to...Well, to lay a carbon footprint on.

The werewolf seemed to be taking a lot of damage, having only just a moment ago been the target of some very hostile attentions. Bullet wounds, slash wounds, icicles, a big gash in his stomach where Lillian had tried to disembowel him...His body was a road map of pain, yet the creature showed no signs of stopping. Hell, the wounds only seemed to have barely slowed him down, and even now bones were resetting and flesh was knitting itself back together. The thing was a true juggernaut, but Godhand had been prepared to try and take out it out for good once it had set upon Lillian, likely-obliteration be damned. Luckily for him, he didn't have to. The gut wound seemed to have scared him off from the petite girl and it was at that point Godhand felt a surge of something deep in his chest. Was it pride? She was all grown up. The mercenary felt bad for not helping Bloodrose: they were acquaintances if not friends, but there were few people he was willing to fistfight a twelve foot behemoth to protect and the contractor just wasn't one of them.

Godhand saw the commando shoot towards the other side of the arena out of the corner of his eye after he threw down another one of the pop-rocks. He was a real hit-and-run coward, slithering through the muck like a snake and only attacking when he felt he was at a significant advantage. Smart, yes, but Godhand preferred a man who fought his opponents on even terms. But who was he to talk? He'd been guilty of that in the past, too, when fighting someone who massively outclassed him.

But then he'd thrown a bayonet at him. Godhand flipped over and re-adjusted himself, blocking the flying blade with his own just in time, the sparks from the clash sizzling on his brow before the rain put them out. Enough was enough. No guns, no bullets, no grenades, no bullshit. The little prick had to go down.

And with that thought, he landed and produced his peerlessly sharp adamantine katana, rushing the sniveling snake and delivering a series of slashes faster than the eye could see.

He was faster, stronger, meaner and better equipped and he'd be damned if he let the coward keep getting away with his simpering tactics.

[Atzar]

The shadowy fighter brushed away the crystalline spikes as if they were no more bothersome than mosquitoes. Then the man simply vanished. Even through the runic sword’s influence, Atzar blinked. What? Where did he go? Then he caught a glimpse of the figure quite some distance away, and the mage’s blood ran cold. How did he do that? One moment he choked the life out of the man known as Bloodrose, and the next he stood in the pouring rain as if he’d never been near the old man.

The blade in his hand no longer suggested; it commanded. The voice in his head came not as an idea, but as an order. KILL! The wizard could feel the malevolent presence grow more insistent by the minute. It held contempt for its new wielder. Atzar wasn’t strong enough, couldn’t inflict the death that the weapon desired.

His jaws ached from clenching his teeth. Rain dripped from the tip of the malicious sword as if from a faucet, and he held the fell weapon in one white-knuckled hand. Still, some of the mage’s reason remained. He knew that to attack the shadowy figure would be to invite death; he could not battle against such impossible speed. Likewise, the wolfish beast that had been Ravenheart would shred him, and Kellon could not penetrate that blasted shield. Dirks was nowhere to be seen. The young girl and the veteran huddled together some distance away; the veteran seemed to be in rough shape, and the girl healed him much as she had done to Atzar earlier.

Betrayal! Kill her! the blade screamed soundlessly in his mind.

Seemingly of their own accord, his legs carried him forward. No! The tip of the blade lifted to point at the teenager’s back. He could feel his muscles clench, could only watch as ice materialized in the air in front of him. NO! I won’t hurt her! Her attention focused on the wounded old man. She would never know what hit her. Atzar fought not with any man in the Cell; rather, he fought with the evil weapon in his hand. In some strange way, he fought with himself.

It took all the willpower he possessed to keep the malevolent spirit from eradicating the girl. Slowly, painfully, he forced the sword’s point back to the ground. Agonizingly, he wrested control from the spirit that commanded him. The commands in his mind took on an ugly overtone. It hurt. The presence battered his mind, his will, harming him, punishing him. He felt as if his head would explode, but still he resisted.

No! I won’t hurt her! She pulled the old man to his feet before turning with baleful eyes to regard the winged, orange-haired man. That was the leverage the blade needed. All of the power the mage possessed would not keep the malign being from its bloody hunger now.

KILL HIM! Atzar could no longer disobey; the pain in his head was unbearable. He had a clear shot; the man named Sei couldn't hide. The spear of ice rocketed at the orange-haired fighter with an impetus driven by fury, followed by another, and another, and another still. The mage couldn’t even control it; in its bloodlust, the sword simply ripped from him the magic necessary to do the job. They manifested faster, flew faster than he alone could have managed.

The bitter taste of panic welled up in Atzar Kellon’s throat. He was a man atop a bull, not seeking to control, but simply to survive. He could not stop that furious onslaught, and even as the blade sucked him dry it still called for more.

Firing away at Sei.

[Silence Sei]

Joshua left Sei a present.

The man was a slippery foe; one who would have not escaped had Sei been capable of using both of his arms. As Sei had been trying to feel around for something that should have been on Joshua's person, there was a sharp pain coming from his shoulder. The briefly gazed at the knife as it had ripped through his mystic flesh, pouring blood down his only arm while Joshua slipped out of the hold.

Sei had released the lock his legs had put on the man at the same time that Joshua made his escape attempt. The mute had turned to try and get some distance between him and his opponent. After all, he had been injured. His foe had a weapon and he did not, so the most advantageous thing to do was to find another blade somewhere else.

As Sei's feet hand hit the ground and the mute turned, his butterfly wings sprouted from his back. It was at this time Sei had noticed the large shadow that had hovered over them. Sei looked up but did not have the opportunity to lay his eyes on Letho Ravenheart. The blast from the grenade went off, and sent Sei flying to the ground. His wings had taken the brunt of the damage.

Sei looked up from the ground he was starting to call home. His wings felt as if they were on fire. The sheer force of the impact grenade had torn the appendages, bone and all, off of the mystic. Sei withdrew the two bones that protruded from his shoulder blades back into his form. Sei was hurt, but the blast had protected him from being impaled by a hail of icicles.

As Sei's eyes tried to find that cowardly bastard, his eyes caught hint of something. Small pieces of shaved ice fell to the ground slowly, almost as if there were a miniscule snow around the telepath. Looking up, Sei had seen the sharp ice that he had barely managed to avoid. His focus went to the source of the ice, the mage he had saved from Teric earlier in the day. Something was different about him. He seemed to be in possession of more powerful magic than the hard slush balls he was lobbing earlier. Sei noticed one key difference between what he had been doing then, and what he was doing now.

It was the sword. It must have had some sort of enchantment on it that increased magical properties. If that assumption were true, then Sei could kill two birds with one stone. He could find his out for the tournament, and still keep Max Dirks safe. Sei continued to look as the angry youth continued to throw the icy blades in a blind rage.

Sei couldn't be angry at this point. The youth was responsible for all the fun he had had with Teric. Sei's eyes shifted towards Tshael, Devon, Max Dirks, and finally, to the stands where his daughter was being held by Max Dirks. The mute concentrated back on the youth as he stood up. Outside of his friend Max Dirks, and the dying Teric Barton, there was no legend that had deserved to take the mute's life here.

But, if he could make the young mage famous. If the boy could be the man who slain the 'Hero of Radasanth', maybe he could make a new legend today. Sei knew that he was outmatched at this point. Between impact grenades, regenerating werewolves, invincible brawlers and Moontae (Tshael-Lillian) that seemed impossibly resilient, Sei gave up his chances of surviving the day.

He began to run. As fast as he could he ran towards Atzar. The mystic bobbed and weaved through the icicles as they were thrown in rapid succession towards him. He felt the tips cutting his arm, slicing his ribs, and leaving scars upon his pale face. Sei would be on Atzar, covered in his blue mystic blood in a matter of seconds.

"The sword boy! Use it!"

This tournament had too many legends trying to prove who the best was. Too many legends thinking they still had something to prove. To many people who had been known as legends. Sei had grown weary of all these established legends. Now, it was time for Sei to make a new one.

[Letho]

"Watch it! Watch for the..." Letho tried to warn his enraged self of the exploding device, his own awareness not locked on a singular purpose like that of a Beast. But it was to no avail. The werewolf's sharp senses acknowledged the thrown grenade, even managed to catch a glimpse of the mud-caked man that activated it and fled, but the damn thing was too dimwitted to connect the dots. And no matter how hard Letho shouted at the damn mutt, it was like shouting at slab of stone. And then came the explosion.

The Beast was too bulky to be sent flying on the concussion wave of the detonation, but not quite sturdy enough not to be staggered and thrown back into the dirt several feet away from the newly formed crater. Another one of those terrifying howls that sent the faint-hearted dashing for the exits spread across the battlefield, except... Wasn't it a bit different from before, in a higher key and not quite as packed with unbridled rage? Letho thought it was. In fact, he knew it was, felt it just like he felt the new set of wounds on what used to be his own body. The shrapnel shred through fur and flesh alike, riddling an already riddled body with a new set of holes, but that wasn't the brunt of the problem. The blast seemed to dislocate the werewolf's leg at the knee, the muscular appendage bent below at an awkward, unnatural angle. The pain that rose from that broken knee seemed to overrule every other, like the blackest tooth in a mouth filled with rotten teeth. And for the first time the Beast seemed to feel it, to actually acknowledge the hit it took, and it made it lose some of its control.

It wasn't much; to Letho it felt as if he was allowed to take a step forward and no more, like a child playing Mother May I? But in the close confines of his own head, it was a lot. He could feel his will staring to contend with that of the monster, pushing back against what seemed like a tsunami made of fury. But he was pushing back, no longer just a fly on the thing's neck. He was still far from regaining control, but he was rather certain that the Beast could hear him now, hear him very well.

"Reset it. You need to reset the leg," Letho instructed, like a tutor would a student. He could see the eyes of his transformed body looking up, then from side the side, the motion making him woozy all over again. "Stop that. Just push the damn thing back in the socket. It will mend." And still the Beast was reluctant, snorting and shaking its head in protest. Clearly it wasn't keen on taking orders. But unlike it, Letho wasn't a complete bludgeoner. "Listen, if you do not do as I say, you are going to die. You are going to lose to these weaklings."

It struck a cord, just like the Marshal knew it would. This thing was a part of him, after all, and even transformed it retained some of his traits, hubris undoubtedly being one of them. The werewolf repositioned itself into a sitting position, its gigantic claws pulling back as it reached for the twisted leg. Getting a firm grip on the hairy limb, the wounded Beast growled and it jerked it sideways, then pulled it back into the socket. It probably howled again, but Letho couldn't tell. He was too busy screaming himself.

A couple of extremely painful seconds later, he could feel the wonder of regeneration already doing its magic, reattaching chunks of bone, regrowing sinew and forming new muscle. The pain was still there, still pulsating but dulled down a bit. It was enough for the furry hulk to regain its footing and brandish its claws. Instincts once again took over, guiding its eyes to the commando who gifted it a broken leg. "NO! Not again. Turn! Turn, you bastard! Forget about him! Get the lass and the old man!" Letho again, frustrated. For a moment, the swordsman thought that the Beast would dismiss his counsel again, but then its head jerked to the other side and he could see the youth and the geezer down the length of his snout.

"Do not underestimate either," he said, and then after a brief pause added: "or we both perish." The werewolf snorted and shook its head as if was disgusted by the mere mention of such an outcome, then readied its claws. It moved towards the two again, its speed bogged down by the knee, but it was still able to cross the distance faster than any human could. "DO NOT LEAP AT THEM!!" came the command from the man in the back. "They will scuttle away. Aim for the old man's leg first, no armor there. Then press hard against the girl. Swipe at her wounded flank."

Letho was uncertain how much the Beast understood, but it seemed to be enough to make its approach more conservative this time around. No roaring, no flying, no unhinged maneuvers, no rabid fangs snapping at its foes. Instead it did as instructed and made an almost measured upward slice towards the gray-haired man, pivoted on its good knee and then dashed at the girl from the flank. The deadly moves, though performed by something that people used to scare their children, looked almost human.

Trying to chop Teric's leg off and generally mess Lillian up. :D If you guys have anything in mind for this threesome, let me know and we can probably work something out.

[Breaker]

The titan known as Godhand Stirker charged, his sword singing the soprano line in the chaotic orchestra of the Cell. The mercenary was stronger, faster, uglier, even though Josh no longer really resembled a human. Badder and smarter?

Unlikely.

Josh used another burst of adrenaline to temporarily super-charge his reflexes again. Quite suddeny Striker seemed to slow down. He was still sprinting faster than most eyes could follow, but to Cronen he appeared sluggish and awkward.

The martial artist flowed backwards, moving a little slower than his attacker so the swordsman caught up to him. He bowed, felt the wind of the first slash striking nothing but air. The second one skimmed his forearm. On the third it seemed the swordsman had gotten the best of him. Josh stopped and planted his feet, throwing a straight jab at Godhand's jaw just as the adamantine blade bit into his leg.

An inch before his fist might have made contact with Striker's face, he crushed the small stone inside of it.

The explosion of Cronen's last impact grenade was all he heard before the world went black.

He woke up sitting with his back against the arena's adamantine wall, water up to his sternum, his ears ringing. And his arm was gone. Below the tricep, his right arm was nothing more than an oozing stump. Josh wrapped his one good arm around the gash Godhand had made in his leg and closed his fingers over the stump, squeezing mightily to stem the bleeding in both.

The massive amount of adrenaline in his system finally worked against him. He was losing blood too fast.

[Bloodrose]

All bunnying was talked out in advance with both Letho and Ataraxis.

With the exception of the young swordsman Ulysses - one of the poor sods gunned down like a dog by the tournament organizer - Teric was the first competitor to fall. Rather, he was the first of seven other hapless warriors tossed into one arena where there had once been two. At one point that simple fact - that he was essentially the loser in all this - would have infuriated the mercenary. After all he'd seen and suffered thus far, however, Teric would have been lying if he denied that there was some small part of him that was actually glad it was over...

Something cold pricked at the wounded veteran, and even in the warm, deep confines of his unconsciousness, Teric felt it. The sensation was something akin to cold worms burrowing under his skin and entrenching themselves in his flesh. Each worm was like an annoying little finger - the digit of a small child prodding a sleeping parent in the wee hours of the morning. Slowly but surely, that prodding was rousing the conscious mind that had switched off and given up, and one very unhappy old man because dimly self-aware.

This is a joke. A cruel joke.

A pair of dull blue eyes snapped back into focus as the mercenary came unwittingly back into the fray, his head spinning even as he gazed up at the face of a small teenage girl looming over him. At first, given the oddity of the situation, Teric's mind raced to the obvious conclusion: he was alive, pieced together by the Ai'Brone and awoken to stroll care and injury free back into the world. It was a pleasant thought, and one he desperately hoped was true, but it didn't take even a second for the veteran to decide it was not. The black-haired waif staring down at him was no monk, and her wet, dirty hair and grime covered face bespoke of a more plausible but less preferential scenario.

"I'm still in the Cell, aren't I?" Teric mumbled his voice dull and muffled even to his own ears. Everything sounded like it was underwater, and despite the fact that he saw, knew, the girl was answering him, Teric had not yet recovered the faculties to understand.

How? Was the most obvious question. From what little he could remember of the last few moments, the mercenary was fairly certain he should be dead. He remembered dueling with Sei Orlouge - a fight that had been interrupted when Teric himself had more or less picked a fight with a chameleon. He remembered that camouflaged shadow coming at him, and then a crushingly strong vice closing around his airway - but then everything was blackness. No part of that recollection explained why Teric lay where he did now, eyes open and mind slowly returning to him, as the rain continued to pour down in sheets. I should be dead.

The girl was still talking, and Teric felt her warm hands pulling at him to rise. He wanted to object - to tell this young woman that she was silly to make him stand up when he was wounded as he was - but something galvanized the old man's legs. Even if he wasn't expressly aware of what exactly had happened, he was still sub-consciously aware that something had brought him unexpectedly back into the fray. Something that would likely allow him to stand.

The mercenary rose, and surprisingly, he felt pretty good; good being a subjective word when used in the context of having just nearly died. Both of his arms throbbed with a dull ache, and the ribs all down one side of his body felt bruised, but all in all, Teric just felt... better. There was strength in his arms and in his legs that hadn't been there a moment ago, and he somehow felt reinvigorated - like he'd just jumped into a cold river.

"I suppose I should thank you." The veteran offered. A second ago he might have been rather irate about being dragged back into this circus of a conflict when he'd been so close to being done with it, but as he started to take stock of himself, the mercenary wasn't so unhappy, necessarily. He wasn't curled up in a miserable ball like the young mage who'd been revived and left to die for no reason, so Teric almost felt like there was a purpose for his revitalization...

The girl's gaze as it drifted over his shoulder brought the old warrior crashing back to reality.

A werewolf - as tall and as burly as Teric could imagine any such creature to be - was closing steadily on the duo, its feral gaze locked dangerously on the mercenary's chest. While perhaps a bit slow and lumbering, the beast moved quickly in its own right, and while he would have loved to sit and chat with his mysterious female rescuer (about how she'd saved him and why), Teric had time for only one thing.

Shit!

Even as he juked to his right side, Teric's left arm came up with the palm of his hand opened wide. There was a flash of white light and a thunderous crack - disorienting the lycanthrope as his made a calculated sweep for the veteran's legs. For some reason Teric remembered the light being dimmer than normal, and the thunderous boom that accompanied it was usually louder as well; now it sounded more like a loud pop, as opposed to an explosion. Regardless of how underpowered the flashbang may have been however, it did its job.

The werewolf's claws raked muddy earth where Teric had stood just a second before, and the mercenary almost seemed to dance to the monster's flank as the sweeping blow rushed past. He was so close that he could feel the air move as the limb swung by, and the Grandmaster's nostrils were flooded with the heavy, musky odor of wet dog. Without even wondering how his sword was still in his hand (all things considered, it shouldn't have been) Teric raised the blade over his head and swung.

Given the nature and the course of the battle thus far, the veteran almost expected something to go wrong. As power coalesced and began to ripple along the edge of the sword in his hands, the mercenary fully anticipated one of his competitors getting in the way. He expected that the werewolf would somehow manage some spectacular evasion, or otherwise do something to avoid the danger altogether.

What Teric didn't anticipate, really, was that his blade would find a home in the flesh of the creature's arm, and that the concussive blast generated by the strike would leave nothing but a ragged stump where there had once been muscle and bone.


To clarify, Teric is using his "Devastating Strike" technique to sever Letho's arm.

[Ataraxis]

The beating of her skull, that ominous thumping in her mind came like the peal of distant bells. Hiding the shortness of her breaths, Lillian cursed the rain’s chill, the air’s dampness; with all the moisture in the atmosphere, it was becoming harder to filter enough oxygen, harder to make each gasp matter. The flaring in her shattered arm had not subsided, and even now she could feel the breaks run up and down her bones like chain lightning. Her other arm no longer hemorrhaged, but the lips of her gashes were knitted like horrific patchwork bathed in blood too thick to be washed away by the rainstorm.

A minute, perhaps two. That was all the time she had left before reaching the end of her rope.

Lillian felt relief in her heart when she saw the young boy she had saved about to execute Sei Orlouge, and she thanked him silently for accomplishing what she could not. The girl then turned to face the werewolf, having felt those feral eyes like spears through her wounded side. She was the prey that got away, after all, and it was well within the mindset of a bloodthirsty beast to remedy that. Its legs coiled like they had before, ready to spring across the arena in the time of a fatal blink.

The silver beast was upon them, swinging upward with one set of his falcate claws before pivoting toward the girl. The second set trailed behind it, a wicked crescent aimed at her flank. But unlike the wolf-man’s first assault, she could see him now, thanks to a lame leg and the gravity of its newest wounds. Alas, a blur was still a blur, and all Lillian could do was to heft the blue-metal scabbard as a shield. Holding it with both arms and pouring into what strength she had left, Lillian braced herself for the devastating blow.

Her body flew over the endless tracts of mud, and she gritted her teeth in silenced agony. Then, with a scream, she flung her legs down into the earth, digging twin grooves across the field until she came to a stop a bit over a dozen feet away. The sheath had flown out of her hands, taking with it what little skin remained. It landed with a splash in an empty area of the battlefield, completely bereft of any confrontation or final stand.

Her broken arm had managed to withstand the impact, and she was glad to have put the bulk of her strength into the other to defend herself. She breathed out the pain at the risk of hyperventilating, and when she could finally see through the white fire that had overwhelmed her mind, Lillian called upon the shadows surrounding her. They were weak and few, but the flash of a thunder strike had brought about enough to use, and she sent a snake of darkness to trail across the rain-slicked field.

A second blast of light came like a godsend, and the werewolf’s shadow stretched far enough to meet the tendril halfway, somehow unimpeded by the anti-magic barrier that had been hissing about its form. Lillian had shielded her eyes, unable to see the lopped arm crash to the ground along with the gauntlet of dragon-scales it wore – the same that had been fueling the barrier all this time. Even so, sustaining the link between its shadow and hers was still proving to be a losing battle, and so she did the only thing she could think of: running toward the silver nightmare.

‘I need to be stronger,’ was her only thought as she did so, and something responded to the cry of her soul. The pendant of green amber at her neck began to glow, so bright it seemed that the sun had been captured within an emerald… and it granted her one final burst of power, an arcane surge that increased her strength fourfold.

Lillian bounded across the gap of grime, cutting through the rain like a spear of black and white. In her good hand, a dagger of blue-metal had been produced, the same that had poisoned the gunslinger with streams of concentrated chaos. With a banshee’s cry, she stabbed into the back of the beast, nicking its broad spine as the dagger sank hilt-deep into fur and flesh. Blood sprayed darkly over the girl, but she did not flinch; instead, she followed through with the downward motion, cutting an even greater gash into its backside, deep enough to sink her entire hand into its spraying flesh – which, in a singular display of gruesomeness, she did.

The wolf thrashed, its bulky arms seeking her out clumsily, but its muscles were too sizeable to reach for the kill. Still, the foot-long claws cut into her shoulders, into her arms, even across her face, but she clung on to its spine with the stubbornness of a demon. Poison poured into its bloodstream like acid, and even now the beast grew weaker, its life-force siphoned away by ethereal shadows.

Finally, its powerful arms let up, although not before turning her into a bleeding scratch mat. Lillian panted, unable to find any mercy in her breaths, and her heart beat so hard it threatened to puncture through her chest. All the pain she’d held back was flaring up at once, and she almost let go of his spinal column. ‘Minutes are up,’ she thought softly, but her face was too bloodied and numb to form a smile of relief.

A sudden surge of vertigo overcame the girl. The world shifted beneath her again, and soon she saw the clouds that shrouded the Radasanthian skyline. Mud squelched at her back, slithering coolly into her summer dress. A great burden pressed on her chest, but it was slightly warm to the touch, like the fur of a pet dog that’d scampered through the rain and into her welcoming embrace. She knew this to be false, but the illusion was sweet. What did it even matter? Lillian couldn’t feel the pain anymore.

The bloody glow of her eyes receded, replaced by a still and quiet blue that quickly vanished under closing lids. Crushed under the expiring beast, she felt her consciousness slip, felt the darkness fall in a gentle shroud. The thumping in her skull was finally gone, and she let out a sigh of liberation.

At last, in the limbo of her dying thoughts, she could no longer hear the tolling of bells.


All actions approved by Bloodrose and Letho. As a reminder, there should be so much poison in him now that regeneration, healing, even maintaining the War Form would likely fail or backfire. Concluding post.

11/05/10 Edit: Also, forgot to request this as a storyline spoil. During these two rounds, Lillian has gathered organic samples from Joshua Cronen, Rayse Valentino, Letho Ravenheart and Teric Barton. These will be used solely for storyline purposes, and any possible effect they may have on her profiles in the future will need to go through the RoG approval process like any other new ability. As such, they have no OOC impact.

[Godhand]

007 can't actually boost his reflexes to even match Godhand's if his last profile is anything to go by, but whatever, let's roll with it.

Godhand had brought all of his legendary speed, strength and skill with a blade to bear against the snake, but he'd still managed to slither his way out of a killing blow. He was quick, he'd give him that, but he still hadn't managed to evade the mercenary completely. The first blow missed, sure, and the second was barely a scrape, but he'd nearly taken his leg clean off with that last one. His titanium muscles and prevalida bones still couldn't quite stand against the preternaturally sharp adamantine katana Godhand had had to kill a fallen emperor to obtain.

He saw the fist coming, and right away his mind devised a million different ways it could stop it from making contact, but rather than sever his appendage at the forearm or chopping his head off or running him through, Godhand let it come. The man had truly earned his ire, and while normally he'd be content to kill someone quick and clean, this time he wanted to embarrass the little weasel. He wanted to prove that even at his specialty and peak, the mercenary still outclassed him by several orders of magnitude. Petty? Yes. Vindictive? Certainly. But throwing even ONE grenade at him was enough to put someone on Godhand's shit-list for life, never mind two and a couple of armor piercing rounds for good measure.

With that in mind, he prepared to shatter the man's elbow as soon as his arm was completely extended. But the opportunity never came; just as Godhand breezily dodged the fist and waited it to reach it's kinetic peak before going for the elbow, the appendage detonated. He was in the zone by then, so it was a horrible experience as he watched the sphere of fire and destruction slowly expand in his direction. He brought his arms up to his face in a cross and leapt back as quickly as he could, but he couldn't outrun the fire and the blast sent him clean across the arena once again.

The pain was indescribable, but he still managed to get to his feet. The thick corded tendons in his arms were exposed, the outer layer of flesh being blown away even by the mitigated impact. And it was as he heard the surprised gasps and dead silence of the crowd that he noticed it. His face was burning. It was burning bad, and he couldn't see out of his left eye. He looked at a nearby puddle only to see that half his face had been blasted off. It was a clean grenade, no shrapnel, otherwise he'd be dead, but it'd still managed to pulverize the skin and burn the tissue on one side of his face. He sported half a rictus grin as the part of his cheek that hadn't fused to his teeth had been blown off, to the point where the lower half of the left side of his face was nothing but a bloody skull.

His world was agony, but the rage kept him sane. Barely. He shifted his knuckles around the handle of the blade which he now held with a deathgrip, ignoring the sickening feeling of blood being pumped out of his heart only to pour out of his arms. He approached the grounded commando and prepared for the deathblow.

But there was no need. He must have nicked an artery because blood was pouring out of his leg at an alarming rate, not to mention squirting out of his decimated arm with sickening consistency. With wounds like that he'd be stone dead in ten seconds.

Godhand turned away and thought about it but nope, that was still too long. He tried to give a lopsided smirk, but found that the flesh on that side of his head wouldn't move. Then he realized his face had been permanently frozen into a SORT of smirk. He chuckled even through the agony, drawing a revolver and shooting his gun through his coat at the commando's midsection.

[Atzar]

The ice cut at the orange-haired man’s face, his hands, his sides. They did everything except kill him. Atzar grew more panicked by the second as the slippery man ran toward him. With a painful lurch, the frigid bolts stopped appearing; the mage could cast no more. He wanted desperately to turn, to get away, but the blade’s malignant resolve kept his feet planted in the sodden soil.

The mute’s voice sounded in Kellon’s mind, and his eyes widened in bafflement. The man encouraged him to strike the killing blow? Was he insane? Atzar himself had wished for the end not long before, but only because he had existed in a state even worse than death. Despite the many telltale signs of struggle that they all bore at that point, Sei didn’t appear to be faring too poorly.

No more time to think. The fighter was within twenty feet now, and closing fast. Atzar set his feet, lifting the edge of the weapon to point at Sei’s chest. His hands trembled. He didn’t like this. He was a mage. He fought with magic. Impaling another man just felt barbaric.

You’re weak! Kill him!

The sneer returned to the wizard’s lips as he once again lost control of his own mind. Another scream ripped from his lungs as the spirit took matters into its own hands. Atzar leapt forward to meet the upcoming warrior, to pierce his chest with the foul blade.

Then it happened. The mage could feel the steely slither run up his soaked arms, could feel as the mute’s ribs cracked and broke. They collided like jousting knights, and the impact knocked the wizard from his feet. The blade, lodged in the dying man’s body, tore itself from Atzar’s grasp.

It felt like the sun coming up. The evil presence left his mind, left the mage gasping for air as if he had forgotten how to breathe. He lifted his violently trembling hands to look at them, reassuring himself that he controlled them once more. His entire body shuddered. The spirit had taken everything he had, and then it had taken some more. His hands fell limply back to his sides, splashing into the mud.

So much had happened. He had entered the Cell as a personal challenge, of sorts; just to prove that he could. But he didn’t expect what came next. It turned into a monstrosity, less a battlefield than a torture chamber. He had wanted to take revenge on Max Dirks for hosting the thing. Then… the sword. Even now, it made his blood run cold. It had turned him into a monster…

…but it was over now. Atzar would fight no more. Drained and battered, the mage nonetheless took solace in one fact: this time, he had survived. With that thought in his mind, he smiled wearily and closed his eyes.

Concluding post.

[Silence Sei]

Sei could feel the metal from the blade go through his chest. He smiled at the sword creating an exit wound in his back. The mute had gotten the child to do what he had asked. Now Sei could leave the Cell, and Max Dirks, in peace. Even better, Atzar just so happened to let go of the sword. This caused Sei to stumble back a bit with the large weapon impaled upon him.

He began to cough profusely, and the coughing became vomiting. He stained the blade with his azure blood. sluggishly shifting his eyes to Max Dirks, Sei brought his hand to the sword, squeezing the blade. Blood began to drip down his fingers and into the soil below. The mute smiled a bit as he felt the newfound power slightly restore his magical capabilities. He had enough ability to now cast one more spell, and it was going to be a doozy.

Dirks had just finished talking to Anita, the girl turning her back to the fight. Thankfully, she never saw her father suffer the grim fate that lied before him. As Dirks turned around, Sei lifted his hand from the sword and pointed at the gunslinger. He gave his friend a wink as he stumbled backwards. This would be enough of a gesture for Dirks to know what had been done. Max Dirks had been given a Mystic's Protection in more ways than one.

The mute fell backwards, the sword shooting out of his form as it made contact with the ground. He had heard some voice scolding him for not attempting a Would? spell that could possibly eliminate the other players. The sword fell upon Sei's body as his eyes began to glaze over. Max Dirks and Anita would be the last things he saw in this tournament, and he was truly grateful for that.

Sei felt his heart slowing down. The blood in his gaping hole began to lose its haste. His breaths started becoming less frequent. The pain all of her body was immense, even without the new preforation. For all of Sei Orlouges strategical might, he could not survive either round of The Cell. So was the ways of the bloodbath sport.

People needed heroes. Corone needed warriors. Spectators needed idols to worship. Sei realized as he drew his last gasp of air that none of that was true. At least, none of that was true today. Today, there were only monsters and criminals. It didn't matter what the alignment of the fighters were, as long as they were in combat. No, all that had little meaning from the second one's name was put on that registration paper. There were no heroes, no warriors, no idols.

Not now, and not ever, not in the Cell.

Concluding post.

[Letho]

Bunnying of Lilian and Teric discussed and approvedLetho Ravenheart had been in a theater only once in his life, a while back when his Myrhianna was still alive and the world was a damn fine place to live in. The tiny redhead's incessant nagging ultimately wore him out and the pair found themselves in one of those oddly quiet auditoriums, their behinds parked in what was probably the comfiest chairs they would ever have the privilege to sit on. There were oil lamps lined up against the wall of that theater, their lazy flame tongues almost static in their sconces, and next to each one was a theater usher. And once the show was about the start, these oddly neat men in black-and-white suits moved simultaneously, turning a small dial at the side of the lamp, and as they did the flames diminished gradually with each second until they were gutted down and darkness descended upon the room like a blanket. That slow death of illumination that brought the encroaching night in tow was what Letho was experiencing right now.

His (well, their) game plan hadn't panned out the way it was supposed to. Instead of tearing the pair to ribbons, the Beast had fell victim to its deadly instincts, turning it's head reflexively towards the blinding flare despite Letho's cautionary bawl. And as if that hadn't been enough, the old man proceeded to chop their hand clean off, magical gauntlet and all. It had been all the invitation that the tiny teen mage needed to go on an offensive and literary dig into their back. And from razor sharp edge of the blade she had lodged hilt deep into his flesh, something horrible was spreading. And it started to douse the lights.

The Beast was flailing and trashing, jerking its immense torso around as if it was possessed, bloody saliva spraying from its clenched teeth with each growl. But every movement of its massive limbs, every breath took, every single heartbeat only sent the poison surging faster through its system. It robbed the werewolf of its strength, and proportionally to that loss the Beast felt control slipping away from it. By the time the girl finally lost her grip on the blade and fell into the mud, it was too late. The venom was too potent for even the accelerated regeneration to handle.

Letho realized this better than even the monster in the driving seat. In that tiny cell inside his own mind, the Marshal could feel the walls closing in around him as the light was guttered out by inky blackness. His every attempt to calm the maimed Beast had failed, the thing's blinded eyes closed shut as it went about like a drunk with the world's worst hangover. Letho tried to move forward once again, but the darkness that was pushing him back was almost corporeal, a cloud made of stone that reclaimed his little world one piece at a time. Somewhere in the midst of losing his mind for the final time, the legendary swordsman saw a reddish flash tear through the darkness like some infernal lightning bolt, and then the abyss swallowed him and Letho was no more.

It was the veteran who brought that lightning. He thrust his sword in search of flesh anew, and this time got more than he bargained for. The saber pierced the flesh cleanly, slipping past the second and third mutated rib of the Beast and impaling the beating heart beyond. But while the deathblow was enough to vanquish Letho's consciousness, the werewolf refused to give in. Even with blood pouring out if it by the gallon, even with poison destroying its body from the inside, even with a goddamn blade sticking out of its heart, its will endured, defiant, eternal. There was enough of it for the Beast to raise its arm again, its clawed hand easily locating the old man's arm still attached to his sword and yanking it forwards. Bones crackled in the trapped wrist as the blade sunk deeper, and another roar echoed from the gaping maw of the lupine monster. And then, with a final push of its persistent will, it snapped its fangs at the man's throat, tearing away a bloody chunk of muscle and tendon.

As it pushed away its last victim, with the coppery taste of blood overwhelming its taste buds, the Beast unleashed a final dreadful wail at the tempestuous dome above and collapsed backwards, crushing the dark-skinned girl and joining her in death. And as the last threads of its conscious mind broke away from its massacred body, it felt satisfied. For it claimed one life already, and another one was bound to follow, and these were no ordinary warriors it defeated.

No, these two surely belonged amongst the Althanas giants.

Concluding post

[Breaker]

Josh had the fleeting feeling of an anticipated embrace. Then light consumed every atom of his body. The same glow surrounded his possessions, scattered as they were across the hellish Cell. The pain he had carried fell away as he rose above the physical realm.

A familiar voice called his name, then another.

The light faded. Joshua Cronen had become one with the water, the rocks, but also the air. The atmosphere. Lost himself in a great adventure above the world of Althanas.

concluding post.

[Bloodrose]

Most creatures, when stabbed through the heart, fell without much resistance. One sharp blow from the steely cold edge of a weapon, bisecting that most important of muscles, was always enough to take the strength from a creature's limbs, starve its mind of breath, and flood its chest cavity with its own lifeblood. Without the heart to pump fresh blood to the extremities, any creature that counted itself amongst the living was not long for this world.

For these reasons, Teric had risked placing himself inside the deadly reach of the creature's remaining limbs - his face a mask of grim determination as the white point of his sword disappeared into the lycanthrope's hairy chest. He expected the pained, indignant roar that burst from the creature’s tooth-filled snout, but what Teric didn't expect was the reprisal. The monster's good arm snatched the limb attached to the mercenary's blade and ruined it with one fell yank, and those slathering jaws took a bite out of the old man's throat as well.

Even as the beast toppled over in the midst of its death throes, Teric also fell.

A cruel joke. He found himself thinking again. To fall once and then be dragged unwillingly back into the fight, only to fall again. The Grandmaster took solace in the fact that this time, with his blood pumping out by the cupful from the gnarly wound in his neck, his odds of being revived yet again to carry on with this farce were few and far between.

It didn't take long at all for the remainder of the veteran's life to ebb from his veins, the crimson of his blood mixing and joining with the rain as it fell. The last thought that passed through the man's mind before darkness received him yet again, was that he'd like to go somewhere far, far away from the rain...


Conclusion post.

[Godhand]

The shot had got him in the gut, and that was his limit. Tough guy; probably one of the toughest fucking guys he'd ever met. Personally, he would have given up after the lava bath or the arm thing.

Pretty soon his critical, gaping wounds stopped squirting blood and that's how Godhand knew his heart had stopped. He looked around, expecting to find another warrior, some monstrous ringer to run in and finish him off, but nobody came. He surveyed the entire arena but it seemed that he was, for all intents and purposes, the last man standing.

He was, for all intents and purposes, the last man.

The pain was unspeakable. If someone put a gun to his head and forced him to expound on it, Godhand probably would have described it as being boiled alive in a bucket of gypsy shit. His arms were basically one big open wound, he had bruised ribs, a collapsed lung, suffered several mild concussions, been shot, burned and the left side of his face had been scalded nearly to the bone, but he still felt fantastic.

His left ear had been completely sealed over with burnt flesh, but he only needed one to hear the roar of the crowd. Godhand hissed as the last bit of rain poured down, trying vainly to cool his burning face as he held out his arms, shut his eyes and greeted the sun. The crowd went wild.

Your winner, and NEW heavyweight champion-...

Just then, his foot bumped into something. He looked down to find his sheath.

"What the...fuck?"

Just then, the horrible realization set in. The swordsman dove and picked up his sheath, his head whipping wildly from side to side as he tried to find his comrade in arms. His own personal Jesus Christ. He hobbled about the arena as best he could with all his wounds, but it was to no avail. She was nowhere to be found.

"Lillian! Lillian, where are you!?"

He knew it wasn't a real cool scene right now. It wasn't the coolest scene in town. Godhand was exposing the soft underbelly of his maniac tough-guy persona with a pitiful, nearly maudlin display of emotion. It was stupid, yes, she could be revived, but he still felt like he failed. All along he'd been intending to carry Lillian to victory only to lay down for her right at the end of the battle, legitimizing her as the new unstoppable force in Corone and heir princess to the NWO. And screw the crowd if they didn't like it; sometimes a jeer was just as good as a cheer.

Finally, he noticed a dainty, pale arm sticking out from the mud under Letho's hulking warform. He ran over, hurling the beast's corpse off handily even wounded, but it was no use. Her little heartbeat had ceased.

And all the king's horses and all the king's men

The crowd kept cheering.

"Shut up! Shut up, you goddamn vicious swine! Did you like it!? Was it GRAND!?"

And with no warning he drew one of his revolvers and opened fire on the stands. They quickly dispersed; it seemed they only wanted to see blood as long as it wasn't theirs. Godhand holstered his weapon and silently, gently, picked the girl up. She was light. She'd lost a lot of blood so she was...Light. And so, he walked through the entryway he'd arrived through, disappearing into the darkness with the girl who'd carried HIM all through the tournament in his arms.

...

Sometimes it was hard.

Concluding post.

[Max Dirks]

Sorry for the delay in judging this, but as promised here are the results. Overall I was pleased with the action and the pacing of the final round. Like before, full commentary is available by request.

Judgment:

016573
Story: 16/30 (Your tactic (hiding) was sound, but it didn't give you much to work with with respect to interaction and character development. Furthermore, you didn't seem to put much effort into many of your posts. Try harder next time and you shall be rewarded).
Character: 15/30
Writing Style: 16/30
Wildcard: 3/10 (Power-gaming)
Total: 50/100

Ataraxis
Story: 18/30 (Somewhat odd pacing in your conclusion post, but otherwise a solid performance sans the early violation of the rules)
Character: 18/30
Writing Style: 20/30
Wildcard: 3/10 (Missing the post time)
Total: 59/100

Atzar Kellon
Story: 18/30
Character: 19/30 (I liked the part of the battle where Christoph's sword overcame your character's will. Though it is a somewhat cliche concept, I felt that you wrote it well).
Writing Style: 18/30
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 60/100

Bloodrose
Story: 19/30 (When I saw that Lillian was going to heal Teric, I was worried that it would ruin your pacing score. However, you put my worries at ease and came up with a strong supplementary conclusion post).
Character: 18/30 (I think you took the "old man" bit too far. While it is excellent symbolism, it can be and was overused).
Writing Style: 20/30
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 62/100

Godhand
Story: 17/30 (Nothing outstanding here sans your final post. You were more reactionary than anything else).
Character: 17/30
Writing Style: 16/30 (Check your pronouns to make sure it's clear who you're referring to. This was an ongoing issue throughout several posts).
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 55/100

Letho
Story: 20/30 (Again, your interaction with everyone helped your story to excel. Nice job).
Character 17/30 (Interesting take on Letho's conscious within the werewolf, but I did not buy it. If Letho lost control to take on the war form, it seems unlikely his true conscious would be able to affect it so easily)
Writing Style: 21/30
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 63/100

Silence Sei
Story: 18/30 (More of the same from you, Sei. I feel like you tried to include too many story arcs into a single battle. I did like the "make a new legend" concept at the end, though.)
Character: 17/30
Writing Style: 18/30 (You had the most spelling errors. I chalk it up to over-excited writing. It happens to me too. I'm so excited to post I forget to do a careful final review of what I'm writing)
Wildcard: 5/10
Total: 58/100

Winner: LETHO
2nd Place: BLOODROSE
3rd Place: ATZAR KELLON

Rewards: Letho receives 5300 EXP, Bloodrose receives 4170 EXP, Atzar Kellon receives 3475 EXP, Ataraxis receives 2435 EXP, Silence Sei receives 2320 EXP, Godhand receives 2220 EXP, and 016573 receives 2065 EXP. Each participant receives 2000 GP. Letho, please contact me regarding a magical item. Bloodrose and Atzar shall receive their special awards shortly.

Thanks to everyone who participated!

[Silence Sei]

EXP-GP Added to the Mazrith.

Bloodrose, Letho, and Atzar all leveled. Surprise surprise!