The Death Row Riot (Closed)

[Lisean]

The last thing Lisean could remember was the cloaked figures with soft-spoken voices of countenance, leading him along a narrow corridor to a giant set of double doors. When they had opened, a white light engulfed the pair of monks along with the necromancer himself. Then, what felt like a concussive blow cracked over the back of Lisean’s skull. He could feel himself losing his balance, and falling to the cobblestone floor of the great halls. The stone he was greeted by here, however, was far from welcoming.

Lightning struck outside, causing the man to stir and wake. His hood was well over his head still, along with the sheet of iron that guarded his face. Hands reached to touch the cold, rusted metal surface first. He was not stripped of his equipment. Odd. The passing, hushed roar of thunder boomed beyond the thick stone walls surrounding Lisean. Heaving out a groan, he pressed his palms against the flooring, littered with hay and pebble as he pushed himself to his knees, then lifted to his feet soon-after. He stood in the middle of a dungeon cell. The kind that showed criminals and outlaws no remorse. There was not even the courtesy of a small breeze shooting down from the single staircase leading down into this wretched hellhole. The air was stale.

Suddenly, the barred door rattled, vibrating against the sealed lock until finally, it snapped open. It whined as it slowly pulled open, teetering its full course and inviting the combatant out of his holding chamber. Still mildly disturbed from the blow to the head, Lisean wavered, and stepped out into the hallway. His mind was only beginning to process thoughts. Disciplinary, scolding ideals. What were you thinking? Letting the monks choose your battle for you.

What at first felt like a disturbing, haunted setting just turned more obscure as his feet dragged along the scarce, riddled ground. Yelling filled the small hallway that churned and extended in his vision. That corridor one often imagined in a horror movie in their dreams that never seemed to end. Only this time, with an added twist. People were here. Angry people. All along the cells upon either side of the dungeon were several men and women alike in tattered cloths, wearing bruises, scars, and other fine evidence of brutality, pulling desperately on the reinforced bars with rage afire in their eyes.

Kill him! Get him! Let me out and I’ll do it myself! KILL!! A clear chorus. Spectators.

It was an experience that even woke the consciousness out of Lisean, triggering the awakening of his senses. The headache could be set aside. A second creaking of a large, steel door sounded off at the hallway opposite him, and just as the thunder bellowed again, it pulled open in its waning cry. Fists rapped against metal and the captives piled over one another while the opponent, left unseen yet to the necromancer’s eyes, made his entrance.

A riot was about to begin.

[uttam123]

Shade completely hated the place known as the Citadel; he’s been there so many times it hurts to think about the plain-like aura it has, but this time was somewhat different there was more of a dark aura balancing itself around the Citadel. Every time he went to the Citadel there were always a few monks to greet him at the walkway, but as he entered the area there was no one whatsoever. Shade cleared his eyes incase his eyes were blindfolding him, but no he thought there was no one at all, the Citadel walkway was deserted.

Shade had thoughts of going back to the city, and then his curiosity struck like a lightning bolt and he walked to the eerie place. Shade opened the doors and a rush of cold air slammed into him like a hammer, he didn’t stagger but walked in through some pressure. There were no doors at all unlike the usual array of doors with different auras. Shade scanned the area but found nothing but a pile of rocks at the side of a wall.

Shade walked up to the pile of rocks and took on; he took a great sniff and looked in his nose for any clues. At first he found nothing, then he found something this was blown in from a door opened some time ago, he smelled it a little bit more and it hit him like a rock there was an invisible door to the left of him.

Shade walked to the door slowly after he put the rock down, he touched the wall and a door similar to one to hell shows up. Shade then opens the heavy steel door and more cold air rushes in the form of chaos spreading to the depths of Radasanth.

Shades right ear was almost broken through his robe as the behemoth ducked his head to enter the door and heard the ear-piercing cries of prisoners all around rattling the cells screaming as if a riot was happening. He tried to cancel the sounds out but there screams were too much.

The young elf squatted on the ground and sniffed the dust, “hmm, traces of blood and salt” Shade said to himself quietly “that means high chance of slipping and rolling”. He looked around and concluding it all was average in terms of obstacles.

After Shades “arena check” was done he took a moment to analyze his opponent in front of him. “Hmm I can’t tell much “Shade said to himself quietly “average height, magic necromancer looking at his robes, and a dual-wielder looking at his weapons”.

Shades voice rippled as he spoke “Necromancer what are the rules of this fight, loli, bathi, nachi?” Shade said in different basic languages not knowing the Necromancers race or language.

Shade then sat down on the cold chilly ground awaiting the response of his rather small opponent.

[Lisean]

Whatever this place was, it certainly didn’t feel like Radasanth anymore. Lisean continued to soak in the gruesome detail put into the life-like, unexpected battlefield he was to compete in. In a way, the darkness soothed his corrupted well-being, but the people’s persistent shouting distracted his eyes from taking in the poor craftsmanship. Then again.. a dungeon didn’t require the refined tastes of what wonders he walked past in the real world. With the width of the corridor roughly calculated through his hidden salmon hues, he figured a staff, though potentially useful in the small space, was not a best general weapon to use. The little things would shine in a place like this.

Lisean’s elbow lifted the cloak draped down his arm while his hand run up his thigh, slender digits wrapping around the hilt of his shoddy iron dagger and quickly ripping it from its sheathe. That sweet ringing sound was drowned out by the protest of the inmates. Some looked upon Lisean with his weapon, and were given the jitters. The weak ones cowered from the doors, their stay here left to assume was the longest. It was easy to pluck the mad ones out from the masses. Driven beyond their mental capacity and inheriting the shakes, stutters, and queer behavior. A rodent could take their only meal from them. Other prisoners, the strong-willed ones, saw the weapon as a valuable instrument. One they could salvage their own freedom from should they break the first wall down. Little to the necromancer’s knowledge, he only made himself a target.

That was, until a giant came along. The opponent towered over Lisean by near double. There was already enough a lack of light here that he didn’t need that looming shadow cast over his small stature, but he certainly felt like he had come face to face with an ogre. It was relatively easy to conceal the little unsettling chill that crept up his inexperienced spine, stiff as a board while the man across the way spoke to him. Rules?

“The hell if I know..” A muffled, soft-spoken voice rose forth in the air, spoken loud enough to surpass the metal sheet over his face that hid his features well. It only added to the mystery behind the mask. Eerie. Consuming. The necromancer’s head tilted off to the left, angled diagonally as he rose his dagger up to his own eye level. His free hand opened at his hip, and lifted to let his fingertips near caress his only friend in a place like this. Just as the towering elf took a seat and made himself comfortable, Lisean chuckled. His fingers pressed into thin air and took a rough grasp on nothing. Dim, violet light began to weave itself around the steep hilltops that were comprised of flesh and bone, drawing an outline up his arm, and then in an instant, it surrounded his body. Though some prisoners were still enraged and did little to become tame, a few more took a small step back in wonder at the magical entity. The man was armed, both physically and mentally.

“I see no need for rules where the rage spreads. Corroding these cells is a plague. An infestation that can take a man, turn his bones brittle, and leave him alone until an expected death takes him.. and the beauty of it is that some don’t even get that pleasure. Some rot away down here, and do not even meet their atonement.” Lisean chuckled, his left hand lowering slightly but keeping his forearm ahead of his dagger. He may not have had a thick layer of armor on him, but the necromancer adapted to a prisoner’s defensive stance, beginning a slow advance on his target. A man that could sit in the middle of this chaos earned himself a cup of tea. He was too calm, much like Lisean. Our opponent could not be underestimated.

“So fight like you were trying to keep your freedom, or whatever you hold dear... and then give me the pleasure of taking it from your cold hands.”

[uttam123]

Shade was still examining the dark cell, its inmates that were left after the intimidation scene by the enemy, the blood dripping from the ceiling, the rugged cloths of people lying on the floor, the bones of the dead bodies left, and the crackling noise from the door he went through closing very slowly. Shade was irritated by the inmates so he decided to fix the problem. The behemoth got up and roared so loudly that it echoed throughout the halls for much time, with this the rest of the inmates quieted down and backed up crouching in a corner. “Much better now stay like that” Shade said to the inmates turning to look at all of them.

Shade found a red robe the bottom of it covered with blood which made it seem redder then usual behind him, as he examined more of it the back of the robe had Vitality in big letters on it with the same darker blood as on the bottom. Shade ripped off his own black robe and put on the red “Vitality” robe which he took, dusted it and cut a bit of the bottom off.

Shade looked into his mind matching his own features with the robe and tried to imagine himself in the robe. Shade looked with the same features, but with a magnificent blood robe that had “Vitality” which shamed the rusted the black robe.

After Shade finished his imagination work he sat back down and took out his daggers. Shade made sure they were sharp and still very reliable. Those daggers were very special too him because of 1 year ago when he turned 18.


Dream

She waited for that moment to tell me that my dad wanted me to have this gift for my 18 birthday. She opened the box that had bright red curls, and she showed me too steel daggers. I was so grateful for them I could finally become an assassin. She told me to never lose these and always have them; these daggers are like our dad watching over you. She then handed them to me and I ran outside into the woods and started practicing immediately eager for the best.


Cell

Shade from then on never left his daggers and held them dearer then anything except his family. Shade tried to hide his emotions that were he thought might show in his eyes. Shade then said “we can start this when you make the first move” he then licked his lips and continued “You even touch my loved ones, I’ll make sure you can’t say anything ever again mage” with this he finished and waited for the mages reply.

[Lisean]

Was the man blind? His enemy was approaching him, armed and ready to strike, and all he could do was turn his back to Lisean and dig through the remains of pompous swine to retrieve fine fabric? Maybe this giant did help the necromancer believe he had a funny bone still after all. The cloaked man paused in his stride, head tilting once more but on a greater angle to give off a curious, confused stare. Over the silence, his fingers adjusted, fine-tuning the grip on the hilt of his dagger. A stranger was humoring him. At least it bought the elf enough time to equip this scrapped robe around his body. For all Lisean knew, it was just a red robe, depleted of whatever magical qualities it could have if it were just piled with the discarded articles of man; flesh and bone.

What failed to add to the insult was the man even had the nerve to sit once again after putting on his new horrid smelling garment. It was as though Lisean were invisible. Well.. if that was the way he wanted to play and leave himself vulnerable, then so be it. The necromancer had to hand it to the man, though. He certainly had some tolerance built up. Why, even as he spoke up for his own family, he didn’t even stand to show how dear those loved ones really were to him. Still a miserable stick in the mud. Lisean’s mild chatter struck a nerve, and it helped him smile beyond the mask. A mentally weak individual could be tampered. He made a note of this.

“I hear an empty threat,” he said, his head moving back to sit at its regular alignment to stare down at the giant on the floor. The dagger was flipped in his hand, hilt pressed against the pinky finger with the blade pointed down at its intended victim. As the necromancer’s arm was raised, lightning flashed through the single window at the end of the hall, and for a split second Lisean was clearly outlined in the light like a serial killer, taking it that helpless, dreaming girl’s last moments of life as she remain sound asleep in her bed. “Make me believe it!”

In an instant, the clutched dagger came swiftly down upon the man, aiming to directly penetrate the skull and embed its rusty blade into the cranium of the seated giant. Mind you, with such a direct method of wounding, it left few options to act upon. One could try to roll out of the way, but with the hall being narrow, it could just make the opponent feel more crowded. Of course, there was also the option of delivering a disrupting blow to knock him back. Lisean’s swing had its careful, calculative arc. He came prepared with a line of defense should his pre-imagined blow paint itself in error.