Reborn. (Totally OPEN!!!)

[Mutant_Lorenor]

(Looking for level's 0-2)

Torn apart by war, Corone had become the monster it was destined to become.

A native Salvarn had returned to Corone for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, and perhaps, it was.

Fallen into the mystery of the dark, the champion of N'Jal walked the streets of Radasanth once more.

His people had worked to secure favour with The Empire, and thus, the mutant was a welcome guest of honour.

No longer stepped out of the carriage he was in. There were no corpses inside since the High Priest was a man of dignity. He would not feed upon allies, furthermore, he would not feed on those who would endanger his cause. Lorenor found himself a place due to the events in Salvar. When he had returned to Radasanth, there were no more Heroes. The age of The Empire had dawned. Wishing his co-riders a safe journey, the mutant had a certain regal nature about him now. It was a side-effect of having obtained royal status within the undead tribes of Raiaera. Known as the Forsaken, Lorenor's people had broken free from Xem'Zund's dominance almost an age prior. Establishing their own banner, and their own state, Lorenor had become the physical avatar for N'Jal herself. The fallen matroness. The banished Thayne. Lorenor knew intimately that N'Jal had many names. None were to be taken lightly.

It was daytime. The sun beat down harshly on his shoulder, but the mutant High Priest had long ago overcome his olde weakness. He looked up to the sun and smiled a moment as if giving the thing a mutual nod of respect. A weakness overcome, after all, was a strength. Lorenor felt as though he had returned home. In a way he had. Long ago, the mutant had started his long journey to the throne as a simple street urchin fighting for the Red Hand and Black Hand. In a way, his training with that olde cult had prepared him for working with the Church of Ethereal Sway up in Salvar.

As Lorenor walked towards a certain building, he felt himself growing more and more excited. The Taint surged quickly through his vessel as he walked towards The Citadel's familiar structure. His eyes were closed, but he had memorized every aspect of Radasanth proper. He could walk around blind folded and know exactly where he was at any given time. Radasanth was burnt in his very blood. No matter how oft new districts of Radasanth expanded her grounds, the mutant always found his way to that one place. The central epitome of Althanas's culture and the very depiction of arrogance that the Althanians possessed. Althanians came to The Citadel from an early age to worship Gods and Goddesses of war and death from every culture of Althanas.

And so, Lorenor had carved his place in The Citadel Leagues. Once, Lorenor had an uncontested amount of power at his command. But since the rebirth, he had lost those heights of power and been forced to start over from scratch. It was a test placed on his shoulder by the will of his matron, N'Jal. As the City of Heroes had changed it's very soul, so too, had the Monks of the Order adopted to the new age of corruption and darkness. Lorenor had placed agents within The Citadel's halls to keep a close eye on the activities of the Monks. It was a well played move all thanks to his training in Salvar. Having been part of that Nation's Civil War, he was only sad that he'd missed Corone's big party.

When a monk wearing a black robe approached him, Lorenor recognized him as one of his own followers of N'Jal. The marks were subtly imbued in the man's robes, but Lorenor did not need eyes to see them. He smiled at the ranking Monk. Then a neophyte, not a man of respect and position within The Citadel's halls. Lorenor's desperate gamble had paid off. As he walked over towards the man, Lorenor extended a hand and shook the other's.

"I trust our mission has been a success then?" Lorenor asked.

"You were right." The man responded. "We needed allies, and though the Monks claim neutrality your research was correct. They can act to preserve their own sanctity and that's where we saw our opportunity to place agents in their fold."

"I've been gone too long..." Lorenor said carefully. He closed his eyes for a long moment. "Salvar has welcomed me like a son, but things have calmed down there. There is no more need for men of my particular...talents. So I chose the ripe opportunity to leave agents behind and take my leave of The Sway as a dagger." Lorenor rubbed his chin. A strange thing really, he was talking to one of his agents completely out in the open unafraid of assassinations. The men were completely shady looking, but Lorenor had worked in a network of allies. He'd placed a plan in play that would affect them all. "But we both know that I am not here to play catch up my old friend. I am here for exercise. The trip was long, and I grow hungry." The mutant said that carefully so his companion could hear him quite well. "Ready me a chamber. And make it known, that The Grand Primus, has returned! " Lorenor followed the Monk into the halls of The Citadel.

***

Feeling in a festive mood, Lorenor had a certain chamber prepared for him.

It would be quite fitting of the fact that he wanted to feast upon the very flesh of his foe, or, foes.

As he had entered the chamber before home,Number Fourteen, a small group of observers filled the observation area. Many of them had only heard the legends of Lorenor, the conqueror, Lorenor the destroyer. He'd been in Salvar for so long, that his name had all but been forgotten to those who didn't need to know. So, Lorenor saw an opportunity. With the age of Villains now upon Althanas, Lorenor and his motley crew of dark agents would prosper. Lorenor was a demon of greed and was fueled by the desire to acquire material wealth. No other form of wealth mattered, only physical power and influence could keep a man fed. In his case, beast. Lorenor smiled to himself when the walls of The Citadel's chamber shifted with the familiar pang of power. The Monks wielded the Illusionary Arts with tremendous skill. The arena he had specified was quite a specific one.

It would be one fitting of his mood.

For what did Undead have to be happy about?

As the perpetual figurehead of the Undead, Lorenor stood in the center of the newly reconfigured field. Surrounding him, now, was a certain cathedral. A cathedral that lurked in the former city of Valinatal in Raiaera. This Cathedral, had become a mockery of it's former self for the current inhabitants within were Lorenor's followers. Within the center of the undead parish was a certain structure. A well to be exact. The well contained the secrets of life and death for those who were brave enough to forfeit their very souls and lives to N'Jal. The liquid within the well had a light green hue to it, and one could see their own reflection in the depths before they were forcibly plunged into those waters. Within the waters lurked the physical manifestation of N'Jal herself! Before the well was a series of pew-like benches that were arranged in several rows and columns.

Within the air was a maddening chorus-like chant of the goddess; N'Jal. Lorenor had chosen this arena as it would be many months before The Grand Primus could return home and he was feeling nostalgic. There was work to be done in Corone proper. The training in Salvar had prepared him for the events that were happening in Corone, and the virtual stand-still between The Corone Rangers and The Empire. Lorenor pitied the Rangers for they were walking into death's mouth with Lorenor now allied to The Empire. There were operations underway and Lorenor had declared The Empire's enemies; his own. As he walked towards the altar established before the well, the gathered sheep looked at The Grand Primus in awe. He had gone through many incarnations; and this current state would not be the last of his transformations.

Long live N'Jal. Lorenor thought as he took position by the altar. He smiled, watching the entrance of the chamber quite carefully. From experience he knew there was only one way in, or out.

[Anke/Varg]

Leper clicked his knuckles, tightened his hands into fists, and then relaxed. His preparations were accompanied by a chorus of clockwork machinations, a dual hiss of steam from the small vent at the base of his neck, and the distant sound of cackling. The creature named the Black Varg by his opponents had heard a call, and to the Citadel he had come.

“I see. What Rouge meant,” he said with a soft hiss. His voice, smothered by the breathing apparatus attached to his mask was uncannily gentle. His sincerity slipped from his hidden tongue like a velveteen rabbit addressing a woman’s long unfulfilled needs. The dapper gentlemen cocked his head, and picked out the detail of the strange arena that rested ahead.

The sandy dome, a mere moment ago had been empty, hallow, silent. Now, veering up out of the shadows of the Ai’bron magic, a cathedral priory ascended into view. Leper, undeterred, took several cankerous steps forwards. His own chorus of being was drowned out by the sudden formulation of a screaming dirge on the gentle winds that swirled about the grand architecture. Leper was perturbed as to why anyone, from any of the verdant lands of Althanas would come to kill, to maim, to murder in such a holy vestment of brick and sadness.

“Hello? Is. Anybody. Here?” he hazarded to shout. His white eyes, burning with an inner fire of magical means burnt with inquisitive zeal. His muscles, buried beneath an elegant top coat, bowler hat and tight fitting leather plates bristled with apprehension. He clicked his fingers again, his left hand, made of flesh moved quicker than the right, which was a mechanical extension of his clockwork arm. His lungs, one a leather sack bumping with vapour heaved inside his half metal chest cavity.

The gigantic structure, from Leper’s limited ability to comprehend logistics and space, had but one entrance. It was a gaping maw, a hole in the crumbling ziggurat and vestry at the fore of the much taller narthex just beyond. There was a strange twist in the building, a transverse vestibule jutted out from the cathedral, smothered in blood coloured columbines and spidery willow trees. If the outside of the building, weather my unseen forces that crafted reality in the imagination of his opponent was so deranged, so strange, so alien, the gentlemen could only begin to imagine what sort of horrors dwelt within.

He eyed the entrance, some four hundred feet from his own doorway into the arena, and clucked. The steel claws attached to his fingers, inch long, razor sharp extensions of the beast within flexed once more in a rhythmic pattern. There was a brief pause, like calm before the storm, and then the callipers and stilts that made Leper quite the imposing presence at a cocktail party bent, with a snap, into a strange angle. With a jet of steam the werewolf ambled forwards, practically slavering, each impish step was a thunderous bound of madness towards true chaos.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

The diablerie arts were at Lorenor's command.

As he focused on the gathered crowd before, he felt a certain sense that something was coming.

Hearing the voice of N'Jal in the back of his mind, the High Priest carefully and studiously analyzed the words of the ancient Thayne. As the words filtered into the back of his mind, creeping up his spine like a billion tiny spiders, Lorenor focused. His glowing purple eyes shined brilliantly in the dimly lit chamber of the cathedral. As he looked at the gathered flock, he considered their presence in his house. For a moment, Lorenor became very serious in his silent commune with N'Jal. One had to know the voice of The Thayne in order to truly comprehend what they had to say. There were priests and priestesses for each of the Thayne, Lorenor knew, and he was the best of those who followed N'Jal's decree. Lorenor was shown a vision of things to come. Those visions, The Citadel itself, and The Citadel Leagues. Lorenor had gained power in Salvar, and he was working to gain power in Corone. He wasn't like most fools, who attempted to chase fool's gold.

He had discovered realistic goals for himself and his people and had fought hard to attain them.

The banner of the undead.

N'Jal's symbol on a flag. Lorenor could visualize N'Jal's glyph by heart now. It would swirl in the darkness of his mind periodically whenever she summoned him to that special corner there. N'Jal was very much a part of Lorenor's life. Where as some of the fool hardy mortal races doubted the power of The Thayne even existed, Lorenor knew better. He had walked alongside the rest of The Thaynehood, and even earned a temporary place as a Demi-Thayne. The High Priest studied the words that flowed in the back of his head, spoken to him by N'Jal. Each phrase brought him a significant amount of pleasure. He shivered as he heard her word, he spoke in the tongue of The Spider Magi to his people. They repeated the translated terms of communion in the common-tongue as the strength of a voice box was needed to even to speak in Spider Magi. The children of N'Jal. They spun their web of deception throughout the world, focused on the central point of Concordia.

From their, the web of deception expanded out to the distant corners of Althanas as a whole.

Lorenor waited for his opponent to arrive. That was all he could do...

Wait.

Patiently...

[Anke/Varg]

There was an audible gasp in the on looking congregation in the chamber of the cathedral as the unloving and cold creature was joined by another. Leper came to a clumsy halt on the border between the entrance tunnel and the inner cloisters. He ticked, ticked, and hissed as his gears and organs fought against the strain caused on his body by the Ventricle; his mechanical, fantastical, and lifesaving skeleton of engineering.

In the temporary suspension of cheering, hooting, and guffawing, he analysed the space within the grand dome of their arena. His opponent was cast in shadow, a strange half-light that formed in the pillars and the encroaching, suffocating, and intoxicating zeal of the cathedral. He was standing roughly a thousand feet away, seemingly frozen, statuesque, perhaps in meditation. Leper set his right stilt eschew, and rested his claws by his sides. They whirred, scraped, and scrabbled at the air, as if their wielder were unconsciously clawing through necrotic flesh.

All of the dapper gentleman’s enthusiasm to engage drained away, like steam from a gauge, water from a faucet, life from a still warm body. His pale white eyes glowed with a primal light in the gloom, piercing the expanse with a feral glare. There were no pupils in the plates of glass that were built into his death mask, and thus, no expression was revealed, no emotion vented, and no weakness displayed. His breathing apparatus hissed as his body recovered from his sprint. He bounced slightly, keeping his muscles taught to launch, if need be, like a ravening jackal across the cracked floor.

“Hello. My. Name. Is. Charlesworth. DuBoe.” He cocked his head to either side between every word, using the cankerous motion and crack of dampening gears in his shoulders to augment the blunt, hollow, and soulless tone of his voice.

The crowd were confused by the juxtaposition between the man’s doublet, waistcoat and primly kept hat and his autonomous, simpleton turns of phrase. His cut silk and gold striped jacket was telling them one story, whilst his nature screamed another. Despite his less than noble appearance, Leper was still a nobleman in his half-metal heart. It beat in his chest, pumping blood and oil around his body with heavy, drum beat convulses. Even as a werewolf, the etiquette instilled in him as a young squire to his father’s barony shone brightly.

“Shall. We. Begin?” he questioned, gesturing with his right hand with a regal flounce.

He flexed the claws on his fingertips as if he were tinkling ivories in a piano bar, and whistled a little hiss of steam ditty to prepare him for his ordeal. Without any further introduction, the Black Wolf lurched forwards. The heavy steel tips of his stilts pounded the black obsidian floor, crushing the fragments of stone with each shuddering descent. His breathing intensified as the strain grew worse, and he was certain he recognised almonds and formadylhe flowers amongst the stagnant, lint filled air that his mask filtered into his one good lung. As a man of the underworld, it was an immestakible scent. It was the scent of death.

He roared halfway across the expanse, and raked the air with wild scythes of his claws. He howled with the heat of a sun warming his vocal chords, and shone with malefic as threatening and ominous as a full moon rising. There was no semblance of a man in his motions, no feeling of regret in his cantankerous rage – he was here, quite simply, to vent the anger of his inner beast. If he could not change, he would allow himself this one, brutish luxury; his fetish, his desire, his instincts all drove him forwards like a hunter after its unwitting prey.

The crowd roared with him.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Lorenor saw something in that stranger.

Something he had seen in few men before. The Grand Primus saw an object that was much akin to a clockwork machine. Perhaps, a form of alchemy was before him now and somewhere in that construct there lurked a tortured man. As that man ran towards him, The Grand Primus moved out of his reverie and prepared for his imminent duel. Lorenor had been underestimated before, and this was one of those many times. The creature before him waved his claws about, attempting to slash bystanders and mutants alike. Lorenor sensed a certain madness flowing from the creature that the monks summoned for him. It was a madness that was burning with a distinct pain. Both of the sensations saturated the air and touched the mutant's flesh to such a sharp degree that it nearly cut him. Lorenor liked that.

The man before him seemed to possess an unusually acute panic aura. It was probably due to the bizarre configuration of his body. In a quick moment, Lorenor had analyzed much of his opponent and would fight in the traditional fashion he always fought. Thinking about his plan for a brief second, the mutant instinctively drew his main weapon. It was an elegant sword with the markings of the fallen Thayne. It seemed to flash into the Firmanent with a flick of the wrist. When his opponent was well within striking distance, Lorenor moved. And moved elegantly he had. He actually moved towards the mysterious creature before him. In his truest fashion, the mutant was going to purposefully place himself in extreme combat range in order to test the wits of his opponent. Well within striking distance, Lorenor smiled as the beast before him cut his flesh.

Each slice of the man's blade-like fingers drew black ichor from the mutant.

When his flesh was ripped open, the mutant wanted to cry out with near orgasmic pleasure.

The creature before him was capable of causing tremendous pain, and Lorenor would return the favour.

Using his blade fighter's skill, The Grand Primus moved a half-step to his side. At the same time he brought his weapon to an appropriate center of gravity. When that movement was ready, he struck with the supernatural finesse his kind was famous for. As he arched his sword in a full circular swing, he suddenly lunged towards the chest of the creature before him. If it connected, it would hurt like Hell. Lorenor was intended to bust open the creature the before and he was aware of the entire Firmanent before him. The beast before him possessed decent skill level from what Lorenor saw. Enough that he could hurt The Grand Primus! He wondered what sort of secrets the semi-metallic chassis of the beast had. A halo of steam seemed to flow from the epidermis of the beast. That steam altered the temperature of the chamber a few uncomfortable degrees.

He hoped his weapon would connect as he swung, his eyes locked on the face-plate of the beast.

"Friend." Lorenor began. "You picked a bad day to join the congregation as one of our enemies." Lorenor smiled. Out the corner of his eyes, he saw a guard preparing to assault the man-beast. "Hold." Lorenor commanded. "This one is mine."

[Anke/Varg]

The blade of his opponent struck its target, but it struck metal, and not flesh. With a piercing, sundering, and cracking strike, it slipped through the metal clavicle of the Ventricle and became quite stuck. Leper’s advance was tempered by the blow, and he jolted to a halt. Steam hissed from every orifice, grinding rose from every scar. He cocked his head, and with cold, calculating, and vociferous eyes, he lowered his gaze to stare at the offending article that had pierced his metal body.

“Interesting.” Was his only comment. In his bestial nature, the man named Leper DuBoe was quite used to pain. He lived, each month, for the single, bone-cracking night of half formed release. A sword into his mechanical form was nothing, a pin prick, an invigorating awakening.

Taking the blade of the sword into his claws, Leper pushed and pulled it free of his body. He wrenched himself free with a guttural roar, but despite his defiance, he clearly possessed none of the strength of the creature before him. The sword remained firmly in the grip of his opponent, and that told the werewolf all he needed to know about the severity of his circumstance.

“I must. Inform you. Sir.” He hissed, the breathing apparatus covering his ageing skin clicked. “I am. A congregation. Of One.” He was also most certainly not in the mood for theological debate. He was here to test his mettle against war, not wile, and already he saw a keen wit and guile in his opponent’s deathly eyes he was afraid of. His instincts, sharp as his steel fingertips, were cutting the atmosphere.

Whilst the cathedral and its cloisters were a pious setting for a massacre, the beauty of the cylindrical columns, vestigial lecterns, and crowded pews were dampened with the scent of blood and ichor. The spiralling ivy that climbed up from the cracked ground was as crimson as the trickle of blood down the creatures’ chest, and the raking wounds on his would be usurper.

Lorenor wasted no time in taking advantage of his opponent’s admission. The sword rolled back, cut past his body than swung about in a full arc. It clashed with Leper’s hastily risen claws, and then retreated. A second strike hammered the werewolf to his knees, and then a third knocked his hands down and away from being of use. He leered over the werewolf, his intoxicating aura and scent clogged the filter of the mask that the creature wheezed through with heavy, pained breaths.

“Now, you are a peon of N’Jal,” he rasped. The sword rose, like a guillotine’s head into the cold air. Leper looked up from his stoop, his top hot eschew, his eyes bright, and his heart, both of them, racing.

“No. I am a peon. Of. Moon.” He tensed the muscles in his calves, and instantly, stored steam in the tall stilts that carried him through the world darted down pipes and into chambers. The stilts bent in two, and their hefty bases dug into the rubble. In a flash, a snap, and a flume of water vapour that covered Lorenor to the waist, Leper leapt, and leapt with all the rage he could muster.

His voice echoed throughout the cathedral, and echoed far beyond.

He landed thirty or so feet to the left of where he had been, still alive, and now quite irate. The stilts righted him with a click, and he turned, claws splayed, eyes brighter than ever before, and sweat clogging every orifice.

“Tonight. The moon shines. Bright.” With a ravaging snarl, he broke into a run once more, each stilt smashing rock and flagstone, each swing of his arms clipping the edges of pews and slicing through dusty wood with ease. It would take more than a single piercing strike to break through the engineering mastery of his close colleague, and it would take much more than that to quell the rage of the Scara Scourge.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Lorenor swung downward in what should have been a devastating blow to his opponent.

At another point in his long career, the mutant would have easily finished off his opponent right then and there. However, it seemed that the steam-powered creature had another trick up his sleeve. Lorenor's eyes quickly darted in the general direction that his opponent had burst off to. "Amusing." Lorenor said out loud to nobody in particular. It seemed that the fellow wanted a clash of speed. Grinning, he knew that he no longer needed to hold back. "You've made an offending error." Lorenor said carefully. "You have no idea who you are running towards." When the fellow named Leper came within striking distance, the mutant was already on the move. He ran, once again, towards the incoming berserker's raging assault. Lorenor was a man who was also quite familiar with pain. As the Undead oft were bedded partners with that mistress.

Lorenor tightened his calves, in much a similar way that his opponent had done. However, it was Lorenor's undead physiology that responded and not the wolf's mostly mechanical one. Lorenor ducked down in a half-crouching position as he waited for the first licks of the man's claws. Then, activating his speed ability, also known as Celerity, Lorenor dashed right at his incoming foe. He was quite familiar with the kisses that the creature's bladed claws would provide and had grown to hunger for them. In a quick moment, he had admired the power that the clock-work creature clearly had at his disposal and longed to see more tricks. About half-way through the dash, the mutant jumped towards his opponent, and kicked out with his free leg. His balancing leg hung in the air, back a short ways, as his offending leg moved forward. It was a feint move, you see, and Lorenor intended to use his massive weight against the creature.

Though small, the creature was quite powerful and full of many tricks. The mutant held his magnificent, masterwork sword with both of his hands and moved the center of gravity to a higher position. He raised his sword up above his head, and prepared to slash downward. His dual-pronged attack was seamless. He knew that in terms of power, his opponent and he were about equal. He was still moving at his full speed capacity as the tip of the blade he wielded was ready to pierce the man's skull. Then, something happened. Lorenor revealed the nature of his attack. Right when the mutant's blade was about to touch the skull of the creature, he suddenly threw the weapon towards the man-thing's chest. There was just enough distance between the two crashing freight trains, that Lorenor could launch his weapon in between the man's frenzied, unintelligent attacks. And even as Lorenor revealed the nature of his trick, he was already struck with a fresh set of wounds...

More blood touched the air. Lorenor's. Even as the fresh wounds touched his body, the sadomasochist revered the pain that swelled across his vessel once again. Lightly armoured in only Vlince spider robes, the man-thing's claws easily tore through that fancy attire. Lorenor was stuck in mid-air and vulnerable to any form of riposte or counter that the man-thing would attempt to unleash on him. He hoped for Hell. He wanted to teach his disciples that war was not pleasant. War was ugly. And the gods of war needed appeasement, as well as sacrifice. And Lorenor knew in the back of his mind that N'Jal craved for the life-essence of the beast before him. N'Jal craved for the creature's very soul, whatever it was, and where ever it may lurk in his physical shell. Lorenor grinned at that realization for to make N'Jal pleased was one of Lorenor's constant ulterior motives. Lorenor would be certain to feed Leper to the great devoureror.

"And 'lo." Lorenor began. "The great maw of my Matron, N'Jal, is all that awaits you. Foul beast!"

[Anke/Varg]

The second time his opponent’s blade struck his metallic frame, Leper’s luck ran out. Though his claws had raked, torn, and severed all the creature’s defences, he had seemingly under estimated what he was faced with. He stumbled back, steam hissing, lungs perforated, and hearts racing in a skewered beat.

Suddenly, as if a shadow had formed over the pale sphere of midnight, Leper failed to see the funny side of his previous comment. The moon was not shining bright, because if it was, he would not have just experienced his death.

“Interesting,” he hissed.

“Die!” Lorenor roared as he twisted his masterwork blade with a defiant twist of his sinewy wrist. The metal scraped at bone, steel, and clockwork machination with utter indifference and observance of the sanctity of life.

Leper, not quite so subservient to just take it, reached for the length of metal that skewered his torso. He looked down at it, a half-light aura formed around his injury, where his eyes, pallid and sorrow filled, met with his end. His claws scraped against the metal of the Blade of N’Jal, but left no mark on its perfect form. Steam hissed from the pipework extruding from the dapper gentlemen’s callipers.

“I think I might just do that,” he replied, not quite sure how to respond without seeming horribly overconfident.

In the cloisters of the cathedral, obscured by shadow, and hidden by abstinence from life, the gathered mock crowd roared for their primal lord. Leper felt distinctly cheated by the sudden turn of events. A countless flurry of strikes had seemingly only angered his opponent, a servant of the Thayne, whilst one decisive blow had upended his own aggression. The chanting vibrated in the dark stone, vine wracked columns, and rotten wooden statues of deities forgotten.

With a judder, Leper pushed away from the sword, and slipped off its blade with an unceremonious twang of pain. Though he was a sadistic, cold, and calculated killer in the underground of Scara Brae, all the man’s composure was undone as he stumbled back several feet and fell to his knees with a thud.

He heard Rouge’s voice, his long-time companion; nag him in the back of his mind.

“Stand up,” his opponent challenged. He spans his blade with a keen precision Leper would have admired, if this indeed were his last moment. Instead, he felt cheated, belittled, and bereft of a grand gesture before his death. He cocked his head, tipped his hat, and with a sigh, he pushed himself with shaking knees, banging limbs, and weak sensibilities upright.

“What. For?” Leper rasped. He hissed, but this time, it was with contempt, and not with steam.

Standing in front of his executioner, the werewolf let his claws hang loosely by his side. The wound in his chest had pierced something useful, but not entirely vital. He felt death creep up on him, stare at him, and cajole him with taunts, cruel and sadistic.

He cocked his head, spidery in form, and flexed his fingers. They were ten feet or so apart, and waiting, wondering, and wistfully dreaming of a round two, the Black Varg spat at the paladin of N’Jal. “What. FOR!” he roared, returning the creature’s challenge with a challenge twice is loud.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Walking over towards his sword, it lay on the ground currently, The Grand Primus picked his weapon up. Knowing now that the battle was basically over, there was but one thing left. Lorenor was a High Priest of N'Jal, and as such, it was his duty to obey her decree. Sheathing his mighty weapon in it's scabbard, the mutant had a grin on his face. "What for you ask?" Lorenor said. "Death would be so easy for you now wouldn't it? So quick and comforting. But nay, friend. Death is not the companion that waits you for my Lady has whispered your name to me." Lorenor was slowly walking towards his opponent once again, even as he was bleeding out. "I am afraid a far darker fate has been chosen for you." Lorenor said that as he finished the short walk to his opponent. The Grand Primus kept that sadistic grin on his face, a mask of true pleasure twisted his features. He was enjoying himself! That fact should have been enough to humiliate his opponent, but the mutant would not stop there. He would never stop there.

This is my story. Lorenor thought to himself. I won't be forgotten, I won't be shunned by the race of men! As he walked up to the creature, he looked towards the well before them. It was glowing with anticipation, with a certain voracious hunger. Lorenor was moving with the grace and speed afforded by his Celerity powers, and he waited until he was within striking distance. Close combat range. The comfort zone of the mutant, he would take on even an Orc at that close range, he was that insane! As he finished the short walk he kept that same smile on his face, taunting his foe. "No friend. I have promised N'Jal a sacrifice, and a sacrifice she shall receive!" Lorenor suddenly rushed Leper, his speed was astounding for a warrior of their bracket. He ran forward, confident, the movements of their battle having taken them dreadfully closer to the well structure.

A distinct glow flowed from the substance in the well. It was a supernatural green glow, and it was very much alive. The aura itself was tainted with the very presence of N'Jal herself, the Matroness of the undead. Lorenor knew how close they were to the well, and he would be certain to take full advantage of that fact. Running towards his opponent, he made a sudden movement. It wasn't an attack however, quite the opposite, it was an attempt to physically grab Leper! Lorenor's clutching grip was making an attempt at the back of Leper's head, right for that silly looking top-hat. Lorenor howled, and the gathered crowd howled in triumph along with the precious Grand Primus. The king of beasts, the king of the undead. He reached for the back of his head, and if successful, would push forward with his weight and speed. It was his ultimate intention to give the creature a dip in the well that contained the very essence of death itself--N'Jal.

"Nay friend. A more horrifying fate awaits ye!" Lorenor yelled, and he felt ecstatic to the point of orgasmic release. He wanted to make his foe suffer, and suffer he would...

A fate far worse than death awaited Leper then...

[Anke/Varg]

Leper drank deep of the phantasmal will of the spider Thayne. He opened his eyes behind the pale death mask that sealed away his true form, and saw in the waters an unholy image.

An eight limbed romancer of shadow advanced at him through the darkness. Her form was lit with jade luminescence, olive glamour, and verdant lights aflame.

“I, bow, to no-one!” he screamed in his mind. The spider ignored the mental projection, and as the body of the werewolf writhed beneath the pressure of thr ghoul that weighed down atop him, the mind fought its own battle in the other worlds between the Citadel and the darker plains.

“A sacrifice…” the spider whispered, her voice scrabbling in the gentlemen’s mind. “You have brought me a violent sacrifice, a sacrifice for me? Oh how thoughtful, Lorenor, Paladin reborn…”

The name rang a loud bell in Leper’s mind. Arden Janelle, his mentor, colleague, and superior in the ranks of the Scara Scourge had spoken of the once levity riddled ghoul with succour hatred, sourness, and scorn. It was a name the werewolf remembered with perfect recall. He could only writhe as the voice continued to assault his senses, the pain in his chest intensified as it was pressured against the edge of the well.

“I…” the werewolf fought back, his voice unspoken, but singing in his mind against the green resplendence of the forbidden Thayne. “I am a sacrifice for no-one, but for the good of the isle of Scara Brae…” with a hiss of steam unbidden by physical form, the werewolf stared at the vast hulk of the spider in the dark. “Bygone, witch, and come again another day…”

With a final, unbidden, and brave show of strength, Leper pushed up against Lorenor’s grip. His mechanical and clockwork body afforded him with the strength he needed to break the hold the ghoul had over him. A spray of water cascaded over the rocky precipice of the well, spilling the holy liquid over the cathedral’s rocky ground. Lorenor balked, and stumbled back.

Leper span on his callipers, which hissed, greased, and grumbled with a coating of water, and raked his claws with one last and defiant frenzy in the direction of his would be oppressor.

If Lorenor wished to subdue the Gentlemen Werewolf, he would have to try harder than resort to parlour tricks.

You could not, after all, trick an already sundered mind into a game of two halves.

He was mad.

Lorenor was mad.

They were on equal ground, a fight solved only with death.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Reeling from the sudden show of strength on the behalf of his victim, Lorenor was stupefied. Simply stupefied. He was at such a loss of words for the audacity of this creature that for a moment, he forgot he was in The Citadel itself. Shaking his head he looked at his mad opponent for a long moment, and only then heard the sudden silence in the cathedral. There was a deafening silence in the chamber and Lorenor only heard the heartbeats of his companions. His expression became serious a moment later as he regained his composure, and he realized that his arm was completely dislocated that had once held the creature at bay. Lorenor's eyes narrowed into thin slits and he studied the man before him quite intently. For a long moment, there was no sound ushered from Lorenor's lips, as he studied. He was intently looking for something, anything he could exploit. After he found nothing, he sighed.

"Well done." Lorenor said. "You are not like the rest of the peons that come parading through here." Lorenor continued. "You are different, my lady commends your effort and your bravery." Lorenor was hurting. He knew it. But this match was not worth his life. He turned towards his guards. "We shall continue this bout undisturbed." Lorenor decreed. Then he continued his commands. "Please leave the Eye of Fate, and us alone." Lorenor asked. His eyes on the nearest guards. They questioned their leader's request, but followed orders. Soon, the cathedral was empty save for the two warriors and the physical embodiment of the fallen Thayne. Lorenor turned his attention back to the gentleman before him. "I have grossly underestimated you." Lorenor began. "But you have earned my respect, young one. That is something I do not give out lightly." Lorenor swung his sword with his healthy arm, moving back into a fighting position. "I have a respect of life, and do-not shed blood so mercilessly as some might think. Though I am a monster. We have that much in common." Lorenor held his weapon at an elegant forty-five degree angle, pointing downward to the ground.

"I give you a choice. We can finish this on friendly terms. Or you can leave with your life intact. Pending, that the next time we meet, it will be to the death. Am I understood?" The Grand Primus asked.

Then, he waited for the fellow to respond. Lorenor could wait in silence for all eternity if need be. Lorenor's injury was more serious than he previously thought. His arm felt like completely dead weight. He stole a glance down to the injury, and noticed that his shoulder was positioned at a harsh angle, unnatural even for someone like he was. Lorenor sighed. Damn that was a good move. He thought to himself, he really had wanted to have the creature before him as an ally and not an enemy. Oh well, the path of the dark lady is not for all to follow. Only few are meant to know her secrets.

[Anke/Varg]

Leper considered the man’s underhand offer for several languishing moments. His fingers clicked back and forth, his eyes glowed whiter still, and his mechanical heart whirred with arcane life. It irked him so that this so called opponent considered him so lordly as to make such ultimatum. In the werewolf’s mind, there were three choices. Those offered to him by the dark creature, and a third, which was that Leper tore the man’s throat out. What was more irksome was that this was supposed to be an arena of battle. All his opponent had done up until now was talk lofty ideals, quirky semantics, and the theological providence of a god Leper had no concern for.

“Tell me this,” he hissed, lowered his stance, and retreated fifteen or so feet. His own injuries were starting to interfere with his machination. He could feel arrhythmia in his gears, clots in his veins, and fatigue plucking at his taught tendons. “Did you come to fight, old man, or did you come to find a new pawn to manipulate?” somehow, even as Leper posed his question, he knew the answer.

With the defiance blazing in the werewolf’s eyes, the roar of the crowd grew fever pitch. They heeded Lorenor’s warning to not interfere, but made up for it with a chorus of cheers, whoops, and do-wops that rose into the steeple of the northern vestry and echoed for an age. He clucked excitedly. “It matters not, Lorenor.” The name dripped from his gasmask like a miasma condensing into a virulent poison. “I will take your offer, make good on your promise, and depart for pastures more…alluring,” by which Leper meant primal. Whilst he had no doubt the servant of N’Jal could offer him a mighty, carnal, and deadly encounter, the man was too vested in spreading dogma to appease the werewolf’s rage.

He rose slowly, until his stance was as tall as it could stretch, and lowered his arms unthreateningly to his sides. The roar of the crowd ceased, and the sound of birds fluttering to and fro in the rafters filled the awkward and sudden silence. In the soft, roving light of the ethereal chamber, Leper’s cloth doublet shone with a sort of sheen that came with blood spattered gold threads. He clicked his head left, right, and then up to the abyssal space overhead. The sound of N’Jal’s voice still rattled in his leather bound skull.

“It was…interesting.” He turned without further ado, and began to gallop, cancerously, towards the large tunnel exit. Outside, he pictured the grand foliage which shrouded the ancient ziggurat, and relished the thought of such sycophancy being contained within a natural temple like this. He dropped to all fours, and with a wolf like rampage, zipped out of sight. Adrenaline purged the pain of his injuries from his body.

“Goodbye!” he roared, his words forced haphazard through the breathing apparatus that kept his air clean.

Leper bowed to only one cruel mistress, and her name was Rouge.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Leper's words strangely haunted the mutant once they were spoken.

When he found himself in the chamber alone with the masses, the mutant carefully considered all that had just happened. Why did I let him go? Lorenor asked pondering what in fact, was the lesson in that battle. He obeyed N'Jal and never questioned her, N'Jal's word was law. He clutched at his arm carefully, cuddling his injury. At that moment, he had allowed himself a chance to truly bask in the injury that Leper had given him. It was a sweet sensation. One that was inflicted by someone who had a tremendous understanding of the love behind pain. That was the main mode of thought that governed all that Lorenor did. Pain was his pleasure, both giving and receiving. So Lorenor thought about what he had thought about at the beginning of the battle. What do the undead smile about?

Making things miserable, inflicting mass suffering and hysteria, and causing carnage where ever we go. Replied the voice of N'Jal.

Misery and suffering... Lorenor repeated in his head and realized something out loud. Leper was actually coward.

"You posed the question, creature, yet it was you who ran away." Lorenor whispered after the thing knowing that it wouldn't be able to hear him by then. Lorenor sat down next to the well, leaning against the rocky wall of it's structure. He sighed. It hurt, but it was a sweet sort of pain. One of the other priests walked towards Lorenor and he smiled at him. "Kraten. Tend to my injuries." Lorenor commanded, and the healer obeyed the command. Closing his eyes, Lorenor began to listen to the word of N'Jal. By then, he was surrounded by royal guard who would cut down any who attempted to usurp Lorenor's power. The mutant smiled as his attendants moved towards him and prepared their tools for the healing arts. A moment later, the battle was officially over once Leper was long gone.

*

When Lorenor came to, he awoke in one of the medical wings of The Citadel. There was a particularly strong scent of herbs and incense in the air. Lorenor did not know how to recognize the particulars of the herbs so all he could think was that it smelled good. He slowly came to, having lost complete track of time. As he came to, he felt a warm presence by him. The presence had a powerfully beating heart. He immediately turned his attention to the woman who was an attendant of the clinic like area. There were several individuals working on the many patients of The Citadel. The defeated, and the conquerors alike. All had injuries that needed tending, or they would spread infection and disease over the provinces of Radasanth. Lorenor studied the girl's heart, which was placed firmly behind a finely developed pair of breasts. Lorenor thought he would love to drink of that milk, but he decided not to pursue such a path. Breeding with the monks was considered taboo. So, sitting in bed, he would admire both female and male attendants alike. As he sat there, he thought about Leper, and what Leper had said and came to one conclusion that seemed fitting of the situation at hand.

We will meet again. Lorenor thought and as the monk's magics were worked on his undead physiology, Lorenor was lulled back to a peaceful sleep. Next time, I will play with you some more. Was the last thought he remembered before he passed to the dream-world under the weight of the monk's magics once more...

...FIN.

[Paladin]

Lorenor vs Anke/Varg. I'm assuming that all bunnying in the thread was approved.

Plot 18, 19/30

Story 5, 4/10 – In both cases the story was a basic as can be. Lorenor was there as part of his conspiracy to try and subtly take over the world in the name of N'Jal and Leper was there because well he just wanted to fight something, they fought and then went their separate ways. Lorenor gets the edge here for at least trying to come up with a good reason for the fight to occur.

Setting 6, 8/10 – Both of you did well here however Anke/Varg gets edge for using the setting the enhance the descriptions of his actions more consistently. Both of you did a good job with the initial set up and Lorenor I did enjoy your use of the crowd though you seemed to have missed a good oppurtunity to enhance the the feel of the cathedral by leaving faceless and almost formless in your descriptions.

Pacing 7, 7/10 – Nothing really worth noting or complaining about here. I wasn't exactly on the edge of my seat but you both moved the battle moved at a good clip.

Character 19, 18/30

Communication 6, 7/10 – You both did will here but Ank/Varg did better. Neither of you acted out of character at any point with your dialog or but it was the descriptions of Leper's voice and expressions that gave him the edge here.

Action 7, 6/10 – Lorenor gets the edge here. Both of you were descriptive in your actions and I never had any issues knowing who was doing what attack but Lorenor showed a bit more variance in his actions and his exact descriptions of each attack were generally a bit better. This was the hardest part of the rubric to judge in this thread.

Persona 6, 5/10 – You both did well here providing me with decent insights into your characters but Lorenor's more apparent motivation for the battle and as well as some of the reasoning behind his action during the battle gave him the edge here.

Prose 20, 23/30

Mechanics 9, 9/10 – Neither of you made any real mistakes here.

Clarity 6, 7/10 – With Lorenor there were a couple of instances where I had to go back and reread what he had written to figure out exactly what had just happened. I never had any such issues regarding anything written by Ank/Varg.

Technique 5, 7/10 – Lorenor you've been showing a lot of improvement since the last time I saw you write but your writing is still a bit choppy at times. Anke/Varg yours is considerably smoother and a bit more refined but could use a little bit of polish to really boost your scores.

Wildcard: 6, 6/10 – Over all a decent thread. I dug the dark atmosphere and how it really fit both of your twisted characters. The battle was short but sweet with both high and low points as noted in the categories above.

Total 63, 66/100 – Anke/Varg wins!

Mutant Lorenor receives 150 exp and 85 gold

Ank/Varg receives 575 exp, 62 gold and an informational pamphlet on what N'jal can do for you.

[Letho]

EXP/GP added.