IK vs PA Multi-Battle - Tavern

[Enigmatic Immortal]

This Battle will open at Midnight tonight!

I will be announcing who is participating in this before hand if I get both sides match ups in time. If by that time none is given I will assign the fighter. Remember that whoever posts first sets the parameters for the fight as well as the setting!

[Enigmatic Immortal]

This Battle is going to be:

The Cinderella Man vs Logan

[The Cinderella Man]

There was a smell of fear in the tavern.

It wasn’t an actual smell, nothing palpable that his nostrils could register, but it was there all the same, encroaching upon Victor Callahan as he stepped into the main room. It crept out of the wary eyes that tried to cut through the mist of cigar smoke to behold the figure made of darkness standing in the doorway. It made itself known in the way the hushed voices diminished first to whispers, then to nothing at all. It was apparent in every nervous shuffling of the feet, every restless hand resting on the smooth table, every cracking knuckle, every bitten lip. It reached out towards the gunfighter like an invisible hand, mingling with the usual stench of yesterday’s puke and unwashed feet before it wrapped itself around his coated figure like a fist. It wanted him out of here. They wanted him out of here, even if they didn’t have the courage to make that blatantly apparent.

Victor couldn’t blame them. He didn’t know why the Ixian Knights chose this venue for their clash with the Phoenix Ascendant, didn’t know if they were the ones who chose it. Didn’t care much about it either. But these people cared. This village was their home and it got caught in the crossfire between two groups vying for power. And why? Maybe because it was convenient. Maybe because it was strategically important. Or maybe because it just happened to be at the wrong spot on the map. Regardless of the reasons, there they were, crammed in the dingy main room of their local ale den, and there he was, ready to tear it to shreds if need be. No, he couldn’t blame them for that. And if they got up and started to do more than just stare and whisper, he wouldn’t blame them either. He might be forced to shoot them, but he wouldn’t blame them. They were what they were, and he was what he was. There was no way around it.

Walking the few steps towards the bar made him feel like he was on a parade, the main attraction that everyone wanted to see, but he bore it stoically. The man behind the counter - a fat, sallow thing with more head on his face than on his head and an apron that probably hadn’t been washed this year - stood motionless with a mug in his hands.

“Evening,” Victor said. He kept his voice down, but in the stillness of the room it sounded almost like a shout. The man on the other side of the bar didn’t move, not even when the gunslinger put both hands on the counter to show he bore no weapons.

“E-evening,” the barkeep squeezed out. His forehead was covered with sweat, but whether this was because Victor’s presence or the sticky warmth of the room, the gunman couldn’t say.

“I’ve been told there were Ixian Knights in this village. Seen any? I’m rather eager to meet them. Heard they were quite an interesting bunch,” Victor said, lowering himself onto a stool. When he reached towards the inside pocket of his leather coat, the rotund man breathed in sharply and took a step back. His backside hit the way around the time Victor produced a leather pouch.

“Relax. I have no quarrel with you,” the gunslinger said, producing a single gold piece from the procured pouch. “Coin. For a drink.” He slid it towards the far end of the counter. “The rest you get when you clear out this place. Send these people home. Tonight is not a good night to get drunk. They’ll be safer at their homes.” And when the man remained rooted to the floor: “Well, go on with it.”

There was no menace in Victor’s voice. In fact, there was even a smirk at the end of it, a vain attempt to soften his sudden emergence from the streets that threw a wrench in the cogs of their everyday lives. But that didn’t help the barkeep to spill half of his whiskey shot when he served it, didn’t stop his voice from wavering as he instructed the people to vacate the premises and ushered them out of the main door. There was only so much words could do, especially on a night when weapons were bound to do most of the talking.

Downing the glass of murky liquid, Victor reprimanded himself that it wasn’t a smart thing to do, not with the night filled with people trying to kill him. Hell, none of this was a smart idea as far as he could tell. The Ixian Knights and the Phoenix Ascendant, these names were just words to him, meaningless and empty with unknown faces behind them. So why was he here, in this godsforsaken village instead of the Saddle Ablaze with a hooker in his lap and about ten more whiskey shot in his system?

He liked to think it was because of Corone. Victor Callahan had fought numerous battles in his life. Some he fought because of love, some because money, some because his bravado, some just because he didn’t know anything else to do but fight. But the Phoenix Ascendant gave him an opportunity to fight for a cause, for something greater than his personal gain. Corone was on the ropes, its energy drained by the years of infighting between the Empire and the Rangers, and it was one punch from being brought down. These Ixian Knights aimed to deliver this blow, to use the misfortune that befell the land in order to gain power. And Victor couldn’t stand by idly while that happened. Corone hadn’t been particularly good to him over the years – after all, he lived through some of his darkest moments within its borders. But Corone had been home ever since he burned the bridges between himself and Scara Brae, and he had grown to love it as it was. It deserved better than the likes of Silence Sei and his power-hungry posse.

Pouring himself another glass of cheap whiskey while the common folk shuffled out of the tavern wordlessly, Victor Callahan corked the bottle and set it and the glass aside. In their place he put the pistol and the sawed-off shotgun, his fingers working deftly as he did the final check on his weapons. Both were ready, of course, cleaned and oiled and loaded, ready to drill holes and take lives, but it never hurt to doublecheck. It’s not like the Ixian Knights were breathing down his neck. Yet.

[Logan]

The day began as every other. There was a buzz about the war-ravaged veteran. People curious by his arrival in Corone after having once again vanished from the face of the land for quite some time. By then, it was almost part of his nature to take long leaves only to return at the most opportune moments. Some might call him an opportunist, but he didn't see it as such.

An opportunist, after all, took advantage of the opportunities bestowed upon them. Logan, however, never once ended up actually taking advantage of the opportunity presented him. Usually, the chance encounter, war or tournament ended shortly after it began for the psion, and rarely due to an actual defeat. More times than not, he found himself trounced by his own demons, his own mind and his own past.

Raising the script of parchment to the candlelight his eyes thinned as he attempted to read the mangled scrawl.

"Logan,

I don’t know if this letter will ever reach you. I’ve sent several different iterations of this plea to the places you used to frequent. If this letter does indeed reach you, however, you should know that I plan on taking my army to war in Corone. For too long, the Empire and the Rangers have fought one another for greedy purposes. It is my goal to form a democracy in the country, like we have in my villages. This way, no single group of people will ever be able to amass absolute power again. I tell you all of this because you are my friend, and if you wish to stand with me, I will be happy to accept you. More than that, if you wish to stay out of my affairs, I do not blame you, and consider this a warning to evacuate with as many people as you can. The choice is yours Logan, my friend. Whatever you decide, know that I bear no ill will towards you. After all we have been through, all the wars we have fought beside one another in, I hope you of all people would understand why I am doing this. Perhaps after this whole affair is over, you could meet your God Daughter, Emma. Until then, my friend, stay safe, and stay out of trouble.

Sincerely, Sei Orlouge, Commander of the Ixian Knights Corps."

His eyes shut tight as he remembered his dear, old friend. The two had shared memories beyond numbers, tales without endings. Everything between them went back as far as Logan's time on Althanas. The Commander was one of the first to embrace the psion in the midst of his darkest depths, when all hope seemed well out of reach and even at the point when Logan had given up on himself. There was no question in his mind.

"If he needs my help, then I am all in. No bones about it," Logan mumbled telepathically to himself. The mumble was intended as a quiet reassurance to himself what he was about to take on was not only what he needed to do, but was also the right thing to do. Something inside stirred from the depths of his very soul as his heart ached in a way he hadn't felt in a very long time.

After meeting up with Sei and his troops, discussions and strategies were had. Logan paid none of it any mind. In fact, he basically ignored it all completely. There was a time when he may have taken part of the opening festivities, the lead up to the war. Perhaps were it a few years earlier he may have even offered his expert strategies. Instead, he sat back and let the veterans of many wars stake their claims as rightful leaders. His role in all of this was simple.

A dream pushed him to a place he had long since forgotten. As he woke, he blinked a few times, vaguely recalling portions of his vision.

"Do what you do best, old friend. Fight to the death, leave nothing behind. Everything you have lives and dies in battle this very day," Sei had spoken to him in the vision. Whether the Orlogue had actually spoken the words or not meant little if anything. The words would be the very cornerstone the psion would etch his name upon, a legacy born of right versus might.

Going about his day, everything seemed normal. Almost, in a way, too normal. At least, too normal for the precipice of a War which would forever shape the annals of the world of Althanas. The stories would be told for generations beyond those born of the Spoils of War. The fire burned for those legends to include the psion, a once great legend in his own right who found himself at a crossroads in his own life. But his life meant nothing then. It was but a footprint in the sand of the War to come.

His footsteps spoke volumes of his intentions. Forceful and purposeful, each step seemed to pound with the beat of his heart. One after another until he arrived at the doorway to the musty old tavern. "What a place for a legend to solidify his place in history," Logan smiled as he bemused himself, "Or at least die trying." His expression changed. The smile vanished, his face chiseled out of the very stone which shielded his heart. There would be no joy in what had to be done.

Pushing open the door, he slid between the crack and peered about the place. Battle-wrought hands grasped the hilts of his weapons fiercely as his gaze fell upon the few remaining. Each one had a story to tell, a tale of a life lived before. Soon, their tales would intersect at a moment when everything would change. The only question left to answer --

Who would do the writing?

[Abomination]

((Draug arrives from the Streets))

The door was slightly open, and it was silent inside. Usually a tavern like this would have more commotion. Unfortunately, Draug had not memorized a good distinction between friend and foe. While the monster inside him did not care, whatever was left of his humanity thought that it would be smarter to wait for a conflict. He pressed his back along the wall next to the door, holding up his longsword like it was a torch. His head was bent to the side, looking through the crack of the door inside. When the fighting started, he would make his move.

[The Cinderella Man]

Victor half expected to see Sei standing in the doorway, looking at the gunman with that faux righteousness in his eyes that all quasi heroes sported these days, their patented I’m-better-than-you look. After all, the two of them had somewhat of a score to settle. Ever since that one inauspicious night - when Victor wound up killing the wrong man and Sei took the kill personal because he wound up involved in it - there was no love between the two of them. The only reason why both were still alive was because they hadn’t run into each other after that unfortunate event. Victor reckoned that was bound to change tonight. Sei led the Ixian Knights and their little rebellion aimed to usurp the state of things in Corone, and Victor planned to gun down a couple of his lackeys. It was only a matter of time before the head honcho heard the gunshots and the screams of the dying before he came running. After all, he was the self-proclaimed “hero”.

But the man that entered the tavern even as the last remnant of the local patrons shuffled out the door wasn’t Sei. Not unless Sei recently started to dye his hair in a ridiculous color of moonlight white and grew it a foot or so. Given the fact that Victor didn’t recognize this stranger from the Ascendant’s little pre-battle powwow, he assumed the man was one of Sei’s goons. But it never hurt to be certain. Wasn’t there something his mother used to say, something about making an ass out of himself by assuming?

“Is he one of the locals?” the gunfighter asked the innkeeper whose eyes seemed to grow larger with every armed person that entered the tavern. The fat man shook his head vigorously. Victor nodded, then gestured towards the door that led to the kitchen. “Get out of here.” The barkeep scurried out the back door, pausing only to collect the hefty pouch that the gunslinger offered in exchange for the drink, the loss of business and the subsequent devastation.

“So, you’re one of Usurper’s dogs, I reckon?” Victor finally addressed the stranger. He didn’t turn to face him, though, didn’t need to. The large bottle of whiskey in front of him was made of brown glass and it was smooth enough to project a reflection of the man on its curved surface. It was far from precise, of course – the dark man looked as if he was a dwarf that weighed some five hundred pounds – but it was good enough to warn him if the man made a move. Not that Victor planned to give him a chance to lead this dance, not even a chance to introduce himself properly. Chatter had no place in a fight. Because when you gave the man your name and he gave you his and you looked him in the eye, he became a person with a face, a guy who probably had a wife, probably a kid, probably didn’t want to be late for dinner. Probably wanted to live through the night. It made the killing that much harder, even for a callous bastard such as Victor. Better to make it quick. Better to shoot him while he still looked like a five hundred pounds worth of dwarf.

Both of his weapons were laid out on the smooth oak of the bar, but when Victor’s left moved, it grabbed neither. Instead it swiped at the bottle of murky piss the barkeep sold as whiskey, grabbing it by the neck and throwing at the man in black. Or rather in the vague direction of the man. Victor hoped it would distract the man just enough to make his follow up easy to pull off. His right hand grabbed for Aicha, found the familiar wood of the pistol’s grip with ease, then swung it towards the entrance. He didn’t aim - couldn’t afford it without losing the element of surprise - just squeezed the trigger as soon as the barrel was leveled and his arm was outstretched. Aicha obeyed readily, bad girl that she was, spewing thunder and fire, making even Victor squint at the abruptness of the sound. He never quite got used to that first cracking gunshot that ripped apart the veil of silence. It always seemed to ring in his ears for several minutes afterwards, as if someone struck a gong right next to him. But usually it was a just payoff. Usually the buzz meant someone other than Victor Callahan was dead or dying. And that wasn’t such a bad deal.

[Abomination]

The Homunculus noticed Victor's weapons while they were on the table, and after one of them was fired at the other man, Draug determined that the mercenary was not worth assimilation. A gunslinger's abilities were of no use to them, and moreover he knew that the other man was not one of his primary targets: Ixian Generals. He watched for a bit longer, thinking of his next move, when he heard an explosion coming from the direction of the church. It could've been gunpowder or a cannon, but was likely magical in origin, which increased the possibility that one of the Mystics were there. He had yet to assimilate a Mystic, to take the power of shadow or light magic. His decision was easy to make as he ran back toward the streets.

((Draug moves to the Streets))

[The Cinderella Man]

Victor never got a chance to see if the shot found his quarry.

Not that he was missing much if it did. The gunslinger had witnessed the result of his gunfire enough times to know what was usually left behind. If he was lucky, the bullet caught the man in the head or the heart and the kill was swift and clean. But that usually wasn’t the case. Most of the times the bullets hit less fortunate places, like the lung which left his targets wheezing and coughing up blood, or the gut which made them topple over and hold their stomachs as if they had the world’s worst diarrhea, or the throat which made them hold out for their neck with bulging eyes that asked if this was the end, even if they knew it probably was.

But Victor was spared the outcome of his gunshot this time. Because even as he reached out for his shotgun and brought it up for a possible follow up, someone slammed a chair across his back with such force that it sent him sprawling on the floor. The damned thing didn’t crash and splinter the way it usually does in tales of some false heroics, where chairs were all made of sticks and bottles shattered against skulls with little or no effect. No, this was the real world, and in the real world Victor felt every inch of sturdy Corone carpentry across the muscles and bones of his back. The force of impact and the subsequent pain made his eyes water, his vision dizzy. He could taste the blood in his mouth, pouring out of the cut in his lip his teeth made when his face was introduced to the dusty hardwood of the floor.

Nothing to it, been his hard than that in the ring, Victor said to himself as he pressed the barrel of his shotgun against the ground, trying to get up. He was still down on one knee when another hit came. This time it wasn’t a chair, though. This time it was a sweaty body that tackled him from behind again. Only the man – whoever the bastard was – didn’t just drop him to the ground again. Instead, he actually lifted Victor of the ground as he kept charging forward and didn’t stop until both of them went crashing through the tavern’s window.

((Victor exits the TAVERN, enters the STREETS))

[Logan]

The events around Logan unfolded as if he were caught within time's current, merely flowing along for the ride. Whole minutes seemed to slip by without any interaction from the psion. Blood pooled upon his forehead from the broken bottle's nasty wound. Still, it was a blessing in disguise, as the sheer force and sound caused Logan to wince and drop to one knee sending the bullet from the firearm screaming by his head.

Perhaps Victor knew the war would not be won by defeating the one man nobody cared about or cared for? Why else would he disappear into the abyss of the battles outside the Tavern? These questions raced through Logan's mind, but he shrugged them off as best he could. With him every moment was filled with the echoes of voices locked in a fierce tug of war for his sanity, focus and mental capacities. And sometimes, the lesser side of him won. Sometimes, it didn't.

Wiping his forehead on his sleeve, streaking the suit with red, he rose to his feet with the help of one of his famed swords. The pressure in his head pounded and thumped with each beat of his heart, warmed only by the thought of seeing his God Daughter, someone whom he never met prior, but already felt a unique affection toward.

Deep inside there was still a part of him steadfast in the belief it was all another nightmare concocted by the enemy to weaken the psion's resolve and focus. Yet, if anything, the thought of a God Daughter whom he didn't know pressed him onward. The thought of Emma having a chance to live a life unlike any he could dream of for the children he still one day longed to father. There would be a vast expanse of life to travel before he could even consider the thought of settling down enough to get to the point of Fatherhood.

Sei made it seem so easy. He worked so diligently to protect each of his children and as hard to protect and care for those directly or indirectly related to him. At times, Logan found it played to Sei's advantages, but at other times he thought of it more as a curse than a blessing. One's dedication to his kin or next of kin was predicated upon a deep faith in one's own blood. A blood which was far too easily spilled in the midst of a heated disagreement.

Still, there was this deep fitted desire to know such a faith, to experience such a faith first hand. Don't mistake the psion's lack of children to mean he didn't experience faith in similar forms, but know he simply never had the chance to show the deep well of love, both romantic and otherwise, beyond the material or superficial. Every man possessed such a need. It was ingrained in the psyche of all living things, and certainly spoke to something greater than the simplicity of man's natural thoughts. Logan even knew of otherworldly friends who possessed such complex needs.

It was all enough to make the psion wonder to himself if everything he had done up until then meant nothing at all. Sure, he'd made a name for himself. A name which echoed through the halls of the once great Citadel, now no more than shambles and ruins of it's former impact and glory. A name which in some circles was considered legendary. Yet, in his mind it began to seem all for naught, simply more deeds which amounted to a status he could care less about.

With all the focus on who he was, who he'd become, and whom he wanted to become, he lost track of time which continued to ebb and flow around him dragging the psion through its unapologetic rough current. Before he knew it, the entire tavern was empty, leaving the battle nothing more than another escape from reality. Even the barkeep had left by then. Any other man would have relished the thought of escaping the battle prior with nothing more than a mere flesh wound, but Logan was not any other man. He was a warrior, and his bloodlust began to seethe within.

Stepping from the bar, he slid out the door and into the Streets, eager to find and taste the glory of battle once more. Sure, he wasn't as quick as he once was, and his skill in his swords was waning with each passing day. Yet, he still held onto the thought he'd find glory in the slaying of one man. All he needed to figure out was which man.

{{Logan exits TAVERN, enters STREETS}}

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Closed