Wasteland Workout (Closed to Logan)

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Aurelius looked around at the chaotic wasteland surrounding him, feeling more than comfortable here. The monks of this place were canny, that was certain- the Ai'Brone could take any concept out of your brain-box and whip it up in a handy little room for you, to take a blade to whoever happened to enter your arena. The tiefling was sure they utilised some form of portal or gateway to work their tricks, but they were keeping tight-lipped about it all.

Still, glancing around the bizarre landscape before him, the Warlock couldn't help but think of the Hells.

He stood on a rocky plateau, overlooking an endless landscape of obsidian; circling in the air, and hovering above ground were thousand of tiny islands, made of red rock, all orbiting in seemingly random patterns, sometimes crashing off each other with a sound like a thunderclap. The tiefling waited for one to circle close enough, leaping to it with ease, and scanning for any basher he could fight. After all, that was why he was here- his skills were getting rusty, and the tiefling needed to nick something; his blades hadn't tasted blood in weeks!

The closer one looked, the more insane the landscape became- bolts of lightning roared up from the ground, striking the sky with kaleidoscopic explosions; odd skinless creatures, like grotesque manta rays swooped and dived between the lightning, shrieking a banshee's chorus across the land. In the distance, a floating monolith came into view, flames dancing over it's titanic bulk, shining in colours not present in the mortal world. His serpentine eyes narrowing, he smiled sadistically as he saw it was formed from bodies: Writhing, screaming, agonised bodies, all bound together with the foulest of sorceries, merging together, flesh flowing like wax...

Once more, the Warlock was impressed by the monks' powers. He had barely even began to picture where he wanted to fight, and they had ripped these images out of his head.

Hopping across the floating rock islands, Aurelius smiled, displaying his fangs, eyes glinting with malice. There was a flash on the obsidian plain beneath his floating island, as the Ai'Brone ushered in the poor sod he was to fight...

[Logan]

"I still don't get it, Logan. Why the Bandit Brotherhood? Why the Retreat," the young man asked.

The questions were not lost on the psion, who had picked up a saw and begun cutting through the rather large tree before him. As he cut, he remained silent, not so much ignoring the question, but not exactly answering it either.

With a smile he shrugged his shoulders as his pace picked up, "I know it seems silly to you, John, but I have no real choice in the matter. At least, not at the moment. It is either rebuild the Retreat or go back to the whiskey and rum, and I just can't afford to do that. Been sober now for close to 6 months, and for me that is a hell of a feat."

He'd become a pronounced booze hound. If there was an event open to the public and alcohol was available, he would be close by. Very few things in Logan's life affected him the way alcohol had. He could recount time after time when he had lost a tournament due to a drinking binge causing him to miss the disqualification deadline. A good bit of those tournaments he truly believed he had a shot to win. So what was it about rebuilding the Retreat that had him sober for the longest period he could remember?

People. Not just anyone, mind you, but the right people. Brothers, to be more precise, were the reason he was sober. When Gild Sorrain was running the Brotherhood, Logan had made a pact to always watch out for his Brothers. The pact had always been alive in him, he just needed something to pull him from his life-long rut. Many times he thought he had found the something, but all of those somethings inevitably left him high and dry.

Anita, Logan couldn't get the vivid dream from his mind. He tried to push out the thought again, but it came rushing back as quickly as before. The young man had been watching the psion struggle within himself, and he offered to help with the saw.

"If you want, I can take over. I'm sure you could use a break. Heard you used to run heavy in the Citadel. Maybe you could give it another go there," he suggested. As much as Logan didn't want to acknowledge the white elephant in the forest, he had no choice.

"Right. It's all yours, John. Off to the Citadel. These blade haven't seen action in a very long time," he said through gritted teeth. It wasn't surprising the man with the alcohol addiction was also addicted to conflict, and not just physical conflict either. There were plenty of times where he would engage an opponent mentally just for the pleasure of witnessing them break under the weight of their own thoughts. He hadn't gained his reputation for being a master at mental manipulation for nothing. At one time, he was the best Althanas offered in the arena of mind games.

He backed away from the tree and headed off down the path. There was need to bother with his shirt. Once he arrived at the Citadel, the monks would ensure every need or desire for the battle he intended to partake in would be met. He needn't gold, either, as there was no cost associated with the battles or the services the monks provided. It was a curiosity which had a tendency to give Logan pause, but he had been out of the grip of the Citadel and the monks for so long he paid it very little mind.

Days passed and finally he arrived at the stairwell to the run-down, dusty old buildings. They used to be a single building of great magnificence, but when he arrived they looked as war-torn as ever. Even the magiks which were the underlying power of the Citadel felt weaker, their grip felt lighter. Entering the first of many hallways, he looked around and settled quickly upon a door.

As per his usual ideology when it came to the Citadel, he always went for the non-descript door. He liked the doors that tended to be ignored by the upper echelon of the fighters. The top warriors always loved the gilded or jewel-crusted doorways, and more often than not they ended up hating what was held within. There were few times Logan left a Citadel battle housed within an ordinary doorway he left hating. He had a feeling this battle would not be one of those he hated.

Perhaps it is time for the old mind game extraordinaire to prove he still has it, he thought to himself as he stepped inside.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

The warrior stepped through the glowing gateway, the light dying as soon as he had set foot on the obsidian plain. The gateway disappeared, leaving no trace on the hellish realm.

Drak'shal's serpent eyes scanned the man, sizing him up for the fight to begin. He was tall, for a human, with hair that was either white or silver- it was hard to make out in the flashing lightning and ruddy red glow that permeated the landscape. He had at least two blades on his belt, the same as Aurelius had, and judging by his easy and confident manner, he knew how to use them. The half-breed grinned, fangs glinting in the unnatural light.

In a fair fight, he didn't know if he stood much of a chance, but his childhood had taught him a valuable lesson; only a real addle-coved berk got himself into a fair fight.

The tiefling waited for another rock island, lower down to circle closer, jumping down to it and landing softly. He drew one of his Baatorian green-steel knives, edging lightly to the edge of the rocky platform. It was still a good ten feet to the ground below, but Aurelius knew he could survive the drop- he'd jumped from higher, and he was still here after all. The gutter-spawn glanced around, making sure no-one else had appeared on the plain, and more importantly to make sure none of the natural hazards of this plane were getting closer. It would be a poor show if he was crushed to paste by colliding islands, or attacked by a swarm of skinless daemon-mantas, before either of the warriors had clashed steel.

The island passed almost directly over the head of his opponent, and Drak'shal knew it was time to strike; no fanfare, no announcements, no bold threats or the usual idiocy so many fighters indulged in. Taking three of the bladed shurikens from his shoulder quiver, the tiefling hovered his hand above the man below, savouring the delicious treachery of trying to nick someone before they even knew they were under attack.

As he dropped the serrated projectiles, Aurelius sent an eldritch blast behind them, rapidly accelarating the velocity of each. They went whistling down to the plain below, hopefully to tear the man to bloody ribbons. But, just in case, he thought chuckling as he leapt off the edge of the island, drawing his other knife as he fell. Hitting the ground, the Warlock rolled with the impact, coming up in a crouch, both blades held defensively as he scanned his opponent.

"Evenin' cutter," he grinned.

[Logan]

As he entered through the doorway, his hands gripped the hilts of his blades tightly. All too often his opposition would attempt an early strike in an attempt to catch the psion off-guard. Very rare was the attack that did.

Appearing on the plateau, he gave himself a quick moment to scan the arena. It was as much as a habit as it was a necessity. At some point in nearly every battle, the environment came into play, and became a weapon of sorts. The arena Logan found himself in, however, had the faint scent of madness. There was a discomfort in his gut as his eyes shifted from floating rock to floating rock, and then finally to the large creatures moving about effortlessly.

The creatures were, for lack of a better term, ugly as sin. Their bodies were devoid of any form of skin covering their insides, and the manner in which they moved about between strikes of odd electrical bolts was simply chilling. Throughout the many battles the psion had waged, few of them ever brought the sensation of vomit from his stomach to his throat. He swallowed hard trying to keep what was inside from finding its way outside.

His eyes continued to dance about in an attempt to find his foe, but never once could he locate them. Taking the initiative, Logan hopped down onto one of the first moving rocks just as it dipped lower. Above him, multitudes of red orbs danced about, crashing carelessly into one another with enormous eruptions of sound which disturbed his focus. The sound from the crashing rocks was nothing compared to the chorus of shrieks coming from the vomit-inducing creatures, and they only furthered his inability to focus.

The brokenness of his focus allowed the first of the spinning blades to slice across his bicep, piercing no deeper than half of an inch, but drawing forth a slow stream of blood. In reaction, as quickly as the unfocused psion could manage, he raised his arm above his head attempting to shield himself. Something inside him knew his location was breached, and he was not in a position to argue with the thought. As quickly as his arm raised, his body rolled forward to the edge of the rock, or as close to the edge as he would allow himself.

In that same moment, the other two shurikens landed with thuds into the ground behind the psion, followed by a crackling of energy. The blast of energy pushed him to the edge and then over it. His hands immediately shot to the edge, and only by the rare grace of his fingertips did he manage to prevent falling to his inevitable death. Or so he thought.

As his opponent dropped to the rock with the follow-through of a well-trained fighter, Logan had only one real shot to prevent, and he knew it. The quick and invisible blast of energy shot outward in a sphere around him, and the force was enough to lift him into the air just enough. Torquing his body just every so slightly, he dropped to the rock directly in front of his foe. For the first time, he had the best glimpse of the thing he had come to defeat.

In all of Logan's travels, he had never once happened across a tiefling. Sure, there were creatures resembling the species, but none of them ever really quite hit the nail on the head. Really, he only assumed this one was a demon, as the form and features most closely resembled such. He was not going to ignore the possibilities of what the particular demon before him could portend, but he also was not going to wait to find out.

His blades had already slid from their sheathes when he had earlier dropped to the ground, and in a quarter of a second they were moving. There was no intent to harm or damage his foe, mostly because he still wanted to break him mentally. He wanted to break all demons or demon-like creatures mentally, in any and every way. They were, to him, the lowest form of being, and the most wretched.

The blades merely twirled in a defensive arc around him as his eyes locked with the demon's in a deadly gaze. He was ready for the next attack.

Projecting his thoughts directly at the demon, "You'd better intend to kill me...because death is the only victory awaiting either of us."

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Aurelius watched the man launch himself back onto the rotating platform, landing before the tiefling. That was a nice trick, the tiefling admitted, feeling the traces of eldritch energy in the air. He kept his eyes locked with his foe- many of the fighters Aurelianus had come up against were too good to telegraph their movements anywhere, but the eyes. But, it seemed the basher in front of him had a few more tricks up his sleeve. He wasn't the only one.

"You'd better intend to kill me...because death is the only victory awaiting either of us."

The Warlock was slightly taken aback by the voice in his head; he'd come across a good many telepaths in his time, and even his own master could invade the tiefling's mind with no apparent effort, but it had been a while since he'd known anyone who could do it. Aye, you can count on it basher, he pulsed back, grinning as he saw and smelled the rich blood running down the man's bicep. First blood to me, he thought, hoping the telepath could still hear him. Slowly, so as not to alarm the man before him, he slid his left-hand knife back into its sheath, still keeping his eyes on the enemy. He was prepared for an attack, Aurelius could tell by his stance, and the firm grip he had on his short swords as they twirled defensively before his body- they would give him better reach than Drak'shal, but only if the tiefling allowed them to get trapped in a blow-for-blow fight. That wasn't his style.

In his peripheral vision, and with every other one of his heightened senses, Aurelianus could feel the madness of this place, throbbing through his body, calling out to the demonic blood in his veins. The daemons in the distance came closer, in a shrieking cloud of fleshless forms- the smell of blood, the scent of combat to come was drawing them in like carrion crows to a battlefield. More bolts of iridescent lightning strobed from the obsidian ground, leaving glaring after images seared on the very air, immolating a few of the more careless daemons who swooped to close. The tiefling could feel the heartbeat of the land in his own chest- such a vista of chaos, of unbridled madness.. well, it was just like being home. This place was a mirror of the entrance of Avernus, one of the lower gateways to the Hells; a road the Warlock had traveled many times. But, to anyone unfamiliar with the Hells, or not used to trafficking with demon-kind, such a place could grate on a man's sanity; that was one of the reasons he'd thought of it as an arena. The familiar territory would hopefully tip the scales in his favour.

Aurelius waited for a heartbeat or two, seeing one of the flesh-monoliths nearing from the east. Flashing his enemy a fang-filled grin, the tiefling raised his left hand, again keeping it slow and measured. Above, a pair of islands collided with titanic force, showering down chunks of rock and dust on them. But the force of the impact had obliterated the larger pieces, meaning it was more like a light shower of hail; things like that had to be ignored, or they could easily break someone's focus. That moment of distraction could get you killed. His serpentine eyes narrowed, glowing in the flashes of unnatural energy roaring skywards; with no warning, no talltale chanting or hand gestures, the Warlock exerted his sheer force of will, summoning a roaring cone of black flame from his palm. The unholy energy flashed toward his opponent in a second. Shahab's Lash had felled many before, but after seeing the way the man had dodged his attack from above, Aurelianus knew he was canny enough to hold his own. He didn't put too much will into the attack, however, merely attempting to distract the man- he didn't want him reduced to a cinder. No, if he'd wanted that simple amusement, he wouldn't have come to the Citadel; he would have just found the nearest tax office. He had come here for a battle.

As soon as the fire left his hand, the tiefling charged forward, slashing at his opponent with his viciously serrated knife as he dived past. His momentum carried him on, over the edge of the island... to reach out and catch one of the waxy-fleshed bodies merged into the monolith. Gripping a wrist as it emerged from the chaos, he clambered round the blasphemy against reality, until he came to another of the red-rock platforms. Kicking off of a face that was screaming in indescribable agony, the tiefling skidded to a halt near the middle of the small island, turning to mark his opponent.

He really hoped the cutter could keep up. Because he was just beginning to enjoy himself.

[Logan]

Certainly, in an environment the likes of which Logan found himself in, a normal man would have fallen prey to terror or fear, or perhaps the chaotic nature of the arena. He was no normal man. A veteran of the Citadel a hundred times, if not a thousand times, over, he knew everything around him was merely a projection of the power of the monks. None of it was real, and none of it could truly harm him. There was no necessity in dwelling upon the chaos or the damning vibrations through his body. They would be gone before he woke up in the room with two beds and a chill which always ran down his spine.

His attention never diverted from the tiefling, even as the creature sheathed his blade and the bits and pieces of floating rock began to rain down upon them. His ability to focus had kicked into full gear, and he was not losing his opponent so soon. The very moment the tiefling had erupted the dark, sinister flames from his hand toward the psion, he put up his mental barrier as he rolled toward his opponent. The two met before the fire, surprising Logan in a way, and allowing the tiefling's blade to yet again find it's mark. Blood formed slightly beneath his shirt, and the gash in his side was evident. The pain held no bearing on the psion in his focused state, though, and thus he never diverted his attention from the fleeing tiefling.

[I]If you think I intend to follow you deeper into your own chaotic mind, you have a lesson yet to learn,[I] he quietly bemused to himself. The master of mental manipulation understood the intent of the tiefling, to lure the psion deeper into the void of this abyss. Even with the electric bolts dancing all around him, Logan never flinched, never parted from his focus on the demonoid. A smile crept across the psion's features as he watched the tiefling bound across to the middle of the next red-rock platform. Instead of moving, he stayed his position, opting instead to drop to a seated position with his swords laid bare on either side of him.

As the tiefling watched, he removed his shirt and ripped a strip of material. He bound the wound upon his arm securely and tightly to ebb the flow, and yet the smile never left his face. As far as the tiefling would know, Logan was enjoying the environment in all of its chaotic, mind-numbing, wretched, damning glory.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Aurelius glanced up to the man, grinning wickedly as he saw the thin line of blood running down the viciously serrated edge of his knife. So far, so good, he smirked. In the lunatic explosions of colour across the landscape, the vitae looked black, gold, green and a dozen different colours all at once, but as he ran his forked tongue along the flat of the blade, Drak'shal chuckled, a malicious light in his snake-like eyes. The dark of it is, doesn't matter what colour a body bleeds. As long as the sod bleeds. The tiefling savoured the heady, rich blood on his tongue, waiting for his opponent to follow him down.

But, the basher had obviously twigged- he was smart enough not to follow Aurelianus any deeper through Avernus. The canny bastard managed to bash his brain-box on it, the half-breed frowned, slightly disappointed.

But, he couldn't have it his way all the time.

His preternaturally sharp eyes followed the unhurried, relaxed movements of his opponent, as he laid his weapons on the ground next to him and bound his wounds. Waiting a few seconds, the Warlock ran his forked tongue over his razor-sharp teeth, drawing a bead of black blood in frustration. Damn this berk to the Hells, he snarled inwardly, drawing his second Baatorian green-steel knife again.

Muttering under his breath, the young tiefling walked to the edge of the rocky island. "If the lamb won't come to the slaughter..." he tutted, glancing down at the obsidian plain below. It was a long way down, and though the tiefling knew he could make the jump, he didn't particularly like the idea of his opponent waiting at the other side to give him a helpful little nudge back over the edge. A few of the skinless mantas circled above, drawn close by the smell of blood, and Aurelius smiled, thinking on his feet. With a quick movement, he nicked the edge of his finger, letting his demon-tainted blood drip to the rock at his boots. Just as he expected, one of the less intelligent daemons swooped at him, a fanged lamprey mouth screeching, mad with hunger. Just before it impacted, Aurelius leapt into the air, booting the creature in the face as his other foot landed on it's back- turning quickly before it could dislodge him, the tiefling rammed one of his blades through the tough meaty muscle of where (he suspected) it's head was. It struggled for a moment, twisting and shaking, it's sinewy tail lashing back and forth in rage and agony. Aurelius punched it in the side of the head a few times, and when that didn't work, he gripped the hilt of his knife, yanking it to the side.

The creature swerved, flying towards the island where the other meat-creature sat, guided by it's passenger's insistent dragging on the blade impaling it, all then while venting it's pain in ululating screams no mortal creature could ever hope to make.

As soon as he was close enough, Drak'shal twisted his blade in the wound, ripping it out in a spray of foul ichor; kicking off with both boots, the tiefling landed in a crouch in front of his opponent, while the hapless daemon plummeted to the plain below, dead by the time it hit the ground. Aurelius couldn't supress a quiet laugh as he heard it burst against the solid surface below.

Dusting himself off, and readjusting his coat, he gave his opponent time to pick up his weapons and rise again- the kill must have lightened his mood- usually he would have been straight at the man, merrily nicking away with his blades.

"So, you're not as clueless as I took you for," Aurelius nodded, waiting until his opponent was armed again. "Good for you. Place like this'll drive you barmy right quick."

As soon as the man was prepared, the tiefling attacked. There was nothing fancy in it- just basic, dirty knife-fighting, learned in his childhood, mastered thereafter. Lunging in close, to keep his opponent's longer weapons from being as effective, Aurelius slashed low with his right hand knife, aiming to disembowel the swordsman before him. Without thinking, he slid into his fighting mindset, spreading his weight evenly, keeping on the balls of his feet, knees slightly bent and keeping the left-hand knife raised for a speedy parry or block.