Finals: League of Nightmares vs. Chivalry and Savagery

[Dissinger]

This fight begins on Friday the 14th at 12am PST. Best of Luck to the Combatants.

[Dissinger]

Apologies for the late opening. You guys will have until midnight 6/29/2013 as compensation.

[Glories of Myrmidion]

Five minutes previously, the marble columns and thickly carpeted floors had gleamed with the hauteur found only in the most debonair of diplomatic domains. Arrogant power-blinded men and women had clustered together to insult one another beneath smiling facades of polite civility, their only purpose on life to overawe their counterparts from other countries by dressing up in their best and finest, competing to see who could slip the sweetest verbal dagger into the softest of vital organs. In turn, the mismatched pair of knight and orc who had fought the breadth of Lornius to arrive at the Hall of the Grand Council in the Floating City, found their presence there mercilessly targeted by the scathing wit and mocking miens of those who deemed themselves their betters. Still they had persevered, in the name of the peoples they represented, the nations they stood for, and the benefits that negotiating a trade agreement would bring to the far north.

And then all had gone to hell... or, rather, hell had come to Lornius.

Dark flame found hungry purchase upon the shattered marble columns, the thin air of the city in the sky tarnished by the smog of charred flesh. Soft piles deadened the fall of eviscerated corpses to the blood-drenched rugs. Sightless eyes stared in unfocused wonder from disembodied heads. Fingers and limbs, contorted in brief seconds of muscular agony, lay where they had fallen so far from their parent torsos. Rich fabric fluttered in tattered shreds, torn remnants of the finery that had garlanded the preening plenipotentiaries.

The abattoir danced to the wailing dirge of the mourning shadows, the heat and the stench and the blood and the horror pressing in upon those fortunate - or unfortunate - enough to still be alive. Like lambs to the slaughter they huddled in the darkness, praying fruitlessly that death would pass them by.

And Jehan and Throm stood back to back in the midst of it all, blades drawn and eyes shielded against the raking fires. Ashen remains swirled about their armoured forms, sooty snowflakes of ill omen.

"Sweet Mother of mercy," the knight murmured beneath his breath, mainly to reassure himself that he still could draw breath at all. "Almost as bad as when we met. Remember that?"

"That... thing...? That abomination?" Throm rasped back, throat dry as he wrapped his tongue around the human term. His words still contained just the right amount of leashed disdain, but Jehan had grown to know the orc well enough in their travels - three weeks across the Sundering Seas, then another four days fighting their way through Lornius proper - to recognise the signs of a berzerk temper just about under control. Throm hawked to clear his mouth, then spat a thick gobbet of phlegm into the inferno. "If this is still part of that dratted tournament..."

"... then at least we have a fight on our hands. At last," Jehan finished for him. Beady orc eyes glimmered in the flickering halflight: challenge, anger, and what might have even been approval.

The knight grinned back encouragingly over his shoulder, but inside his emotions remained as cold as an Olbinan winter. Reassured by the weight of his longsword held in two meaty gauntleted hands, sea green eyes scanned the firestorm. For his foes. For aid. For an escape. For anything...

There.

Shadows amidst shadows, something lurking in the flames. The flashing glint of steel as it bathed in fresh blood. Something evil... something wrong.

Throm scented something untoward in the air and growled. Jehan's fingers drew taut on the hilt of his blade. He drew breath, cast-iron stomach braced against the subconscious need to retch.

"I am Jehan Leitdorf. I am First Knight of the Order of the Golden Eagle. I am of Olbina, fairest of the Five Dukedoms." Clarion and triumphant, his roar rolled refreshingly clear over the mindless debauchery. But then it turned ugly, and the orc at his side bared tusks in shared defiance. "Show yourself, knave. You will not find us such easy prey."

[Abomination]

"What is this...?" (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?25351-Round-3-League-of-Nightmares-VS-Misery-Business&p=207584&viewfull=1#post207584)

Zack's lifeless form lay before him, blood pooling around it like a broken barrel of ale. A strong gust of wind hit the sails of the ship, and with no one on the wheel, it started spinning wildly and caused the ship to tilt on its side. The blood started to flow across the deck, spilling into the bay. Draug was motionless even as his balance was tested, his eyes unfocused and staring into his own nothingness.

Up until this point, he was pretty sure of his purpose. He was Cassandra's champion, the executor of her will and the living advertisement for the Cult. He thought he would keep growing in power and see the day she would ascend to her proper place among the gods, but now there was a different path for him. There was a limit to his strength, and at that moment he would cease to exist. He walked over Zack's body and put his hands on the wheel, turning it back around and putting the ship back into an upright position.

The corners of his mouth started to twist, and looking up he exhaled the closest he had ever come to uproarious laughter, which was merely a soft, "Haaaaaa..." There was a snapping in his mind, like something had broken out, and a full smile covered his lips. What exhilaration! What beauty! For him to serve his master in the most ultimate way, not merely as a tool but a key to her success. He overflowed with happiness, but behind it there was something else.

There was another thought hidden in the back of his mind.

- - -

Draug stepped out from between the flames, red embers and ash floating in the air between him and his opponents. While he had a longsword in his right hand, his opponents likely had his attention at what was in his left. Gripping a patch of hair, under it was a dismembered, fat, and pale human head. The eyes were rolled back into its skull, the tongue was hanging out, and dark red splotches of blood dripped out of the stump in clumps.

"He asked for help," said Draug, lifting the severed head up and grinning. "I obliged." He tossed the head over to his opponents, watching it roll along the ground and coming to a stop before their feet.

He was already aware of who his opponents were, although he did not expect to see them here, given who they were up against last round. One of his orders was to assimilate the leader of the Ixian Knights, Silence Sei, and given this environment he had a high likelihood of accomplishing that mission. However, an unknown factor occurred, namely in the presence of this knight and orc. He also had not seen his partner Ciato in a while either, but knowing the Mystic who expected to come face to face with his brethren, perhaps the man had left the tournament to pursue Sei. It mattered not, however. Just like before, Draug eliminated any factors that could get in the way of his hunger. It was almost too convenient this time, as he found the exits easy to bar and the flammable materials simple to ignite. Maybe the upper echelons of Lornius were using him to eliminate political opponents. His purpose was analogous to a weapon, so such a an act did not bother him if it was true.

Tapestries that hung on the walls either burned or hung in tatters, glasses of spilled wine, overturned tables, and food littered the carpets. The smell of burning flesh hung in the air. Draug spit on the ground, gnashing his teeth before setting his sights on the orc in particular. This was the second time he encountered one of their kind, and this one was clearly no poet. There was something about that brute strength and predisposition to battle that made them similar, but just like Draug was no human, he was no orc either. He started walking towards his opponents, not because he was taking his time nor savoring the moment, but because he took them seriously. They dealt with Sei somehow, and unfortunately he knew not the details of such a victory. Usually his hid his strength in his lanky form, his muscles condensed and making him look malnourished. This time his muscles grew, pumping up his form, fattening his neck, thickening his arms and legs, expanding his chest. His walk was careful and calculated, his grip on his sword on his right hand strong and ready to strike at any moment.

He lifted his left hand, palm facing his opponents, "I know who you are." Something bubbled inside his palm, pressing against the skin. "And I don't expect this to be easy, but..." The skin started to tear in his palm, the fluids inside his hand swirling violently and making the hand shake. "It's good that you understand your position, prey." Suddenly, a bloody knife shot out from his hand toward his opponents. Then, he kicked the ground and charged them, swinging the sword with his muscle-bound right arm, aiming to cleave through one of their necks.

[Tusk]

Throm’s grey-green hide glimmered under a thick sheen of sweat, and he squinted against the flames with no small amount of frustration. Orcs run hot, goes the saying, so heat is no friend to them. Once, a great Salvic general set fire to the very fields he was defending to slow and exhaust a legion of orcish invaders, and won himself the day. Throm knew that story well – a heartening tale for skraelings, a boogeyman for green-skins.

And here he was, cooking in his armor.

A moment ago he had been wishing to see these little men dead, but now that they were kindling he felt sorry for them. Nobody deserved to die by fire, or any other element. It was an ignoble death, faceless and stupid, and no sagas come of it. For his mother there would be a saga that would take an entire night to tell, but for Throm? “He was a good son to her,” they would say. “He died in a fire, far away.”

He screwed up his face indignantly, and then smelled something beneath the smoke, something wrong. Instinctively he tensed, and a defiant chill went up his spine, and before his thinking-mind could make sense of it he found himself growling a warning to his pink-skinned brother.

The wrong-smell intensified as the creature emerged. It looked something like the other skraelings, but he knew it wasn’t. It was unnatural like red rain and sky-fire, unnerving like an infant found alone in a graveyard. It was a paragon of that word Jehan had taught him: abomination. Throm raised his sword and braced his shield, and snuffed sweat out of his nostrils.

When the abomination threw its grisly trophy, the orc did not flinch and he was pleased that Jehan showed no more concern than he. A dead man is just meat, and any good warrior knows he’s just meat walking – what good is it remind him of what he already knows?

The monster changed, its physique warping from the proportions of a starving skraeling to that of something almost orc-like, and Throm tried not to let his surprise show. It traded words with Jehan, and he did not bother to listen closely enough to translate. Instead he watched the abomination move, watched it saunter and tense. It was a still mantis, a taut spider.

Throm exhaled slowly, yellow eyes glinting in the firelight, and when the monster’s left palm came up he tensed his shield-arm and braced. Jehan was always declaring things, shouting, proclaiming, announcing. He had never known orcs to do that – boasting was for the halls, deeds claimed after they’d been performed, but now? Now Throm thought he saw it the right way, and he understood.

When the knife pierced the smoke and lodged itself into the leather of his shield with enough force to make him wince, Throm launched himself forward with a roar, and there were words in it, words he had to be careful to choose. Jehan would proclaim his deeds for Olbina, and Throm had a hard time figuring if that was a place or the skraeling’s mother. For his part, Throm didn’t give a damn about where he lived, so the choice was easy.

“FOR SKOGUL,” he yelled, voice booming louder than the cracking beams and the roaring fires, and he defied death.

The abomination’s right arm brought his sword up to a killing stroke, and Throm shoved all of his weight against it while angling his shield so the blade would slide over the leather, forced wide overhead. If he were lucky the sword would meet the dagger lodged there, and if he were very lucky the knife would stop the sword without getting knocked free. In any case, Throm swung his own sword low with the intent to open up the abomination’s belly or, more likely, to force him right into Jehan’s own attack off-balance.

[Abomination]

Draug snarled as he charged, eyeing the orc's actions intently. He stomped through the bodies and the debris, crushing tender fruit underneath. Throm attempted to deflect the attack, raising his shield to intercept the blade. A loud clanking sound was heard as the sword impacted the shield, and Draug let go of the blade to not be swept up in its momentum. The blade flew into the air and landed on one of the carpets nearby, the flames reflected in its steel. Throm's own blade sought to meet Draug's chest, and the Homunculus had no problem with that. His recoil ability would force Throm to suffer half the damage he would inflict on The Dark Mother's champion. Almost with arms open and willing, he grinned and stepped into the orcish sword, letting it cleave through his abdomen and lodge itself in his gut. Due to his unique design, blood splattered everywhere like a squashed tomato, making the wound seem much more egregious than it actually was.

That was the problem with fighting a creature such as Draug; The standard rules of battle did not apply to him. He gladly took damage if it meant an opportunity to hurt his opponent.

While Throm was disemboweling him, Draug reached with his left hand in an attempt to grab Throm's sword-arm. The skin on his back started to bubble, and two arms emerged, so far hidden from the orc's view. Draug opened his maw wide to an inhuman degree and let loose another bloody dagger from his throat, hoping that he would grab the orc and lock him into place, making the attack unavoidable. If that failed, the arms on his back would stretch and attempt to wrap themselves around the orc's body, binding him so that the numerous weapons in Draug's body could pop out and skewer the green-skinned fighter.

[Glories of Myrmidion]

So many of the legends told in the Hall of Swords ended like this. A valiant knight and his unorthodox companion. An epic quest across land and sea. A gallant last stand amidst horror and flame. The ashes of the heroes brought home to rest, scattered on the wind like so many hallowed words such they might give seed to a thousand more worthy of their blood.

If this was to be his end, oh what an end he would make it be. Maidens fair would swoon at his name. Generations of young neophytes would learn of Jehan the Bold, the First Knight who quested the southern seas. Death held no fear for him. The cornered stag still had its prongs; woe betide the wolf that underestimated their keen edge.

"For Skogul!"

The orc roared again as battle was joined, a declaration of allegiance every bit as powerful as Jehan's own. In that brief clarity before two forces of nature tore the moment asunder, Jehan saw his determination reflected in the defiant set of the greenskin's jaw.

They had been allies by circumstance and companions on the road ever since that fateful day in the tundra west of Turicum, but only now did the knight realise just how he'd always unwittingly thought of himself as better than his comrade. In a sense, Jehan couldn't help it. In all his life as a Templar of the Golden Eagle, he'd known of - not thought of, known of - orcs as uncivilised warlike brutes whose sole redeeming feature was their singular prowess in combat. He'd never questioned how they lived outwith the world of conflict that separated them so.

But Throm's two words... those two simple words... brought home the realisation that they were not so different at all. That they both believed in, and fought for, something greater and more important than their selves. That they were not just united by common cause, but equals in every sense of the word. That much of what he revered and respected in the Grandmasters of his homeland, he could see in the orc that stood alongside him today. That the greenskin, too, was beginning to break past his prejudices in understanding the clunking skraeling.

In that moment he knew without the need for speech what Throm intended. He knew that he trusted the orc to take the foe's charge and deflect its attention just so. He knew that the orc trusted him to take the initiative in that instant of opening. And he knew what Throm knew: that even orcish endurance and battlelust could not last forever in the face of such unnatural rage, and that Jehan had one chance - one vital, precious chance - to make his friend's courage count.

Those who live and die by the blade know that their destinies often hang in the balance of a single split second. A moment's hesitation can easily prove fatal, a moment too long spent in thought the difference between the spilt blood belonging to the foe or to oneself.

So Jehan didn't hesitate, and he didn't think. He sidestepped into position with the intuitive precision of a thousand deadly duels, heedless of the treacherous footing slick with pooled blood. And he struck that single blow with all his might. Trusting the orc's cunning. Trusting his own skill.

Complexion flushed from heat and lustrous with sweat, armour searing his skin as it took on the radiance of the inferno all about him, powerful muscles flexed as he plunged his mighty longsword downwards through the base of the new abomination's neck. Would vertebrae splinter beneath his strength, spine shattered by the steel wedge powering through flesh and sinew? Or, like that daemon that had brought Throm and Jehan together in the north, would it knit and bubble and roil like some nauseous concoction, defying their every attempt to banish it back to whatever abyss it had spawned from? They had fought such unnatural monstrosities before, and had triumphed... could they do so again?

Not that it mattered either way. He would strike true in glorious victory, or he would strike true in equally glorious failure. The knight didn't hold back, not a single ounce of energy spared, as fate split at the crossroads before him. Along one path lay survival and a mirage-like future of further honour. Along the other lay death, equally famous. In either case, the Hall of Swords awaited... and the maidens and the neophytes and the legends they told.

So as Jehan struck, blade shimmering in a nimbus of reflected flame, he too lifted his voice in magnificent full-throated cry.

"For Olbina! For the NORTH!"

[Tusk]

Throm wheezed and felt a surge of panic. As any disciplined fighter did, the orc hadn’t taken his eyes away from what he deemed dangerous: the abomination’s limbs, his mouth, his swollen body. This monster moved in unorthodox ways, fought with selfless abandon, but it was built in proper fashion – arms, legs, head, trunk – with all the normal rules of bones and muscle, or so it seemed. So when Throm felt a blow strike long across his gut, knowing full well that the abomination had delivered no attack, it was difficult not to put fear to the unknown.

He was in over his head.

It would only be much later that he would apply logic to those events and realize that he’d felt the impact on his own body exactly where he’d delivered violence upon the monster-skraeling. For the moment there was only the obvious. This thing did not fear the bite of a blade, it could hurt him without striking him, it bled like a swollen head-wound, and it wanted in close.

Then it clamped onto his arm, and he added one last piece to the puzzle: it was strong, stronger even than mighty Throm when he wasn’t being cooked inside an oven of arctic leather and chainmail. He was reminded of a time when he fought an adolescent bear in the mist-blanketed wilds of his homeland-isle, and how the beast had bitten down on his gauntlet and pulled, and how powerless he had been against such overwhelming strength. If not for the aid of friends, he would have died that day.

If not for the aid of friends.

Throm braced himself and used his legs to pull away from his foe’s iron grip and down toward the floor, knowing full well the futility of it but demanding every ounce of strength from a body of thickened thews. He growled, furious and defiant, and then he abruptly surrendered to the abomination’s pull and let himself be yanked forward from low. At the same moment he pulled his shield in, brought it down on the abomination’s forearm, and then shoved it upward toward its face.

He could only pray that he could strike the fiend hard enough to force its head up and straight and thus distract him – not from bringing an undoubtedly ghoulish wrath down on the orc, who had largely given up all thoughts of personal safety, but from the death looming behind it.

No worthy orc would shy away from death or injury if it meant ensuring victory for his brothers-in-arms. If death had its eyes on him, Throm was eager to be measured.

[Abomination]

As Draug grabbed Throm's arm accompanied with the feeling of digging into cracked glass below him, his allowed the orc's essence to seep into his body, to pervade his thoughts, memories, and change him. He learned orcish again, his muscles felt denser and more defined, and for a moment the color spectrum in his vision diminished before his body determined that to be a liability. All the advantages of being an orc, and none of the downsides, was the purpose of this assimilation.

He didn't have time to enjoy it however, as from behind the knight likely sought to decapitate him. While the Homunculus was more than willing to hurt himself in order to hurt his opponents more, there wasn't much strategic value in getting his head chopped off. The dagger was still in his throat, at this point the tip of it was slightly sticking out of his closed mouth, his teeth pressing down on the metal. Draug's head slightly turned as the arms which grew from his back which intended to wrap themselves around Throm instead wrapped around each other like a braid, forming a shield of flesh to absorb the blow of the sword. At the same time, he felt a sharp pain in his forearm as the orc's shield came down upon it, and before Draug could turn back, the shield slammed into his chin and send his head backwards.

The attack had more of an effect than Throm likely realized. Draug's head was now arched all the way back, upside-down from the knight's perspective. As Jehan's blade cut through Draug's back arms, spraying poisonous blood as they sliced, Draug released the dagger from his throat toward its new target: The knight's face. Knowing that he was likely still in a disadvantageous position, the Homunculus let his spare limbs fall off from their source in his back and rolled to the side, relinquishing his grip on the orc. The arms, now in pieces from the knight's attack, fell to the ground unceremoniously and started to melt and rapidly evaporate. Draug tumbled a few feet before crashing into a table that managed to weather the slaughter, snapping it in half and putting his back to the floor. Fancy cheeses, bread stuffed with jam and meat, and a bowl of grapes covered his form, and as he got back up the food slid off of him and joined the rest of the refuse on the ground. An unfortunate noble was near him as well, his head buried in the carpet, staining it red.

While Draug was sure of his strength, he lacked finesse and most importantly, teamwork. Although, he couldn't think of a single moment when his partner was useful to him other than the times he distracted one of the opponents long enough for Draug to kill the other. What's more, there was a sharp pain in his head where Thrommesh's memories were flooding in. The orc was the greatest of his mother's children, who commanded a tribe, and there was a foretelling of her glorious future. Throm's yellow eyes contained great pride for his tribe and himself. There were parallels, but Draug did not consider himself to be an individual, only a mere extension of The Dark Mother. So, then why was he in pain? Why couldn't he focus?

He felt the presence of another, the world around him replaced with darkness. The heat was gone, the blood and carnage disintegrated, and replaced with coldness and pain. The thought that most crossed his mind: Did he do something wrong? He never considered to have failed his mother, and yet there was an instance when he looked back... he may have made a mistake. Back when he had to flee the prison and leave his first round fight unfinished, in the following match he was given a chance (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?25229-Round-2-Lute-and-Hammer-Vs-League-of-Nightmares&p=206157&viewfull=1#post206157) to pursue the Ranger of Corone, Letho. Such experience was invaluable, but he did not realize it at the time. Cassandra had given him a choice, but he couldn't realize it. Instead of chasing after one of the most skilled warriors in the land, he chose to fight the orcs, or rather, he didn't choose anything and just continued on the path he was on.

Why did this bother him so much? Reality snapped back into focus, mere moments passing from what he got back up, and his opponents were before him. Was he doing it again? He knew the value of obtaining information from the leader of the Ixians, Sei, who was still likely in Lornius. Yet here he was, fighting another orc. He couldn't deny his desire to stay, to finish this fight. These two had hurt him, they had challenged him and the Cult itself. It was too late to pursue Sei now, anyway.

He held his gut as blood streamed down his leg, the wound squishing under his grip. A large bruise was on his left forearm. His intestines were cut open, although skin grew over the cut and sealed it. The organs inside his body smothered the dying intestines, squeezing them and merging to replace their function. While the knight to him represented the kind of disgusting do-gooder tendencies that Draug had grown to despise, the orc seemed to delight in combat and death. Did he have a potential future in the Cult?

"You are weak, orc," Draug spat. "Born with natural power, you squander it. I could show you strength, if that is your desire. If you survive this fight, you may join us." He grinned, exposing his sharp teeth and letting a stream of blood run down his lips.

He stepped back, placing himself directly behind the table half that was left after his fall. He discarded his coat and ripped off his shirt, which was already tattered from the orc's attack. Below his neck, his body seemed to take on many skin colors as each stitched up piece of his torso differed from the rest. Two more arms grew out of his shoulder blades, and two more from under his armpits, for a total of six. Each of them came with a steel sword. A simple shield would not be able to block all of them. If the orc decides to stand his ground again, he would be impaled, and in a contest of strength, the Homunculus knew he would prevail. He lifted his right foot and kicked the table as hard as he could, sending pieces of it flying at his opponents. His original arms pulled two more swords from his throat coated in his poisonous blood, and after the table he ran at his opponents, especially Thrommesh, although if the knight got in the way then he would be the prey. Draug was interested in the orc seeing his power, in the orc crumbling and knowing his limits. The extra arms grew in length and stretched, being slightly bent at the elbows. If Throm tried to block with his shield, Draug planned for his spare arms to around it and skewer the young orc.

If the orc died here now, then he wasn't worth the Cult's time.

[Glories of Myrmidion]

Blood dribbled over his lips from the morass of sharp pain where his now-broken nose had once proudly jutted. The nasal guard of his barbute helm had served its purpose well, deflecting the blade if not the impact of the dagger his foe had somehow managed to spit at him. A fledgling headache cast waves of searing heat into his mind, but he drew on years of experience to make them focus rather than distract it.

The opportunity had passed. He had not struck tellingly enough. But he would not apologise, for he had put all of his skill and strength behind that stroke, and if it had not been sufficient…

The bear had fought well, holding its ground against all odds. The eagle had struck as planned, but its talons hadn’t dug deep enough. Measured and found wanting… but too stubborn to retreat. Nor would he ask the orc to fall back, no matter how Throm bled. Jehan knew better than that.

The abomination seemed unhealthily obsessed with Throm. Its single-minded devotion had already cost it dearly, yet it seemed determined not to learn its lesson. Even now it utterly ignored Jehan, focusing every last ounce of killing intent – and invitation – on the badly wounded greenskin.

Jehan took two steps forward and imposed his steel-clad form between his friend and their opponent. Throm had given nearly everything in distracting the abomination the first time round. Now it was the knight templar’s turn.

Legs braced like oak trunks in upturned refuse and offal. The stench of death, the threefold plagues of blood and excrement and burning flesh, lingered low and loathsome in his lungs.

Longsword rose to his fore in the stance of the Lion, daring the foe to advance into its reach. Steel armour glowed red hot to the touch, shedding slivers of splintered wood as the abomination obliged.

Molten flesh bubbled and seethed. The abomination’s form shimmered and mutated, all distended arms and gleaming steel swords. Its eyes flared, dark coals spitting angry embers at the two who defied it so… or rather, the one who intrigued it so.

The First Knight met its charge, teeth bared in a vicious grin. The point of his blade rose like a spear towards the abomination’s centre of mass, using its momentum to impale it on the flanges like a gutted fish.

He had no doubt he wouldn’t be able to hold it there for long; it was too strong and too determined for that. Jehan knew he had to be prepared to wrench his sword free of its foe, or even to abandon it entirely and resort to gauntleted fists around the monstrosity’s neck. But unlike Throm he wore full plate crafted from the finest Olbinan steel, and the added protection it provided made it well worth the sweltering heat crawling up and down his limbs. If the abomination thought mere swords could pierce it, then it would have something new to learn very soon… and that would be precious moments bought for the orc to counterattack.

For sometimes eagles wore steel and stood their ground, and bears grew wings to unleash their claws.

And if it was lust for carnage that the situation warranted, the First Knight would not be found wanting. Battle called, glorious joyous battle, and Jehan exulted in its bloody refrain.

[Abomination]

It was getting hard to see what was happening. Charred cloth and melted rock made the air thick and humid, leaving a thin mist of heat that warped the vision of those still remaining. The ceiling started to crack, the supports of the building itself being engulfed in the growing inferno, raining down bits of stone and dust. Profuse plumes of smoke rose up from the flames, guaranteeing that one way or another this fight was going to end. Sweat poured down Draug's face and his body felt hot, the organs inside twisting and crying as his blood boiled.

The knight stood in his way, a brief reminder of honor and tradition as the flames reflected off his bright form. No matter where the Homunculus looked, there was a piece of armor on Jehan's body. He doubted he could wedge a blade in the slit of the knight's barbute or piece through the rings of the gorget. The destroyed table that he kicked towards them seemed to have no effect, and the diseased blood he was letting loose was of no avail either. If anything, these two were resilient, but Draug felt that they could not match up to him. He was a creature that exemplified the best qualities of each race, indeed he was a new race of his own, more akin to a devil than a man. Unfortunately, even with his strength, there were limits to what a simple steel sword could accomplish. Instead of thinking that he wasn't strong enough, he realized that his approach to fighting armored opponents was wrong until this point. Why was he playing on their terms? He was just copying the fighting styles of his opponents, emulating their penchant for blades and ignoring the advantages that his form provides. He thought that a fighter with four arms was twice as strong due to the capacity for weapons, but he was proven wrong time and time again. His approach had to change, and it started now.

Right before reaching the knight, Draug released his blades. He would allow his opponent to pierce through him just like before, except this time it would have even more force due to the momentum. He was a being whose own life was expendable, who through alchemical sorcery broke the limits of humanoid anatomy. As soon as the knight pierced through him, he would let him feel the force of his recoil, and see just how much the knight enjoyed his own attack. Aware that with the armor Jehan's mobility was likely limited, the Homunculus would use his original arms and upper arms to attempt to grab the knight's forearms, with the lower arms going for the shins. If he was successful, he would attempt to rip the knight apart four ways using both his original strength and the small amount added by assimilating the orc.

All the while, the pain his head would not cease. The thought of his mistake still perverted his thoughts, and he wondered why it mattered to him so much. He wasn't his usual expressionless, emotionless self. Concern, confusion, and regret filled his mind. Today, he was feeling.

[Glories of Myrmidion]

The shadows burnt. The haze smouldered. His head thundered like some raging god with every furious heartbeat. And above the crackling hunger of the flames roared a different sound… the sound of the Hall of the Grand Council falling apart.

Blindly the abomination charged onto the waiting blade. Suppurating flesh tore like so much soggy vellum as the body-length of tempered steel carved effortlessly through muscle and organ alike. Deeper and deeper it buried, until Jehan felt its flanges catch on the abomination’s stomach and its tip emerge from the far side. Sickly torrents of blood spilt in rivers down the hilt, dribbling through his gauntlets, burning like caustic acid on his fingers before spilling like treacly waterfalls to the floor.

Briefly its ill-favoured pupils dilated, the pain registering even on its abnormal constitution. Shortswords clattered to the melting floor, so much discarded scrap.

Then the agony. The searing inferno as something unseen clawed into Jehan’s belly and wrought havoc upon his insides. The racing chill up his spine as he realised what had downed Throm.

Magic. Foul dastardly sorcery. He had been so focused on the abomination’s physical wretchedness that he’d failed to consider…

Powerful hands grabbed at his shoulders and his shins. They scrabbled for purchase upon his armour, tarnishing it with screeching claws. They found it as he reeled from the explosion in his abdomen. Castle-forged steel warped beneath their grip, then wailed in protest under forces not meant to be applied to it. Like a condemned man upon the rack Jehan’s body convulsed, spasmed.

The abomination’s faceless grin, a daemonic visage shrouded in hateful triumph, floated mockingly in his eyes. It laughed at him, his trials, his tribulations…

… his failures, his defeats, the men he had lost under his command, the country he had failed so many times before, the ideals he had been forced to betray to live…

Memory gave him strength, that final rush of adrenaline to overcome impending doom. Heedless of the growing ice in the pit of his stomach, heedless of the flesh and blood boiling away at its edges, he wrenched his longsword upwards and away.

The abomination’s sheer bulk made it nigh impossible. But Jehan was a strong man, and desperation spurred him to even greater effort. The twist of his shoulders bought him a second’s worth of time as the hands planted there fought to readjust, and he utilised the leverage well. His blade, already impaled through flesh like a nail through wood, responded like a long lost friend.

The abomination’s shoulder split from its chest, sheared away by the longsword’s passage like so much carved fowl-breast. Dark blood fountained like water from a burst aqueduct pipe, dowsing the unlucky flames caught in its bath, dying the air with copper and iron, painting the ceiling in artistic splatters. Something bulky and fleshy hit the carpet with an ailing squelch.

Jehan’s grip failed on the follow-through, and his sword spun away through the air. Wheeling and gleaming it caught the flames, until momentum buried it blade-first in the distant floor. It hummed there for the briefest of eternities before the roiling smoke once again swallowed it whole.

Empty sea-green eyes fixated on the blackness that now clouded its defiant last stand, feeling the loss. Slowly he exhaled of life, and inhaled instead of acrid death. Choking on the heat and the dust, his vision dimmed in agonising slowness to a pinprick. His legs and lower torso had turned to so much mush, that he could no longer even feel the abomination’s grip upon his shins. With a cacophonous symphony of metallic clatters he slumped in the grip of the abomination's rage.

Maybe it was best, then, that the hall would not last much longer.

What a glorious tomb it would make for us all.

Darkness beckoned. Soothing, calming, eternal darkness…

Throm. I hope that blasted grunter…

Darkness.

[Abomination]

And there he was.

Cleaved like a slab of meat, Draug's entire shoulder was missing, the arms that were attached to it still holding onto the knight's arm, but within moments of being separated from their host they melted away and evaporated. Smoke almost completely obscured his vision with dark, dirty plumes that coalesced in the room, unable to find a way out in time. The pain was indescribable, his entire body crying out, with Draug choking on his spit. The knight, now partially free of its bindings, instead craned forward like a ragdoll. The Homunculus recognized that Jehan was unconscious and let him go, although he may have had no choice due to the strength that was leaving his body at an alarming rate. His remaining arms all pressed against his body to plug up the torrent of blood, but maintaining them was costing him blood as well, so aside from his original non-chopped arm, he let the rest of them slough off as if a snake had shed its skin.

The bleeding stopped after a few seconds, but Draug grew pale. Skin grew over the wounds like a fast-growing moss, bubbling and populating in thick chunks. He could barely see the knight's form beneath him, and the cracking of the ceiling above had a rhythmic sequence. His organs reconstructed themselves slowly, and his breathing resumed, but he didn't have enough blood to regrow his missing arm, or any subsequent ones for that matter. Tumors grew in the space where his shoulder once was, but that was all that could be done. He took a step backwards and felt a squish, not because of anything he stepped on, as the sound came from within. He sneered, frustrated that the knight had that much strength. The orc was nowhere to be found. Was he lurking in the darkness, waiting to attack? Did he escape? Or maybe he asphyxiated. Draug was getting close to that point himself.

He squinted, trying to make sense of his surroundings, each breath letting out a burst of crimson from his mouth as the blood from his destroyed stomach came back up to be expelled. The first thing he spotted was one of the columns, which looked close to collapsing as cracks grew across its length. He wound up his remaining fist and ripped through the stone with it. He then placed his hand on the top part and dug his fingers into the rock, shaking and pulling until a long chunk of the column broke off. The piece he grabbed came crashing down to the ground, giving him a makeshift lance as tall as he was. He would like to see the orc try to block it with his shield. As Draug attempted a faint smile, he noticed something behind him and turned around quick, brandishing the stone lance with his one arm, but all he saw was smoke and darkness.

A figure emerged from the smoke, but it was not the orc. It was the knight. Draug raised a brow and looked behind him to see where the corpse had gone, but he couldn't see anything else anymore. The darkness was familiar to him, he remembered it from when the orc was assimilated. That's right, he must have assimilated the knight as soon as the other one ended. This was a mere fabrication of his mind. He was too focused to notice the fragments of memories.

"What will she think when you return?" asked the knight with a pensive hand on his barbute.

"What?!" Draug shot back. For some reason, he knew exactly what this fake Jehan was talking about.

"Twice now you have failed to see her desires. Maybe this was your last chance, and now she will reclaim your essence and start anew."

Draug snickered, "If mother wishes to destroy me, I welcome it. I will do anything she tells me."

"Do you, now?" came a voice from behind. Draug turned around and saw Throm, another fabrication of his mind. "You offered me power if I joined you, if I submitted to the true freedom of the Cult, able to pursue my desires no matter what they are. It always strikes me as odd that you would be assigned to recruit anyone, given that you're a walking contradiction."

"What?"

Fake Throm slammed his orcish sword down, "You have no freedom. You are a slave. None of the Cult's virtues are wasted on you, it seems."

"I serve mother, so that others can have their desires. I am the embodiment of the Cult's favor."

Another voice came from his right, "Do you speak? (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?25109-LCC-R1-League-of-Nightmares-VS-Bittersweet&p=205023&viewfull=1#post205023)" Draug faced it and the figure that emerged shared his hair color, his clothes, and had the same stitches all over his body.

Draug took a step back, "You... I am already part of the Cult. My desire is to serve mother."

"Do you want to live?" asked the fabricated Draug.

And there it was.

The question that had been bubbling in his mind. As much as he wanted to ignore it, the pain kept it at the forefront of his mind, lashing away at his thoughts. He wanted to serve, he was written to be the perfect servant with unquestioning loyalty, but that was at his creation. Since then, he assimilated countless people, all with convictions, individuality, and the instinct for survival. Each one of them took its toll on his psyche, giving him the notion of limitless potential.

Draug didn't answer, but the fake Draug already knew, "What is your desire?"

The Homunculus spent so much time doting on his mother, emulating her thoughts, worshiping every word, that he was getting the same idea she was. If it was at all possible... to break the barrier between man and god, to craft the ultimate body, to reach the final stage of evolution... ascension.

[Tusk]

Thrommesh out-of-Skogul braced himself for the inevitable, prepared to once again weather death’s advance and pray that his wiser companion would see them through – his guide in the hostile and unknown world, as always. How many times now had they faced down would-be murderers, one resolute and proud, the other unrelenting and savage? Always Jehan could depend on Throm to plow into a fray like an unleashed dog of war, and always Throm could depend upon Jehan to guide him, to lumber in his wake with grace, performing the deadliest surgery with his gargantuan blade – berserkers both, but complimentary.

So when Jehan thrust himself forward to stop the abomination’s single-minded advance upon the orc, armor gleaming and steaming in the firelight, Throm’s jaw dropped. His surroundings were thrown into sudden and razor-clear relief, slowed by a surge of adrenaline and fear: they were in an inferno, facing down the devil himself. Jehan charged boldly, fearless, heedless, refusing to leave his sword-brother to an ugly fate even if it gave him an opening for personal victory.

It was glorious. It was glorious and, Throm realized with a growing dread, pointless. He saw the opulent structure collapsing around them, the walls buckling, the floor sagging, flaming debris raining down all around them. The noise was deafening, the heat crushing, the smoke blinding. If the abomination killed them, it would never tell tales of their bravery, or speak fondly of this event – it would move on, mindless, thoughtless, uncaring, and it would forget them immediately. If they managed to fell this thing, the house would collapse upon them, and the day would be won only with incredible injury.

For the first time, Throm saw war for what it was.

“Jehan,” he said, warning, but it was too late.

The monster had him, and his tremendous sword went sailing through the air, displacing smoke and gleaming red. Throm’s blood went cold and he felt his shoulders slump. Impossible.

Impossible.

The rage boiled up in him, more hate and anger than he had ever felt, even after a hundred fights, a thousand slights, ten thousand failures, and a million disappointments. Some sound erupted like thunder in the house, something remarkable and deafening and otherworldly, and he had no idea it was his own voice, a primal roar like the birth-cries of a planet. He tensed, wanting to smash and rend and crush and bite, wanting for all the world to struggle until he died, covered in blood and gore.

But he didn’t.

Instead he slipped back, he retreated – he hid. He watched the monster peer into the flames, searching no doubt for the orc, and yet it seemed to find something beyond sight. Throm didn’t care what it was, but he saw his moment. He grunted, surging out of the smoke and grabbing hold of the back of Jehan’s breast plate.

He turned and ran, yanking Jehan’s limp and armored body after him. After a heartbeat he turned, desperate, and threw his sword end-over-end at the abomination’s silhouette – was it talking to someone? - hoping against all hope that the attack would slow or distract it long enough. With no more plays to make, he switched hands, gripping Jehan’s breastplate with his now-free hand, and holding his shield just overhead as he retreated through the fire.

The roof was steadily collapsing, support beams cracking like bones, burning nails and chips and splinters raining down upon his shield, nicking his head and his hands and his arms. He didn’t feel any of it. He didn’t feel anything except fear and desperation and distant, longing hope, staring blindly at a point just beyond the next wall of flames. Jehan only seemed to get heavier, as if his armor were melting into the floor and fusing with it. He pulled harder, growling, panting, wheezing.

A dead end. A wooden wall, sagging, bathed in liquid flame, but between the beams and through the smoke he glimpsed moonlight. Throm summoned up a surge of anger, of strength, and he bent down and lifted his companion onto his shoulder with a furious cry, and then he charged that failing wall, running with all the speed and might he could muster.

The wall exploded outward, relinquishing the pair in a burst of flame and black steam, and Throm went on running until his momentum was spent and he collapsed and dropped the First Knight of his order, and he choked and coughed and struggled to breathe. He pulled off his bracers and his leathers, shoved aside his shield, and pulled his chainmail off overhead and tossed it aside. He breathed in through his nose and out past his tusks, and wiped sweat from his brow and shook it from his naked arms.

And then, bare from the waist up, blackened by soot and smoke, drenched in sweat and blood, Throm stepped between the burning manor and the fallen form of his ally, and stared into the blaze.

He could run no farther, and he knew if the abomination emerged the fight would be bloody and short, but he would not give in. He heard shouts and whistles in the near distance, and the stamp of many feet. He heard skraeling women scream, and skraeling men searching, and the rattling of sabers. Gods help him, Throm of Berevar would keep his friend safe for as long as his body held breath and beyond, until these horrid island-folk found them.

He didn’t know how many of them it would take to bring down the abomination, or if any number of men even could. But if he was going to die, if he was going to fail his brother, it was going to be the beginning and end of something glorious.

[Dissinger]

Round over judgement commencing.

[Max Dirks]

I've been asked by Dissinger to step in and judge your thread.

I must say, I'm somewhat disappointed by this battle. Between the rampant powergaming & metagaming, I don't think this title bout lived up to the hype. I've commented individually below.

Judgment

League of Nightmares
Homunculus | Ciato Orlouge

Story - 5 | 0 (Some highlights some lowlights. The visions Draug saw near the end appeared to be a real point grab)
Setting - 4 | 0 (Your introduction was excellent, but you did little else to develop the setting)
Pacing - 5 | 0 (You did better here, but/for your conclusion post)
Communication - 5 | 0 (Little was said, but little needed to be said)
Action - 3 | 0 (Homunculus powergamed or bunnied almost every post. Despite the terms of Draug's assimilate, it is still up to the opposing player to determine if their ability is pilfered. Moreover, it is unacceptable to have multiple attacks and an alternative attack in a single post)
Persona - 4 | 0 (The attempt to add last minute character development into the story had nothing to do with the overall story arc. It was a clear attempt to grab last minute points)
Mechanics - 6 | 0 (Solid writing. I noticed a few errant sentences and misspelled words from Homunculus)
Clarity - 6 | 0 (Easy to follow writing. You sometimes use run-on sentences. Remember that short sentences can be used to alter the pace of the battle)
Technique - 5 | 0 (Don't take shots at other players in your prose)
Wildcard - 7 | 0 (Kudos to Homunculus for sticking with it while a man down)
Total: 50 | 0
Team Average: 25


Chivalry and Savagery
Tusk // Glories of Myrmidion

Story - 4 | 5 (Tusk's decision to run made no sense.
Setting - 4 | 4 (Interesting setting, though the backstory confused me).
Pacing - 5 | 3 (Glories, I feel that your descriptive writing style actually takes away from the pacing of your writing. Most of the time I had to reread your posts twice, sometimes three times, to figure out exactly what Jehan was doing. Tusk, I could not score you better here because Throm disappeared for the meat of battle)
Communication - 4 | 4
Action - 5 | 4 (I believe that Glories missed an attack by Homunculus. Otherwise, nothing too special here.
Persona - 4 | 4 (You did not do a good job of developing your characters. I did not read your other threads, so it was difficult to ascertain the dynamic of their relationship).
Mechanics - 7 | 6 (Tusk takes home the award for the best writing. Glories, your overly descriptive writing style reduced your score here)
Clarity - 6 | 4 (Glories, sentences such as "Longsword rose to his fore in the stance of the Lion, daring the foe to advance into its reach" make me cringe. Longsword is not a proper noun. You did this multiple times in the thread)
Technique - 6 | 4 (Tusk used a few advanced writing techniques (metaphors & similes). I considered Glories bizarre writing style as technique. That said, the technique confused me multiple times)
Wildcard - 0 | 4 (Time penalties result in a loss of 6 total points)
Total: 45 | 42
Team Average: 43.5

Winner: Chivalry and Savagery

Homunculus receives 300 EXP (battle) + 300 EXP (Ciato's EXP) + Chicken and the Egg Reward + 500 GP
Ciato Orlouge receives 0 EXP (battle) + Chicken and the Egg Reward + 0 GP

Tusk earns 1425 EXP (battle) + Immovable Object & Unstoppable Force Reward + 1000 GP
Glories of Myrmidion receives 1425 EXP (battle) + Immovable Object & Unstoppable Force Reward + 1000 GP

[Max Dirks]

EXP and GP added!

You cannot use your item rewards until they are approved by the Realm of Greeting.