Division 4: Ashiakin vs. Dissinger

[Ther]

This match-up will last until 8 P.M. E.S.T. on 2/23/07. Remember, if you finish your battle early, I can score you early - and finishing early is a good, good thing always.

Best of luck!

[Ashiakin]

“Hey… hey, you want to buy something?” said a gaunt knock-off of a man, stumbling toward Ashiakin from the shadows beneath the Citadel’s massive central stair. “Don’t want to go in there without a little pick-me-up, sir… Sober’s for crazies.”

The man’s bone-like fingers fumbled inside his overcoat, crusty layers of fabric crinkling, dust tumbling between seams as if they were veins. His eyes, dry and uncertain, guided him with helpless imprecision. Finally they emerged holding a cheap vial of a copper-colored liquid, likely some narcomancer’s concoction of steroids crafted haphazardly in the basement of a rattletrap tavern in Radasanth. “This’ll really help you out if you’re going in there, friend. Only a hundred GP. Small, small investment… Sure winner…”

Ashiakin listened impassively as the man’s syntax collapsed into an idiot fugue. “I’m not interested,” he said flatly and brushed past the man. Gods help me for letting him talk to me this long, he thought. I’ve not been here in years… I actually considered.

As he mounted the ziggurat’s steps with the junkie sputtering behind him, a guard descended from above with all the subtlety of an Aleran locomotive. “Get the bloody hell out of here!” he roared, gripping the hilt of his sword with a frightening lack of hesitation. “I’ll cut off your hand if you come here again, magistrates be damned!”

The addict scampered off, red eyes wide with fear, glancing back to make sure he had not been followed several times before breaking into a full-scale run. “Forgive me, my lord,” said the guard to Ashiakin, his tone indicating more custom than concern. “Follow me, if you will. Are you here for an arranged match or should we set one up for you?”

Ashiakin followed after the guard. “I don’t have anything in particular in mind,” he said, his Salvic accent tinged with something most found unfamiliar, some culture old and forgotten. “Just set me up with whoever is available, if you will.”

The guard spoke his assent and was silent for the rest of their walk to the top. Ashiakin preferred that. As much as he disliked this place, this unflinching stone pyramid that housed some religious experiment that happened to sync with the Coronians twisted lust for violence, well, it was pretty to look on. And it was cool and quiet out. Minutes from now, Ashiakin knew, he would be living in a very different place.

“You can make a donation, my lord,” said the guard as they entered the uppermost chamber. Dressing well has its perks, thought Ashiakin with a wry smile. It had been too long since he had been here last for the guard to remember him, so the quality of his clothes and the caliber of his weapons must have given his financial status away. The long, flowing silks of blue and white and his mythril sword and daggers had been useful to him in many situations. This would certainly not be the last.

He followed the guard down a stairwell within the main chamber, then down a wide hall lit by flickering torchlight. The guard paused outside one of the doors and tapped on its heavy wooden frame, the echo rippling down the way until it vanished into the miasma of shadows and firelight in the distance. “This’ll be it,” he said, and trudged off.

Ashiakin opened the door and entered without pausing. It had been so long. But that was why he was here. Even someone of his rank and status had to keep his fighting skills in order and this place allowed him to conceal any possible embarrassments from the eyes of the Salvic court. But that did not mean he enjoyed this place with the sickly enthusiasm that the so-called adventurers of Corone did. It disgusted him.

The door clicked closed behind him. He stood in the midst of an abandoned factory of Alerar, machinery and conveyor belts hanging silent in a state of extended suspense. It looked like no one had been here for a long time. No one has ever been here, thought Ashiakin. This is all in my head somehow. It’s not real.

He took a few more cautious steps into the factory, his white fingers gently touching the hilt of his sword. The place seemed massive, but it was hard to tell as it was lit only by a few torches—all of them were on their last legs and they were in sporadic locations, most of them having burned out. Nearest to him there was the base of some kind of metallic, steam-driven crane that sat atop a wooden block at the juncture of two conveyor belts. It was difficult to see much beyond that. There could be anything in here.

[Dissinger]

Seth exhaled in a deep sigh, the breath forming into a mist before the cool air of the Salvar factory quickly snatched what little heat there was. He was sitting calmly in one of the corners as he waited patiently, for his opponent to come. It wasn't so much that he was anxious, or that he was scared, it was more of a formality. One last test of his abilities before he and Liliana left for Lavinya. It was the final reckoning. He had asked for something tough, something powerful. He wanted something that he would feel stretched to his limits, to be truly tested in mind body and what was left of his soul.

As he remained there eyes closed, the shill of the day’s air assaulted him, trying to steal the very warmth of his body. Beams of sunlight poked through holes in the roof, long since distended to. The arena seemed so old so ancient, but Seth knew better. This whole thing was a figment of his imagination. Once he had finished with the bloody battle he sought, it would fade away into nothingness. Never again to be used as a field of battle. His eyes however raked the area as he studied the crane with its hook slowly swinging back and forth, almost as if giving the illusion of wind within the factory.

He stopped when he heard the shuffle of feet, the approach of his opponent. His blind fighting senses kicking in as the torches stubbornly sputtered trying to light the spots the sunlight could not. The dim glow of the factory, combined with the brightness of the sunlight made it hard for him to observe much, as did his lowered position on the floor. However, he knew one thing; to openly greet his opponent was foolhardy. That was a mistake that he had been victim of too much in the past. The years had weathered him; he was no longer the naive cocky Lavinian who sought to destroy the Trade Master’s who enslaved his town.

He wasn't sure what he was anymore.

The Lavinian Hex Mage slowly got up, trying to not disrupt his daggers, making sure not to allow them to clink and give away his position. He moved slowly making sure to lift his feet so as not to scrape, to set them down deliberately toe first, to create a naturally quiet footstep. He needed to be stealthy if his opponent was truly what he asked for. His steps slow as he reached down and plucked a lung popper from its place. The weapon blacked steel kunai twirling softly with practiced position, in rote from a time of true arrogance.

As he maneuvered his eyes tried to scan, their focus wavering as he passed through so many light sources, trying to find his opponent. As soon as he spotted the man, his white skin, his gaudy attire. It spoke noble, but Seth was cautious. Nobles seldom went to the citadel, and even less held the same air of confidence, or perhaps it was arrogance, so hard to tell. As he brought his hand up he paused, thinking of his next move. The kunai was then swiftly thrown, in a blow straight for the man's shoulder, the material failing to give the telltale glint as it passed hopefully unseen towards the man.

Let's see if the monk's lied or not...

[Ashiakin]

The novelty of the place was already wearing off. As the situation was likely to turn violent soon, awe was a luxury he could ill afford. The course of his thoughts shifted from his initial curiosity toward blueprinting the factory, synapses flashing like pistons, his mind mapping out how each bit of machinery could be useful to him once his opponent arrived. He had learned some about the operation of Alereran technology during his state visit to Ettermire, shortly before Queen Valsharess had been assassinated. Few knew, but he and a team of Salvic diplomats had helped orchestrate a coup that had replaced Valsharess with a pro-Salvar junta. His participation in Alerar’s invisible revolution had given him access to an array of the state technological secrets.

He moved toward the crane that lay at the juncture between the two conveyer belts, trying to deduce what model it was by the arrangement of the levers and failing. The torchlight cast his flickering shadow about the factory as he moved. He paused, distracted by it, eyes following the creeping light as it wound through cogs and around storage boxes like low-lying fog along a riverbed. Then, between the shadows and the silent machinery, he saw someone moving quickly toward him. My opponent! he realized with alarm.

Without hesitation, he grabbed onto the conveyer belt before him and vaulted over it. He landed carefully on the other side, crouched so that the short wall beneath the belt would shield him. Some weapon whizzed over his head and he heard it clatter against a piece of machinery that he could not see. His heart raced, but he quickly turned to calming himself. That was an amateur mistake, he thought, grimacing at himself. Not all of the people who visit this place bother to introduce themselves first. Seems my opponent is actually clever. Now the trick is to find out how clever.

His positioning put the conveyer belt and part of the small crane between him and his opponent, providing him with protection from any long-range attacks. As long as he doesn’t move again, he thought. He’s so quiet. I only saw him out of luck.

This was to be more of a battle of stealth and wits than of strength of arms, it seemed. Ashiakin liked the thought. But the trouble was, Ashiakin had the suspicion that his opponent liked it, too. He was rusty—and that might not be so for his adversary.

Quietly and quickly, he crept along the underside of the conveyer belt to where the crane was, hoping he was moving at least as fast as his opponent. He studied the crane as best as he could in the twirling light, shadows making the control panel’s levers seem as if they were trees twisting on in the wind of a moonlit horizon. Recalling as much as he had learned about Alerar’s mechanical contraptions from the junta, Ashiakin grabbed one of the levers and jerked down hard on it, then twisted it sharply to the left.

A loud crack shot through the factory like a war cry. Somewhere in a distant corner, a suspended platform cracked when one of the chains holding it to the ceiling released pressure. All of the boxes that had been stored on it slammed into the floor, their contents—metal rods, cogwheels, and mechanical errata—flowed onto the floor with a tumultuous, clanking roar. It was like some great mechanical pig had been gutted and its organs jerked to the ground. They were too far away to see clearly, but all of the noise and the dancing shadows spoke to him as clearly as any language.

What the hell? Ashiakin had intended to move the crane, but evidently he had grabbed the wrong lever. It didn’t matter, though. The noise gave him cover. As soon as he heard the snap, he moved. He rolled away from the conveyer belt behind a storage box, trying to stay concealed. Pausing and crouching behind the crate, he scanned the area for his foe as the last of the clanking cog-parts rolled to an eerily silent halt.

[Dissinger]

He cursed softly as his weapon missed his opponent having the fortune of fate to turn and look at him as he moved. He wasn't sure if it was because he had heard the thief or because he had been truly lucky, but it didn't matter, his attack failed and it was time to move on. As he continued to move, he though he had heard the white man shuffle about the area. With the muffled sound of movement, and the large area he was in, it was hard to tell where it was from. Straining his ears to hear he heard the jerk of something...

Then the loudest clang ever rang out through the nominally quiet room.

As he covered his ears and hunched the offended drums within his ears rang reminding him that he didn't like loud noises. Staying lowly crouched to avoid easy detection he sighed as the noise faded his opponent nowhere in sight. He sighed spotting the cogs and bars rolling across the floor, still making noise, still trying to reach a state of rest upon the cold cruel floor. Using that to his advantage he sprinted to the end of the aisle. Reaching the end where the conveyer belt as he pulled another kunai. The lung popper twirled in his hand with a practiced arrogance long since forgotten.

Trying to steady his heart after the brief bout of running he kept his breathing even and calm to prevent the telltale gasps and gulps for the sweet air of the cold day. The sun still came down defiantly in rays, determined to heat up the factory with its relentless rain of light. He waited as he listened carefully closing his eyes and letting his skill in blind fighting take over. The factory was big, and with it they had a lot of room. Sighing as he began to give up on hearing his opponent he looked about him.

A smirk lit up his face as he saw a control panel for the belts about him. Seeing a set of toggles before him he decided to experiment with them and flipped every last one up. The result causing a squeal to go through the air that Seth was more than willing to accept. The machinery hummed and came to life as the belts began to move on their own accord. Nodding as the sound of the machinery hit the air he began to move again, away from the control panels. The noise was more than enough to hide his less than stealthy retreat.

This was definitely what he asked for. Already he had taken too long, and he was determined to not take much longer. Sighing as he got an idea he drank some water to wet hit throat before he tried one of his more thief like skills, grinning he tossed his voice across the room arrogantly, "Hey you white pompous ass, who'd you pay to dress you like that? I'd have demanded they do it free with the ridiculous way you look."

He never did have respect for Nobility.

[Ashiakin]

Silently, Ashiakin remained crouched behind the crate. Tense as he was, he was poised as to be able to see much of the factory. He only hoped that the shadows cast by the haphazard stack of boxes next to him was enough to conceal him. After the clatter from the deluge of machinery had died, the workshop was filled with a preternatural quiet that he found deeply unnerving. Memories of the proto-factories he had seen in Alerar came rushing back to him. The roaring furnaces, the lines of monotonous workers standing along the conveyor belts as if they were just more cogs in a machine... It was the noise, the motion, the heat that made it real. Its silence was a disconcerting affront to his reality.

A series of conspicuous clicking noise drew Ashiakin's attention. He looked in the direction of the sounds, hoping that he was still concealed by the shadows. There was his adversary. The man had found a control panel for the some of the factory machinery and had thrown a series of switches. Ashiakin almost leapt from his hiding place to go after the man, but he had seen him too late. He was already running away from the control panel so he kept his eyes on the man.

The machinery groaned, shaking the rust of its metallic bones, dust churning in its innards, and it roared to life from the grave. Suddenly the entire factory was humming to the slamming creak of the machines. It was a baseline, a heartbeat, an opportunity. Given the factory's age, Ashiakin wasn't sure how long the machines would be able to keep running. He was going to have to use the noise to his advantage.

Unfortunately, the sudden jolt in volume and the vibrations that had shook the factory had caused Ashiakin to lose sight of his opponent for a moment. He still had a vague idea of where he had vanished to, but was not entirely certain. I really should have seen that coming, he thought. What's wrong with me? For a moment, he regretted not taking the junkie up on his offer. Perhaps a quick confrontation would have been preferable to all this sneaking around.

His opponent called out some insult about his dress, his voice rolling over the sea of mechanized sound thrust out by the factory. I'll take it he's poor, thought Ashiakin with a wry smile. He said nothing in response. To do so would give away his position, and being hidden was an advantage he saw no point in ceding to defend his sense of fashion. Not to some raggedy sneak.

The insult had given Ashiakin a more important dilemma. His foe's voice did not come from the area he had thought it would, having followed him closely until the machines had started up. It came from a different area of the factory altogether. There's no way he could have gotten there that fast... he thought. This is some sort of magical trickery. An illusion... perhaps teleportation. The problem was every possible situation demanded a different strategy and he did not have sufficient evidence to form any sort of ironclad plan. He could wait or risk it.

Ashiakin pulled his sword from his sheath quietly, hoping to hide the sound underneath the thunderous stab of the metal-works. He gripped in carefully in one hand, got to his feet and ran toward to the conveyor belt in a low, sprinting duck. Given where he thought his opponent had gone, he felt the angles would shield him from sight. Otherwise he had gambled and lost.

There he is! Ashiakin had caught a frighteningly brief glance of what he hoped was a human figure just before he ducked all the way beneath the wall that ran underneath the conveyor belt. Now. Don't think. Move!

He stood with ghostly rapidity and tore a torch from the way and flung it directly at the figure he had spotted. If it struck, it would light the man ablaze. If it did not, it would throw enough light about the area for Ashiakin to be able to catch a glimpse of the man--or so he hoped. And if worse came to worse, the conveyor belt still shielded half of his body.

Still, Ashiakin couldn't help but shudder as the torch flew from his hand. He hated fire and he had touched the thing as if it were a leprous rat.

[Dissinger]

Seth felt his sense drowned in the noise of the machinery as he crouched his cloak flowing. Looking about the area he sighed as he crouched beside the conveyor belt trying to figure out where his opponent had gone, until he felt something hot against his shoulder. The burning sensation only seemed to grow as he realized the cloak had caught fire. Quickly unsnapping the catch for it, the burlap fabric fell to the floor where it burned allowing him a good look at his opponent even as the unconsciously ran a hand over the light burn.

His eyes took on a harder tone as he looked at the man. He took in the full features of him as he pulled twin Lung poppers. The kunai twirled in a practiced fashion before he gazed at the conveyor belt. This particular one was moving away from the man in the gaudy outfit as he quickly turned to face his foe. His eyes were studying before he moved in practiced maneuver. Placing one hand upon the conveyer belt he hoisted up onto it before he crouched and threw both knives at the noble. Sending those that way he rode the belt down to the other end of the belt before he rolled off, hit the floor and rolled under a few more belts.

With all that noise and his distraction he grumbled frustrated as he checked his arm. What was once considered light burns was a bit more serious upon further scrutiny. Blisters had formed where the fire had hit and he was lucky it was not worse. Prodding the blisters with a childlike fascination he felt a burst of pain before he grinned, Perfect. Moving quickly to avoid being easily spotted he sighed as he moved about, he'd have to bring them into more close quarters, but first he would need a plan.

His full arsenal against him he closed his eyes as he concentrated on himself. It was then he heard a soft snickering and opened his eyes, before its accompanying voice drifted through his mind, Seems to me like you don't know what to do grunt.

Can't I go five minutes without your prattle old man? Seth returned. The voice of the Changeling Amulet was finally gracing him with its presence.

Perhaps if you held more respect for your elders you'd not be in the situation you're in. Now, are you going to start respecting or should I just let you play your little shadow games in peace?

Leave me the hells alone old man, I've no time for your insane babbling.

Your funeral. Came the stiff reply. Seth sighed as he once again ran thoughts through his mind, until he grinned thinking of one in particular. He only hoped the amulet would cooperate. If not, he'd be exposed.

Sighing softly he whispered, "I need a chain."

Come again? The voice was rather sarcastic and taunting.

Muttering irritably he said, "I need a chain."

I can't hear you!

"I need a chain, please!" Seth hissed shouting out the please as he realized his opponent could be anywhere. Slowly the bracelet upon his right bracer began to glow as it formed chain links around the glove. Coiled and ready to strike on a moment's notice he sighed and waited carefully for his opponent to show himself.

[Ashiakin]

Ashiakin’s heart raced when he saw that his opponent’s clothing had caught fire, but his confidence was quickly dampened when the man managed to cast off his burning cloak. At least he got a good glimpse of his foe for the first time. He locked eyes with the man, but only for a brief moment—his attention flashed to the kunai his opponent was twirling.

Although he only hesitated for the barest fraction of a second, Ashiakin’s hesitation cost him. As his adversary leapt up onto one of the conveyor belts and let his knives fly, he could not dodge quite well enough. One of the kunai sailed harmlessly past him, but the other tore into the flesh of his left arm. He let out a sharp cry and clutched his wounded arm, thick blue blood seeping through his fingers like sap. The blade had not cut to the bone, but the cut was still deep, and his arm throbbed and burned with pain. His arm would not be quite useless, but it would not be particularly useful either.

Already he could feel a chill growing within his arm, his body reacting to the wound, lacing together strands of icy blood to staunch the bleeding. But he knew he would not heal before this battle was over, whether he won or lost. It’s not a problem, he thought to himself meditatively. I’ve got more important things to worry about. If I dwell on this it’s only going to distract me. I’m calm. Nothing is wrong at all.

The rutting boom of the dark elven machines around him had seemed so distant while he had been gathering his senses, but the noise now came roaring back to him. Several conveyor belts distant, in a part of the factory he could not well see, he heard his adversary call out so loudly that he could hear clearly hear him. What the hell is he thinking? Ashiakin wondered. This could be some sort of trickery again… Or maybe he’s high. He remembered the junkie outside with quiet amusement.

He felt he could pinpoint the source of the sound and he knew he had to act on it. Injured as he was, crawling around in the shadows was no longer a viable option. He would just get weaker as he lost more blood. Then something on the opposite ends of one of the distant conveyor belts caught his eye. It was a wooden box of machine parts sliding down the belt toward the area where he had heard his opponent screaming.

Ashiakin ducked and dashed through the intermittent breaks in the low walls supporting the conveyor belts, crossing through several quickly until he came upon the one he had seen the box on. If he had planned everything right, things would come together here.

And it seemed they would. He caught sight of his opponent on the opposite side of the conveyor belt and the box has slid down the line so it was now directly in front of him. Cool and quick, Ashiakin leapt onto the conveyor belt and scooped up the box of heavy metal cogs. In a smooth motion that flowed seamlessly from his jump, he threw the container—contents and all—at his opponent and leapt onto the ground.

He pulled his longsword from his sheath and advanced. “Seems I can win a fashion contest and a duel, you halfwit junkie,” he hissed.

[Dissinger]

As he saw his opponent leap onto the conveyor belt he realized his folly. His irritation at dealing with the Elder Dahlios had cost him some much needed stealth. As the man threw the box at him his mind focused on one simple action, magic, and an exact spell at that. Knowing he had no choice but to use his "gift" he resigned himself to the fight. He couldn't delay it anymore, and to try and do so was foolish, only so many hit and runs could be done before the fight would be closed. Flinging a hand forward he snapped, "Times up!"

The orb of black energy formed quickly as the energy crackled down his arm. Flung forward at the speed of the arrow it collided with the box in mid air, before the box completely stopped, unable to complete its objective of hitting the thief. As the retort to the choice in fashion arose, Seth quickly went to his feet as he stared warily at the advancing man. Blue blood could be seen from where he had probably cut the man on a lung popper. While he was certain the man was not incapacitated he did however quip back, "At least I'm unscathed."

He then let the box go as it crashed into the ground adding to the noise. With a twirl of his wrist the chain began to unwrap from his forearm where it had formed and given him a blissful bit of peace and quiet from the mental assault of his great grandfather. Once he had a foot or two of chain he brought it upward in an attempt to tie up the sword hand of the noble, with blue blood. The more he thought about it, the more he was realizing his opponent was not matching up with what he knew. People rarely bled blue, and nobles were not so dismissive of any stain upon their perceived honor.

As he brought the chain up he drew the dragon bone dagger spite with his other hand, more than ready to lock up with the man. If this was going to be a fight, it was going to be on his terms, and he was more than willing to shut down any attempt to negotiate. While Ebony or Ivory would have probably been the stronger choice, he wanted to make sure to save a few tricks for later. If he tipped his hand now, he would be in for a world of trouble later, if his opponent came up all aces.

[Ashiakin]

Ashiakin's advance faltered as he witnessed coils of black energy pulsing down his foe's arm. He winced when the orb slammed into the box and sent it tumbling harmlessly off to the side, the flash temporarily blinding him. But he knew that he could not look away long—it had been a damnably foolish reaction that his body could not avoid. He raised his head back up and locked eyes with his adversary once more just in time to catch his insult. “Not for long!” he cried over the sea of industry that churned around them.

Well, that was clever of me, he thought dryly. But I suppose he’ll forget my ineloquence once I’ve run him through.

Then the chain caught Ashiakin in the wrist of his sword hand. He screamed painfully as the metal links dug down into his skin through his thin silks, his sword falling from his hand and clattering to the floor. Instinctively, he jerked his hand away as he felt the hilt of his blade fall from his fingers, but his motion was restricted and it did nothing but cause him to stumble. Shit! he thought. I can barely move one arm and now I can’t move the other! What the bloody hell am I going to do?

Nervous as he was, he quickly righted himself after he stumbled. He witnessed the dagger that had appeared in his foe’s hand. There’s my advantage, he knew. Ashiakin was taller than his opponent, meaning he had a longer reach. His sword would only increase that benefit—provided he could pick it up off the floor.

As much as it hurt, he moved the hand of his injured harm forward quickly and a foggy mass of icicles flew toward his opponent’s face. They were small, painfully sharp things. If they struck, he was hoping they would be enough to get his adversary to release the grip of the chain on his sword arm. Then he could pick up his weapon.

Ashiakin knew he was in a bad position. If he could not turn the battle around in the next few moments, it was not going to end well for him.

[Dissinger]

Seth grinned as the man was caught. He still wasn't sure just what he was facing, but he knew one thing for certain, he had his opponent on the ropes. As he began to move forward he was stopped when the man flung his bad arm forward, flinging tiny icicles that punctured the skin. Even though he was well accustomed to pain, he turned his face to avoid the spray from poking his eyes, or worse blinding him. As he stumbled back a step he felt more than saw the chain grow a brilliant yellow as the Changeling Amulet went into its dormant state.

Once he finished putting distance between the two of them he growled irritably as he gave his opponent a baleful glare. Summing up his irritation at his opponent he drew his other dagger as he rushed forward, trying to put him off guard as he began a furious tirade of swings, each leveled at arms or chest. Trying hard to disable or destroy his opponent. As he felt his arms beginning to fatigue form the exertion he felt the sweat trickle down his neck. As cold as he had been only a few moment's before he felt hot, in both anger and spirit.

Thinking of something to put his opponent at ill ease he decided he needed to buy himself time. Far from the word games of his younger, more arrogant self he simply spat out his command phrase, "Life is passing you by!" He was through with the subterfuge and the lies. He simply wanted his opponent dead or dying and soon. As grey energies began to crackle and run through his hair he sheathed a dagger, giving the precious energy a place to pool.

As the energy formed into its ball of energy he flung it forward trying to move once again inside the reach of his opponent's sword as he fought to keep his opponent under pressure.

[Ashiakin]

Ashiakin felt the chain slither off of his arm where it had gripped him so tenaciously. Relief surged toward the limb as he instinctively jerked it away, but he knew he couldn’t allow the sudden turn of fortune to slow him down. In one easy motion, he ducked down quickly and scooped up his sword by the hilt. This isn’t over, he told himself. I’ll have reach on him now, provided I can get far enough away from him.

As he was lifting his head back up and slipping into a fighting stance with his longsword, he came face to face with one of his adversary’s dagger. He retreated back a step, but not quickly enough to avoid incurring a slash across his chest—the knife blade ripped through his silky garments easily, a little blue blood pooling around the tear like a river just bursting its banks. Luckily the injury set him moving more quickly and he was able to move backwards quickly enough to avoid being struck again.

Despite the wounds he had received, Ashiakin excelled at showing no signs of fatigue from pain or loss of blood. The act was becoming more and more difficult for him to keep up, however. He knew this battle was going to be over soon, one way or another. I’ll not let this wretch walk away with a victory of any sort over me. Never.

Keeping his sword stance, he flowed back in his retreat, gaining enough distance away from his opponent to be safely out of the range of the night. He hoped the reach of his sword would prevent any further advances on the part of his opponent.

Alarm filled Ashiakin’s eyes as he saw a ball of some energy gathering at his adversary’s behest. Then he spotted something that might be of use in the corner of his eye—the box of cogs that his enemy had earlier deflected. Knowing that he did not have time to plan further, he moved. He hooked his toes inside the lip of the container and swung it up with his foot toward his foe. The few cogs left in the box spun out of it towards the man as if an Aleraran machine had been crushed by a tornado and its innards had been violently choked out. The box itself followed, sailing toward the man’s knees.

It was then that the ball of energy struck Ashiakin full on in the chest. He stumbled back, enchanted, confused. He was under some spell. It felt as if he had suddenly been dropped into the ocean from on high—his limbs were sluggish, and time seemed to be trekking along at a slow, unreal pace.

Am I dying? The thought echoed in his mind like a piece of driftwood caught in a maelstrom, indistinct and getting fainter, sinking down into some unknown.

[Dissinger]

If a judge notices there is an edit of my opponent's post, after my post, know it was to eliminate an OOC note that was in the previous post and the edit was allowed by me. Also, Ashiakin if there is a problem with my Coup De Grace please notify me and I'll edit as necessary.

Seth saw his opponent act quickly and as he tried to figure out what was going on he saw the sword in hand an yet another gash across the man's chest. Feeling a surge of excitement as more blue blood flooded out of the wound he bit down on it. To often were men killed when they acted prematurely. As he threw the orb however, he realized just how right he was. The attack meant to end the match was left unseen as a cog slammed into his face, causing him to rock as a couple more cogs hit him in other places.

Feeling his teeth close sharply with a loud clack, he tasted the rusty tang of blood in his mouth, courtesy of his tongue being nearly bit in half by the sudden attack on the oral cavity. Stumbling a couple of steps he felt the box collide with his knee the wood while not as effective a weapon, doing more than enough to send a numbing pain through his leg. Closing his eyes he felt the pain diminish below his tolerable levels and exhaled a bit irritably at the attack.

Shaking his leg he looked at his opponent, who seemed bewildered. He was slow and sluggish, the effects of Slow obvious to the Hex Magi before he grinned softly. He moved swiftly, getting back within reach as he stabbed forward, one strike meant to end his foe, jutting his dagger right up through his opponent's throat. Blue blood washed over his hand as the blade didn't stop and went straight towards the Elemental’s brain. As he held it there for a second he felt his hand chilled, even the thick leather of the gauntlet doing nothing as he watched in wonder as the blood froze rather than congealed.

Pulling the knife roughly from his opponent he examined his hand again as he stared in wonder. As the morbid curiosity continued he failed to notice any further action from his opponent. Only looking at his hand as his face creased into a frown. He turned to look at the man finally before he asked the obvious question, "What are-"

He stopped, there could be no answer, having stabbed into the man's brain any answer would be from beyond the grave. Sighing as he looked at spite he sighed before he knelt forward and wiped the frozen blood from his blade on the Noble's clothing. Rising back up he left for the door to outside the factory, the sounds of machinery slowly beginning to sputter and die as the machines noise slowly ebbed. The distended machinery was failing now, and as he left he could hear the final clanks of their dying gasps. Once the last machine had died he stopped looking back over the arena.

"Figures," He said as he walked through the door and slammed it shut, ending his part in the spectacle.

[Ashiakin]

((Diss bunnying my character in his last post was approved by me.))

This is what it feels like to drown, Ashiakin thought.

He could breathe normally. That wasn't it. But so much else around him screamed that he was drowning. It was as if he had fallen through some unseen trapdoor and submersed himself in a reservoir, pressure bearing down on him as he helplessly drowned in the water that would feed the factory's machines. Yet he could see and knew that this was false. The factory still churned around him, but its machinery had fallen into a dreamlike trance, contraptions choking along at a senile, exhausted pace. The place roared with half-hearted enthusiasm. And he saw with terror that his opponent was not similarly encumbered.

But, after a second that stretched itself thin over several heartbeats, he realized that it did not matter. He was not going to die. The monks would save him. And he had been spared the embarrassment of having the entire Salvic court chuckling at rumors of his defeat. It was all insignificant. Even though his opponent was a real man with a real life, he could not really kill Ashiakin. In here, nothing mattered. Outside of this place, with his station and his resources, he could have crushed his adversary so thoroughly no one would remember his name ten years from now. It was foolish, almost laughable, for him to be here in this makeshift factory that seemed set so hard at producing naught but gory dreams.

Oh, but is that what this factory really produces? he wondered. Illusions? Lies? If that's the case, I might as well be drowning. A slow smile crossed his lips and he sank, knees buckling. His desire to be in this place had evaporated.

As the knife dug into his skull, sent blue blood on a freezing spiral from his brain down the blade of the weapon, as his mind collapsed in on itself, sparks of ideas tearing at one another in a terminal civil war, one thought was able to reign supreme above the roiling mess: When the monks find me, I hope they realize it wasn't the knife that killed me. Because I know I'm drowning.

[Max Dirks]

This battle was unique in several ways. First, you didn't mention the tournament. Second, the "stealth" nature of this battle really made it move. The pacing was excellent, and it certainly kept my interest. Third, and most importantly, neither of your characters were introduced nor recognized each other. This really allowed your character's distinct traits to shine rather than playing reactions to one another's stature, reputation or comparative strength. Though it was by no means perfect, this battle was extremely entertaining to read and to judge.

Judgment

Dissinger

Story
Continuity - 5 (Seth has a unique backstory that drives his actions. If I had to choose one category to fault you on, it would be this. It is acceptable to fight with or without purpose, but your explanation of Seth's motives were insufficient for the type of character and strategy driven battle that you chose to play)
Setting - 5 (This category falls under the realm of my general comments. You integrated the setting well into the battle)
Pacing - 7 (In so far as the story is concerned, your pacing was excellent)
Writing Style
Mechanics - 6 (There were a few noticable spelling and grammar mistakes, but like many other writers on Althanas, you need to review your posts before submitting them, at least in tournaments. Your writing is very redundant. Here is an example, "As the energy formed into its ball of energy...")
Technique - 6
Clarity - 5 (Your redundancies hurt the flow of your writing and often times I had to reread sentences to find out their true meaning or the actions intended)
Character
Dialogue - 6
Action - 6 (Again, the action in this battle was superb. However, I felt that in your second post you repeated the exact action that Ashiakin had just performed with the same intention, only you added in auxilliary actions. Be creative, the rest of your manuvers were excellent)
Persona - 6 (This was solidified in your conclusion. When you performed your Coup De Grace, it was written with all the arrogance and "badassity" that defines Seth Dahlios. One thing I thought was unnecessary was the entrance of this "elder Dahlios" into the battle. It did nothing but introduce Seth's dark powers, which I felt could have been done in a more effective way than a dialogue with a cryptic and unnecessary third character)
Misc
Wild Card - 5

Total – 57/100

Ashiakin

Story
Continuity - 5 (The true intentions for this battle weren't really revealed until the last post where you explained how Ashiakin had "drowned." My interpretation as a reader after that post was that Ashiakin meant to lose. However, I think you should have added less subtle indications earlier in the battle. Listing titles is one thing, but next time you should describe the pressures associated with Ashiakin's position and situations better)
Setting - 5
Pacing - 7 (Excellent pacing. This was a fun, action packed battle to read)
Writing Style
Mechanics - 7 (There were no major flaws in your writing)
Technique - 6
Clarity - 6 (Your descriptions of setting and feelings are brilliant, but I feel that some of the actions you describe do not need to be written in such a lucritive fashion. A bit more brevity on your part might have made Ashiakin's movements slightly clearer)
Character
Dialogue - 5 (As indicated by this line, "Well, that was clever of me, he thought dryly" I'm glad to see Ashiakin and I agree that a good majority of your dialogue seemed out of character, even if the story of this battle was written as a chance for Ashiakin to get away from his normal routine)
Action - 7 (Well done)
Persona - 6 (My comment for continuity stands for this category as well)
Misc.
Wild Card - 5

Total – 59/100

Ashiakin advances to Round Two.

Cyrus will add rewards shortly. Both of you will receive a .5 modifer to your level for completing this battle.

[Letho]

Ashiakin recieves 3150 EXP and 50 GP
Dissinger recieves 900 EXP and 50 GP


EXP/GP added!