10 Minutes

[Martooth]

((Open))
The citadel, the monumental tower of battle. It was the one place that Soluce felt truly at home. Fight and win, the monks healed you. Fight and lose, the monks healed you. It was reliable, fast, and it offered unlimited variety. You could fight anywhere you wanted, you had only to ask and the monks created. The reputation it had brought all kinds of fighters, attracted them from everywhere across all of Althanas. Everyday brought a new fight, sometimes several. Today was special though.

He’d set up the arena the day before, today he was going to choose his opponent. It was a large cathedral with stain glass windows spilling tinted light from all directions, a few series of pews, and a constant haunting organ echoing through the chamber. Every morning warriors of every race and occupation floated into the colossal ziggurat looking for a fight. Why did they come in the morning? The afternoon should have been just as good, the night even better. But Soluce new better than to fight at night, drunks looking to prove their enhanced courage would stumble in, but occasionally things that were worse came, things that could only come at night. The morning always brought the good ones, the new standing around awestruck, regulars not even noticing the environment just looking for a monk, and those that needed to gain something, the ones that would fight completely, those were the ones he wanted.

It didn’t take him long to pick out his opponent, one of the better looking in the bunch. The hardest part was making sure his opponent got to his room. Fortunately, he was well off with most of the monks and could sometimes get a favor or two. Grabbing the closest one, he was in luck, Renak would most likely let him do it. “Over there, to the right of that elf. You see? Room 12 in hallway 2.” Renak got the message, but he wasn’t always trustworthy, more than once he had purposely chosen people obviously stronger, always resulting in waking up on a slab with bad memories.

Walking to the usual room, he could already feel the anxiety building up, the anticipation was always unbearable. But once his opponent stepped in, ten minutes was all he had. The ten minutes he lived in the day, the ten minutes that mattered most. The blood, sweat, metal, all the things that make a man. In the battle nothing else mattered, not their friends, not their family, not their miserable lives they would return to, nothing.

[Ranger]

A proverbial coating of rust was covering the dark elf’s shoulders since he had wandered away from the Red Hand. It had been so long since he had fought, so long since he had allowed himself to feel the freedom of the blade-dance. Even as he entered the hallowed halls of the Citadel thoughts of countless battles were flittering from deep within his mind. Where once pain had taken hold for others, only acceptance was present. Where once malice turned his visitations to the Citadel into something grizzly, only a sense of longing remained. Ranger had come not as a warrior who was seeking blood and gore, but in order break the unyielding cast of apathy that had formed around him.

“Excuse me Sir.” Even with the length of time the drow had been gone from the world of Althanas. Ranger’s year of wallowing in the caves of Pandemonium’s Fist, regretting his past and seeking understanding for the future, he was still recognized. The platinum eyes of the elf slowly lowered from the celestial walls of the Citadel, from the marble columns, and to the monk before him. Ai’Bron monks always held a visage of peace, the one Ranger remembered as Renak was no different. “It is wonderful to see you in our halls again,” spoken as if he was commenting about the color of the wall. “One has requested your presence in a battle, follow me if you will.”

The drow gave a slight look of concern to those around him. He was looking for the face of his challenger, seeking the one who might have sent the monk. But no eyes met his own. With a toss of his silver hair over his shoulder he started after the monk, following closely with an ever-constant graceful. If one had offered to do battle with the elf it was not his place to put off the challenge. “One quick battle, one shake to get that dust off my shoulder… and then on my way. I have a date to keep but it would take this one fight to get back into the groove I left so long ago.”

Once the door was opened and Ranger stepped through the world of reality was shed for an illusion. The elf was in a swirl of color, a rain of disguise. Even before he had completed his first step the split-second of change had been completed and a new world was before him. It was nothing new. It was so similar. The drow felt a sense of comfort descend over him, envelop him like a cloak against time itself.

The illusion was of a simple room. Its floors were made of a light wood; the walls were of a paper material crisscrossed by more wood, and around the room pictures hung. They were scrolls with pictures, words, and symbols scribbled across them. It was beautiful, like a picture of a monastery from Nihon. Ranger’s leather boots slid across the floorboards like a ghost, testing the strength of the floor and his footing on it. Once satisfied he spun rather dramatically.

Despite how dramatic the spin was it was the near antithesis of Ranger’s appearance. He looked neither graceful nor impressive. His dirty clothes were stained and battered with time and wear. His boots were scuffed with his years of mining in the caves of the Drakenlord Ithermoss. But despite his garb, despite the years of stains, the drow was rippling with muscle beneath the outer layer. His eyes were sharp, his hair flowing over his shoulders, and his fists were clenched firmly around his monks spade.

“Good day demon,” had he even been civil towards a demon, a demon of all things. His eyes met his opponents gray counterparts and locked for a split second. Ranger could feel the difference in him immediately. No longer did he feel the spark of the false god screaming loathing for the race in his ear. Infidelity had set him free. “Shall we begin then? I have never been one for words when it came to opening remarks to an opponent… just clean and quick. That’s the way I like it.”

Whether the demon knew who Ranger was did not matter to him. Despite his finishing third in the first season of the Theater of War none knew who he was. Whether the demon even spoke common did not matter to the elf. He seemed fit and able to fight, and a fight is what the Citadel was good for… the only thing the Citadel was good for.

[Martooth]

It seemed to last for eternity. The waiting was unbearable. Even though he knew it was less than a minute, time stopped when you were waiting for someone. Sol was never very good at waiting, but battle cannot be rushed. Rushing leads to errors, errors lead to mistakes, and mistakes lead to waking up with a monk leaning over you. Too many times had he woken up, too few were his victories, too few had he walked from the arena of his own will.

Today was not going to be the same. Looking his opponent over, he could be confident that he would walk away. His entrance had been just as so many others had, they just appeared as though they had always been there, doors were robbed of their purpose. He was an elf by the look of him, the ears were the give away, but there was more to him, more than just the fragile sinewy frame that elves seemed to have. He was wearing light armor, but he was wielding a shovel of all things. People would use anything to fight, Soluce once saw a man beaten to death with a stool at a bar.

His words were quick, they carried finality to them, a weight that made them definite. He didn’t want to give his name nor did he wish for Sol’s. Purity in battle was indeed a rare thing, if only all warriors everywhere could enjoy it. A quick nod of the head, Sol’s personal way of recognizing someone as well as agreeing to his wish and now he had only to initiate and they would commence.

Taking a quick measure of his own condition, iron fists equipped, loose black slacks and matching sleeveless shirt, aged hair still sticking up on one side (the side he slept on), everything was the way it should be. Soluce was pumped for the fight, he was fresh and full of energy, he had an excellent opponent standing but ten feet from him, and he had nothing to want for.

Eyes alight, the corner of the mouth twitching upwards independently, muscles hardening in tension, a man primed to fight. Even as he noticed the glitter of lights coming from various background glasses, the center of his universe was the elf. Always first to attack, Soluce charged his opponent, throwing his right metallic fist towards the elf’s neck, throwing his entire body into it and lowering his head from the motion even as his left hand lashed out open-palmed reaching to displace the crucial kneecap during the impending tackle.

[Ranger]

Ranger’s eyes were alight with the foe before him. He was holding the man’s visage in his sight and allowing himself to drink in all the information that he could assume from it. He was smaller then the elf, who despite his heritage was anything but small. His hair was of the same coloration, though of a lackluster variation. But his eyes were what caught those of the cleric. The eyes of his opponent were a stone gray, not like the gleaming silver of the elves.

The demon was a mirror image of himself.

With a sardonic smirk fixed across his face the elf shifted his weight. The spade spun before him, arching end over end as the elf watched his opponent move. The demon charged with quickly, yet he lacked the speed necessary to catch his drow opponent. Already Ranger had begun to counter, begun to shift his weight and wield not only a weapon but his momentum. His mind was sharp with years of warfare, his footing was quick with years of training, and in his hands was the weapon that he was quickly mastering.

Even as the clenched metallic fist reached for the place were the drow’s neck once was, Ranger was moving. His body slid like quicksilver under the extended fist. The open palm slid past the outside of his leg, barely catching the cleric’s pants. Despite the motion and sensitive maneuvering Ranger could not help but raise his brows at the open palm that had barely missed. Had he missed that? Did he not see it earlier? The answer was no, and that answer shook the drow.

Decades of practice and teaching had been nearly forgotten in less then a year. What had taken nearly his entire life to learn had been broken and near forgotten in only a short absence from the life of warfare. Ranger was dismayed by the results that he was getting. His muscles were tighter then they should have been. His thoughts seemed sporadic, but what was worse he could barely focus on the task at hand.

Behind him his weight allowed each leg a chance to shift. Both did, leading the drow to the backside of his opponent. The demon’s momentum had given Ranger a little bit of an advantage, but not much. Agility and dexterity had given him an even bigger advantage, and with them the drow had taken what he could. The head of the spade was brought towards the base of the demon, not an attack but a warning. The broad, flat side was aimed at his opponent’s lower back, aimed not to harm but to push the man further off balance should he keep his feet despite his momentum.

“Careful,” the drow said beneath a crooked smile. He could feel his muscles were still tight but relaxing, and his mind was calming as he took deeper breaths. If anything was to come of the battle he would at least remember to keep his composure in the future.

[Martooth]

The elf had more to him than Soluce was used to. He had a surprising size to him, his musculature greatly enhanced from the average elf. He would be a good opponent, someone that would fight back just as hard, someone that could put up a fight that had a life of its own.

The drow was slick, he seemed to slip by like water between his fingers, except instead of water it was pant leg. He was quick, but not uncatchable. He was even so swift as to swing his spade just so while evading and knock Sol out of control of his charge.

Out of control and unable to stop, the urge to swing his arms in a wild attempting-to-fly way was strong, conquered only by a foolish sense of dignity. In a stroke of mid-movement maneuvering brilliance, at least by his standards, his balance was recovered. A firm punch into the ground lifting his body up just enough to recover a running position. Wheeling around to face his opponent once more, Soluce couldn’t contain the grin from spreading across his face, not unlike a child receiving a present.

A direct attack hadn’t worked, the elf was faster and would need to be overcome in a more roundabout method. Not always a tactical genius, the environment often provided what he could not. Backing away slowly, sliding to the side a good distance, Soluce could let the elf come to him, he was where he wanted to be. Pews made it pretty difficult to hop around like a fairy, an untouchable silver-haired pointy-eared fairy.

[Ranger]

Serenity finally descended upon the elf like a soft rain. His gaunt fingers relaxed their grip to a less then white-knuckled state, and the muscles in his arms became soft. The fighting style he was once known for was touching his conscious again, returning as slowly as ever. Ranger’s eyes were alight with the passion of war. Behind the tranquil visage of the drows determination remained that pyre built for the fight, that fire lit by instinct. “Careful,” he thought again, this time to himself.

The demon seemed clumsier then originally expected. His size was not outrageous and his proportions seemed level enough, yet his balance was suffering. The tap from the spade had served its purpose. It had given the two more room, first and foremost, but it had also allowed the drow a quick show of dexterity. If he was going to take advantage of the fight he would cover all angles first, discover all weaknesses and strength, and then charge ahead with not a sign of haste.

Ranger began to side step, never allowing the gap between the demon and him to become any less. His hands spun the blade slowly, end over end. It arched and flashed as the wide head fell and the crescent blade on the opposite end rose. But it was not the malevolent glint of the blade that caught the drows stare; instead it was his opponent’s eyes.

Everything about his opponent screamed youth, even for a demon, yet its eyes held a knowing look to them. Ranger could see very few years, relatively of course, etched into his opponents face, and even less in his physique… but his eyes. They were a little duller then the rest of him, they whispered of experience. The drow’s crooked smile found its way back to him. Underfoot the boards of the room sighed with the shifting weight of the elf above.

It was a split second that separated a vigilant side-stepping movement from a straight-forward assault. But in that split second the elf had moved. He dove forward, lunging with the pole-arm. The blade caught at the last moment and locked forward, the broad head at the forefront of the attack. Ranger moved like a ghost, slipping over the surface as if he was no more then an apparition. His strategy was still to watch, not to be involved anymore then he was forced to be. The attack was no more then a mere inquiry into the demon’s reaction’s.

The drow did not commit fully to his assault though. While one foot dove forward with the lung, the other remained far enough behind to allow a hasty retreat and yet retain balance. He had no intention of letting his foe slip past the blade and enter within the five feet his spade could reach.

All the while the wicked grin remained.

[Martooth]

Although it wasn’t his usual, Soluce was man enough to restrain himself from attacking if it meant he would lose. It worked well, the elf failed to disappoint and began an attack of his own only moments after Sol could recover from his headlong charge. It was a thing of beauty, his attack. A smooth tranquil lunge positioning the spade as a spear, his control was extraordinary as he wielded the ungainly weapon with grace and total precision, an extension of himself.

There was little option for response, his defensive position behind a pew not taking into account the length of the vicious spade. Reaching roughly waist height he could lay on it if need be to avoid the blow, but taking his opponent from view seemed unwise. He had the option to risk everything and try to block the blow head on or even grapple the weapon away, but if he wasn’t the stronger of the two he would be forced backward over the pew behind him. The time for action was at hand and he was sorely lacking of defensive maneuvers.

The idea of death by shovel was pretty bad, it simply wouldn’t do. Not yet anyway. Kicking his legs out in front of him, Soluce could only pray for his safety as he descended to the ground facing the ceiling. The spade had been far too close, ripping a great gash in his thin black shirt, had the elf been a faster but by the blink of an eye it would have been flesh.

Swearing incoherently as his head cracked against the hardwood flooring, Sol knew what he had to do. Rolling swiftly underneath the pews away from the leather-clad drow, scraping his shoulders in the too-narrow space that severed pew from ground Soluce was in trouble. He needed to get in a more defensive position, get some advantage over the elf. He had power, speed, and a long, long reach with that spade. It appeared Sol had drawn the dead man’s hand while the elf held all the Aces.

[Ranger]

The few rows of pews along the back wall had gone all but unnoticed by the drow upon entrance. Now though he was noting them, and noting them well. His opponent had sought refuge behind them, was using them for an escape. But the blade of the spade had called for blood and Ranger thought it not his place to refuse it. The spade was straight and taunt, quivering a bit with the strain of the drow’s white-knuckle grip against its momentum.

Instead of flesh it caught air.

“Unimpressive.”

The thought crossed his mind with a tinge of disdain. The demon had ducked between the rows, cowering away from something he had quickly come to recognize as too strong for him. Ranger’s sickly grin had fallen, in its place a tight-lipped grimace. Not but a hairs breadth away from the second row of pews the broad head stopped. The metallic gleam was still screaming for blood, but instead a tattered piece of black shirt hung. It was nothing more than a useless rag.

Silently the prophet cursed his luck. It seemed a break would never come, though this time his karma had been bad only in the Citadel where it did not matter too much. Anger was surging through him, his blood was pumping faster, and he was running hot. Inside was much different. His mind was calm, his eyes displayed only cool serenity, and his muscles were lax once again.

“Come out and finish demon.” There was no plea in his tone. It was a demand. Sure and cold he needed to finish the fight, needed to complete what he had started. If he could not even do so in the halls of the Citadel how could he in real life? Ranger was tired of playing games; it only took a second for his mind to develop a new strategy. If the man wanted to hide, why not eliminate the obstacles and give him something to truly worry about?

The drow summoned to him the power of life itself, magic. He moved his free hand before him and formed a small orb of light at the end of each finger, another larger one brightened at the center of his palm. Time for toying with the cleric had come to an end. His fingers shut with a snap and the five orbs at each finger formed to be one, twice as large as the one now trapped between palm and fingers. If the demon would not come out from behind the row of pews, Ranger would go in after him. The drow knew that he had not crossed from one row to the other, since he was in the isle between the two.

Without a single hint of emotion crossing his cold face, the elven prophet loosed his spell. His fingers snapped open. From his palm the first orb flew forward, striking the one from Ranger’s fingers from behind. In less then a split second the second orb was enveloped. Instant light was created, heat was created from the two’s collision. The first orb spilled over the second, creating a pillar of light and heat (hot enough to create no more then blisters where it struck) easily a foot in diameter and possibly bigger. Even as the blunt head of the pillar struck the first pew, smoke and splinters rising from the poor quality of wood, Ranger’s eyes watched.

He had a feeling deep down… the demon would move or be burnt, and when he did the drow would release his hold on the spell and concentrate once again. If the demon did not move though the pillar would easily crush him into the back wall, along with pews that remained intact enough to be shoved at him.

[Martooth]

From underneath the pews, Sol couldn’t tell what the elf was doing, but he knew he was safe for the moment. He needed a plan, someway to get that spade from the elf, hurting him while he was at it. Neither had managed first blood yet, the battle was only at a simmer. Seeing the relatively short length of the pews as well as their wooden composition, a test of weight seemed in order. It was strain pushing upwards in such little space, wrist to elbow exceeding pew to floor, and breath came hard and fast to him.

His exertions proved fruitless, able to do little more than shift his protective seating furniture. It was irrelevant as yet another obstacle was conjured by the elf, cascading pews as they were smashed upon one another in rapid succession and diverting his attention. Splinters and chips were flying into the air and falling to the ground in ashes, the result of an unknown destructive force. Sol was out of options, his only choices to abandon the shelter of the pews or to be crushed.

Sliding out just barely in time to avoid getting smashed by a fly, things were not looking good. The source of the wreckage was indeed the elf in the form of a shiny smoking pillar of light breaking its way through the pews. Recalling past battles, magic almost always exhausted the user in some way and usually left a good open spot to attack, provided of course that you were lucky enough to have survived the attack.

His attack had to be smooth, more balanced than his first had. He couldn’t just swing away at the opponent with no regard for defense or recovery or reaction. No, this time he had to make sure he could follow up, make his chance count. Moving towards the elf in a controlled haste, elongating his strides as the distance gap closed, his attack had to work, he had no other choice. It had been postponed long enough, he had to man up and give it his all and live with the outcome for better or worse. Sweeping his foot out and low in a swift spinning kick to topple his opponent, the next move would be to get behind the elf and smear his head across the floor like a gruesome chalk line. If the drow didn’t meet the ground, well, then just try to smash him with iron clad punches. Soluce was never one for refined technique.

[Ranger]

The light ended abruptly as the elf let his fingers go lax. The spell was completed, even though the streams of the demon were not heard. In the wake of the spell there was a smoking line of pews, splinters, and a large black dot where the pillar once was. Ranger’s head snapped as movement caught the corner of his eyes. But the dark spot was interfering too much. The demon looked like a blur, not for speed but because of damned spots.

Silently the elf cursed.

It would be hard to follow him, even harder to combat or counter any attacks. Ranger stepped back and took up a flowing relaxed stance. If the man was going to attack, where would it come from? And where would it go? The drow could easily assume that he was going to attack low, but just as easily he could change it. The smirk rose again on his face. Battles were not meant to be easy, such contests were supposed to challenge all aspects of a person.

Found you.

But the elven warrior did no move. He was still, quiet. Like a statue he watched and yet continued to move his head about in the opposite direction as if looking for the demon. He could almost taste the man’s defeat. The demon closed quickly, leaving no room for error. As soon as he dipped low, what Ranger had originally expected, the elf was moving. The attack was too slow, even if the drow had not have expected it the demon had attempted an entire leg sweep. Such maneuvers were not the easiest to perform and were even less useful against a single opponent uninjured.

The blade arched in place of a sweep of legs. Ranger left no room for questions as he jumped up, clearing the feet and moving away just enough to avoid the blow. The broad head shifted towards his foe instead, intentionally missing. As soon as the first arch fell the momentum had started. It would take a strike against something or someone striking Ranger to stop the blade. The iron gloves the demon wore clacked noisily against the ground as he supported himself, Ranger hoped they would be bounding with even more noise if he attempted to counter the blade.

Arching with a controlled rage the blade sought hands, arms, legs. It was not a picky weapon, could cleave a limb or appendage of any sort rather quickly. But the blade was made of titanium, more then enough to pierce or open any wound across the man including if he used the gloves for protection. Iron was no match.

[Martooth]

Underestimation, it certainly seemed to be a reoccurring problem. As much as he tried, every battle he got into he needed to learn it anew. Perhaps it was from getting hit on the head, maybe it dulled him and he was the only one that didn’t know it. Why was it so hard for him? Why did battle take what little knowledge he had from him?

Even as he charged the elf, the unmoving unwavering elf, he could feel that something was wrong. The elf could see it coming, he was deft while Sol was daft, leaping over the kick effortlessly and sliding out of range. Just as quick as he left he was back, spade flying through the air and narrowly missing its first strike, not because of Sol’s lacking actions but of its owner’s accord.

The follow up attack was even faster, the glittering blade swishing through the air towards its victim. Before he could consciously think it through, Sol’s arms swung up to protect himself, one hand shooting forwards as though he were falling and attempting to catch himself, followed by the screech of metal grinding against metal, not even comparable to the scream of pain shooting from the arm. The pain was incredible, he’d never felt anything quite like it, never had anything felt so unbearable. It was enough that his vision dimmed, white spots speckling his faded vision. The spade had embedded itself in his hand, grinding roughly through his glove and firmly setting itself between his middle knuckle bones and partially into his wrist. The real pain was self inflicted, the spade tore the iron of his glove and caused it splinter in jagged edges into his skin, as the blade went deeper the entire gloved moved, crushing his fingers and peeling the skin back where the iron barbs latched on. Blood was rapidly running down his arm, pooling on the shovel and trickling down the shaft.

It had to be the adrenaline; there was no other reason for it. Sol was inevitably compelled to continue with the fight, despite the pain, despite the fact that he had been the source of first blood. Even though his hand was injured, the shovel was out there, it wasn’t moving, it wasn’t twirling through the air protecting the wielder behind a curtain of pain. Pushing first with his injured hand trying to unbalance his foe, Sol followed it with a rapid forward lunge with his left hand forward, the uninjured hand seeking to crush the elf’s fragile windpipe, he was running out of time and he needed a fast and easy kill, something that wouldn’t require a lot of movement. Judging by blood loss and his average tolerance for pain, he wouldn’t remain in the world of the waking for much longer.

[Ranger]

To say the sight was disgusting would be an understatement. To say the sight was near unbearable would be far more accurate. The glint of the blade called for blood, Ranger heard it pulsing through his veins in the form of adrenaline. It was like a whisper on the back of his mind. Yet something else was pulsing with it. What was it? Was it his old self? Was it the carnal nature of the drow being exerted? Whatever it was the very blood of the elven prophet felt like it was boiling, felt like fire was coursing with it.

The call for blood was answered.

The titanium head, sharpened and crafted by the most skilled of Radasanth’s Bazaar district, sunk deep into the man’s outstretched fist. The first reaction of anyone, including the battle-hardened drow was the flinch. Metal slipped between bone, crushing and sliding at it did. A sickly, twisted noise caught the sensitive ears of the drow. They began to twitch immediately. The sound was not the only thing that caught the elf, but too the sight.

Blood began spurting out from around the weapon. A crimson pool was forming at the base of both fighter’s feet, and gushing onto the drow’s pants. Stronger even then the sight was the smell. A metallic tinge instantly filled the nose and lungs of the drow. The unconscious flinch was just as much for that as it was for the sound and the rest of the gore.

But time was not something that was given to Ranger. Without even a scream at the disgusting mutilated hand or for the pain that must have been coursing through it, the demon attacked. The torn hand was shoved forward, the shaft behind the weapon yet lodged pushed the elf’s hand away. Despite himself Ranger’s mouth dropped and his eyes grew wide. Things were going in a very peculiar way towards the end and the demon’s inability to relinquish the fight only made it that much odder.

Quickly the demon struck forward. It was like lightning. He had speed faster then any human the drow had met, and probably strength behind the well aimed punch that was careening towards the drow’s jugular. Ranger’s head snapped to the side, attempting to avoid a potentially life-ending blow. Instead of the throat the plated fist caught his upper cheek, tearing away skin and crushing the high cheekbone’s that gave Ranger his noble appearance.

The elf was not so quiet as the demon had been.

With a cry Ranger kicked the shaft of the spade, hoping the quick strike would be enough to either lodge the weapon further or tear it out very painfully. Either way more blood would come, and with the loss of more blood possibly an unconscious foe. At the same time the elf dropped away, stumbled in his graceful step and was rendered nothing more then a human with pointy ears for a second. Away from the imminent danger of a strike area about his opponent, Ranger spun and took up his free hand. The other was covering a gaping hole and broken bone (and possibly jaw) as if it would stop the blood that was running under his chin and down his shirt.

Thayne protect me, he thought as he waited for his opponent to move, looking for a reaction from his minor escape.

[Martooth]

The pain tinted all of his senses, made them somehow duller and less distracting serving to amplify his focus on the pain. Sol was in a bad position, the floor was quickly beginning to hold more blood than he did, the precious fluid spewing from his injured hand far too fast. First evident in a chill, his breathing was becoming faster and shallower, Sol recognized the feeling all to well.

He was dying.

Not only that, but his opponent wasn’t going with him. He’d tried, tried hard, to finish his opponent, it was a weak point in every person but it was easy to block or dodge but also easy to perform. Injured as he was, he was able to try it. Normally he should have felt satisfied, elated even, to have hit his opponent with such a strike, smashing a bloody hole into his face, but it was hollow. The attack missed its target, he was still going to die, the elf would still walk from the room while he would be dragged from it like luggage, it would be the worst defeat he’d ever had. Well, almost.

He barely felt it as the drow shoved the blade farther up his arm, the gauntlet sliding as well, shredding the flesh and bone through his wrist. In fact, he barely felt anything at all. He couldn’t see anything either, the only sound he could hear was his own heart, the throbbing thumping sound slowing down, becoming quieter with each beat. As the elf danced away to examine his wound, Solace could only fall forward, unable to remain standing. Crashing to the ground propped up only by his uninjured fist, a breathless silent scream burst from his lungs as the spade hit the ground, twisting under his weight and cracking to the side, snapping the damaged bones and splitting his arm entirely, the bloody pieces resembling a split log in a grotesque parody, the spade dislodged and floating in a sticky puddle of its own creation.

The figure lying on the ground, grey hair tangling in clots against the dusty floor boards, the grey intelligent eyes fading, whitening in the aftermath, it was sad, slow way to go. No man should die that way, but Soluce was no man. He was a demon, he was fighter, he lived in violence and he died in violence, he would have it no other way. Even given the choice he would not change it, falling to another’s might was nothing to be ashamed of, it was a good death.

[Ranger]

Slowly the dripping of the blood began to run down the drow’s arm. His eyes were foggy with the pain that was surging through his head. Before him was his opponent, his slowly fading soul falling away from existence. The gray eyes of the young demon were weakening, no longer were they holding the silver patina but instead had adopted a lackluster stone coloration. In the back of his mind the elderly ex-cleric had a slight apprehension about finishing the demon. He not only felt sorrow for the underpowered man, who if wielded different weaponry would have easily been equal to the elf, but also felt bad about the pain he was in.

It’s a demon!

Thoughts screamed at the rear of his mind. This was no normal person. This opponent was not a human, not an elf, not something so common. It was a demon. Ranger’s coating of apathy had been shed; the wear of the years and the time away from battle had been near forgotten. But it had been at the expense of a demon. A demon. The fact that it was not grating on the elven prophet made him wonder how far he had come, how much he had changed.

But he is still something more, he’s a being of the Althanas world… a creation of the Thayne just as much as I am…

Ranger watched as the man’s face slumped and finally fell against the boards of the floor. The demon was finished. It was time to leave. At the end of the fight the drow always seemed the most depressed, always seemed the most forlorn. It was at the end of this fight that he felt differently. He was looking at the sill form of an opponent, a demon. Its hand was torn apart as if it had been held down while a wedge had been driven through to the elbow. Under most circumstances the drow would have turned away, looked towards something more beautiful.

But seeing the disgusting, twisted form of his opponent somehow made him wake. The rust had fallen away, though the opponent had been young and rather inexperienced. The time and wear of years of mining had been broken. Life was calling him and despite his urge to wait for the monks to enter the flickering illusion and drag out the bloodied opponent, Ranger knew that fate needed him elsewhere.

“May the Thayne bless your travels and we meet again some time in the future.”

((I figure we're done now, so I'll submit this for judging now. good fight.))

[Sword-for-Hire]

Sorry it took so long guys, computer kept shutting down when I’d try to type this up. So here it finally is!

Martooth

Introduction: This wasn’t too bad, but wasn’t that great either. Although you described the arena in your opening post, you failed to drop any background information on your character besides that he loved to fight. All it takes is one or two sentences to quickly bring the reader up to speed with who he is and why he is there or what he’s trying to accomplish. (4)

Setting: The way you created the arena gave it a lot of potential. However, you failed to maximize on it. Don’t feel bad, since we all were not such great RPers at one time. When you make a particular setting, think about two things: How it’s going to look and mesh with your character’s abilities and how can you use it to your advantage? Rolling under pews is a good tactic to escape from the opponents vision, but just staying their isn’t. I’ll explain this more in strategy. (4)

Strategy: And he we are! Fast wasn’t it? Back to the point; Sol could’ve used any part of the church as a weapon instead of his fists. When Ranger blew up the pews, he could’ve grabbed a chunk of wood and hurled it at him as a distraction, or grabbed a bigger piece of wood and used it like a club. Maybe there were those candles lining the walls and he could’ve used them like mini-bombs to try and burn him. Maybe he could’ve used the chunks of wood and broken the stain-glass windows and used the pieces for a weapon. Being creative awards you points. Dodging constantly doesn’t do much for you. (4.5)

Writing Style: You have a good grasp on creating a fairly smooth story, but at times it gets a little choppy. Watch out for sentences that are too long or quickly shifting ideas. You didn’t have very many grammar mistakes and your thoughts seemed fairly planned out. (5)

Rising Action: This was interesting. Although I knew ICly, you couldn’t beat Ranger (since he’s level 4), where Sol took the hit from the spade, but used it to his advantage for that one moment did peak my interest. Up to that point, the story was fairly average, with Ranger swinging and missing while you dodged and….dodged some more. This was a good job. (6)

Dialogue: You need to work on this…a lot. Inner thoughts do count as dialogue, as do you explaining what your character is thinking. Something verbal always helps. Even if it’s a simple, “Ow!”, it shows your character can react properly. Whenever I’m in a battle, for dialogue I concentrate on inner thoughts, like: Crap!...This guy….he’s insane! or quick verbal shouts, such as: “You mother******!!!” That’s just my character though. Doesn’t mean you need to go off insulting people randomly or because you’re being attacked. Whatever would work ICly for your character is best. Just show us he’s capable of using dialogue. (2.5)

Climax: This made sense. He got hit really, really, really hard…and he ended up dying. But not without making Ranger feel it; simple, effective, nothing to complicated and nothing powergamed. Decent job, just add more character into it, but that goes hand in hand with your introduction. (5)

Character: Sadly, I knew little about him after the first post and nothing more after the last. You need to make sure you take heed of my notes in “Introduction”, since all I knew about him was that he enjoyed fighting and was a demon. I’m not even quite sure what he looked like apart from his hair and eyes. (2)

Conclusion: I was hoping for something more. Perhaps he was alive after the monks revived him and he vowed to get better or maybe he threw a tantrum…something. Anything would’ve been great. But his just dying was directly connected to your climax, with no room for character development. Remember: If we know nothing about him/her we can’t hate/love/worship them. (3)

Wild Card: You have potential! Lots of it! Work on those points and we’ll finally be able to wonder if we want to kill you or help you kill! (5.5)

Total: 41.5


Ranger

Introduction: This was a good job. Connecting the Red Hand with now was a great way to start it off. I was able to get a feel for Ranger and where he’d been and what he was up too. (6.5)

Setting: You reacted to the setting well and I’d say you failed to utilize it’s maximum possibilities, but no point in deterring away from your opponent. You did use the setting well with getting rid of the pews however, but I was hoping for something more from you. I know how good you are at making the scenery come alive and almost jump off the page at the reader. You seemed to be lacking a bit here. (6)

Strategy: Not much to say here. You did what you needed to do and what Ranger would do given his current state after mining for so long. You acted well to Sol and even took a hit to the jaw with a quite literal iron fist. (6.5)

Writing Style: Very smooth and coherent. I wasn’t lost in a sea of over the top sentences or confused at sudden changes in the story flow. Not too many mistakes, maybe one or two I believe. You even added a little subtle humor Good job. (7.5)

Rising Action: You kept pace with him, which might’ve been hard to do with a limited number of actions to perform. You helped with the tension of him pretty much losing an arm to a titanium spade and kept the mood. (7)

Dialogue: This was decent enough. Nothing to grand or simple for Ranger. Some character thoughts and verbal interaction. Felt a little off-beat at times, so might want to watch out for that if you can. (6.5)

Climax: I felt this was in the same lines with Rising Action. He died and you felt like finishing him off, mainly out of habit. I enjoyed the character development he displayed at that part. Which I’ll explain right now. (7)

Character: The way he thought before entering the battle and the way after it really grabbed my attention when you didn’t make sure he was dead with a killing blow. This seemed pretty well thought out, even if you came up with the idea last minute. Good job working it in, either way. (7.5)

Conclusion: Pretty much what I said in “Character” and “Climax “, since these were all pretty much in the last couple of posts. The last line was nice, really put the finishing touch. (7.5)

Wild Card: Great job, Ranger. Just keep up the writing and try not to sound to weird when talking. XD (7)

Total: 69

Ranger wins the battle!

Ranger gains 476 exp and 100 gp!
Martooth gains 42 exp and 50 gp!

[Thoracis]

EXP and GP added!