RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (Full Version)

All Forums >> [Gaming Community] >> [Role Playing] >> The Championships



Message

TormentedDragon -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (8/23/2017 23:37:54)

“And life leads me here,” he sang, his grin widening at the sight of Cyril flopping backward. Only the bug had ever seen it coming, the first time around, and he’d failed to see the sand wall. “It shows me, I have never really loved no one but me,” he crooned, reaching out with Bearpuncher to catch the bug if he came through the other side. Cyril’d flipped back to his feet (seasoned fighter, there) and was charging forward. He shifted the spike, and frowned, singing the next line almost as an afterthought.

The tawny beast of earth was approaching. It seemed focused on Cyril, a predator on the prowl, but he trusted nothing. His grip on Pukkroy’s lever tightened, claws digging further into the grooves in the wooden grip. Best be ready to -

His eyes flicked back right, following a flash of green; he saw Teras, dusted rose with sand, and for a moment, saw the knife as it tumbled through air. The handle caught the bar, and ricocheted off, clattering against his helmet and down onto an array of tiny buttons, just the size of a gob’s claw tip.

The music cut out with a screech. Ee-nuk flinched, jerking Pukkroy’s spike up and left. He watched as the sand-beast leaped, hind legs touching to Cyril’s back, then pushing off with worrying force. A blast of pink clattered against his goggles and face, and he heard the clang and the bang as two things struck his suit, one in front, one in back.

His feet never stopped working. Oblivious to anything but the commands he gave it, the suit kept running, each step jarring the knife in its spot on the console. With a growl, he grabbed its handle and chucked it back out of the cockpit, slamming the torso knob all the way to the left and sweeping the sand-jets across the field. He primed Bearpuncher as the music rose, bass and bassoons building a simple melody. Ah. This one. Not his choice, but if bug-man wanted a track change, he’d oblige.

Payment was a metal fist to the face. Ee-nuk would endeavor to collect.



TitanDragonLord -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (8/24/2017 10:31:28)

With Molly rolling out of his way, Inigo moved in with his swift slash to let the piercing sound of blade crashing against blade ring out over the chaos of the arena. The pyromancer was more than ready to follow up with another assault, to cut down the woman before him in an instant, but something changed in that moment. A feeling through his body, like he had suddenly been sapped of a strength he didn’t know he had, as if his power suddenly had the weight of the world dragging it down. A sense of dread filled him in that second as their weapons met, his heel swiftly digging into the dirt below to throw his body backwards and to land several feet from his attacking position. He knew what this meant, even before his fears were confirmed.

An unnatural coldness seemed to settle over the stands as people quieted slightly; the chanters once more turning from the sands to the crowds. In calm, almost lazy, tones, they called out, "The inferno has raged itself out, leaving only smoldering coals in its wake. By the Will of the Arena, the flames of wild fire shall illuminate it no more this year. We now bear witness to Inigo's choice, as tales of his skills shall inspire fighters in the years to come.”

Those words filled the warrior with a sense of anger, of rage, that he’d never experienced before. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t how things were supposed to go! He was going to be the strongest, he was going to prove he most powerful in the world, how could they deny him that chance? He’d show them all, blessing of the Elemental Lord or not, they would not hold him down.

At least, that was his initial idea, but as he raised his blade once more a new thought entered his mind. There was no point in throwing his life away here, not when he had much greater aspirations.

“Get her, Halfcrow,” he said, the point of his blade falling and dragging against the red sand as he turned away. Fury still burned brightly within his soul, but it wasn’t directed at the warriors of the arena any longer. As he stepped through the gate and into the long corridor he had entered from, a dark smile danced on his lips. They were no longer his concern, they were all being used as pawns in a game of the gods; a game that he was no longer playing.


Inigo found himself lurking in the dark corners of the city, wandering as he cleared his mind for what was to come. The streets were barren, abandoned, almost all of the usual faces gone to witness the battle of the Paragons in the arena. It was an eerily peaceful sight, one which was rarely seen in bustling cities such as these. It was most surprising then, when a voice echoed out from one of the unlit alleys, a cloaked figure stepping out of the buildings and into the street.

“You lost, Inigo Arias,” the man said, raising his hands to pull his hood down and gaze upon the swordsman. It was the same man who’d helped him not long before the final round had begun. The pyromancer had been told they’d meet again if he survived, but he never realised it would be this soon. It seemed that there was some shred of fortune on his side after all.

“That doesn’t matter anymore. Tell me how to meet your Lord.” the warrior retorted, head quickly snapping towards the man, who had moved out further into the street to stand face to face with Inigo. With no response, the pyromancer drew his blade, pointing it towards the figure’s chest as he spoke in a menacing mutter. “Tell me, or I’ll kill you.” The man laughed at the threat, taking a few steps back from Inigo as his body began to wrap itself in small flickers of flame, his voice snapping and crackling, taking on an otherworldly echo with it.

“You don’t want to do this. I am more powerful than you realise, Arias.” The man’s mouth began to turn up at the corners as the embers swiftly intensified, cloth, flesh, and bone all burning away to reveal a form made entirely of contained flame. A bright, burning figure, hovering slightly off of the ground and illuminating the darkness around them, heat radiating off of his body in all directions. He was no mere priest after all, then.

“So am I,” Inigo said through gritted teeth, his foot sliding back in the dirt as he flicked his blade from being pointed at the glowing being into a guard. Whatever this man was, it stood in his way, and none could hold him back any longer.

“Then, let us begin.”



Kellehendros -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (8/24/2017 23:44:22)

Things were suddenly very busy: the dagger was twirling, Cyril was rising, the Koira was bounding... No time. Earth’s Paragon planted his feet in the thief’s back and vaulted into the air. The dagger caromed off one of the bars, vanishing into Ee-nuk’s little nest. His throw must have struck something, because an instant later the Arena was suddenly, blissfully silent. Excepting the roar of the crowd, of course.

The Koira flipped agilely through the air and cast a pawful of sand down at the cretin. Cyril slammed into the metal monstrosity, rebounding hard and probably not enjoying his current role as an alternating springboard and improvised charge-stopper. The big Koira aimed a wicked hack at a shoulder of the giant suit, landing delicately on one foot and hopping backwards. Never seen a Koira do that before, Teras mused.

Up until the moment the bestial Paragon had used the Red Hand as an improvised vault the bounty hunter had been convinced he was about to watch the criminal take a sword through the back. And what an interesting sword it was: curved slightly, almost in the manner of Cyril’s weapon, but with a wicked hook on the backside of the curve. In another setting, the Basilli Phas would have liked the chance to examine it closer, perhaps chat with the Koira about why he had selected the exotic blade.

Business first, the Iron Mantis reminded himself. Business had a way of cropping up in unexpected places.


Teras remembered staring as Kunnia inspected the market, commons parting around her and her guards in mute, deferential acknowledgement. The Basilli For were like that, the mercenary had noticed. They seemed to share some sort of silent method of communication between each other. It must come from being one giant, extended family. That, or discreet hand signals. To this day he was not quite certain.

Whatever it was, that unhearable communication passed its way between one of the guards and the Princess, and the trio turned in the Basilli Phas’ direction. When they were five paces away the pair of soldiers simply stopped, and the noble continued alone to face a suddenly nervous Teras.

“Y-your Majesty,” he stammered, hands fluttering nervously. He wasn't sure what to do with them. His primary hands had been resting casually on the hilts of his blades, but the Iron Mantis very pointedly did not want to appear threatening at this juncture. A mere word from the Princess would be enough to turn the market crowd into a mob that would tear him to pieces. Hooking his thumbs through his belt seemed a little too cocksure though, so Teras finally dropped his hands to his sides and silently hoped he was not supposed to be bowing, or kneeling.

“That would be my mother, sellsword.” The Princess tilted her head back slightly, looking up at Teras and smiling. “I am only Kunnia, for now.”

He would ruminate on that later, on the way she had dropped those two words there. So casual, and yet so enticing. They had been the first hook, the opening salvo of the Princess’ campaign.

At the time though, the Iron Mantis had only wondered at the fact that while he was looking down at the Basilli For - she was easily a head shorter than he was - it was very obvious who was in command of the situation, and the conversation. “K-Kunnia, as you w-wish.” For some reason his mouth was incredibly dry. “How… How might I be of service?”

The Princess smiled at Teras’ evident discomfort. “I rather like the sound of that.” Her laugh was bright and ready, drawing a number of curious glances from nearby commoners. Their attention was swiftly directed elsewhere after a quelling look from one of the soldiers. Kunnia ignored the byplay with regal indifference, inspecting the bounty hunter before her. “What is your name, sellsword?”

“Teras, Teras Rukoli, yo- Kunnia.”

“Rukoli, Rukoli…” she grinned, the expression lighting up her face. “But I’ve heard of you! The ‘Iron Mantis’, yes?”

The mercenary blinked rapidly, disconcerted by the fact that the Princess knew, at least tangentially, who he was. “I… Yes, they call me that.”

“A good name is important, as any Queen could tell you.” The Princess considered the Basilli Phas. “General Kapti mentioned something to mother about dispatching some of the more promising mercenaries for a long-range patrol. Your name came up several times.” Kunnia paused. “I had rather something else in mind for you, however.”

There was something odd about hearing the Princess refer to Queen Telias as her mother. That was surely the case, Teras knew. The Basilli For matron was the progenitor of every Daysmu calling the Colony home, and yet Telias’ motherly status had somehow been theoretical to the Basilli Phas until the Princess mentioned it so casually. It was a bizarre thought, but not enough to distract him from Kunnia’s words. “They… They were talking about me?”

“Certainly,” she confirmed, smiling. “But as I said, I have other plans for you.” The Princess reached out, taking the sellsword’s right primary hand in her own smaller primaries. Pressing an object into the Iron Mantis’ palm, she gently folded his fingers around it.

Teras’ stomach fluttered as he drew back slightly, opening his hand and staring. The coin was freshly minted, weighty with the heavy promise only gold could provide. One face was a pair of stylized mandibles encircling a crossed pick and sword, the symbol of the Daysmu family. Upon the other was a symbol he had never seen before. But no, now that he considered it he had. Glancing up at Kunnia and her patient smile, the bounty hunter confirmed his realization. The carefully incised lines upon the coin matched the delicate crimson crown pattern across the Princess’ forehead.

Kunnia lifted a hand, covering Teras’ lips and forestalling his question. “Come to the palace tomorrow. Show that to the guard at the gate and tell them I have summoned you. They will bring you to me.”

That must have been the end of the matter, so far as the Princess was concerned, for Kunnia turned on her heel and walked back the way she had come from. Her guards remained for a moment, giving the Iron Mantis a pair of identical gimlet-eyed glares before turning and following their charge.

The Basilli Phas hardly noticed. He was too busy staring at the coin in his hand and trying to sort out the tangled knot of emotions roiling through his head. It was clear that Kunnia wanted something from him. Gazing at the golden token, Teras thought that maybe he wanted to give it to her.


Speaking of giving… Ee-nuk seemed to want something of him just the now. The armored suit angled in the mercenary’s direction, kicking up drifting veils of sand and grit. The good things never last, the Iron Mantis reflected as the noisy Paragon approached, and the music started up again.

Slitting his eyes against the waves of wind-hurled silt, Teras counter-charged. At least once he got close enough the pelting grit should no longer be an issue. It was probably not the wisest course of action though. Ee-nuk’s contraption outmassed him, and so far that had been enough for the Iron Mantis to make a point of not directly confronting Loudmouth. There had been softer targets available; the noisy cretin had not forced the issue.

Times had changed, and the bounty hunter was adaptable. Loudmouth’s latest selection grew louder as the two closed on each other, and Teras noted spikes at the end of the blocky metal fist on the contraption’s right arm. It was little matter, the reach advantage belonged to the Basilli Phas. His primary arms lifted, leveling their blades in a clear signal that said double thrust high.

And then the sellsword changed his tune. Driving hard off his left foot, Teras angled right and inside the incoming punch, planting his leading leg and pivoting his body into a side-on stance. His left shield arm came up in tandem with a twist of his left sword hand, slamming shield and knuckle duster against the suit’s right limb to knock it back and away. The right primary arm followed his leading leg as he thrust, seeking to drive his blade between the bars and skewer Loudmouth.

And since it seemed appropriate to the engagement, the mercenary replied with some lyrics of his own. “For the lives all so wasted and gone.”



Rayen -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (8/25/2017 10:27:43)

Her ears throbbing from the distasteful noise emanating from the metallic contraption opposite the duo’s position in the arena, Molly began to open her mouth to voice the best arguments she’d thus far managed to formulate for removing it. However, the thoughts were cut short in her throat as she caught the glimmer of Irina appearing from the corner of her eye. That spineless sea urchin must have lost the opportunity to finish her battle with the frost chanter - whether he’d been claimed in the battle over yonder, or lost the favour of his Lord, Molly wasn’t sure. She’d not been focusing attention on the Arena Chanters; only what occurred in the arena was of any consequence, after all.

For once, the Paragon of Light appeared not to be running away. Instead, she loped over the blood-stained sands towards where she stood beside Inigo. Molly kept her sharp eyes on the woman’s sword, judging its length, awaiting the sound of it cutting through the air, but her young ally, more familiar with magic than she, had been wisely watching the other hand.

Suddenly he shouted a command. “Move!” A familiar warning in battle, Molly heeded it, launching herself into a dive to her right just as the sand at her feet exploded into the air. The fine red-coated granules plastered her clothes and skin, still damp from her tryst in the Water Realm, and threatened to obscure her vision. Although closing her eyes was the best course of action to preserve her sight, doing so mid-flight would risk she mistimed her landing or lost balance…particularly given that she remained holding in her favoured hand a primed harpoon.

In the split second before hitting the sand, the wizened sailor came to a decision, tilting her harpoon slightly backwards to ensure it impacted haft-first. The moment it was flat on the ground, Molly opened her hand, releasing the weight and freeing herself to finally come to a neat standstill in a genuflect-like position. However, she now knelt unarmed and blind, her eyes encased shut with sand, as Irina charged around the cloud of sand towards her.

The ringing sound of steel blades clashing above her pierced through the ambient noises of the arena, breaking her disorientation. Both arms moved in unison, drawing her right sword with her right arm and wiping her left sleeve - caked in sand as it was - across her eyes to dislodge what sand she could, before then drawing her left sword. Holding her blades at the ready, she rose to find her young ally standing over her, shielding her from their attacker. However, the fire-breather’s aura seemed to have changed entirely. Where once pride poured from him like a wall of flame, he now seemed to exude rage.

At that moment, the bizarre ‘music’ being projected the strange Wind Paragon changed, allowing Molly’s ears to focus on another sound. Where she’d missed the judgement of Ayiso, this time she heard the chanters, their echoes filling her with a strange sense of loneliness in this hospitable place. “By the Will of the Arena, the flames of wild fire shall illuminate it no more this year. We now bear witness to Inigo's choice, as tales of his skills shall inspire fighters in the years to come.”

The more experienced warrior could see that Inigo was unused to self-doubt; no doubt he’d come here to prove his dominance as a warrior, but now he was confronted with the disappointing truth: He’d been found lacking. His reaction to this ruling would not only be defining, but potentially threatening to the bargain the pair had struck. Molly sensed that he was about to act and raised her blades defensively, but to her relief he said, loudly and calmly, “Get her, Halfcrow”, before lowering his sword to the arena sands and turning away. A glance at his face made her chuckle; his eyes were filled with conviction, and his spirit was clearly far from broken. Just what she’d expect from the lad who could spit fire.

Now, alone for the first time since entering the Elemental Championships, she found herself face to face with Irina. Though unfamiliar with the intricacies of magic use, Molly did know one thing for certain: It’s difficult to cast spells without a head.

In a glance, Molly analysed her competition’s form and physique. Irina was tall - nearly a full foot taller than herself, and even her blade was half a foot longer than her own. She seemed athletic, although not as muscular as many larger opponents the seawoman had faced in the past. What strength this woman possessed must reside in her magic. Given that Molly had only seen Irina on the run previously, she’d assumed the Light Paragon’s abilities to be mostly defensive - flashes of light, a shield perhaps - but the eruption of sand had caught her off-guard. Obviously the beams of light she threw could hit with considerable force, although—

“Yeah! Get her, Halfcrow!”

The loud voice of a boy disrupted her thoughts, cutting above the rising din coming once more from the metallic mind-render she seemed to recall possessing a name which sounded awfully like ‘eunuch’. Molly grinned to Irina, raising her right sword over her head in reply to her number-one supporter before returning it once more to a familiar battle stance. “Let’s give my young friend a good show, shall we?”

However, as Molly drew a preparatory breath, a memory flashed through her mind, clearer and brighter than she’d felt it in a long time. The memory of her father, blades shining, practicing a sword dance in the sandy courtyard outside their fine house in the Sandsea. He’d been the Commander of a small army owned by one of the richest trade merchants in the bustling city, and - or so she’d been informed superfluously by chattery crew members - his swordsmanship was among the finest known. In the split second that this memory inhabited her mind, she recalled something about this dance that she’d forgotten. After it was complete and her father had walked inside there remained engraved into the sand a rudimentary lotus flower, drawn by his feet as he twirled about in the sunlight.

Another detail took root in her mind, and she pieced together the reason she’d been orphaned; the reason she’d been raised on the sea and experienced the things she’d experienced, and ultimately, the reason she was here today. The Blue Lotus, one of the most famous rebel organisations of the Sandsea, had in the last few years been instrumental in the dethroning of the mad Sun King, Sek-Duat the Fifteenth, and in the city’s reformation. And her parents, killed in the night for some previously inexplicable reason, must have been members.

Molly was unsure why this epiphany had occurred right at this moment, but the fact that the lotus was a water plant certainly incriminated a certain watery entity she’d conversed with not too long ago. So, shrugging, she shifted stance, placing her right-foot forward into the sand before twirling lightly in a circle, her blades spinning in the sun. This will be the centre of the flower, she thought to herself, and this—

Transitioning smoothly from her pirouette, Molly lunged her right foot forward through the sand, sweeping her left blade upwards towards Irina’s left shoulder and her right beneath, above the taller warrior’s right hip. Unsurprisingly, the agilely built woman easily swivelled to her right, away from Molly’s right blade, and deflected the left-blade’s strike with her own sword.

Unperturbed, Molly continued the dance, taking a deep step through with her left foot to complete the first petal, whilst directing a syncopated pair of strikes towards her opponent’s throat. Again Irina evaded twinned death, moving further to her right to dodge Molly’s left blade, though conceding her right blade a small slash along the nearest edge of her neck. Blood and light seemed to trickle down the radiant woman’s shoulder, but Molly was too focused on mirroring the next strike from her memory to notice. Despite the noise around, the world seemed silent to Molly but for a measured, intertwined, whistling rhythm as her breath and blades cut through the air.

Taking a short step backwards, Molly swivelled low to the ground, her right blade speeding towards Irina’s forward thigh, though her left blade travelled through the sand to balance the strike whilst drawing the first of the largest petals. Often sword-dances contained two elements: one for positioning, and another to take advantage of the dance’s placement of the ‘dancing partner’. As Irina stepped back with her right leg to avoid the strike against it, she placed herself on the tip of the largest petal; one of the eight locations designated for the felling of the adversary.

Quick as a plummeting sea eagle, Molly launched herself up off her right leg, plunging her left blade straight towards Irina’s throat whilst she reversed the momentum of her right blade, directing it towards the Paragon’s heart. Sand flicked upwards from her left blade towards its target, and the exertion of the complex sequence elicited a sharp battlecry, sounding much like the caw of a crow, from the old woman’s mouth. Against any ordinary warrior, an attack of this kind would be both a quick and beautifully dramatic death. But Irina was the Paragon of Light, and Molly was under no illusions that her opponent was an ‘ordinary warrior’ by any definition.

In confirmation of Molly’s silent praise, Irina, with reflexes like a startled shrimp, sprang hard to her right, away from both blades and landing jarringly on her side. In the same motion, the taller swordswoman kicked out with a leg, connecting sharply with Molly’s ribcage and transferring the more elderly competitor’s momentum sideways. Pain rippled through the sailor’s side, also tearing out what little breath remained in her lungs in a discomfited grunt. The fight was far from over. Shifting her right leg mid-air, Molly managed to avoid stumbling precariously over, but the rapid succession of unexpected motions dislodged her left blade from her grip, sending it thudding to the sand several feet from where she now stood panting. The Lotus Dance had come to a premature end.

The winds of battle could turn at any moment, but would they leave the experienced sailor floundering beneath the changing tide, or carry her high on a wave to victory?



Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (8/25/2017 20:54:44)

He had hopped backwards and assumed a readied stance in case of aggression, but no attack had been forthcoming. Despite having all the advantage, Ee-nuk had arrowed in on the four-armed insectoid rather than pressure the Jackal after the three-way clash. It perplexed him, an added flavor to the displeasure at just how ineffective his attacks had been; they had only added to the cacophony. The resounding clang of steel crashing into steel, then the shriek as the sword scraped its way free of the metal shell the goblin was housed in. His reflexive snarl at the accursed foresight the goblin had shown in wearing goggles. It was proving almost as detestable a cretin as Man.

But, for a single moment, there was a soft, blessed silence from the music.

The Devil didn’t know how, why, or by what form of providence created a break in the grating tonality that the mechanical creation had constantly been producing. He was merely thankful all the same. It made the cost of his harpe’s edge being dulled to no effect a bit more bearable. Kept the taint of emotion in check more easily. Let him relax his ears and twitch them in a brief reconnaissance of the arena. But the abeyance was not long, and all too soon the Jackal’s ears flattened against his head again as the BoomerSuit began belting out music anew.

It was a step above raw, painful noise this time around. One educated in the stylings of Man might be able to pick out actual instruments within the tonality, but the Jackal still treated it with great distaste. Combined with the continued whine of the turbines housed within the machine, it was still nothing but a distraction and another sin in the goblin’s ledger. The sand kicked up in front of the suit’s progress was no payment to that debt. The Jackal would have to pass it before it could be utilized, and when it was there would be nothing but grim satisfaction at using the goblin’s own tactic against it.

The penchant for adaptation was a trait held rather highly among the Jackals. Comparing Ee-nuk’s creation to a Hippo had validity, but a Hippo had the same weaknesses as most living beings. The metal construction of this…thing made some of those weaknesses irrelevant. So amber eyes watched the approach between Teras and the meksuit carefully. Not everything was hardened steel and metal clad. There was the unmistakable flutter of cloth in the motion around various points of the BoomerSuit. Around small part of the joints and a few other locations. Potential weaknesses to exploit, perhaps?

With casual grace, he flipped the harpe from his right forepaw to his left, gripping it backwards. Presenting the reinforced hook for intended use rather than the soft inward curve of the cutting edge. His focused gaze took in Teras’ high line attack while drawing the other blade; discounting the secondary set of arms the insectoid also seemed to favor an ambidextrous use of twin swords. The insectoid held no hesitation as it met the advance of the meksuit in a countercharge. Deftly swayed aside with simple footwork. Struck keenly, a simultaneous offense alongside a reaffirmed defense. But it would be too much to hope that leverage and reach would force the issue and make the metallic monstrosity stumble into a lethal blow.

Paws danced forwards, gripping the sands below by the very tips of his claws alone, as the Jackal sought to close anew with the sonorous combatant. His ears flattened against his skull, but the loud sounds of shifting musics did little to keep him quiet. The Jackal spared the briefest phrase towards Cyril. “Slå till vänster.” Strike to the left. His voice sibilantly soft and chimeric, it shifted through tone and pitch with mesmeric ease. Neither cause nor case of musicality, simply the horrific beauty inherent within the Devil’s true self.

That same sense of beauty could equally apply to the harpes, as the Jackal drew his left forepaw up to his right shoulder. Soft curves carved through the air on the upswing, neatly parting air and sand. The Jackal cut his momentum into a slide, leading with his left leg as he drew alongside the meksuit’s flank once more. Then the wicked hook descended. All brutal momentum and the sharp promise of death. A full swing whose arc was empowered by the twist of his shoulders, maximized by the leverage of his great reach, aiming to pierce the weave of cloth covering the machine’s right ankle joint. Where plates simply could not protect the design.



Kooroo -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (8/25/2017 23:58:18)

Irina winced as she picked herself up off the Arena floor. Landing like that on most surfaces might've sprained her shoulder or worse. Luckily, the sand had cushioned her fall, at the expense of her uniform’s cleanliness. She stood up, rotating her left wrist and rubbing it gingerly. It still hurt slightly, but it didn't seem to be a lasting injury.

Moments earlier, before her brush with a sharp and painful death, the Fire Paragon had struck at her with a heavy and powerful swing. The blow had been simple enough to block, as it had been a wide slice aimed to take her head in a single stroke. An obvious, and telegraphed attack; as predictable as the weather on the sun. Blocking it and countering should have been easy; raise her blade, twist the wrist, and swing under it. The first part of that motion had been easy to pull off, and as a reward, Irina's head was still attached to her body.

What she had not anticipated was the strength and momentum behind the blow, which had been considerable to put it lightly. A blow like that should have been dodged, or at least countered with a two-handed grip.
Irina had instead blocked it with one hand, and her prize for that mistake had been a jarred and possibly sprained wrist. It had almost been a blessing from The Gods' when the chanters had called out and the young warrior had retreated, giving her some space.

Almost a blessing. It had saved her a fair bit of magical power, as she hadn't needed to blast the fiery swordsman, and thus, made her life considerably easier. On the other, uninjured hand, Irina was left with a somewhat empty feeling, devoid of accomplishment. Maybe she was fated to never finish a fight? At least she was unlikely to die at this rate.

That last thought may have jinxed something though.

Once the swordsman had stalked away, Irina had been left with a sore wrist and a senior citizen... With a name like a bird or something. The Lightbringer Lieutenant had then assumed her normal stance, expecting to easily weather the old woman's assault and end the battle with a few more simple strokes of her blade. What she had not expected was for the senior citizen to nearly succeed in extracting her vocal cords twice, and skewering her heart in the following ten seconds. If Auros had been watching, he may have wondered how Irina was a Lieutenant and not simply dead on some long-forgotten battlefield.

It was pretty accurate to say that her most recent ordeal had been a mite close, one of her closer trips of the Reaper's Door. Her reflexes had saved her at that last moment, allowing her to dodge and buy time from what should've been a fatal attack. She patted her chest once, dislodging some rose-colored grains from the sooty-grey material. The pink muck was horrible, sure, but considering what had happened she was lucky to have some dirt on her dress. Not that there were regulations stating that corpses also needed to wear spotless uniforms.

Irina turned to her foe, approaching the elderly sailor as they both stood. The veteran warrior was in the process of standing up herself, having just retrieved her dropped blade with the hook of her twin. Another useful facet of the blades' shape, though probably not the main purpose of their shape. Easy blade retrieval, at the drop of a sword.

The curve of the sailor's blades were not dissimilar to some foes that Irina had dealt with in the past. In some of the Outer Realms, the beings that had opted to engage in close quarters combat had often utilised similar weapons, using the weapons' natural curvature to latch on and pull back their opponents’ armaments, or hooking on to a wayward appendage to bring about a grizzly end. Irina couldn't afford to give her opponent an opening to do the same. She had to attack, and go on the offensive. A familiar necessity for the day.

Irina adjusted her grip on her sword, wrapping her fingers around the grip. The Lieutenant charged as the old lady raised her blades. She stepped forth with her right foot and swung her blade across her body, at her foe’s exposed neck. A final show for your young friend, Halfbird?

The aged warrior parried at the last moment with her right, steel ringing against sunsteel. Slow. The Lieutenant immediately followed up, reversing and the repeating the motion, this time at her foe's waist. Again, a block. Another slow response from the veteran.
Either the shriveled mariner's age was catching up with her, or she was still too winded to mount a proper defence. There was no sign of the speedy and ferocious warrior Irina had faced moments ago; only a tired old woman.

The Lightbringer shifted her weight and twisted, slashing outwards from left to right once more. A jolt of pain shot up Irina's wrist as her foe parried, though the power behind the blow forced the smaller woman back, unbalancing her. Gritting her teeth, Irina struck out with her left foot, kicking the woman in the stomach and winding her once more. As sailor struggled for breath Irina lunged, her blade seeking her foe's heart.

Blades clashed once more as the aged warrior hooked the Irina's blade to the side, desperately. A line of red appeared, dripping from her foe's brown, leather-clad side. Progress, but superficial overall. Unless the warrior could bleed out from a few drops of blood, Irina would have to land a more serious wound. She withdrew as the wizened veteran's blades rose, guard raised in anticipation of a retaliatory strike.

A heartbeat, and no still counterattack by the elderly woman. Still winded, from the looks of it.

She strode forth once more, this time swinging from her right hip, flicking her wrist as she slashed. Another parry, the sabre clanging off its curved counterpart. Irina brought the blade down low and twisted, angling her wrist once more as she slashed at her foe's gut. Another small wound appeared on the sailor's right forearm, the result of a late block.

Even while winded, the crone's defence still held, barely. The second blade was the issue, allowing her experienced adversary some extra leeway against Irina's rapid, single-bladed offence. She would just have to use all of her advantages to win this, or keep up the offence long enough to outlast her. Or better yet, both.
Embrace the Light.

Power began to gather in her left arm as Irina lunged at her foe's neck, pushing off her left foot. Her skin exploded with light as she thrust her blade forward, the startling brilliance shimmering off the pink sands. At the moment before contact, she flicked her wrist, angling her blade towards her opponent's heart.



Ryu Viranesh -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (8/26/2017 4:38:50)

“What do you mean she’s ‘going away’?” Cyril frowned at his father, and the man averted his gaze.

“It’s…” He sighed, a haunted look on his face as he crossed the room to stand beside his son. For a moment, it didn’t seem like his father was sure what to do, but the young musician soon felt the familiar weight of the knight’s hand settling on his shoulder. “This isn’t easy for me to say, Cyril. But…”

Cyril’s ears were ringing as the mecha flew past him, its pilot apparently undeterred by their head-on collision. The foreigner eyed the heavy tracks left behind in the sand, just how close he’d come to being crushed beneath the Boomersuit’s bootheel abruptly hitting home. Lucky.

Luckier still was the fact that the goblin’s ‘music’ had finally been silenced, leaving the Arena almost unnaturally quiet in its absence. This was where Cyril's luck ran out. Even bereft of its backing track, the suit was still a bruiser as big as a half-orc. Worse, that metal plating seemed to be impervious to most conventional forms of damage. Couple those with its arsenal of invisible attacks, and he had a veritable nightmare on his hands.

And lest I forget. The Red Hand’s eyes narrowed as he turned to regard the Paragon of Earth, the dull ache in his left arm flaring to life. He had been right to be wary; whatever the ‘Willow Man’ was, it possessed a cunning that he would be foolish to underestimate again. Part of him wanted to deal with the issue immediately, but... Not yet. For the moment, the creature seemed more concerned with the meksuit than it did with him. Better to let it be until that changed.

The resumption of the music declared their reprieve to be at an end, the suit kicking up a second dust storm as it advanced on Teras. Yet the foreigner remained rooted in place, head moving side-to-side as though in disbelief. This is… Unlike the Paragon of Wind’s earlier efforts, there was a discernable melody to this particular piece. More than that, it was a piece that Cyril actually recognized.

This had been his mother’s favorite song.

*****

“Have you ever heard ‘In The Hall Of The Mountain King’, Cyril?” The young boy shook his head, his mother’s smile brightening as she gave the cushion beside her a light tap. “Then come over here and I’ll show you how it goes.”

One of Cyril’s eyebrows arched as he joined his mother on the couch, his violin in hand. “Is it a famous song, mama?”

“That depends on who you ask, zoloto.” She smirked and gestured toward the instrument. “It will sound especially good on your violin, if you don’t mind letting me borrow it.”

He twitched away from her hand, holding the fiddle tightly to his body. “Master Vitaliy said I shouldn’t give it to anyone who doesn’t know how to play.”

His mama covered her mouth with a hand, gasping in shock. “Why, Cyril, what makes you think that your mother doesn’t know how to play?”

The boy eyed her with suspicion, though he did lean just a little bit closer. “You do?”

“Just what my mama taught me.” The woman crossed a pair of her fingers, winking at her son. “But I promise to take very good care of it. So do you think you could make an exception, Cyril?”

Cyril’s face scrunched up, his eyes flicking between his mother and the instrument in his arms. Eventually he offered the violin to her, trying his best to sound stern as he told her to “Not mess it up!”

His mother giggled as she took hold of it, amusement dancing behind her sea-green eyes. “I won’t, I won’t!” She carefully set the instrument against her chin, ensuring that it wouldn’t slip before she lay a hand atop the strings. “So the tune goes something like… this.”

*Bom bom bom bom bom bom bom…* The boy watched, enraptured, as the woman plucked at the strings, her pace gradually speeding up until the short piece reached its sudden conclusion. “Wow, you really do know how to play, mama!”

“Of course she does, Cyril. Your mama can do anything.” The young violinist turned to find his father leaning on the doorframe, a teasing smile on his face. “Next time she’ll play you a full concerto, isn’t that right, Kveta?”

His mother barked out a laugh. “I think you overestimate me, Rados dear.” She was still smirking as she leaned over to return the violin. “But I’d love to hear the piece that you’ll create one day, zoloto.”

Cyril’s lips split into a big smile as threw his arms around the instrument, the smallest of giggles escaping from the child’s lips. “I’ll make you the best song you’ve ever heard, mama. I promise.”

*

Cyril took a seat beside his mother, violin pressed firmly against his chin as he forced himself to confront the vacant-eyed woman at his side.

“Mother, it’s me - Cyril. I’m here to play you a song.” He paused as though expecting a response, pushing onward once it was obvious that he wasn’t going to get one. “It’s your favorite. ‘In The Hall Of The Mountain King’.” Again, no response.

The young man sighed and brought his fingers to the strings, plucking first slowly, then more quickly as the song’s tempo accelerated. It was as he approached the crescendo that the most amazing thing happened: his mother started to hum. Softly, but he could definitely hear the sound of her voice beneath his playing. She was even in time!

A small smile came unbidden to Cyril’s lips, his fingers plucking that much more animatedly as the melody rushed towards its conclusion. The gesture died as he saw his father at the doorway, tears rolling down the man’s face as he watched the little spectacle play out. This wasn’t the first time they’d done this, and it hadn’t gotten any easier for either of them. It was worse for his papa though; he couldn’t even be an active part of the process.

After several more performances, the violinist stood and walked to the door, exchanging a pained glance with his father before he left the room behind. He would be back the next month to do the same thing: sit next to her, play the piece, and listen to her hum. It was all he could do for now. He… He needed to work harder back at the conservatory. Twice as hard, maybe three times. Otherwise he didn’t know how he’d be able to keep his promise. He wanted to more than anything else, but…

But he didn’t have much time.

*****

It didn’t take much time for things to change on the battlefield. In those scant seconds that Cyril had stood still, Teras had charged the mechanical monstrosity, forcing his way through the sand and grit so that he could engage the goblin directly. The ‘Willow Man’ was not far behind, a pair of wicked-looking swords in hand as it veered off towards the suit’s right side. As it had passed, the foreigner almost thought he heard the thing speak; if it had, its tongue was nothing that he knew, the sound a mix of several gently overlapping susurrations. That aside…

With the center and right taken, there was only one way left for him to go.

The Red Hand pushed his painful memories aside as he redoubled his grasp on his shashka, nodding to himself as he settled on his target. Alright, let’s start taking you apart. One moment he was motionless, the next the foreigner was dashing straight forward, slowly curving to the side as he approached the contraption’s left flank.

Once he was close enough, Cyril dropped into a slide and swung out wide with his sword, aiming to cut a nice line along the machine’s ankle. And hopefully leave a layer of rust behind as well.



TormentedDragon -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (8/26/2017 17:11:39)

With a sword the size of his body bound to skewer him, Ee-nuk did the only thing he could. He ducked. For the second time that fight, his helmet saved him from injury, sword’s edge scraping along its hardened shell. A step later, and the suit’s body met that of the Mantis, spinning the mercenary away with all the force a five-hundred pound self-propelling siege engine could muster.

It all went silent then, though he felt the quiver of strikes from behind. The breeze eddied around his ears, swirled at his eyes, and vanished. He grimaced. “Not good enough for you, eh?” he muttered, even as the chanters began their spiel. “Well-a-day, an’ I’ll not ask for what gobs’ll have to build ourselves. Got three who want my blood by now, though. Care to boost me away, at the least?”

The wind brushed down his arms and to the controls, blowing the switches that governed the vents free of carmine sand. With a nod, he flicked the main switch and two others, swinging the torso all the way ‘round and dialed the vents to max. The fans spun to an inaudible whine, pouring a veritable torrent of wind from the rear vents.

Impossibly, astoundingly, the suit rose, sand swirling about its form as it took to the air. Legs reorienting, Ee-nuk angled the vents, and ever so slowly the suit made its way for the ever-present Tornado of Wind and the gate behind it. A few taps on the music panel, and the rising bassoons cut, replaced by fiddle, lute, and drum.

“I want to believe in myself once again,” he sang, leaving the scrum of the sands behind.


There were gobs to greet him outside, and tuning to do on the suit once again. Sand to sweep away, a curious line of rust to polish out, a puncture in the armor cloth to patch; and, curiously, letters to read. Seemed spectators were here for more than schadenfreude. Let the Lords have their spat. Ee-nuk’d forge his own future.

Which mean making sure the suit was fit for the walk back home. “So next time you see me, don’t ask for my name,” he sang, peering at the wires in the open panel and checking for cuts, “for I am the King and sure long may I reign.”



Kellehendros -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (8/27/2017 23:40:41)

Ee-nuk’s eyes may have widened beneath his protective goggles at the sight of Teras slipping inside the suit’s arms, but if so the Basilli Phas could not make it out. The cretin was wily though, and responded about as well as could be expected when confronted with a sword heading straight for his considerably sized head. A swift duck edged Loudmouth just out of the main line of the thrust; the Iron Mantis’ blade scraped over the noisy Paragon’s helmet with a resonant scrang that vibrated up his forearm before the blade bit into cloth and cushioning. Not bad, all considered.

Of course, that did leave the fact that Ee-nuk was still alive, and still moving forward. The bounty hunter swore, pulling his right primary back and up and angling his shoulder into the oncoming metallic mass.

The impact was jarring, a full-body slam that drove his right-hand shield edge-on into his ribs. Something crunched, and pain flashed up his side in a wave of rolling heat. Teras cursed again, and only managed to keep hold of the blade in his right primary by virtue of the knuckle duster built into the hilt. The Iron Mantis twirled, bleeding off momentum as the metal monstrosity continued on. Beginning to think my doubts about the head-on approach were well founded.


Teras had his doubts as he approached the gates of the royal residence, the token of his passage clenched in his right primary hand. The thought of seeing Kunnia again was… Well he was not sure what it was, or what he felt. Nervousness, certainly, but it was threaded through with a strange anticipation. The golden glint of the coin he bore was part of it. Queen Telias was not stinting with her payment, but the Princess’ favor - and that unspoken promise of more - was music to the Iron Mantis’ ears. He was not quite comfortable in his own mind if that was the extent of it, that it was just a mercenary desire to fatten his purse. There was something else there too, something he could not quite name yet.

In any event, the aureate invitation and Kunnia’s name worked wonders on the closed gate and stoic guards. A messenger was dispatched, and before long the Basilli Phas was being escorted through palatial halls en route to the Princess’ wing.

A sprawling suite of rooms had been set aside for use by the royal heir, but Teras’ silent guide brought him to a parlor, indicated a chair, and left him there with nary a word. At loose ends, the sellsword took his time to make a slow tour of the airy leisure room. It was one that he would become very familiar with over the course of subsequent visits.

One wall was devoted to books and scrolls, an impressive miniature library whose contents seemed to deal with an eclectic mixture of subjects from blacksmithing to animal husbandry to observations of the movements of wandering stars, just to name a few. More of interest to the bounty hunter was a second wall hung with all manner of weapons: not just swords, axes, and bows, but more exotic offerings as well. The Iron Mantis recognized a kusarigama, as well as a sai, but there were a number of others he had never seen before. The third wall was devoted to an exactingly detailed map of the Daysmu holdings, while the fourth, which held the door by which the Basilli Phas had entered, was given over to a number of built-in cabinets of unknown contents.

Couches, divans, and chairs were scattered around a number of tables featuring various games, mainly devoted to strategy and tactics, though there were also a few games of chance. The mercenary had a feeling this was where Kunnia entertained, or perhaps handled private business. With nothing further on the walls to hold his interest, Teras inspected a chess set at one of the tables. Its pieces appeared to be carved of jade and carnelian, and he shook his head in bemusement at the ostentatious materials.

“Do you play?”

The Princess’ question startled the Basilli Phas. He fumbled the rook he was holding but recovered deftly, catching the piece with his right secondary and carefully replacing it in its original position. “My father taught me. Though our set was carved of wood.”

Kunnia flashed him a smile. “I have always found the juxtaposition… interesting. The common, rendered unique and beautiful by clothing it in fine materials.” She approached the table, staring down at the pieces. “And yet, as my mother has told me: gilding a blade makes it pretty, but it is the steel beneath that truly matters.”

“The Queen is wise.” The reply seemed foolish, dropping from Teras’ lips. It was obvious the Princess respected her mother, but he felt some reply was needed, and for some reason nothing more insightful sprang to mind. He drew a chair out for Kunnia at the chess table, swallowing at the grin she shot him as he eased the chair back in.

“She is. But she is also… cautious.” The Basilli For tracked the sellsword as he moved around the table and sat across from her nervously. “And because of that I need your help.”

The Iron Mantis gently placed the coin Kunnia had given him on the table, the Daysmu royal seal face up. “With all due respect, Princess, I am only a mercenary.”

With a smirk on her lips she advanced a pawn, then reached over and flipped the coin to reveal the crown symbol. “Only a Queen is allowed to mint coinage.”

Teras considered for a moment, then lifted a knight, placing it before his line of pawns. “But you are a Princess.”

“The war,” Kunnia replied, angling a bishop into the fray. “Else I would have departed by now to found my own Colony.” Smiling at the Basilli Phas’ look of confusion, she explained, “I am my mother’s heir, but with Benu’s grace she has many long years left of her life. I could stay, assist her in running the Colony, but there is too much ambition in my blood.”

“You want to be Queen now.” The mercenary leaped his knight centerward.

“Mother says the dangers of the invasion are such that an expedition will have to wait until the Flights are pushed back.” A pawn slid up in support.

Teras looked up from his contemplation of the game, meeting Kunnia’s gaze. “What is it you want from me?”

“I want you to play a game with me, Iron Mantis.” Her bold smile sent a shiver racing down his spine. “And if you find the game agreeable, I want your blades and service.”

“I signed a contract with Queen Telias.”

“So you did,” Kunnia replied, “to defend the Colony from Kotka invaders. And if you think that contract precludes you from listening to my offer… Then you may leave, on the condition that this meeting is kept private between us. I shall even thank you for your time. Otherwise, it is your move, Teras.”

What she was speaking of would violate his contract. If not in concrete terms, then at least in spirit. Whatever it was Kunnia might be planning, the Basilli Phas knew it would involve her leaving the safety of the Colony. His employer, the Princess’ mother - the Queen - would never allow it. And yet… it was not actually a violation of the contract.

His eyes dropped to the board, unable to hold the woman’s gaze with anything approaching equanimity as he tried to reason it out. Kunnia was right, and yet she was not. But… But when he came right down to it, he wanted this. There was something compelling about the Princess, something in her that spoke to him. Reaching out, he shifted his knight, taking the Basilli For’s bishop.

Setting the piece aside, the Iron Mantis twitched, looking up and blinking in surprise as Kunnia’s hand closed over his own. “Thank you, Teras. From the bottom of my heart.” Her smile was radiant, almost stunning, and she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “We’re going to do great things together.”


It wasn’t supposed to end like that… The past refused to stay silent, but there were presently pressing concerns. Like the fact that Ee-nuk would soon come about and-

And then there was silence.

Teras had been aware of the chanters, of their pronouncements concerning the slow culling of the Paragons. It had simply been background information for him though. The bounty hunter’s focus had been on the battle before him. But the sudden cessation of Loudmouth’s music emphasized the chorus.

Ee-nuk’s suit pivoted around, - Cast-iron stomach, that one. No idea how he handles spinning that much, that fast. - and there was no noise. Teras could well imagine the growing high-pitch scream though. Sand billowed into a choking cloud as the Iron Mantis witnessed a miracle. Slitting his eyes against wind-blown grit, the Basilli watched the hefty suit lift and fly across the roseate sand, throwing a curtain of particles into the air as it moved.

“The wonders never cease…” The sellsword grimaced, working his right primary arm through a careful circle and wincing. Definite bruising, to say nothing of the pain in his side from where his own shield had been crushed into his ribs. Somewhere, either in that veil of sand or beyond it, were Cyril and the Koira. Both represented unknown quantities: The former had tentatively allied with Teras against Ee-nuk, who was no longer a threat. The latter had taken a hand against Loudmouth, but that did not mean he had any particular affection for the Basilli Phas.

The Iron Mantis worked his shoulder again, holding his right secondary low and close to his torso as he adopted a defensive stance. “A Red Hand and a Koira, maybe both. One of these days you’re going to get smart, Teras.”

Apparently that day wasn’t today.



Rayen -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (8/28/2017 12:23:08)

Tired from her artful onslaught, Molly paused, awaiting an attack from the taller Paragon of Light. Within moments, she responded, the younger-looking…woman? Well she was bleeding, but blood and light welled equally from the gash in Irina’s neck, indicating perhaps some form of elemental heritage. Regardless, she did not appear to have been as exhausted by Molly’s attacks as the more elderly warrior had hoped, and now began a ferocious sequence of swings and stabs.

Whilst Molly had often preferred taller - or at least ‘larger’ - opponents, Irina was a particularly adept combatant, displaying obvious prowess with her one-handed sabre. Typically, a hulking hostile figure offered a much larger surface area to slice open with quick blades, or was easily outmatched in the game of speed and manoeuvrability. However, whilst Molly had been able to land a few superficial blows, Irina was now landing just as many, despite her opponent’s advantage of an extra blade. The Light Paragon’s expertise began to wear at the elderly woman, already tired from her own earlier sequence of attacks. Whilst the Lotus Dance had been a fitting homage to both her parents and her Lord, Molly was forced to admit that it had taken its toll on her strength, leaving her much more sluggish and in severe danger of making a costly mistake.

Heaving for breath, evading death was all Molly could do, and she seemed only barely to be managing that, gashes opening on her arms and side. Still, Irina seemed not to be resorting to magic, which seemed odd. Magic users seemed always so ready to flaunt their powers, even when simple tools would perform adequately, so her restraint must be tactical. Molly could respect that; patience was a difficult trait to embody in battle, but more often than not a patient warrior found victory against an opponent of equal skill. However, the admirability of patience extended only provided the bold were unable to prevent the patient from taking advantage of their planning…

Sure enough, the sailor’s opponent shifted tactics and took a step back, seeming to ready herself for the next strike. Suddenly, she lunged forwards, sword aiming for Molly’s chest whilst at once a radiant and dazzling flash emanated from her skin, blinding the elderly swordswoman. However, this had been anticipated, and Molly had made a point to memorise both her surroundings and her opponent in the event that her vision no longer remained as valuable an asset as it had throughout her life at sea.

Trusting her intuition, Molly closed her eyes and crouched low, simultaneously throwing both blades upwards, crossed point-down in front of her. Upon contact of the spines of her own unique weapons with Irina’s blade, the dual-wielder pulled sharply outwards, confining the longer piece of steel in the hooks of her blades. With all of her might, Molly smoothly thrust the trapped sword upwards, hoping to reposition its point above her left shoulder, rather than leaving her to be impaled through the breast like a pigeon over a fire.

Pain erupted in the left side of the old bird’s head and she grit her teeth to hold back a cry of pain. Her ear felt as if it was on fire, and warm, wet blood rapidly began trickling down the side of her neck. Part in shock, part in follow-through of her block, Molly swivelled on her leading foot, barging her right shoulder forwards and into the left of Irina’s now-undefended ribcage. The adrenaline surging through her veins, coupled with the redirected energy of her opponent’s lunge, allowed the elderly woman enough strength to just barely lift her lithe opponent off the sands and throw her a handful of feet to the side.

Concerned that opening her eyes would only serve to disorient her, Captain Halfcrow, her face sharp and serious as her namesake, settled into a defensive stance, blades rotating in slow arcs in front of her as she awaited her opponent’s next move. Through some fortuitous circumstances, or perhaps divine intervention, the unsightly sound that must have been the talent of the Wind Paragon had now ceased, allowing Molly to focus her ears - or now ear, singular - on the shift of sand beneath her opponent. Another contestant to lose the favour of their Lord, no doubt. The salt-encrusted sailor only hoped her performance was doing both herself, her Lord, and the onlooking Bassy proud, as battered and bloody as she presently felt.

Now adjusted to the pain coming from the side of her skull, her determination and conviction returned. The two hefty spears becoming uncomfortable across her back, Molly was reminded of the harpoon she’d dropped earlier, so began stepping cautiously backwards, sweeping her feet along the sand to feel for it. If she could reach her harpoon, it may be just enough to either chance a surprise attack against Irina, or grant her a more easily accessible means to keep her much taller opponent at bay.



Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (8/28/2017 20:51:38)

The cloth had parted almost too easily as the hook struck at the ankle. A lack of resistance most curious, but the illusion shattered not a heartbeat later as the meksuit’s actuated joints proved far more resilient. The clang was dull, but the vibrations that rode up the sword and through his arm were sharp and numbing. He dragged his sword free of the joint, tearing through yet more cloth as he freed his sword from the monstrosity of metal-clad mayhem. As a rule, the Devils saw no purpose to using a machine. They were ornery, noisy, and recalcitrant at the best of times, but moreso they took away the spirit of the thing; whether it be a task of pleasure or a task of survival.

This one had certainly proven the point, making the fight less interesting by seemingly having no weakness outside the driver inside the cockpit. Even the ponderous hide of a Hippo bled, at the very least, but the lack of vulnerabilities muted the thrills.

But a new veil of relative silence descended upon the cohort of competitors. The chanters spoke once more in their indecipherable language, but there was a Way to things here much as there was a Way to the Devil’s realm. Wind made it known by more than just words that the cantankerous and overly loud goblin and his machines no longer had the protection of Favor to remain in the fight. It was the breeze that clued him in - the way it ruffled his fur, defied normalcy by swirling around without a source, and rose up the suit to the rider ensconced within. In this place, it was an elementary bit of logic to follow.

Just as elementary, perhaps, was the goblin’s decision to turn tail and run. The turbines spooled up, the shrill screech rising higher and higher to new notes of pain. Wincing, the Jackal pulled aside just before Ee-nuk’s suit darted out and away from the trio, leaving behind a veritable geyser of sand and dust hanging in the air. The flight also dimmed out the noise, though the Jackal’s ears still rang from it while simple predatorial logic fired inside his head.

As the Willow Man, his diet had been mostly insects, small lizards, and the occasional snake or bird. Not a single species that had ever elevated to a Beast That Walks. Scarabs could be tasty, but the sweet meat of human flesh? That had been a meal denied to him for a very, very long time. Cyril was of Man, even if the aroma of Death clung to him in a most unnatural fashion. Swallowing a snarl given the residual pain in his ears, the Jackal leapt upwards into the sand cloud and then proceeded to do what many might consider the impossible.

To the Jackal, it was a thing as simple and distilled as breathing. He did not treat the grains of falling sand as airborne fragments and silicates being affected by gravity or physics. They were bits of Earth. They were no different than the slimmest vine, largest boulder, tallest tree, or floating leaf on the wind. It could be solid and resilient, immobile when it served its purpose, or it could bend, flex, twist and move. So, too, was the Jackal of the Earth. From blood to bone to flesh and fur. Earth within. Earth without.

His feet pushed against the airborne sands, pushed against Earth as Earth, and sprang off of it as if it were pristine solid ground. Neither magic nor mundane, the Truth set him free once more. Filled him with a simple elation that dispelled anger, cast aside frustrations borne from dealing with Ee-nuk, and cleansed the mind of extraneous details. The Devil of the Sands used the cloud for a brief aerial run, bounding over the void left by Ee-nuk’s passage. Flipped over the formerly convenient ally of Man against Machine, keeping him between the Devil and the Mantis as he descended. Swords carving through sand and air, hook and blade both hungry to chop into Cyril’s shoulders and cleave his arms from his body.



Kooroo -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (8/28/2017 23:48:42)

"She's losing. The pig's losing!"

The man looked up from the combat below and turned to his vexatious companion. "Pig?"

The girl glanced at him and smiled, a curtain of hair saving him from all of its unpleasantness. "One of my pet names for her. It suits, doesn't it? Looks, smell and sounds? Oink oink."

He considered her for a moment, raising his hand to his chin in thought. Then...

"So if you can't win a duel with a pig, what does that make you?" he asked, with nary a hint of a expression on his face.

The girl's expression immediately reversed itself. She growled, like a feral about to attack, and directed her full attention to the ongoing battles. The man shrugged and followed her example. Moments later, something in his coat buzzed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the source, studying it before slipping it back in.


Once again, the pink sands that blanketed the Arena floor saved Irina from suffering any serious injury. The Lieutenant hit the rouge-colored surface with her right arm and rolled, gritting her teeth as her injured wrist was irritated once more by the fall. Even more filth to clean off her uniform, should she somehow survive this. Wasting as little time as possible, she started to stand, propping herself up on an elbow before pushing off on to her knees and slowly getting up.

The old woman was slowly retreating, spinning her blades slowly as she back-stepped, prepared to ward off any attack that may come her way. Blood flowed from a wound from the side of her head, the products of Irina's attempted death blow. Amazingly, the aged warrior's eyes were still closed tight, forced shut from the flash before. Closed.

Irina had just tried and failed to kill a blind old lady. It was so ridiculous and pitiful, she almost laughed.

Seeing no immediate threat from the elderly windmill in front of her, Irina glanced around the arena. Only now did she realise how quiet the Arena had become, without those horrible noises filling the Arena. There was the sound of the cheering from the stands, and a new, whirring sound. Like wind across the open deck of an airship, high in the atmosphere. Why was it so quiet? Had the other fighters-
Oh.

The menace was flying. Born aloft by a column of pink earth, the battlesuit was soaring towards the side of the Arena, heading for the Pillar of Wind. It must've been a sight from where the spectators, with their higher elevation, because it certainly was an interesting sight from where Irina was standing.

As much as the she would have liked to stop and watch the flying spectacle, however, the Lightbringer had other problems to deal with. Irina continued her sweep of the Arena and saw nothing of concern. No surprise attack from a new combatant, causing another problem for the Lightbringer or her hardy, weathered foe. Sadly.

No imminent attack also meant that Irina still had to deal with the sailor by herself. She'd have to risk another attack, though this time she might not be as lucky as to escape unscathed. A mortal woman that looked ready for a burial was getting the better of her. Here she was, a proud Lightbringer, unwilling to fight a blind adversary out of uncertainty. Not out of consideration or anything noble, far from it. Hers were out of necessity for survival, not good intentions or manners. After all, if 'respect your elders' was a rule that mortals actually abided by, then hobbling up to each Paragon and asking if they'd let Irina kill them was actually a reasonable-sounding tactic.

Irina inhaled, counted to three, and let the breath out. She hadn't felt this unsure of herself in decades. And the last time she had been bested through pure skill had just under a century ago, on one of the most remote and barren worlds she had ever been on to this day.
Sure, while an outsider might view her current bout as being evenly matched; none of them were dead or dying yet. But Irina herself considered it a personal failure that an opponent handicapped by blindness, old age and possibly arthritis was matching her, even momentarily.

No. That wasn't true. There had been more recent day, another moment when she had felt such apprehension. A memory floated through her thoughts, an unpleasant reminder of the choice she had made.

"Give the order, Lieutenant. Call down the strike and end the misery of a misbegotten race. But if you do not, then you condemn yourself and those around you to a horrifying end."

The Lieutenant focused, cutting off the voice and the memories that threatened to flow through. Now wasn't the time for reminiscing on past failures. An opponent stood before her, expecting an attack. It would only be polite to deliver what was expected.
Irina raised her left arm, and took aim at the bladed turbine before her. A shot to the head might kill the crone outright if it connected, but that would also be the simplest to avoid. Center mass would be unlikely to kill, but it would at least give Irina a definitive upper hand if it connected. If I had a gun, then I could've just shot her.

Suddenly, a sand-dusted eye broke open before her. Darkness take it!
Another mistake. She'd taken too long. The opportunity for surprise lost, the Lightbringer fired. A bolt of light burst from her hand and rushed at her foe. Following in the bolt's wake, Irina raised her blade and started towards her opponent once again.


"General Auros? As requested, I'm here to notify you that it is now just past noon."

The blinding entity that was Auros closed the book it was holding and turned. With a wave of his gauntleted hand, the book rose and slotted into its place in the shelf. The shining giant strode towards the bowing adviser, his aura dancing on the walls and boots echoing throughout the chamber. The adviser straightened as Auros neared, having to look up to meet the general's fiery, blue gaze.

"Contact Fleet Command and set our course for Bren." Auros commanded, in an reverberating, metallic rasp.

The adviser bowed and turned, moving hastily to pass on the Herald's orders. Once the small man was gone, Auros raised a hand and there was a flash of light. A greatsword hilt, identical to the one he had given his recalcitrant Lieutenant, dropped into his outstretched grip. He stood there silently, a towering statue made of sunlight and bronze. It was only until the airship shifted that he moved again, chuckling sadistically as he waved the greatsword handle into non-existence.

The Lightbringer was still alive. Better yet, she was panicking- doubting her own skill and fighting ability. At this rate, it would not be much longer before the broken woman gave in and succumbed to his offer, as he knew she eventually would. Auros had never expected Irina to succeed or get as far as she had in the tournament, given that he had barely equipped her for the competition. A single blade and some clothes! Prisoners were better equipped when they were thrown to the Tundra Wastes. At least they were given some matches. And a hat.

The Elemental Championships brought some of the best warriors from across the realms, hoping to win the Elemental Lords' favor. Irina was a skilled and determined fighter, and most people would have hedged their bets with her under normal circumstances. There was no doubt that she was one of the better duelists that Auros had under his command, though a bit lacking in terms of initiative, efficiency and raw power. Despite her shortcomings, she had been one of his better subordinates; following orders unquestioningly, commanding undying loyalty from her those within her company and completing most assignments convincingly.

This had changed almost immediately after Karrés, with the Lieutenant starting to question and second-guess some of his orders. A little over a month later, the somewhat traumatized officer had handed in her resignation; no doubt questioning the ethics or honor behind annihilating an entire culture over a magical artifact. Auros had never understood the whole deal with morals and similarly inane concepts. There wasn't any time for such trivialities in a war.

Auros had been considering the best way to handle her new temperament when she had walked in and resigned. He had almost killed her on the spot at that moment. Very few soldiers tried to resign once enlisted, and even fewer ended up leaving the service of the Grand Army. Normally, the only way of 'retiring' or leaving the Army's service was through death- something stated explicitly and very clearly to a person when they first joined. If you served in the Grand Army, you served for life. No one under Auros' command had tried to resign in the last three centuries. Auros only allowed a soldier's resignation under very specific circumstances; when the individual had some purpose or use to him, but their whatever use they had in the Army was over.

The fallen Lightbringer would be no exception, Auros would make sure of that.

And so, the final chapter of the Lady's Chosen draws to its conclusion.



Ryu Viranesh -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (8/28/2017 23:56:47)

The now familiar strain of steel on steel filled the air once again as Cyril’s sword slid along the meksuit’s hard outer shell, a faint orange line etched into the surface of the plate. Then the man was past Wind’s Paragon, a wild grin on his face as the sands slowly arrested his slide. The momentary euphoria soon faded, and Cyril’s expression fell. It was a small success - the contraption could be harmed - but one that emphasized the enormity of the task that had been set before him. The latest in a long line, the foreigner thought grimly as he picked himself up off the ground, eyes snapping back to the suit.

One of Cyril's earliest struggles had been with composition. It was not that the concept was beyond him, nor that he had been afflicted with a dearth of ideas. No, it had simply been that... his execution was lackluster. Whenever he put notes to the page, there was something of the transcendent design that was missing. Of course, his instructors always noticed that something, always regarded him with that same simpering smile. A pat on the shoulder, a few empty words of encouragement, and a polite dismissal.

If there had been time, Cyril could have dealt with that. He could have accepted that composing wasn’t something which came naturally to him; that it might be years before he produced anything worthwhile. Time, however, had been in short supply. His mother’s disease had progressed far more quickly than anticipated; she’d lost almost her entire memory, save for the earliest days of her childhood. If Cyril wanted to fulfill his promise, to provide her with ‘the best song’ she’d ever heard, then he needed more immediate results. No matter how they were achieved.

Temno was right. The Red Hand remained silent as he watched the Boomersuit lift into the air, the winds themselves carrying the goblin and its cacophony to safety. He stood still as the ensuing dust cloud swallowed him whole. I am a hypocrite. What other choice did he have though? If Cyril failed to erase the suite, then… The foreigner clenched his free hand tightly into a fist, the glove’s fabric flush against his skin.

Then he’d have to live with the fact that he’d abandoned his parents.

He felt, more than saw, the shadow pass over him. The sudden absence of light was noticeable, even amidst the pall of airborne grit. The Willow Man..! This kind of acrobatic attack seemed to fit what he knew of the creature, little though that was. More importantly, the Red Hand understood the decision: now that the Earth Paragon’s original target was gone, it had chosen to go after the one it had already tricked once. Not this time.

Certain that the strike would come from behind, Cyril ducked his shoulders and dove forward, just in time to feel the Willow Man’s blades crash into the plates on his back. The strength behind the blows pitched him further forward, the sound of shearing fabric covering his gasp of pain as he hit the ground and rolled unsteadily to his feet. Conscious that he had little time to react, the Paragon of Darkness quickly brought his scarf to bear, interposing it between himself and the sharp-witted predator.

You can’t hide forever. Cyril knew that he needed to attack, to stop fighting defensively; he’d never win if he didn’t. And yet, the former musician could not convince his body to move.

Temno had been correct. Even if he won, what was the point? Cyril could use the boon to erase his suite, to cure his mother, even to bring her back to life. Yet he could not unmake the reasons that he was here. Win or lose, he would still be the vainglorious fool that had succumbed to temptation. He would still be the man that had turned his back on everyone and everything that he held dear. He… would still be the son that had left his mother to die.

There was not a wish in the world that could make that guilt just go away.



Kellehendros -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (8/30/2017 22:52:35)

Teras allowed himself a moment for a swift inventory. He still had all his weapons, but that was balanced against the currently limited visibility and a slowly throbbing ache in his side. Things could be better. But they also could have been worse. Ee-nuk could have knocked him over and stepped on him. Even sand-clouds have a silver linings. Besides, the pale red grit was pattering back to the ground, and without Loudmouth’s contraption to spur further uplifting gusts it would not be long before sightlines in the area cleared up.

And it was not as though the Basilli Phas had to rely on sight alone to locate his opponents. He could feel their presence tingling over his chitinous skin. In fact, one of them was on the move-

Up? The Koira had proven himself to be rather acrobatic already. While the bounty hunter supposed it might be Cyril, that seemed rather more of a “leap”, so to speak. If that was the sandy-furred Paragon tripping through the air, this would call for a slight adjustment of tactics. But Teras’ opening gambit was the same either way. Giving his right secondary arm a final testing flex, he started forward. Running to an opponent’s aid. You really didn’t learn anything from all those matches, did you?


Upon his first visit to the Princess’ parlor, Teras had not been a particularly adept chess player. Over the course of the next two months he got a lot of practice in, though not enough for him to consistently beat Kunnia. Chess was a game of tactics tempered by patience and foresight, and if the Iron Mantis knew anything about himself, it was that he had been lacking in both back in those days.

Perhaps that was why the Princess delayed. It had taken them only a week to lay out the general form of their plan, and a second to refine its details. But Kunnia had deferred rather than put that plan into motion. She insisted that it was a matter of timing, and when the moon turned they would make their move. The moon waned, and still the Basilli For stalled.

They had been forced to wait another month because of that, but it had been… enjoyable. Chess was Kunnia’s game of choice, but as the weeks spun out the two spent as much time simply talking as playing. Teras had fallen in love with her, or so he had thought at the time. Looking back, the Basilli Phas could not be so certain. The vivacity of her presence, the swiftness of her mind, and the force of her personality were a potent combination, but his time with her had been so short. Perhaps it was only the idea of her he had loved. Besides, it was hardly as though anything would have come of it. She would have been a Queen, and he never would have been more than a favored mercenary.

Would that have been enough? If everything had turned out differently, could he have been happy with that? Even now, the Iron Mantis was forced to admit to himself that he could not confidently say he would have been satisfied.

But the moon waned again, and Kunnia had been ready.

The mercenary had stockpiled supplies for the journey, then set out for the market where the Princess had first tracked him down. To this day he was uncertain how she had slipped the soldiers who normally accompanied her. It had seemed a good omen at the time. The two had been in high spirits, moving swiftly down back alleys and through less populated sections of the city along a carefully planned route to a lesser gate.

Where the plan had fallen apart.

There was a pair of soldiers guarding the gate where there should have been two of Teras’ fellow mercenaries. The Basilli Phas missed a step, tripping over his feet in surprise. Kunnia handled the shock better, moving forward with only the slightest hesitation and inclining her head regally to the duo. “How goes the watch?”

If either soldier was surprised to see the Queen’s heir here, without her accustomed escort, neither showed any outward sign of it. They merely clashed their right primary fists over their hearts and cut perfectly aligned simultaneous bows. It was the right-hand soldier who replied, “there is no sign of the enemy, Princess, but we remain vigilant.”

“I am glad to hear it, soldier.” She looked beyond the two, at the gate. In truth, it was little more than a sally port in the wall. “I was giving my companion a tour of the sights and thought he might find the outer wall carvings to be of interest.” There was not so much as a tremor in Kunnia’s voice to betray any nervousness or doubt. The Basilli noble sounded for all the world as though the matter was nothing more than a passing fancy.

The soldiers shared a silent glance before Left replied, ducking her head respectfully. “I am sorry, Princess, but the Queen’s orders forbid us from opening the gate.”

It was subtle, but Teras noticed the twitch of the antennae laying along Kunnia’s back, and the slightest tension in her shoulders as he moved up behind her. The expression on her face was serene, however, and she nodded to the soldiers. “Sensible, truly. But surely a moment or two would not be such a problem?”

Right shook her head, looking truly contrite, “we cannot disobey the Queen, even for you.”

“I… Of course, you are right.” Here the Princess hesitated, suffering some inner struggle. “It is only…

“Princess?”

“Forgive me, please.”

The Iron Mantis had been waiting for that signal, or another like it, and he stormed past Kunnia, blades scraping from their sheathes. A swift knuckle duster-enhanced jab to the ribs doubled Right over. Teras’ secondary hands clamped onto the soldier’s shoulders, pushing down as he savagely slammed the knee spike of his left greave into the Basilli For’s torso once, twice, three times, driving both blades into her back simultaneously.

Hurling the dying soldier aside, the sellsword rushed Left, twirling into a descending right-hand slash. His foe had fumbled her blade from its scabbard however, interposing it between herself and steely death at the last moment. The Basilli Phas whipped back left, his blade ringing off another clumsy parry and casting off crimson droplets. The blades in his primary hands were foiled, but the mailbreaker in his left secondary found its target. The steel spike slid up under Left’s guard to lodge in flesh.

Gasping in pain, the soldier stepped back, slanting her sword across her body defensively and trying to create distance between herself and her attacker. “P-Princess, why?”

She would never get the chance to find out the answer to her question. Teras dropped low and spun, twisting his wrist and dealing the oval pommel of the mailbreaker a vicious strike with the knuckle duster of his right primary blade. The crushing blow drove the metal spike in deep, tearing through the soldier’s lungs and into her heart.

The entire fight, if one could call it such, had taken less than ten seconds. Still, the mercenary was panting as he straightened up, heart hammering in his chest. His hands, all four, were shaking as he cleaned his blades, nearly cutting himself in the process. It was not as though he had not killed anyone before, but this…

“You… Teras, you…” Kunnia got no further before staggering away, dropping to her knees and bringing up the contents of her stomach in a heaving rush.

Kneeling, the Iron Mantis drew the mailbreaker from Left’s side, staring at the blood running thickly down the steel. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” the mercenary whispered. Cleaning the weapon automatically, the Basilli Phas moved slowly to the Princess. He touched her shoulder lightly, standing and waiting in silent support.

The retches subsided to a shuddering bout of dry heaving, and Kunnia mastered herself with an obvious effort of will. She wiped her mouth with the back of a secondary hand before slowly reaching across herself and gently settling her upper-left hand atop his on her shoulder. The Basilli For allowed herself no more than a moment to take the offered comfort before brushing his hand aside lightly and rising. The Princess faced him squarely. “Tell me why,” her voice was soft, carrying no accusation, only a quiet, aching sadness.

“I’m sorry, Kunnia, truly. But there were two of them. One… maybe I could have subdued one without killing her, but two… If they had recovered from their surprise, there was no way I could have beaten them.” He glanced at the bodies. “If… If you want to change your mind, I understand. It isn’t too late for you to turn back.”

“You have to go, either way.”

Teras looked at her, trying to swallow his heart at those words. “Yes. I can’t stay after this.”

A Princess looked down at the dead soldiers, chewing her lip, hesitating. A Queen looked up and met the sellsword’s gaze. “This… This was my choice. You did this at my word. When we return, I will make this right.”

The Basilli Phas nodded, unable to trust himself to give voice to a reply. He thrust the mailbreaker back into its place at his waist and rushed to the sally port. “This throws our timing off. We’ll have to run. Speed matters more than stealth now. We need to put as much distance as we can between us and the Colony before Queen Telias realizes what happened.”

Kunnia cast a long final look at the pair of corpses, perhaps committing them to memory. At last she nodded. “Then we run.”


It seemed to Teras that he had spent most of his life running, from things or after them. From the monastery. From the Colony. After some poor sod Lord Telan wanted captured, or worse. After Wiedii. After Cyril and his gang. The list went on. Chasing after one more Koira should not be too much of an issue. Besides, the Iron Mantis was surprised to realize that he felt a certain kinship for the Red Hand.

The two prickling points of awareness the Iron Mantis knew were Cyril and the Koira came together, and the Basilli Phas moved from a jog to a charge. He pushed through the roseate veil in time to see the Red Hand coming out of a somersault. The thief must have thrown himself forward to avoid a descending strike aimed at his back.

Teras raised his secondary arms, clearing his legs for the blow he planned to strike. Both sword-bearing arms flashed forward and out, whipping their blades through pretty arcs that might have menaced the Koira’s head if he had been standing fully upright. With the tawny Paragon somewhat hunched the slashes served more as glinting distractions. Closing in, the Iron Mantis pushed off hard on his left foot, leading with his right knee and aiming to drive the long spike into his foe’s side. “Afternoon,” the bounty hunter called out almost cheerfully, “they told me to pick on someone my own size. Loudmouth left, which makes you the next best option.”



Rayen -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (8/31/2017 12:15:41)

Making her methodical way backwards, Molly listened intently. As a creature who had largely depended on her eyesight throughout her life, relying on her mind to correctly interpret the world around her without visual cues was a discomfiting adjustment. The battle yonder had quietened significantly, leaving the sound of stirring sand at her feet, and her opponent, the Light Paragon’s attempts to compose herself for another attack - likely one of the magical blasts that had so profusely covered the old woman of the sea with silicious granules at the beginning of their engagement.

Concerned by the likelihood that, moving slowly and blindly as she was, Molly would make a simple target for her adversary, the half-eared Halfcrow cracked open a sandy eyelid to observe Irina’s movements. As she’d gathered from the dry whisper of sand falling to her front, Molly found the brightly glowing woman standing stalwartly in defiance of the more elderly contestant’s wish that she be snuffed out. With conviction, Irina’s left arm lifted, pointing directly at Molly as if in a strange greeting…or perhaps a farewell.

In the time it took to shut her eye against the imminent flare, Molly had positioned her swords defensively, moving her body behind them in an attempt to evade the flash of light that would come hurtling towards her in a moment. Her dual blades no more effective against the blast than a hand to an incoming wave, pain convulsed through the sailor’s left arm as she was flung through the air by the force of the magical projectile to land awkwardly on her back half a dozen feet away, swords thudding to the sand by her sides. The two harpoons tied behind her dug sharply into her spine as she twisted herself in an attempt to regain footing. However, the arm she extended to provide leverage encountered an object in the sand, thin and cool: Her pre-readied harpoon. Thank the Tide.

Using the deadly pole as a crutch, Molly unsteadily pushed herself to a crouch, right eye opening once again to communicate the resplendent form of Irina advancing in a steady stride towards her. Drawing in a shallow breath, sensing that a deeper one would result in agony from her newly acquired bruises, Molly raised the harpoon to her shoulder, and attempted to move her left hand down to anchor herself to the hilt of one of her dropped khopesh only to find her entire arm numb from the force of the blast. Nevertheless, muscles tensed in her throwing arm as Molly prepared to launch a retaliatory attack on the Light Paragon…but paused.

The light in the arena dimmed suddenly, as though a cloud had passed before the sun. Accompanying the change in ambience, the arena chanters droned once more: it seemed Irina’s opportunity to pulverise her aged rival was coming to an abrupt close. No doubt Molly failed to hide her disappointment, having come to respect her opponent’s unpredictable and adept techniques. "However bright the day, it must in time yield to the coming twilight. By the Will of the Arena, light's gentle glow…”

At this, the near-blinded old bat scoffed audibly. “There's not a thing gentle about you, lass.” However Irina appeared not to notice, having stopped dead in her tracks and begun staring dazedly into the distance. Without warning, she turned on her heel, making her way with measured strides to the gate through which she’d presumably entered the arena. Molly withdrew her attention from the former Paragon of Light to focus on herself.

Though only a few minutes had passed since being dumped dripping water into the Grand Arena, Molly had already lost a great deal of the wind behind her sails. Arm numb, half an ear down, and a great deal less cool than she’d been upon entry, Molly mumbled her discomfort, noting as she eyed the pillar of water spurting from the blood-caked arena sands, “I could use a nice cool cup of water. I wonder if it’s against the rules to drink from that overzealous fountain?”. After a moment of deliberation, however, she came to the conclusion that doing so would be “Probably just about as disrespectful as drowning one’s own guest.”

The sickening scent of her own blood spurred Molly into action, returning her harpoon to the sand to take up a blade with which to cut off the left sleeve of her tunic and a section of rope as padding and tether to stymie the blood trickling near-profusely from her lost ear. The old woman glanced down at her now-exposed arm. Not innately a modest woman, having been bold and brash as a youth, and an unsightly old hag today with no need to be - or so the younger sailors jested - Molly had, for a great portion of her life, worn very covering clothing. Though it kept her fellows from having indecent thoughts, wearing two layers of soft cotton over her arms often made for an uncomfortable time in wet weather, and left her smelling abysmal after gutting fish.

Her gaze followed down her ragged, deeply scarred arms towards her hands, now covered with her own blood. Frankly she’d been hoping to get her hands on the blood of Irina, but this was sure to suffice. In practiced motions Molly outlined her eyes, painting on the diagonal wave pattern that only she wore. Unbidden, a memory came flooding to her mind. One which tied her soul to the sea, and to the promises she’d broken upon its waters.


The dark haired First Mate danced across the deck of the ship in barely enough clothing to cover her chest and thighs. Teasing leers from her crew elicited a practiced response, “My body is a tool, lads, not a toy. Keep your eyes on your jobs or I’ll feed them to the fishes.” As usual, the entire crew laughed and returned to their posts, well aware that whilst her threat was made in jest, their ranking superior was more than capable of following through. The entire crew bar one, that was.

A new addition to their ship, the Adelita, Janus had been picked up in a port town seeking adventure. Harkening from a distant land, the olive-skinned young man was constantly spouting legends about mystical weapons and long-lost treasures in an attempt to finally sway Captain Sahib or his crew into setting sail for power and riches. Though his name was strange - shared by a foreign god of passageways and duality - it was easy to pronounce, so nobody gave it more thought.

Unbeknownst to all but he, Janus, ever enamoured by exotic treasures, had set his eye on Molly, as well as the quaint vessel under the command of Captain Sahib. From his perspective, a ship protected by a woman and a sore-jointed overweight man looked like easy pickings for a mutiny. Time passed and his goal remained unchanged, silently waiting for the right opportunity to take control, until eventually, finally, that time arrived.

According to a map in his possession, the ship was about to pass an island purported to hold secret a gem of great magical power - though nobody else seemed to care, too focused on their loyalty to Sahib and their tasks to pay heed. Sitting on a stool at the helm, the Adelita’s captain calmly charted their course to the next trade port as Janus passed behind the man, drawing dual blades and holding them to his throat.

“Throw down your weapons or the fat cripple’s head rolls!”, he shouted. In shock, the majority of the crew complied, though their fierce-eyed First Mate, from up in the Crow’s Nest, drew her scimitar and silently clambered down. Spotting her movement from the corner of his eye, Janus yelled tauntingly at her. “You say your body is a tool, girl. How about I show you how you should be used properly?”

Now ignoring Captain Sahib, Janus steadily ran at Molly, his blades singing through the air as she summersaulted the final distance from the mast to the deck. Her skill with one blade was greater than his with two, but the unique, hooked weapons were unfamiliar to her, opening wounds along her arms, ankles and sides. However, after a particularly skilled series of blows, Molly managed to disarm the young mutineer, and chased him as he ran back towards her captain.

Just as Janus’s hand latched around Sahib’s shoulder, Molly stabbed him through the back, leaving him to drop to the deck. However, to her horror Janus shared something bizarre with his namesake, the two-faced god: he could switch his position and appearance with anyone within physical contact. Molly looked down at her beloved captain, blood gurgling from his mouth, before her piercing glare returned to his killer. In a frenzy of rage, Molly tore Janus to pieces, his limbs falling to the deck like driftwood from nets, all the while the young man cackled to himself madly.

Justice done, Molly returned to her captain. Slowly gurgling to death, his crew crowding around him in despair, Sahib spluttered his Last Will, “To my killer: two-hundred lashes and my ship and crew”, before passing away. Killing one’s captain was a crime punishable by death, though two-hundred lashes may just do that by itself. Out of admiration and respect for her bravery, the crew avoided tearing open Molly’s back by spreading the lashes they gave across every available space - her arms, legs, front, back, sides - then dressed her wounds and cared for her as she recovered through blood loss, fever and infections.

After her recovery, Molly claimed her position as Captain, though her body, once her pride, was now hideously scarred in entirety.


As Molly drew on her paint, she remembered why she wore it: to remind herself, and her crew, that whilst her tears constantly flow for those lost at sea, she swore a vow as captain to her crew and to the Sea that her life will be devoted to their protection.

Straightening herself to her feet, the old sailor settled her gaze on the opposite side of the arena, plotting her next move. Favour remaining, she fully intended to do her Lord honour in this arena. And furthermore, she intended to honour her crew, to whom she’d broken her promise of protection, and for whom she also now decorated her face.



Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (8/31/2017 20:45:42)

Keen instincts married to his growing appetite had proven to be the wise course of action, as the Jackal dropped down upon Cyril. He had caught the man mostly unaware, thanks to the concealment of the sands and the airborne path they had allowed him to take. Steel crashed on steel, swords impacting upon armor rather than flesh as Cyril threw himself into a roll to avoid a fatal strike. Not a hint of the fresh sanguine scent of spilt blood in the air, dashing the Devil’s hopes for a quick and clean kill, but this prey was proving lively. The hook of his left sword had bounced, gouging into the armor and no doubt bruising the man beneath rather acutely, while the blade scraped its edge along and down. Discomforting in a different way, or so the Jackal thought, as his paws embraced the sands of the Arena floor once more.

While evidently prone to the impossible, no aspect of the Shifting Sands prevented the need for follow-through, nor could the Jackal ignore gravity. The landing was not soft, knees folded beneath him and muscles sang with strain to slow his travels and keep him upright, resulting in a combat crouch that served him just fine. He was, after all, one of the Beasts That Walk. Standing straight and tall wasn’t entirely comfortable or even preferred in combat.

His ears swiveled atop his head. They had been doing so near constantly, catching nonsensical tidbits from the chanters and keeping the sensitive insides clear of sand during his acrobatics. The Jackal’s eyes narrowed; there was the unmistakable crunch of sand close by. Heard rather than saw Teras emerge from the carnelian veil of settling debris. Left! It was the Mantid Man, charging forth with wicked blades and unkind intent. Not that the Jackal needed to know the nature of the attack, he could barely register sight of the warrior through his peripheral vision.

A thinking fighter might have regretted being denied the chance to follow up. The delicious opportunity to feint a high cut to disguise hooking the heel, breaking Cyril’s base. Sending him backwards upon the sand. Opening his defenses and rushing to end him with a swift bite to the throat.

Instead, the Jackal acted without thought. His left hand went slack, leaving that harpe to bury back into the sands where it might, if luck was with him, serve as an inconvenience. Muscles tensed and yanked along his lower back, pulling his shoulders to shift his center of gravity behind his paws. Legs pushed hard, and the Jackalwere cannoned backwards while pinwheeling his free hand. He grasped at the sand with the forepaw, and though it lacked the dexterity of a human hand, he clung to it as if it were the rocky outcropping on a cliffside edge. Pulled at it with that same desperate strength in order to change his angle of momentum. Slid along on his tail and hips as he struggled to turn it into a roll and face Teras from the ground in a three-pawed stance.

No one who had seen the aerial acrobatics of the moments before would have expected such ugliness in movement now, but it was effective. The Jackal cleared the path of Teras’ charge before the lethal spike of the knee strike could kindly introduce itself to his temple. Removed himself from being trampled afterwards. And perhaps also cost the Mantid Warrior a few moments more to readjust from his charge with the sacrifice of one harpe in order to free his left hand.

After all, Shifting Sands was a Universal Truth, not one only embraced by feet. Of course, it was also true that the Jackal was now angry at the interference. His hackles rose as the bristled fur of his bushy tail swished at vermillion sands. It was neither growl nor snarl nor howl that dripped from his mouth like audible venom, but some chimeric twist of all three as a thousand voices blended as one. Made, perhaps, all the more serious by the constant cunning expression that jackals were all reduced to with their jaws held shut.



Ryu Viranesh -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (8/31/2017 23:17:15)

As Teras burst forth from the veil, it struck Cyril how similar this all was to a theatre performance. The hero - a dashing, insectoid aberration - appearing just in the nick of time to save him from the advances of the dastardly ‘Willow Man.’ The rest of the plot practically wrote itself. I suppose that makes me the fool, then. The foreigner grimaced and turned away, the result of the Basilli’s brazen assault lost to his sight.

If only he had learned his lesson the first time. Cyril had been younger then, a victim of both his own vanity and the machinations of a certain preternatural shopkeeper. The idea of using magic to accomplish what he could not himself had been an attractive one, so it had not taken much convincing on the old man’s part. Still, he had been the one to sell Cyril the gloves, so he had to have known what would happen.

They worked exactly as advertised: Cyril was able to produce a piece which far outstripped anything he’d been able to create on his own. It was everything that he’d wanted. Then the guilt had started to set in, his feelings of inadequacy intermixing with a profound shame. Though the suite bore his name, Cyril knew that he would never be able to claim it as his own, not without that faint accusing whisper at the back of his mind. Is it? Is it really? And if he could not manage that with his peers, then how could he make the same claim to his own mother? Rather than face that particular ignominy, he ran.

Cyril had been running ever since, not that it seemed to help. His guilt had only grown the further he had fled, the gravity of his shame weighing down his soul, if not his body. It was only later that he became aware of the curse the gloves had laid upon him, the final price that was to be paid for his hubris. The former musician had journeyed to Bren out of a hope that the Boon might be able to do the same; that no matter the cost, it could at least relieve him of the pain. Help him to finally let go. That hope had been in vain.

In the end, Temno’s harshest words had also been the most true: everyone had to suffer the consequences of their actions.

What a farce. Was there anything left for him now? His father might take him in if he slunk back home, but he was sure the man would never forgive him. Most of his ‘friends’ probably wanted nothing to do with him; hardly a surprise considering he’d almost dropped a house on his last few. And Ayla… what about her?

“You can do it, Cyril!”

The foreigner started, his whole body going rigid. Though Cyril had heard it only once the previous night, the smooth, clear tones of the cellist’s voice stood out amid the crowd’s muted roar. Why is she…? Ayla had seemed so very against his ambitions - what had changed?

Now that the Wind Paragon’s raucous contraption was gone, the sound of other cheers started to filter in from the stands.

“Come on, go get ‘em, Cyril!” Julius, the bartender whose roof he’d damaged, and then repaired the previous spring.

“You’ve got this, Red Hand!” Mia, a weaver and mother in whose loft he’d spent many a cold night.

“Let ‘em have it, Cy!” Ethan, who had kept him company each evening as he practiced with his shashka.

It didn’t stop there, a veritable flood of encouragement pouring in from the people he’d met over the past year. People whom he thought he didn’t deserve to know; who he’d kept his past a secret from. People who trusted him anyway. A pair of tears trailed down the sides of Cyril’s face, carving a path through the grit caked atop his skin. They… think I can do it.

Even though he’d failed so many times, had done things that he himself found to be unforgivable, they had given him a chance. They were giving him a chance. A means not to redeem himself, but to start anew. To be someone other than the wretch that had almost consigned himself to death. Who by all rights should be dead by now.

The Red Hand clasped both of his hands into fists, the steel of his sword hilt digging into his palm. At last, he nodded to himself, turning his attention back to the melee before him. For them, then.

Cyril caught the end of the Willow Man’s grotesque-looking dive, the creature seeming to spasm to its ‘feet.’ Teras had overrun the Jackalwere’s prior position, his dash carrying him closer to the foreigner than the threat across the way. A new man, huh? Might as well start now.

“I believe in you, Cyril!”

With Ayla’s words at his back, the Paragon of Darkness strode forward, coming even with the Iron Mantis as the Jackal brayed its unnatural challenge. Cyril sent a brief glance Teras’ way.

“Seem to be having some trouble with that one, bounty hunter. Want a hand?”



Kellehendros -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (9/1/2017 18:58:38)

Teras lifted his knee, the spike projecting from his greave seeking flesh and blood. But success was not in the offing. The Koira must have caught a glimpse of the Basilli Phas’ charge from the corner of his gaze. Dropping the blade in his left paw, the tawny Paragon shifted and pitched himself backwards with the impressive strength of his lower legs.

The bounty hunter kept moving forward, angling slightly to skirt the blade Acrobat had left behind. An odd choice, but the Iron Mantis was more worried about his back than any unattended blades he was passing by. His secondary arms shifted, drawing a slight wince at the twinge racing along his ribs from the movement, tilting the shields back and close to his body.

Sand rutched beneath the Basilli’s feet as he turned, bleeding momentum and pivoting around to square up on his opponent again. He caught a momentary glimpse of another Paragon trudging across the sand, heading for the gates that pierced the outer wall. Foolish. If you wanted to escape death, certain or otherwise, you had best be running. Death was rarely slow to give chase.


They fled into the night, avoiding the sentries and patrols thanks in part to their combined knowledge of the relevant routes. But neither Kunnia’s knowledge of the sentry schedule, nor Teras’ first-hand experience in the field could serve them against the pair of wandering patrols who had no assigned course. That was almost their undoing.

The fugitives had made good time once they left the immediate vicinity of the Colony behind. A million stars winked down from the cloudless sky above, though there was no moon to be seen. Starlight had sufficed for travel over open ground, but that good fortune had turned once they reached the forests that sprawled over the foothills abutting the nearby mountains. Beneath the arboreal canopy the blackness was suffocating, Stygian. Perforce their progress had slowed.

Still, the Iron Mantis pushed them onward. Kunnia was tiring. They both knew she was not used to the rigors of such a journey, but in his mind a clock was ticking, counting down the seconds until the pursuit began. So the mercenary kept hectoring her along unrelentingly. The would-be Queen had ceased her attempts at jovial replies an hour or so before. Now she was entirely focused on controlling her breathing and placing each foot with care. Teras had never had the chance to tell her how proud he was of her for that. The Basilli Phas had set a punishing pace, and Kunnia had not so much as uttered an unkind word. It gave him a thin hope, despite his awareness of the minutes tocking by.

They had to stay ahead of the clock.

It was sheer dumb luck that one of the patrol’s horses whinnied. Perhaps the beast scented them, upwind of where its rider was picking carefully through the umbral weald. Teras nearly tackled Kunnia, crushing her up against a nearby tree and sealing a hand over her mouth. The aspiring Queen’s eyes were wide as she stared at the sellsword. He could feel the hammering of her heart under his hand.

“Anyone else hear that?” The voice emerged from the night, quiet, feminine. A soldier, like as not. Nearly all the mercenaries hired by Queen Telias had been male.

“Hush,” a second voice replied. Also female. That was bad news. One woman might have been a sellsword, two meant this was almost certainly a squadron of soldiers. Basilli For soldiers were not known for being lax. If one of them thought she had heard something, they would search every inch of the surrounding area until they were all satisfied there was nothing to find.

Teras eased his hand away from Kunnia’s mouth, pressing close enough that their terrified breaths mingled. His right primary squeezed her shoulder hard, and there was an answering pressure against the elbow of his lower left arm. They waited, trapped with their silent thoughts and the faint sounds of the forest around them.

“Kotka patrol?” A voice ventured. A third female, or the first again? The Iron Mantis was too preoccupied to distinguish the tones.

“Our side of no-woman’s land?” That was the second voice. It had a clear, carrying authority for all that it was pitched low.

“Spy?”

There was an eruption of noise from nearby. Teras held Kunnia tightly, clapping his hand over her mouth again to stifle her gasp of shock. Horses neighed, answered by a deep-chested bugling and further crashing as brush was trampled underfoot. Hooves pounded the forest loam, slowly fading into the distance.

Subdued laughter wafted up from the darkness. “Aye, a spy. Watch out, Typia, those talldeer are working with the Flights now.”

More laughter, though it was abruptly cut off when Second Voice spoke again. “Enough. We’re heading back. The general wanted us at the gate before dawn.”

Kunnia shifted in the mercenary’s arms, leaning against the Iron Mantis and hugging him hard as the muted sound of the patrol dwindled away. The Basilli For nestled her head against his neck, fighting to slow her breathing. “T-Teras…”

He shook his head. “Just a little further,” the sellsword whispered, “then we’ll rest.”

She lifted her head, peering at the Basilli Phas with glassy eyes. “Promise?”

“On Montal’s word, I promise.”

The would-be Queen smiled wanly, squeezing Teras’ shoulders. “Let’s go.”

They pushed on another pair of hours, as the Iron Mantis reckoned it. Dawn was lightening the horizon. The clock had surely ticked itself out by now, but both of them were near to stumbling with exhaustion. Their camp, such as it was, was little more than a particularly dense stand of young cypress trees. He hated to do it, but the Basilli Phas knelt by Kunnia and gave her a gentle shake. She had dropped into a doze almost before she was sitting down. “I’m sorry, Kunnia, but you can’t sleep yet.”

“W-why? Teras, please…”

“Stay with me, Princess. You can sleep in a minute.” Teras rubbed at his eyes, fighting the feeling that his head was packed full of sand.

“Told you… thousand times… Kunnia.”

“Of course, Kunnia.” He touched her face lightly. “You get some sleep. I’m going to take first watch. You understand?” Teras fought back a yawn. “We need to keep watch. They’re going to come looking for us.”

“I… yes.”

“I’ll wake you up in four hours. But you have to stay awake. If you fall asleep again they’ll catch us.”

“I-I understand, Teras.”

The mercenary hugged her swiftly. “Rest.” Rising, he shook himself vigorously, trying to wake himself up. Just four hours. No problem. Kunnia was already dozing again, or maybe just out like a candle in a windstorm. Teras smiled down at her for a moment and then shambled away, rubbing at his eyes.

He walked a weary circuit of the cypress grove. Once, twice, thrice... Nothing untoward rose up to assault him, and the weary sellsword sat heavily on a fallen log for a moment to rest his legs. A day. That was all they needed, according to Kunnia. Long enough to reach the site situated in the nearby pass. If they could get there…

Teras shifted to the ground, leaning back against the log and yawning. Kunnia was convinced that reaching the site would be enough, as if Benu would simply open the earth and reveal a ready and waiting Colony. They had to find something, some manner of… He could not remember. But there was something. If Kunnia could find it, they could bring it back to Queen Telias and… Closing his eyes, he smiled sleepily and imagined that sight. He could almost see Kunnia standing before her mother in the throne room…

The blow came in low and hard, a bruising kick that threw the Iron Mantis to the forest floor. “Where is the Princess?”

His eyes struggled open in groggy disorientation, pain flashing along his flank from the strike. “W-what?” The Basilli Phas was laying on his side in a circle of tall, crimson-patterned forms. Soldiers? That was not right. There was no way they could have found his and Kunnia’s trail so quickly.

“Where is she?” The lead Basilli For put a hand out, preventing the woman to her left from kicking Teras again.

“How did you…” He blinked stupidly. Something was wrong with the light. There was too much. It was filtering down in slanting rays through the canopy, bars of radiance dappling the loam.

“You fell asleep,” she replied bluntly. “Where is the Princess? I will not ask again.”

“We were-”

The lead soldier hunkered swiftly, leaning in menacingly as she interrupted Teras. “Listen very carefully, ‘Iron Mantis’. I do not care. For your reasons. For your excuses. Queen Telias instructed me to retrieve the Princess. She said nothing at all about you. Nothing. That means that what happens to you depends upon the next words that fall out of your mouth. Choose them with care.”

Staring up at the Basilli For, and - more importantly - the rest of the squadron around him, the mercenary swallowed. He had no idea what to say. Any explanation would be unacceptable. But no, there was one thing. Kunnia would never forgive him for it, but then again, telling a group of soldiers that he had kidnapped their Princess was not a plan for a long and happy life. “I took-”

The interruption this time was rather more… lethal. A crossbow bolt sprouted from the eye of the soldier just behind the crouching Basilli For, buzzing with a high and malignant whine. There was a moment of stunned silence as the dead woman reached abortively for the quarrel before finally realizing she had died. The soldier collapsed bonelessly, and the air was filled the hum of additional shots.

“Ambush!” the lead soldier bellowed. “Juosta, go!” A bolt hammered into her side, rocking her back as she rose to her full height and one of the soldiers pelted in the direction of the Colony. “Traitor,” the Basilli For captain growled in the sellsword’s direction, “honorless rat.”

“Forward! Lyth and Montal!” The Kotka broke cover, loosing their shrieking hawk-screams. Near a dozen, all told. Mounted lancers and crossbowmen snapping off shots. “Lyth and Montal, hakkaa paalle!”

Teras scrabbled to his feet as the soldiers wheeled to meet the Kotka, turning the forest into a chaotic swirl of combat. “Kunnia!” Stay there. Please, by all the gods, stay in the grove.

But the gods were laughing at him. The aspiring Queen stumbled out of the cypress grove, blinking in the light. No doubt the sharp sounds of combat had woken her. It was no easy thing to sleep through a battle. She said something, lost amid the clamorous steel din.

“Kunnia!” The Iron Mantis ripped his left-hand blade from its sheath and just managed to batter aside the questing point of a Kotka lance. He staggered as his attacker’s mount muscled him aside, desperately trying to make it through the battle to his Queen. “Kunnia, get down!”

She never heard the Basilli Phas. Her eyes were fixed on the rider.

The Kotka’s face was hidden beneath a helm fashioned in the likeness of a screaming falcon.

Not like this.

The lance shifted, angling gracefully away from the rider and homing on its target.

He was too far away.

Her eyes widened as the distance narrowed.

The rider’s form was perfect, his lance unwavering; he might have been riding at a quintain, rather than running down the hope of a generation.

No, no, not like this!

The soldiers were falling under a withering hail of bolts, ridden down as surprise and numbers took their toll.

How could he have left her alone?

Teras felt the lance as though he was the one struck. The point pierced the Queen’s chest, an impact so powerful it bent her body backwards and cast her to the ground in a graceless heap. “Kunnia!” He scrabbled towards the inert form.

The blow was high and glancing, most likely from a mace. The mercenary had never found out for certain. But lighting split his skull, sending the Basilli Phas to the ground hard. Stars burst across his vision and Teras gasped as hot and cold prickles raced over his skin. The world was peeling away, but the sellsword clung on grimly, dragging himself hand over hand on his belly.

He had been too far away.

Five yards, four, three… The tingles of electric sensation floated over his skin, and the Iron Mantis dimly realized one of them was ahead of him. Kunnia. He had the strangest sensation that it was the Queen. As if he was somehow feeling her at a distance. But the feeling was fading, growing weaker.

Two yards. You fell asleep. It was so far. The world was gray and quiet. Had night fallen again? Too far... But he could feel her, close now. A hand closed around the Basilli For’s leg and Teras whimpered. Please… I’m so sorry. “Kunnia…”

The prickle was fading. It was her he was feeling, her life draining away. Her eyes were searching, staring into the canopy blindly. For an instant she found him, and her face illuminated with a beatific smile. “Can you see it, Teras?” her voice was a thready whisper, eyelids fluttering. “The Gates…”

All he could see was her, and a yawning blackness consuming the world around him. “I’ll do better, Your Majesty. I swear I will.”

“Oh Teras,” she was so far away now, a guttering sensation on the crumbling edge of his consciousness. “You… call me Kunnia…”

He heard hooves, the heavy tread of boots dismounting, a creak of leather and the rustle of chainmail. “Take this one back with us. Lord Telan will have questions for him.”

And then the blackness rose up in a wave and carried Teras away.


Some things were easier to run away from than others, the Basilli Phas reflected as his gaze flicked back to his opponent. The sand about Acrobat told an interesting story, grooved by the passage of the tawny Paragon and suggesting a slide. Strange, given his earlier acrobatics, but Teras had swiftly realized this was no average Koira. He was built and colored differently as well, which made it hard for the mercenary to pick out which house this particular specimen belonged to.

The Koira crouched, a bubbling snarl rippling over the pale sands as he glared back at Teras. For his part, the bounty hunter took a moment to extricate his fingers from the knuckle duster of his right-hand sword, reversing his grasp on the weapon and laying it back along his primary forearm while maintaining eye contact with casual ease.

Cyril’s voice reached him, and the Basilli’s lips twitched into a smile. “Seems to me that you were the damsel in distress a moment ago, Red Hand.” It was funny how a joke could help to banish a black memory. “Still, I’m willing if you are.”

A slow flex of his right secondary drew another wince to Teras’ face. The expression was not purely theatrical: there was a twinging pain there. But he was mostly playing the ache up. For all their outward camaraderie, the mercenary did not fully trust Cyril. Either way, he was confident the charade would serve to draw the Koira’s notice. And when Acrobat came over, the Iron Mantis would find out if the Red Hand was good as his word or not.



Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (9/2/2017 19:48:45)

The pair, man and mantid, did not immediately press their advantage. Even with Teras overrunning the Jackal’s former position more thoroughly than he could have hoped, it was one of the more nonsensical decisions made thus far. A predator would have hounded him, kept him on reacting, hunted for an opening. A more seasoned pairbond would have harried to the flanks, kept the Jackal between them and constantly vulnerable. His ears flicked this way and that, catching commentary from the crowd alongside the chatter between themselves.

These two had spared precious moments to talk. The words were meaningless, but the spared breath and concentration spoke volumes all the same. They weren’t entirely cohesive, no matter their familiarity. They could perhaps be turned against each other, as their body language did not bespeak of relaxed trust. With the initiative of the moment lost, Teras had recollected himself as he responded. Cyril’s pose was less solid, less concentrated, less prepared for sudden dangers. The Mantid was the larger threat of the pair.

Cull the Weak.

That natural tactic, borne of base predation well before the rise of any sentient or complex thought existed, would suit the Devil of the Sands just fine. Teras was not the only one to switch to a backhand grip on his blade, but for the Jackal the motion was both more nimble for the lack of a knuckle guard, and more necessary. It allowed him to gingerly balance on the knuckles of that paw-like hand, resuming his natural low stance upon all fours. He gave himself a casual shake that rippled from his shoulders down to the tip of his tail, throwing free bits of grit and sand from the inelegant escape.

Then he was off, rear paws springing against sand to throw his body in a charge towards Teras. Initially. He dropped his left shoulder, and within the span of a single bound cut the momentum, sand pooling unnaturally as he changed the vector of his movement left and wide of the pair. Not running away, but taunting them with the freedom of his motion. Circling them just out of reach after goading them with a feinted pounce. Putting Cyril between himself and the Mantid Warrior after, one could but hope, rendering Teras flat-footed.

But movement alone would not win the fight, and the Jackal was no coward to close. Again his forepaws dug into the sand, arresting momentum as he swung his hind legs around. Planting them for a pounce while shuffling the sword from one hand to the other in the grit. Throwing himself forward and snapping his left arm out straight, letting the glinting edge of his blade seek blood and death. A full body thrust on a low line of attack, blade hooking up with just a bare flick of the wrist on the approach, set to spill guts and split the man from the ribs down.

And should Cyril jump up? Not even the most stoic soul in the stands wanted to consider how much damage the hook might cause between the legs if the jaunty bard failed to clear the blade entirely...



Ryu Viranesh -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (9/4/2017 20:56:34)

“And here I thought I was giving you an opening,” Cyril shook his head, the grin on his face belying the sigh that followed. “Since you’ve loused that up, I suppose I’ll have to pick up the slack.” You’re trying too hard. The foreigner’s smile dimmed, though did not disappear as his eyes drifted back to the ‘Willow Man.’ The burden that had weighed him down for so long was not gone, but it seemed strangely distant now. Enough that the idea of joking around no longer felt so taboo. In fact, it was almost liberating. Maybe he was trying too hard, but at least he was trying.

After this is over, maybe… Cyril blinked, smile at last morphing into a frown. After this is over, what? He’d never really given much thought to what would come after the Championships. Part of him hadn’t expected to survive, and the other part hadn’t particularly cared what came next. Now though… what did he want to come next?

The Red Hand’s musings were interrupted by a blur of motion as the Jackalwere launched itself into a dive that seemed destined to collide with Teras. Seemed, anyway. Cyril was midway through bringing his blade to bear when the creature’s momentum suddenly shifted, its course veering sharply to his right. Quick on its feet. His eyes narrowed as he followed the Jackal’s loping path, turning to keep it in sight as it circled them.

For all that he’d scrutinized the ‘Willow Man’, Cyril had yet to truly take a good look at the beast. It was only now that he noticed the varying browns that comprised its fur; there was an elegance to it, similar to that of a well-crafted violin - something made for a purpose and made well. What the Jackal’s purpose was, he couldn’t say. That secret was hidden behind its impassive expression, closely guarded by the cunning within its amber eyes. There was something unmistakably primeval in its movements, and yet they were also careful, deliberate. If Cyril was going to go toe-to-paw with this creature, then he would need to be both swift and decisive. Provide it no chance to react in kind.

There was little time to digest that fact before the Jackalwere made its next move, swinging its hind legs about as it twisted to face him. Then the ‘Willow Man’ surged forward, the point of its unusual weapon thrust at his stomach with a brutal efficiency. Though there were a thousand possible answers that flashed through his head, the Paragon of Darkness had learned to trust his instincts. So Cyril let his body twist to the side, bracing for impact as the sword whistled towards yet another of his strategically-placed metal plates.

The thrust glanced off his makeshift torso armor, a mixture of force and shock sending his left foot sliding back. Don’t waste this. The Red Hand lowered his body, his newly repositioned limb pivoting so that it faced the Jackal. There was no time for deep breaths; no time to yell explanations to his ally. If he wanted to take advantage of this moment, then he needed to act now. The rest is on you, Teras.

Cyril charged, back leg springing forward as he rushed in to close with the ‘Willow Man.’ Though the creature was doubtlessly still recovering from its own failed assault, he held his shashka at the ready, prepared to deal with any bladework that might follow. His weapon of choice, however, had already been decided. The foreigner brought his scarf around for what appeared to be a swipe at the Jackal’s right foreleg, the limb the nearest available target for his sash. Then, mid-swing, he let the tassel go, the garment fluttering faintly in the breeze as he started to rise. With my own two hands. Temno’s visage flickered briefly past Cyril’s eyes as he drove his palm towards the side of the Jackalwere’s snout. It’s time to stop running away.



Kellehendros -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (9/4/2017 23:55:02)

He had promised her that he would do better.

That was it, long and short.

Teras still wondered if Kunnia would have understood the reasons for what he had done. The Iron Mantis was under no illusions regarding the question of whether or not she would approve. His reasons had been selfish, and the Basilli Phas had never made excuses for that.

A week into his captivity, the sellsword had awoken to find a Kotka Bu sitting next to his bed. Teras twitched in equal parts surprise and discomfort as the now familiar tingling feeling of sentient presence raced over his skin. The movement produced no more than a faint metallic chiming. Manacles of leather-padded steel and short chains bound him to the bed; he was too weak to do more than rattle the bindings, and that only with effort. Unable to free himself, and unable to make the man leave, the mercenary settled for returning the Kotka’s stare with silent apathy.

He was older, that much was apparent by the thinning of the russet plumage around his temples. But his amber gaze was still sharp, scrutinizing Teras closely. “My men inform me that you were involved in an altercation with the Basilli For,” his voice was light, carefully controlled, and the Iron Mantis pegged him for a general or high-ranking commander. It was a matter of tone and word choice; this man was used to being obeyed. “They further tell me that you have refused to speak to anyone, and have returned your meals untouched.” The Kotka Bu paused for a moment as though waiting for a response from his prisoner. Gauging that Teras had no interest in responding, he forged on. “You were, of course, aware that she was a Princess.”

He surged against the chains, rattling the bed as the bonds brought him up short. The Basilli Phas glared at his interrogator before subsiding back to the mattress sullenly.

“So you were,” the Kotka mused. “I thought it odd she was so far from the Colony.” He smiled thinly. “She was born before the war broke out. The Flights sent me to lead the delegation to congratulate Queen Telias. It afforded an excellent opportunity to scout the Colony firsthand.” The man paused again, reminiscing or trying to bait Teras into speaking. Unanswered, he continued, “as I recall, the Princess had a rather remarkable birthmark.”

“Queen,” the sellsword was surprised by the sound of his own voice, rasping through his lips with more strength than he had thought was left in him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Queen,” Teras amplified, “not Princess. She was a Queen.”

“Was she now?” There was a faint rustling of feathers as the Kotka Bu’s wings fanned open and then closed. He leaned forward in his seat, gaze sharp and piercing. “So that was the way of it?”

The Basilli Phas dropped his eyes, looking away and returning to the comforting shelter of silence.

“I see…” The Kotka stood, folding his arms across his chest, “Telias never would have let her daughter leave the Colony during the war.” His eyes narrowed as he considered Teras, “the soldiers were chasing you, but there was no evidence the Princess was there against her will.”

“She. Was. A. Queen,” the Iron Mantis hissed, turning his furious eyes back to the winged man.

“A Queen without a Colony,” he responded evenly. “Were you taking her to scout a site?”

“You know an awful lot about Basilli for a Kotka,” the mercenary replied evasively.

“I should. I am Teket of House Telan, Lord of the Kotka Bu. Queen Telias and I have been… adversaries for a long time.”

Teras had nothing to say in reply to that.

“She set her soldiers on you. That’s how my men found you, by tracking them.” Telan seemed unphased by the lack of reaction from the Basilli Phas before him, “you should not send a hammer to do a scalpel’s job.”

“Tell Telias that,” the Iron Mantis croaked, surprising himself with the venom in his tone.

“I intend to,” that got Teras’ attention, and the Kotka Bu smiled, “and I could use your assistance.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I am a powerful man, Basilli, but my Kotka are not the correct tool for every mission. Sometimes it is easier for one man to accomplish a goal than many. It is my intention to destroy the Daysmu Colony, but I will not lie to you and say it will be quick or easy.”

“I’m sure you’re a humble man too,” Teras replied. He was surprised to realize that he almost felt like himself again. The pain was still there, a quiet aching pit in his chest; he had not eaten in a week, but the idea of vengeance was as good as food itself. “What makes you think I don’t blame you for this? Your man killed her.”

Telan’s expression was wintery, but his tone was light. “If Telias had let her daughter leave, my men never would have found you. Tragedies happen, but those responsible for it are those who hounded you, who would have dragged you both back before the Queen.” He approached the bed, though he remained at arm’s length. “They would have executed you. No doubt they thought you kidnapped their Princess; perhaps they already thought you were working for me. Just another piece of mercenary scum.”

“I did not kidnap her!”

“I know,” the Kotka Bu nodded sympathetically. “I know, but these are Basilli For we are talking about. Do you really expect Telias to understand, now that her daughter is dead? She would no more listen to you than me.”

“Kunnia… She only wanted….”

“To do the right thing,” Telan supplied smoothly. “And it went wrong because of her mother’s weakness. I am offering you an opportunity to right that wrong.” He folded his wings at his back and lightly touched Teras’ shoulder. “I can give you some time to think upon the matter, if you would like.”

“No,” the mercenary looked up at the lord, his voice steady, “no, I have made my decision.”

“And?”

“Bring me a contract, and something to eat. We have work to do.”


Let’s go to work, friend. Acrobat took the bait, going low and charging across the sand. Teras almost grinned, opening his secondary arms slightly as if inviting the tawny Paragon in.

And then the Koira surprised him. Again.

Foolish. The thought was directed at himself, rather than Acrobat. The Iron Mantis had already seen just how strangely mobile his opponent was. This was another underestimation of that agility, the only upside of which was that the Koira seemed intent on taking the fight to Cyril rather than Teras himself.

The Red Hand had not taken the bait either. Perhaps he had not noticed the Basilli Phas’ charade, or maybe there was some honor to be found among thieves after all. That thought almost brought a chuckle from the bounty hunter. In the minds of most, when thieves and mercenaries could be said to have honor, something was seriously wrong. But whether or not Cyril had seen the opening or missed its presence entirely, the lack of an assault from the Red Hand meant that the sellsword would continue their wary truce. And that meant not allowing the Koira to gut the Iron Mantis’ former mark like a fresh trout destined for the market.

Teras stepped backward with his right foot as Acrobat began his charge. The Basilli might have simply pushed Cyril aside and out of the line of the strike, but the man seemed intent on receiving the attack, and it would be a shame to waste such an opportunity. Pivoting left on his planted leg created more space between himself and the Red Hand, which Teras used as he turned and then leaped. The Iron Mantis pulled his arms up as he went into a spin and then angled down into the strike.

His right primary hand twisted as he began to descend. Cyril was swinging at Acrobat, a bare hand strike at the Koira’s snout. Best not let him touch you, friend. I’ve seen what that can do. But Teras’ own blade was coming down, with the Basilli Phas not far behind, a heavy blow aimed to shear into his opponent’s left flank. The Iron Mantis’ left secondary shifted, angling his shield up and across his torso, ready for a low riposte if Acrobat managed to disengage from the Red Hand swiftly.

One way or another, it would be over soon.



Kooroo -> RE: =EC 2017= Grand Arena (7/14/2019 22:21:22)

As Irina marched towards her downed opponent, a sudden blackness grasped at the edges of her vision. A heavy weight sank into the pit of her stomach, the Lightbringer's arms and legs slowing to a stop as an invisible weight took hold of her limbs, growing to be so unbearable that she nearly dropped to her knees. She slowed to a stop as the brilliance of the Pillar dimmed, as her despair grew, and the chants broke the silence.
So be it.

The sounds of the fighting and the crowd drowned itself out until it was almost muted, as the Lightbringer stared upwards, gazing at the stands. Her foe… former foe said something, but Irina didn’t hear her. She was looking up, straight at the stands, at the smiling, black-haired girl. The girl grinned and winked. Then stood up and walked away with the the grey haired man in tow.

Irina stood still for a moment, staring at where they had been. Then she turned and walked, all the way back to the Light Paragon’s entrance.

“That’s my cue. Be right back, sir.”

The Pillar of Light dimmed, and the girl immediately reached back to grip the top of her chair. Her minder turned to her, and asked her warily. “Lieutenant Vallant? What are you doing?”

She chuckled slightly. “Nothing for you to worry about. Just getting a quick bite to eat.”

He glared, and she shot him a smug grin as she stood.

“Tabitha, don’t. Do not-”

The grin turned into a toothy smile, and Tabitha hauled herself up, on top of her seat. The chair groaned, and bent as she did, buckling slightly under her weight. There was a bright flash of purple, and a loud crack. The man shielded his eyes, and when he opened them, the girl was gone.

He cursed, standing up, and pushed his way to the end of the row. The audience members around him grumbled and cursed at him in foreign tongues, displeased by both the interrupting light display, and now this unsolicited behaviour. He ignored them all, and continued until he had reached the end of the row.

The man ran up the stairs, towards the nearest exits. He pulled out his phone as he did so, and hurriedly called someone on his speed dial.

Irina ran.

The defeated Lieutenant sprinted down the now empty main street; its inhabitants busy watching the Championship in the Grand Arena. Her boots pounded on the cobblestone, beating a solid rhythm that was matched by her heartbeat.

After leaving the Arena, Irina had walked slowly towards the city’s gates, contemplating what was in store for her. Knowing Auros, it would be painful and humiliating, especially if he chose to make an example of her to his soldiers.

She had been walking for a scant few minutes when a chill had run down her spine. It was a familiar feeling; the sensation of being stalked, of being hunted. A strange malevolent feeling that she had felt only a couple of times on the battlefield, and once aside from that; when she had walked down among Bren’s citizens to compete in the Championships.

Before, the feeling had been faint. Whether that was because of some distractions such as the noise, smell or general hustle and bustle of the crowds, she didn’t know. Now that there was no one else around, nor was there any other living being in sight, the full weight of that malice was crashing down upon her.

It wasn’t very hard to determine what the source of that malice was, nor what it forbode. Why was a slightly more relevant question, though Irina had a good feeling as to why. How was an actual question, though in truth, the questions that began with how and why didn’t have a bearing on how she was going to get away from it.

More steps away from the Arena, and the feeling of being hunted grew. Irina shivered, but kept the unfeeling blank expression up on her face as she continued walking and desperately trying to think of a way out. Moments later, however, she had noticed that while her mind had been in a state of panicked thought, her body had already started doing what her instincts told her to do.

Damn it!

And so Irina ran.

Already tired from her duel with the Water Paragon, the Lightbringer Lieutenant continued to run until her lungs burned and her legs ached. She ran until down the streets of Bren, until the city gates appeared in the distance. It was, in a sense, a sort of salvation. While Auros awaited on the other side of those gates, she now realised that whatever was about to come for her—that thing—would be a far worse fate. Only now, with it bearing down on her, did she truly realise it. She had to get out. She had to get out of the city. .

“Hail, Lightbringer.”

What now?, she thought.

There was a cloaked figure leaning against the gate; a hooded person in shimmering, sapphire cloak. Judging from the sounds of it, a male. He raised his hand in greeting, as Irina skidded to a halt, blade warily at the ready. She nodded, in acknowledgement of his presence.

The man pulled off the hood, revealing pitch-black eyes with glowing blue irises. Irina almost snorted. His cloak matched them perfectly. Taking ‘bringing out the color of your eyes’ to a whole new level, I see…

The man had some other peculiar features about him. His skin was as pale as ivory, smooth and flawless. Similarly blue armor seemed visible from the edge of the cloak’s collar. A strange, alien energy seemed to radiate from him; a Light, but a different Light to what she was used to.

He raised his other hand, empty palms facing outward; a relenting, peaceful gesture. “I mean you no harm,” he said, his voice unnaturally melodious.”I come with an offer, Lieutenant. An offe-“

“I’m not interested,” Irina growled, irritated. An ‘offer’ was the cause of this entire mess. There was no way in hell that she was going to take another one from a stranger that she had no knowledge about, nor one that radiated a different Light.

“Irina, please,” The man started, but Irina had turned her attention elsewhere. He continued talking, but his voice seemed muted in compared to the strange whispering that had filled the street. The Lightbringer instantly knew what it meant, but it seemed that the stranger was either unaware or couldn’t hear it.

Another chill ran down her spine. She had to go. Now.

“Get out of my way,” Irina said, her voice soft. She held her blade up, a look of determination in her face.

The man stopped his speech and sighed. “There’s no need for that, Irina. Like I said before, I mean you no harm.”

“Don’t worry, I do,” said a voice.

The next few seconds happened rapidly, yet Irina remembered every detail. One moment, the man was still standing, a frown beginning to form on his face. And then a shadow streaked down from above, landing on top of his head and obliterating it. The ivory man exploded into prisms of light, the crystalline fractals scattering across the newly broken flagstones. Irina darted backwards in shock, her heart beating rapidly.

As his sapphire cloak faded into the air, the figure that had landed on the stranger stood up from her crouch, a brilliant smile on her all-to-perfect face. “Hello there!” Tabitha said, beaming.

Lieutenant von Ra gritted her teeth, and charged, sprinting directly at her assailant. The girl frowned, thinking that maybe her target had gone mad. At the last moment, Irina twisted to the side and jumped, lashing out with her leg. The foot that she kicked out with was flat, however, in an attempt to springboard off of the girl.

To the Paragon’s credit, the tactic almost worked. But almost was never good enough. Grinning once more, Tabitha stuck out a hand and grabbed Irina’s ankle. She turned on her heel and pivoted, hurling the Lightbringer into the wall with enough force to crack it and pulverise her bones.

Chuckling, Tabitha dropped her to the road. “Nice try, but still a way to go. I’ve got to say, you may not be very successful, but at least you’re consistent” she remarked cheerily.

No response. Feh. Throw someone into a wall and they start sulking.

Lieutenant Vallant frowned. Something was amiss from the Lightbringer’s weak, barely moving body. She counted the limbs, and noted the breathing. It was faint, but it was there. What was she forgetting…?

Right, the sword. Auros’ sword.

She looked around and spotted it, just outside the city gates. That could be bad, if Auros detected where it was. Couldn’t let that happen, no sirree.

Tabitha walked forward to retrieve it, only to feel something in her heel. “Never say die,” she laughed, and looked down, expecting to see the Lightbringer’s hand. What she saw instead was a pale, white-skinned hand, reaching from the pavement. Prisms and crystals of light gathered, and another hand reached up to grab her other foot.

“What the hell is this?” she snarled, agitated by this development. As she said that, Auros’ greatsword glowed, just once.

Ah, hell.

The light from the sword dimmed briefly, and then grew again, until nothing but it’s radiance remained. There was a brilliant flash, and then nothing from the encounter remained. The sword, the girl and the Paragon were gone. Besides the cracks in the wall and the road, there had been no evidence that anyone had ever been there.

Irina woke with a start, and immediately started coughing uncontrollably. It wasn’t the best way to wake up, but it was better than not waking up at all. She tried to sit up, and found she couldn’t, her body still sore from an all-to-recent mending.

The last thing she could remember was being thrown into a wall and immediately blacking out. But she wasn’t in Bren right now, that was all too apparent. Her stalker and attacker, Lieutenant Vallant, was sitting in a chair across the room, not looking especially pleased. On the floor, next to a brilliant, golden desk, was the ivory man, bound and gagged by magical bonds. The entire chamber was bright, far too bright to be natural, and all of the furnishings seemed to be made from gold.

Oh.
Something moved from behind her, something big that made the ground tremble slightly. A massive, golden set of armored boots came to rest beside her, and she didn’t dare to look up.

“Welcome back, Irina.”



Page: <<   < prev  1 [2]

Valid CSS!




Forum Software © ASPPlayground.NET Advanced Edition
0.3129883