RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (Full Version)

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TormentedDragon -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (7/26/2018 22:42:09)

Shell meets flesh, a riot of writhing lines written across the darkling’s skin, emanating from the point of contact even as its path reverses. Their right arm sweeps across, gloved hand grasping at the shell’s edge. They slide their left along the strings, playing across the bundles to the next lines of governance. A twist, a flick, and bones fly from the robes, bleached claws sliding into shell sockets even as they stand and step, once more to the rear, to stand in shadow.

Wires weave and knit, bone following after bone, claws to fingers to hand to arm, a clattering cacophony of calcic convergence. The robes rustle as wires work, a parting at the chest revealing a toothed grin. Scales flicker as the skull emerges, sliding up the sinuous spine to which the rigid ribs attach. The ghosts of eyes, red and raging, stare out from serpent’s sockets.

“Two more?” she wheezes, and green eyes narrow in response. Behind the darkling stood, or slid, a wispy figure, barely more than a dizzy blur of sunlight all but subsumed by swirling snowy mist. Beyond, a marching marshal, a crisply clear hat in hues of hawthorn above a steel face. On cue, the marshal moved, oaken hands pulling on copper handles, and a burnished spout spewed a luminescent stream of shimmering cerulean. A twitch of the hand, and up comes the shell, but the stream is not for them.

The wisp slides away, a scattering of radiance bursting from its head as the stream makes contact; the darkling, teetering on treacherous feet, pulls its silver back, crackling and acrid, to meet the stream. They frown, and scales hiss, one and two steps forward in a perfect unison. Their right arm rises, and Sirellon’s follows, fleshless limbs and claw-bound fingers readying the serpent’s sword. “We rise,” she warns, as they close upon the darkling, “that death may fall. Flee, capricious child.”



roseleaf320 -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (7/27/2018 0:00:54)

Something was very cold, and it was getting closer. Was it a trick of the arena? There was definitely a patch of cold in Bei’s vision, but she was still focused on the fight in front of her, she couldn’t tell what it was, it probably didn’t-

Splat.

Within mere seconds she was sitting on the ground, dazed and shivering violently, her left leg splayed out to the side of her. A bystander could tell you it had given way after she’d stumbled and landed on something slippery, but it had happened so fast that Bei hadn’t processed the movement. The puppy-like yelp she’d made on impact hadn’t registered.She was just on the ground.

Her vision had clouded, every nerve in her body focused on the liquid that now covered her. It was freezing. Bei’s body shook as she saw her heat quickly dispersing into the liquid as it oozed downward, dripping onto the ground. She’d lose it all if she wasn’t quick. She could ask later who had done it, what had happened, what it even was. These never crossed her mind as she pulled heat almost violently towards her to eliminate the cold that was sapping her own strength and vision.

She slipped several times on her way to a standing position. The cold was lessened, but so was her own heat, her body still shivering. The two men were still in combat, seemingly unfazed, but…

Him.

Bei lost all interest in what the metal and puppet masters were doing. The spoon man from the start of the competition stood towards the edge of the arena, in the same direction the liquid came from.

Luckily, Bei always did pride herself in her ability to double-task. She was running, running to the man who shot her, pulling heat with her, centered around her left hand until it felt like it may burst. Keep running, don’t miss a beat, it’ll find its target. Lightning always does. A moment longer, two fingers out, thumb curled, palm out, and, CRACK!

Not deafening, the echo swallowed up by the fog, but enough to be heard around the arena.

The effect of the bolt on her opponent was no matter. Bei had made her mark.



I am here. I am as powerful as a raging storm. And I will not be ignored any longer.

PS: Thank you spoon man for not ignoring me! But also, seriously, what the heck is this? I’m absolutely soaked. Not cool.

PPS: I really don’t need to move my hand like that at all. I could shoot a lightning bolt of my right-most toe if I wanted. Let’s keep that a secret, just between you and me, okay? ;)



Sanctus -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (7/27/2018 21:15:03)

It was the boy’s turn to tell a story. He thought often and backwards for the stories he always told. His life was the only story he really knew. Fortunately it was full of chapters in every day past. Today’s yesterday was a tale of faith he said. The officer leaned in, and the god sighed.

“My father was a church farin’ man. But he shuffled his feet each day to the priest’s house. It was little else really he would say. ‘We live in a world of terrifyin magicks n’ wonderment son. We are mice. What prayers have we to gods ‘cept the hope their eyes not wander to our fields, our livelihoods? I go to ask for naught, see the quiet I give returned, as is the natural way of things. Elsewise we’d be trampled afoot in our wishes, as the well-tides rose. You go with me boy, and nay ta ask no lord o’ water for crop rain, nor ta a lord of earth for healthy soil. If’n you do, what would you say when it floods? When drought brittles our land? Can’t be cursin gods for payin their own dues to the balancin of the scales just cause we live on em son.’ He paused for a moment, and the light caught his eye as it rose past the horizon. ‘I ain’t need a priest to be telling me about them lords. I see em everyday, and like anyone else, I nod, I tip my hat, and I ain’t go causin no trouble, don’t be botherin em for sugar and be surprised when they ask me ta borrow salt.’ I was proud of him for a long while, proud of the wisdom he could give me. Would that I could stand on that pulpit and preach to a lord for farmer’s, of him, of that natural order, the splendor of it.”

The officer nodded, he knew the joy.

The god averted his eyes, though they twinkled in pride.

The pawn stood silent, steadfast and straight backed. He carried godhood within, and still, he tipped his hat when he could, laughed, but for all this joyous quiet, he knew the changing of the scales was always heavy in hand, a cold sharp reminder. In the distance a young man, perhaps no older than his own youth, seemed to take notice of his hidden throne room. A pity again, for the scales to turn back round, a disservice to my payment. Charity then. A gift of blood for mine own tale.

The young man rushed with unnatural speed and a step forward went long past.

The pawn felt the downpour, the dampened smell of wheat.

A step more.

The pawn heard the roar of the waters, the crash against the river’s banks.

Closer still.

The pawn felt his brow, as sweat mixed with tears, as calloused hands gripped bounteous promise.

One more.

The pawn heard the sands billow past, as the locusts’ wings brought the first cool breeze.

The young man arrived.

His blade too, and as it neared ever close, the bishop leapt into its sharp promise, the scales burdenless, weightless in his hands this time. His staff plunged forth, offering tribute, offering quiet.



Kooroo -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (7/28/2018 15:31:25)

Time seemed especially slow for Elias as he approached the masked man in the uniform. Or at least, the localized disturbance where he thought the man probably was.

In reality though, it probably wasn't time that was moving slowly. Just everyone else. Other people appearing to move slower was a fairly common occurrence for Elias, especially when he felt the slightest bit wary. Whenever he was in the midst of the action, or tensed and prepared to fight or flee/dodge a spellbook, everything seemed to move just a touch slower for him. Every second felt like two, though honestly, Elias wasn't going to complain. That delayed sensation, or slowed feeling had probably saved his hide a few times… Or maybe it always saved his hide.

Magical weaponry or not, it didn’t matter if you caught a sword through the neck, or an arrow to the head. Though he’d come a few close calls to both—and that wasn’t to say he hadn’t taken any blows to the head—, his reaction and just overall speed had pulled him through. Whenever he had caught anything to the head though, Annette would usually threaten him with the strangest punishments while trying to mummifying his skull.

“The next time you come back with a hole in your head, I’m leaving it there. Maybe to air it out,” she’d growled angrily last time, as she’d stuck him with needles and swathed his head with bandages. ”Or maybe I'll turn you into a candle. People usually have brains there, but I’ll fill you with wax. Or maybe oil. Then you could be ‘The Boy With The Luminous Head’.”

Elias had always wanted a fancy title, but he’d probably pass on that one. He was thinking something that would attract fanfare and perhaps admiration by the masses. Laughter, and perhaps a sore on his ego? Not so much.

Back in the Arena, a few thoughts flitted through the back of Elias’ mind during one especially drawn out moment; each thought noted, given its moment to shine and then gone the next; as though it were in showbiz.

One particularly concerning thought that crossed through was what he’d find when he met or connected with the illusion.

Maybe the masked man’s blade would be drawn? Sure.

Or perhaps he’d have pulled out his own firearm, to pay Elias back? With interest? Please no.

Both? Oh no.

Neither? Oh yes.

These thoughts skimmed through somewhere within his mind, but he paid them little to no heed. Caution wasn’t in need of definition for him, and concerns were always abound whenever things got a tad fast. It was usually unfounded, though, since his reflexes and quick thinking had generally served him well.

That wasn’t to say that he always got out of fights without some scrapes, nor would one also say that he never made misjudgements either. Lords, about 7 months ago he’d broken an arm and his collarbone when a glowing lady had moved just a mite faster than he had expected, and kicked him down a flight of stairs. He still wasn’t particularly happy about that.

Another potential concern was the other competitors. There was the blue… thing that was behind The Blur—It looked vaguely female—and the monk. If Elias was somehow wrong about Masked and Mysterious being in the haze, and the weirdo turned out to not be there, then there was a good chance that he would pass out through the otherside of The Blur, and catch either a shield to the face or some divine martial arts technique to the head. A fast and pride-crushing end to be sure. Not that he thought that there was much pride in dying well or honourably. Dying was dying, after all.

While some part of his subconscious tried to imagine what taking a Raging Ox Punch to the head would feel and look like, his eyes and attention were drawn to the illusion vanishing before him as he lunged. The blurry, distortion at the fore vanished, replaced by the man and his all-too-perfect uniform; the moon’s rays spilling over the brim of his cap, and on to the flat of his mask. Already in motion, the man’s arm moved from atop his blade, moving to the side and the front, and then a brilliant spear of light took form. Staff, not spear. No objections, Cap’n.

His foe—and a target—revealed, Elias changed the angle of his sword, aiming it towards the center of the man’s chest. The shining staff swung towards him, an obvious attempt to intercept, and perhaps punish him for his daringness. Even if the man miraculously blocked, momentum and metal would ultimately dictate his fate.

As Elias plunged the humming blade forth and prepared for the inevitable, a singular thought flitted through his mind. A question—just for he and his foe:
Just a weirdo in a mask? Or an ugly one, saving us from his looks?



nield -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (7/28/2018 18:32:53)

The fake monk moved ahead, seemingly ignoring Ineria’s injury. He even moved his ghost ahead of him and turned his back to her, and her eye narrowed. What’s his meaning here? ‘I have no quarrel with you’? ‘You are not a threat to me’? Should I strike while his back is turned? Her eye then drew to the weapon he still held in his hand. A weapon like that, he could strike back as easily as forth. He’s trying to bait me into thinking his guard is down, and attack him, allowing him to counter me. I shan’t fall for it.

Her eye then was drawn back forth, where the masked deviant had once again become visible. The man beyond rushed forth, and the masked man went to meet him. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, all the world held its breath as it awaited the clash of the two men, and Ineria waited on bated breath as well. Illistrians are not given to prayer, but she held hope that the worshipper would find himself skewered.



Ultrapowerpie -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (7/29/2018 12:04:27)

Silas was already loading a new P.O.D. into C.H.U.C.K. after he had unleashed his cold blast upon his victim. Normally he would continue using the same brew until it had ran out of flavor and then switch, but in an arena of death with two energy users, Silas knew he couldn’t afford any malfunctions or delays. The B.B.B. was indeed a powerful Borscht, but it also required C.H.U.C.K. to operate at extreme cold temperatures, which was bad for it. Indeed, if used in this state too long, C.H.U.C.K. would risk turning off completely, and it was a huge pain in the rear to try to get the contraption back on. The last time involved what Silas swore was a “satanic ritual”, though Travis insisted that it was nothing of the sort, stop saying silly nonsense, and help him with these Runes of Heck to help wake up C.H.U.C.K.

Wait, he specifically said “wake up” for C.H.U.C.K. I’m the one who does the crazy metaphors around here. Travis doesn’t have personal attachments to things… come to think of it, he’s referred to C.H.U.C.K. as a he multiple times now. I’m going to have to have to have a few words with Travis, and possibly a whoopin.


Meanwhile, in the stands, Travis was acting like a hotdog vendor, except for soup samples that he mysteriously had, which clearly were not there before when he was traveling with Silas. Travis did also have C.H.U.C.K. brochures, conveniently in picture form so that way even those that can’t read could be tantalized into buying their very own C.H.U.C.K.

A chill ran down his spine as he was handing out another brochure, causing him to give pause. Oh no… that chill only comes when Silas is going to ‘give me a whoopin’... But C.H.U.C.K. can’t be lost during this fight either… I curse this situation very much so…

Travis quickly apologized to the person he was talking to, making excuses on hwo he had to leave, and quickly left the viewing stands of the Twilight Arena, hoping to hawk goods in another venue and possibly avoid any more unpleasant chills.


Cutting back to the arena floor, Silas exchanged the Borscht out for the standard stock of soup. The standard stock would still be coldish though as the boiler needed to warm up again, but it would at least fire to help keep the enemy off his…

ZAP

Silas felt the zap of the lightning in his left hand as he heard the crack of the bolt. The sting from the lightning bolt was enough to cause his right hand to go numb for a few seconds as he saw his opponent running towards him at max speed.

Crud, she does know lightning, figures. Though that should have hurt more then just numb my hand… maybe that cold blast affected her more than I anticipated… too bad I’m stuck using stock soup until the heater normalizes… aiming’s going to be tricky…


As the left console was used for aiming, Silas did the best he could to keep it steady while he fired. With max pressure still on, Silas shot small, short spurts of soup at his foe, with the hope that one of them would at least cause a pushback, if not a knockback. The aim though was questionable, even if she was coming close, so it might be possible that he'd only nick her. If nothing else, it’d still be cold. Not ice cold, but everyone knows cold soup ain’t right, unless it’s borscht. He'd have to wait for his hand to un-numb and for the boiler to heat up before he tried something more fanciful.



brotherinlaw -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (7/30/2018 8:20:06)

As the 'paladin's shifted forms, or at least appeared to do so, I began to get worried. His gear and, it would appear, his fighting style had changed, meaning he had become just as unpredictable as he had been in the first moments of battle. As he clashed with a new challenger, hopefully distracted, I took a moment to wonder what had happened to my companions.

As I glanced at where they had landed, I saw the reason for their pause in pursuing the man. They had been in range of the liquid from earlier, shot from the device of the culinary technomancers, I'd assumed, and it appeared to have had an odd side effect with them. They had turned sluggish, but we're finally returning to their former vigor, if vigor can be used to describe the dead. They took off again after their quarry, but I remained stationary. To attack now would be foolish, I needed to understand this new form's abilities before I went in for the offensive. Luckily, it would seem three attackers had chosen to thoroughly test out my opponent for me!



Starstruck -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (7/30/2018 13:24:13)

Nothing! Absolutely nothing. Fantastic. The energy fizzled out with a sharp snapping sound, and then the water passed by and the moment was gone. Vir let his iron discs fall to the ground.



"Vir! Come along, darling!"

"Coming, Duchess!"

The Duchess of Klafort was the kind of woman who needed an entourage of people surrounding her at all times, half out of ostentation and half out of necessity. Vir stayed a respectful distance behind her as her crew powdered her up and readied her for her journey, fussing over her hair, clothes, makeup, and baubles until at last she waved them all away and beckoned to Vir, eager to leave. The carriage jounced and groaned as the two got in, listing to one side before settling on its axles. With the crack of a whip and a Hya! from behind Vir, they were moving, horses straining and wheels clattering over packed earth.

"Oh my darling boy, I've got quite a treat for you today! Have you ever heard of Bren?"

Vir shook his head no.



The puppetmaster was advancing, hissing threats. The girl was throwing lightning. The cowboy was playing with water. And Vir was doing nothing.



The Duchess needed three seats, but Vir fit comfortably into one. She fanned herself excitedly as the competitors entered the Paragon arena. Around them, the stands were weakly smattered with applauding spectators.

"Oh, look at them, Vir! Some people hate coming to these. They find them incredibly droll. But I find them wondrous! The Finals are exciting, of course they are, but in the Paragons you get to see all kinds of people fighting! Spells of all manners, fighters from all over! Who cares if they aren't the best of the best? They want to be as best as they can, and so I love them!"

Her words barely caught Vir's ear. He was spellbound. Ice and earth and water flew, magic crackled, and the arena itself was lit with soaring spells and competitors alike.



Up. The discs floated once more, unbidden by touch or motion. Hands snagged sleeves and tore. It wouldn't help him fight, but it would make him look good while he was fighting.

In and out, alternating. The discs bobbed as Vir walked, accelerating into a jog as he glanced behind him to see the puppetmaster approaching. There was no way he could take them in a straight duel. He had no armor and precious little in the way of magic. Some of these people had trained their whole lives for battle. They had learned to kill. They had learned to seize control. They had learned to take everything away from those who were weaker and leave them with absolutely nothing left. They had learned to leave a scattered trail of orphans behind them. And Vir had learned how to do something else entirely.

He hugged the wall, mist crawling over his feet, eyes roving the battlefield, keeping a fair distance away from his murderous foe. His targets would reveal themselves any second.



TormentedDragon -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (7/30/2018 21:03:00)

Silver falls, subsumed in the roiling grey below. A wave from each fallen disc ripples through the mist, washing over bone, and robe, and leg. Another step forward, sturdy bone mirroring motions hidden behind checkered cloth, and Sirellon hisses. The twist of a hand, a creaking of taut wires, and her weapon rises higher still, glinting red with deadly promise. Their guardian dips, and the pale-skinned head beneath it follows, a readied crouch that brings Sirellon’s self through an illuminate divide. Scales vanish as they pass into the dark, leaving naught but reddened bone.

They wince. “Steady,” rasps the beard, and they nod, once.

The sunlight wisp draws their eye, a flitting mote behind the darkling, swiftly surrounded in a blinding radiance; whip-crack lines of anger splitting space and rending dark between the wisp and the marshal, burning brightly in green eyes’ gaze even as the outburst fades. Silver rises in its wake, their humming passage drawn in trails of mist, as the darkling turns and runs.

They halt, raised boot dropping back to sodden earth, puppet and puppeteer rising from their crouch. A loosening of wires, and the shell shield lowers, Sirellon’s head turning to bring the ghostly eye to bear upon the Fool. “A warning heeded,” she says.

“Stab ‘em still,” the hooknose growls, a glint in hidden amber eyes. “They’ll flee to fight again.”

“Nay,” wheeze scaled lips, teeth shining in the twilight. “A back will not Oz’ target be. Those that flee may fight again; and death shall be denied once-”

A strike, a chill, a sting upon their shoulder; a clatter of hidden bones within as they slide one step back, Sirellon slumping as wires slacken, grip on sword and shield loosened. A twist of hands and wires tighten, claws closing on shell and sword again; arms heave, and bones slide across the grass, to stand once more before the Fool. A hiss, and red eyes gutter. “Nay death!” she wheezes. “Who dares?”

“The marshal,” rasps the beard. “A shot strayed from its purpose.”

The guardian lowers, and their jaw sets, wires settling the shield, up and ready, sword made ready for the strike. “This matters none!” Sirellon hisses, as bone and boot stride forward, once, then twice, a towering charge through the divided world. Bones bounce with each and every stride, striking each the other, as a snarling roar joins the chorus. “Strayed shots absolve none of blame. All death shall be denied!”



roseleaf320 -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (7/30/2018 22:43:39)

The air swirled around her in every hue imaginable, but all felt dampened, as if the arena was sapping the life from the air inside of it. But Bei’s lightning penetrated the dull glow, a bright crack sending a shower of neon between Bei and her opponent. The bolt connected with his hand before disappearing from existence, a trail of throbbing light the only evidence it had ever been. I’ve seen it a thousand times, but it always gets me. There’s nothing as beautiful and intricate as lightning. Her own hand felt a kickback, skin prickling as the electricity ran up the liquid and across her body, leaving the arm sensitive and sore. Of course the one guy that attacks me is the guy that can counter me entirely.

Even though she’d used the heat in the air to charge her bolt, it had taken a tiny bit of her own heat with it. Bei needed to start restoring it if she wanted to keep her place in the championships. Her opponent was still far away, but he was inside her circle of control. Let’s keep this light show up! It was slow, but colors began shifting at Bei’s command, billowing like lazy clouds as Bei began to carve a path between her and the man. A small trail of heat began to snake between them.

Of course, immediately after she established this connection, Bei felt another projectile coming towards her- no, many. More like a small volley, thankfully not as cold as what she’d just been hit with. They were relatively scattered and Bei ducked under the first one, feeling several others whistle past her. She heard a clatter of bones behind her, and hoped she hadn’t caused the puppet man to get hit. I don’t want to break another puppet the way that poor wolf was. I didn’t do that, I promise! The last one seemed like it would go right over her head. But she’d miscalculated the angle of its path and cut things a bit too close.

Bei spit, scrambling to wipe the substance off. It was in her eyes, mouth, probably her hair as well. Ick!! It was watery for the most part, but some of it had little chunks, though thankfully those had avoided her oral cavity. The water had a salty taste to it, but not like seawater, almost like… wait. Bei licked her lips again. She plucked a small chunk resting on her nose and slipped it tentatively into her mouth. Yep, that was a noodle. The guy was shooting soup at her.

I guess there could be worse things?

“Hey buddy, thanks for the snack!” Bei yelled, grabbing a few balls from her pouch and pitching them at her opponent as hard as she could. She charged them with heat again, but this time stopped short of concentrating it into electricity. Hopefully they would flatten on impact and cause a bit of pain. The downside, though, was that Bei was now incredibly low on heat, shivering fiercely. She had reestablished her heat drain after she’d recovered from the second soup hit, but it was moving incredibly slowly. She needed to get closer, and she wasn’t a long-ranged fighter anyways. The rattling wasn’t stopping: did this mean puppet man was coming to help her? That wouldn’t change her range issue, though, so for now he was unimportant. The soup man was her target. Even though I really like soup, now isn’t the time for it. When was the last time I ate anyways? He’s probably a splendid cook. Needs to learn how to use heat though. She started moving again without even waiting to find out if any of her little missiles had hit their mark.



I’ve always wondered why I have to take other people’s heat to restore my own. I thought it was just normal at first, but I’ve watched people recovering from things like hypothermia, and their body just kind of... makes itself more heat. It doesn’t come from anywhere, it just suddenly exists. Why can’t I do that at all? I’ve always thought of heat as being tied to life force in some way, because the animals I’ve seen are always so much hotter inside than their environment, but, what does that mean for me? Am I really cursed, like Uncle says? Do I not have my own life force?






Sanctus -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (7/31/2018 18:19:31)

The blade plunged into our hand. Flesh parted in a burst of crimson, a flower of sinew and muscle blooming from beneath the skin. Wind ripped into our shoulder, and where one hand hung grisled, broken, the other was only pain in each and every movement of the arm. My staff had left me, but the wound returned clarity, focus. Attended closely by disgust. There had been no heroes this day, no champions. My sword remained sheathed, and it would continue so. I would find better foes. I alighted upon the Knight, and walked into the sky, out of reach once more. Free from spirits, from wind whipped brigands, rage touched brutes. But this too was tainted, as the pulsing fire ‘tween hand and shoulder renewed its cries. Red it sounded, thoughts cast by tinted light, and I paused for this storm, turned to deliver its blood spilt bile.

“What duel has this been, that its so-called champions are beyond the call of honor? Have I mistook this twilight arena, to think it’d beg competition above a mere bar-room brawl? Hallowed grounds stained by the intentions of drunkards, who drink of cowardice, rage whilst telling themselves cleverness and strength now rides their guts.

An Illistrian, shielded by the very honor you no doubt left behind. Tell me icy one, while the symbol upon it no longer carries weight with you, does not the shame? To so disrespect thy own people by letting it rust so. Your rage only serves to compound this affront, judging strangers while garbed in their clothes.

A youth, a twig with ill-fit branches that thinks himself tall as the oaks before him, yet still strikes as a weed, an opportunist with all the boister and bluster of the wind, none of its grace, nor its wisdom.

And a necromancer that pretends at the peace of a monk, even as he robs the spirits of theirs to further his life. Ancestral pride exchanged for petty strikes at distracted foes.

You each seek the favor of Lords as I, for a wish granted. Perhaps, even as the anger splits my tongue, you think I deride your actions in the eyes of combat. Tell me, what worth, what honor, can your wishes have to a Lord, if it can’t even be uttered aloud to us mortals? Surely if your wishes were just, then you’d have the confidence to match them, to see whereby your quest falls measured by the goodness of it? If not in regard for your foes, at least for yourself. I pity you all, to hiss and howl without word, and think steel and dead men alone make for an honorable cause.

So, with my blade still yet sheathed, I shall confess where you have not. I have come to free a child from an eternal punishment, to grant an afterlife from one robbed of his first. Once I return to the fray, I’d hear your own. Mayhap my blade needn’t be drawn at all, in deference to your own tales. Think on this, that you quarrel in silence to kill the last chance for the soul of a mere boy. And still I would listen, in hope to hear a wish above that paradise too long promised him.”

So said the pawn, as he walked towards the flash and thunder in the distant grey.



nield -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (8/1/2018 3:54:23)

The masked man had been wounded. She could see it in the way his hand fell. Seeing this as as good a chance as any she had had, she quickly thrust her sword into the grass, drew her last dagger and threw it at the back of the dastard’s head. Naturally such was the point where the man walked into the sky. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! HOW MANY THINGS CAN HE DO, ANYWAY?! The dagger cared not one whit that its intended target had floated away, keeping its course, with now a face in its line of fire where before there had been a head’s back.

Ineria growled to herself, muttering an inventive string of expletives as she drew her sword back out of its makeshift sheath. And then off he went, ranting away in speech. How lucky he was that she had just loosed her dagger at him while he was still ground borne, else she’d have loosed it now. Briefly she toyed with the idea of turning her shield into a projectile, spinning around and around on her left leg before loosing it, but she thought better of it. It would probably just bounce off again, or maybe it would dissolve into sun dust, or something. She had no idea with this guy. “What duel has this been, that its so-called champions are beyond the call of honour? Have I mistook this twilight arena, to think it’d beg competition above a mere bar-room brawl? Hallowed grounds stained by the intentions of drunkards, who drink of cowardice, rage whilst telling themselves cleverness and strength now rides their guts.

An Illistrian, shielded by the very honour you no doubt left behind. Tell me icy one, while the symbol upon it no longer carries weight with you, does not the shame? To so disrespect thy own people by letting it rust so. Your rage only serves to compound this affront, judging strangers while garbed in their clothes.” In the face of his tauntings Ineria found herself, as only happens very rarely, inside her own mind for a time. How well you profess to know me and my people. When you show you know so very, very little. Honour, hah! An innocent’s thought, nothing more, as I have discovered. It’s hardly cowardly for me to throw my daggers after you, when I was the first person engaged you! Not that the Lords… Well, the Water Lord, at least, does not care about having a coward for a champion.

The Istaria. A stylised fleur-de-lis, I’ve heard it referred as. The only flower that grows in my homeland, which we made our national symbol. Her hand briefly flitted over the bag attached to her waist, which held the spear-head which once held that shape, but now was pieces of scrap, though as sharp as ever they had been. It carries no weight with me eh? You’re a fool. No weight indeed, it is what is constantly pushing down on me, with all its weight, the weight of my failures. Do I not stand shorter than I once did? That shame is heavy. More so than you could ever know. You wish then to decry the state of my gear? Croaking, broken laughter escaped her lips as her thoughts ranged to this next attempted taunt.

How so very little you show you know about Illistrians, paladin worshipper… Disrespect my own people by continuing to wear my gear, as battered and bruised and close to falling apart as it is. Har! What an Illistrian would find DISRESPECTFUL is to just throw this gear away, because it’s run down. This armour will likely fall apart on one heavy impact, but the stories etched into its surface. The tales told by battered and lost links, worn leather and dented plate. To just throw all that away because the armour is no longer in peak condition would be disrespectful. You may have one single point in my judging you based on your appearance… But I have been wearing this armour over four years now and HARDLY is it that of a stranger, given that I took it with me out of Illistria. I needed replace the gauntlets and boots and have a new sword forged recently, but that only because the former were pilfered and my previous sword snapped in two!

Her reverie ended and she made to shout up at him, but he was gone. A swift search showed he had covered an impressive distance and was now near the arena’s centre. “Hmph…” Her mind ranged towards his final quips, about not speaking of one’s wish. You wish to know what drives me? Fine. I’ll indulge you. She spread her arms and drew deep breath, before shouting, such that the whole arena could hear her words. “You wish to know what drives me, you, who does not do his opponents the honour of showing them his face? MY WISH… Is that I never came to these championships four years ago! MY WISH… Is that I never became the broken shell of a woman who now stands on these grounds, who defied her fate and has suffered for it!”

Her words sent after him, she regarded the two before her, given that she could not give chase to the paladin worshipper, given that she had hurt her leg. Or rather, she would have, but it seemed one had snuck up behind her. Not the fake monk, the other one, the one who had stabbed the masked dastard and her eye narrowed. What are you up to…? The necromancer had seemed pretty determined on chasing down the deviant already, and had even gone to show that he was not interested in targeting her so she took a chance and turned her back on him and faced the newcomer. He looked still a boy, rather than a man. And he had a gun aimed at her in his right hand, his sword held in his left, the hand itself bracing the gun. She tightened her grip on her shield. No pretenses with this one, he makes his intentions clear enough.



Kooroo -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (8/1/2018 14:15:24)

The blade didn’t strike true, not even close.
Not a first, but a rarity and a bit of a disappointment to Elias.
Instead of the swift and clean blow to the chest, as he had attempted, Elias’ blade cut into the masked man’s hand, slicing through the shimmering staff and into his flesh like they were the one and the same. As the humming sword bit into the man’s hand, his staff disappeared, just as its end whizzed narrowly past Elias’ cheek.

Astonishingly, despite Elias’ momentum and speed, the uniformed man had somehow stood strong and held relatively firm, halting the short-ish young man. Either Elias was lighter than he thought, or the man was incredibly buff underneath his uniform. The rapid block with the hand had not only prevented Elias’ strike from reaching its intended target, but also redirected the angle of the strike; from the man’s vitals to his epauletted shoulder. There was also no cry of pain, nor a shout or screaming as Elias had come to expect from the normally short-lived survivors.

A split second went by, and Elias tensed his arm.

The air in front of the blade stilled momentarily. There was a report, like the loudest of rifles, and then from the tip, the air ruptured, straight into the man’s shoulder. Glistening red spurted from among the golden adornments, a memoir of the wind.

There, a slight ruffle, he thought, pulling his sword back. But I can do better.
Immediately after he thought that, Elias hesitated momentarily, as he felt something whiz through the air towards him and the man.

The moment was enough for the bleeding man, as he immediately ascended into the night sky, rocketing upwards and into the sky, as though on invisible strings. A glint of steel—a dagger or throwing knife perhaps—flew through the space where his head had been seconds before, narrowly missing Elias. The young sellsword glanced at where it had come from—the bruised-looking elf monster—and then stared upwards at his former target, his brow furrowing slightly from annoyance.
Or maybe not.

Once he had stopped rising, the masked man immediately launched into an unexpected monologue. Elias drew the handcannon, swapping his blade to his left, and aimed the wind armament upwards at the floating figure, then thought better of it. The uniformed man had proved to be rather resilient, and deserved to carry a few more wounds as punishment for monologuing in the middle of a magical coliseum, for sure. But the blueish person in front of him—a fair chance of it being a she—had their focus on the monologuing man. A considerably easier and much better target, instead of the raging preacher that was strolling away from him as he watched.

Elias padded forward cautiously, his weapons lowered and boots mute on the damp lawn. His initial target was broadcasting to the entire Arena, and while he couldn’t help but hear, Elias did not listen. If he had not been so intent on his task or wasn’t in a gladiatorial arena, he may have grinned slightly and countered that a mid-air tantrum wasn’t going to mend his hand or shoulder, nor change the fact that he’d gotten his finely-clothed hindquarters served on a platter for the audience to see.
A younger, less-mature version of him probably would have mockingly mimicked the ‘masked crybaby’s’ last few lines. My son won’t ever walk again, please help me. My wife’s left me and the cat’s gone missing. Sob.

In reality and the present day, however, the young professional moved carefully and ever so silently forward, watching the tall, frostbitten elf begin to shout back at their whinging foe. Elias made sure he’d punish them for getting distracted like that. Whether with outright death or a broken neck, that was to be seen. Something clean, hopefully.

He closed the distance by another foot, and was nearing striking distance when something in the elf’s demeanour changed and she abruptly turned to face him. Elias raised his gun slightly, with his swordhand moving to brace it and his eyebrow rose a fraction.
Either he hadn’t been as stealthy as he’d thought, or this one was one of those with a battle-hardened sixth sense, or something similar. Antennae mixed in with that scruff of hair, perhaps.

The battle-hardened vets were usually the worst targets from his experience. They were either so paranoid of assassins that they took their weapons to bed with them, or their natural instincts made them draw their armaments just as you neared them. Then they began breaking everything and fighting and causing a ruckus, and that usually escalated into the entire camp or village breaking down the front door. But to be fair to them, if Elias or one of his friends did end up fighting such a target in the middle of their home or office, then the target’s paranoia clearly had foundation.

Elias took a moment to appraise his soon-to-be combatant. They were tall, and fairly muscular. Similar in build to Reuben, but dwarfed even him regarding height. Probably a racial thing, though.
That tower shield would not be easy to get through, nor would that sword be easy to get around, but Elias was sure he’d be up to the task.

He locked eyes with the creature’s singular blue orb and glared back. An angry one, definitely. They just radiated berserker rage if provoked. Less predictable, but angrier targets usually left themselves more open. Well then. If it makes the job easier…

He thought for a moment on what Daford would say or ask.

“Genuine curiosity,” Elias started, raising the handgun to chest height and aiming for center mass. ”But were either of your parents a dried blueberry or a deformed smurf?”

Snarls. That had done the trick.

“No? Perhaps a pitbull, sir?” Elias allowed himself a satisfied smile.

He pulled the trigger and the gun reported.



Ultrapowerpie -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (8/1/2018 17:56:23)

Silas had been in what was dubbed a “mexican standoff”, though he had no idea what the first part meant. He assumed it meant something about a country named Mexica or something about mixing food. Regardless of the peculiarities of the phrase, he had been in that situation before. Unfortunately, this would be the second time that the standoff decided to go south faster than a pack of coyotes chasing a coon. He wasn’t quite sure how this situation arose, so he replayed the events in his head.

He had just launched the soup scatter splatter at the young bruja, she managed to dodge a few shots, but some managed to get on her, including her hair. Heh, that’ll take a week to get out fully. I should know, I tested it out on Travis that one time he tried squirrelling away with the pay after one of his ventures didn’t turn profitable. Silas did not appreciate getting stiffed after providing protection. It was most certainly not his fault that Travis was trying to sell cows to a vegan colony. Heck, he didn’t even know that such a heinous group of people EXISTED until that day.

Vegetarians are fine. Annoying but you can at least feed them some tomato soup and they’ll be calm. Vegans, those are just the most unreasonable people I’ve ever met. Not using any animal parts, including milk, or eggs, or anything else vital to healthy diet. Fortunately I gave them a sample of what a proper diet consisted of that day… Wait, I think I’m inner monologuing here.

Continuing the playback, he remembered the bruja thanking him for the soup, even though he didn’t actually get any in her mouth (that he could see). I think she’s trying to be sassy. We’ll see who’s sassy after…

And with that thought, Silas realized he was only looking at part of what was going on. Refocusing his attention as the flashback rewound, he noticed one of the soup splashes that had missed the girl had hit that weird puppet necromancer fella instead. Hit ‘em right on the shoulder.

Ahh, that explains why there’s a 6 foot tall puppet charging at me with a giant turtle shell and making a ruckus louder than C.H.U.C.K. during an overhaul at the factory. Huh, I guess that wouldn’t make this a “Mexican standoff” then, since that would imply the third party has an interest in seeing the second party dead, and meanwhile I”m the… Damn it, Travis and his legalese nonsense. I don’t have time for this!

Snapping back to the reality of the situation that some metal orbs were hurling towards him at the same time as a psycho turtle puppeteer with a thing for bones charging at him like a bull at a rodeo, Silas realized he needed to bring out the heavy hitters for this situation, and fast. He instinctively reached for the scalding soup when something in his mind stopped him. Wait, that soup burn skin, but bone? I’m pretty sure that wasn’t on the specs for it…

Screw it, time for theatrics, or vaudeville. Whichever the fine folks in the stands came to see. Silas grabbed his second of Slippery Soup P.O.D. and loaded it into C.H.U.C.K, adjusted the width to a nose cone, and started spraying the ground in front of him. After a full second of that he lept forward onto the ground, C.H.U.C.K still spraying soup ahead of him, and started belly whopping on the ground directly towards Bei. With any luck, I’ll be out of the way and Sawbones will get a nice slip in the dirt, and the bruja will be in for a lovely surprise. That or this goes disastrously, just like that one time in Reno...



TormentedDragon -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (8/2/2018 22:32:07)

The hawthorn hat dips, their foe’s hands working at copper controls. The spout shudders, then spews once more, a steaming spray of saffron that soaks the ground before him, trapping fog to form an impromptu pond. Sirellon’s stride reaches the hazard first, and wires strain to hold bone steady, claws digging into soil to steady her stance. Green eyes narrow as the puppet’s back draws closer, no longer in sync.

“Stay thy course,” rasps the beard.

“A scattering,” sighs Sirellon. They raise their left arm, palm open, and thrust, a strike upon the spine that sends bones sailing, wires reaching up and out as each piece of skeletal structure takes to flight. The lingering leg bone slams to the dirt as they step forward, boot balanced on the makeshift foothold, their right arm sweeping out, then down, their body following into a coiled crouch. The wires follow, yanking bones from their airborne path to stick in sodden soil, a rushing ring of red resounding from each strike.

They leap, a bound as the marshal slides upon his own slurry, left leg reaching for the rooted rib cage before them. Loosing one bundle, they grasp another, pulling with their right; the shell skitters towards them, spinning on its rounded half, to meet their next step. One boot, then two take root on the sturdy shield, their path and pose preserved.

Their right hand reaches, and snatches Sirellon’s sword from its earthen sheathe, raising it high, then striking down, its heavy blade aimed at the marshal’s bronzed contraption.



Starstruck -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (8/3/2018 3:00:25)

A moment's breath - Vir hadn't realized he'd been holding it all in. His shoulders rolled as he relaxed his body and his mind. This is good for me. The shifting patterns of light and shade were rather calming and hypnotic, once he allowed himself to sink into their rhythm. Across, forward. A bright flash. Chaos, spiraling around the emblem at the center of the arena.

A tendril of curiosity wormed its way into his consciousness, thick and cool as the fog that wound around his feet. The flash of light and the glimpse of the emblem underfoot weren't exactly clockwork, but there was a pattern there, nonetheless. Vir held up one disc into the dazzling gloom. The dark iron seemed to melt into the darkness, only to gleam startlingly in the bright pillars of sun that stalked the arena grounds. And when he flipped them over, revealing the burnished copper plates at the center of each...why, the reflection was blinding.

Was it time? A sunbeam swept by. Opportunities searched for and found.

He'd picked a blood-red sunset day to return.

I am a child, he reminded himself as he took steady steps towards the tall pine gates, slammed shut with tremendously heavy iron grating. Tall, straight-backed, proud, but a boy. They will not respect me unless I make them respect me. The center of the door held the iron likeness of a lion, roaring proudly as if to claim its territory as its pride. For a second, Vir admired it. Then, he ripped it off.

The response was immediate. Guards rushed to their posts, drawn by the screeching of metal and the splintering of thick oak planks. Vir smirked. He had their attention now. The emblem weighed heavy on his mind like a grudge, field straining to support its weight steadily. He had practiced well at home, of course, using swords and arrow-heads but had never even dreamed it would be this responsive. There seemed to be an invisible energy all around him, attuned to his emotions and intent. It was the spirit of his homeland, the magnetism and energy of the earth around him. This was not the domain of ordinary men; it was a land for Energy. For one single glorious second, the lion rose, levitating ponderously, gripped tightly by some unseen force.

CRACK. Deforming. Breaking. The iconoclast, indulgent. Hideous exultation and the rush of pure power. And as the halves parted, from within the lion's mouth, a pair of piercing hazel eyes and an upturned lip, baring teeth that were just barely settled in their final positions.

Nothing moved. The forest was silent. It seemed as though all of nature was holding its breath.

"You know," Vir said aloud, to nobody in particular, as he took a step out onto the wet grass, "fighting isn't all about strength, speed, or even skill." He flipped one disc idly up, admiring as it caught the light. "It's not even about luck or intuition. These things play a role, of course, but a fighter with all of these qualities can still lose."

Magnetic eddies flowed from Vir's fingertips, freed by his relaxed posture and lack of tension. His mind turned and twisted, magnetic field rotating idly as his discs jauntily danced in midair, buoyed up by nothing. "I'm an entertainer, not a warrior. I never trained myself to be strong, or quick. I trained for style and grace." There was no way in hell he was not going to do a quick cartwheel to punctuate that! And if that led into a backflip, well, so be it! It's not like it was hard. "But there is one thing that stays constant between war and play, and that is communication between you and your opponent. Knowing what they are capable of and responding in kind. Finding their weaknesses and desires and exploiting them."

Vir strode towards his three foes, locked in a lethal dance. A spray of mud and a flying tackle, a crack of lightning, and the yanking of strings; all life-threatening, he wagered, but at this distance it didn't seem quite so scary. His discs crackled with power, sending sparks carelessly into the mist about his feet. His hands rubbed together. "Combat is not static. It flows like a field of wheat in the autumn wind. Sometimes, you need to disguise your approach, using the environment to conceal your steps and make you unpredictable and unknowable. And sometimes...you just need to get everyone's ATTENTION!"

The discs made contact with each other just before Vir's hands met, a harsh iron clang echoing throughout the entire arena space. The energy he had built up in his hands discharged, a piercing flash of light followed by a concussive boom of thunder, and he gritted his teeth, hair blown back by the force of the explosion. No matter what, his eyes stayed focused on his opponents, waiting for their responses. His hackles rose as he concentrated on each one, watching their movements, holding them crystal clear in his mind.

"My name is Vir. I am the son of a blacksmith. I am here to claim what is mine by right of birth."

"My name is Vir."

Go back home, boy.

"I will not be denied what is mine."



nield -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (8/3/2018 4:42:32)

Ineria’s eye narrowed to a thin slit as the boy asked her what he said was a genuine question but could only be intended to raise her ire. Her response was to shift her shield into the path of his gun’s aim as a snarl escaped her lips. “No? Perhaps a pitbull, sir?” he said, and then Ineria’s perceptions of the world briefly vanished. She did not notice the boy’s insolent, self-sure grin, nor notice the projectile slam harmlessly into her shield. That last word simply rebounded around in her mind. sir Sir sir Sir! sir SIR SIR! Mentality returned and she looked over her shield into the boy’s eyes. The fire in her own had gone out, replaced by the icy winds of her home, a coldness present that seemed to lower the surrounding temperature when witnessed.

The boy had erred. He had attempted to raise her ire, for whatever ends, but Ineria had gone past anger, passed straight through unrelenting, burning rage and emerged on the far side in ice-cold, silent, calculating FURY. “I… am going to kill you now.” Her voice was measured, calm. She struck, swiftly. She was out of the boy’s striking range, to be sure, but the length of her blade saw that he was not outside of hers, its edge sweeping up at his neck. The boy however proved he was not some incompetent, scoring a blow on the masked man by luck, as he leapt back, easily avoiding her strike. Ineria would have closed on him then, but she would need to do an awkward shuffle-step with her leg injured, and had no desire to broadcast that fact to the boy, so she awaited his next move. He did not keep her waiting, immediately attempting to circle around her on her right, his gun held in his hand at his side.

Keeping her right leg raised slightly, touching down every so often, she pivoted on the ball of her left foot, keeping her shield facing the boy. Faster he circled, so faster she pivoted, her eye narrowing. What trick are you going to attempt to pull? He raised his gun slightly, pointed at her right side, briefly exposed as he gained a small amount of ground, but a small movement of her shield-arm saw the shot blocked. This was not his ultimate aim, though, as he swiftly reversed his movement. Ineria gritted her teeth and pushed down with her right leg, to brake her momentum. It did not hurt as much as she had been expecting. Hmph, I overestimated how bad the injury was… It certainly can’t handle my full weight on it, but I let that moment when it almost buckled make me think it was worse than this. Her left side and back became exposed, but this was a bit of a calculated risk on her part. She expected the boy to rush in with his blade as she overextended, before crashing her shield back against him when he was close enough.



brotherinlaw -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (8/3/2018 9:54:17)

Ignorance should not be the providence of the powerfull. Yet the tragic truth is that it usually is.

A bit of philosophical wonder as I observed the 'paladin' making his swift retreat. How little one such as he knew, if he did not realize that Necromancy, like all things, is a thing, knowledge, magic, neutral. It is man, sentient life across all species, that defines the substance, giving it qualifiers and moral alignments when, really, it is they who are reflected. A rock is not good nor evil, indeed, yet the man who holds said rock is, and can choose to build a house, fashion a hammer, create a firepit, or, as is often the case, to kill his neighbor and take his house, hammer, and firepit.

Indeed, necromancy is nothing more than a tool, a field of study. The fact that most would use their talent in said field for evil is not a reflection of the art, but rather a reflection of mankind as a whole.

As I see my nature spirits, my willing servants, close in yet again on the warrior, I glance towards the woman. Thoroughly engaged in battle, I decide to press the issue with him. Perhaps a little pride was involved, for I could not so much as defend myself against his accusations while I chanted.

As I closed in, I decided to keep out of range untill the spirits had done their job, then throw a concussive talisman at him while I summoned two new spirits. As I reached into the bag, I began to wonder what he had meant about saving a boy, and thought about my own child

"Father?"
As I turn toward the young woman's voice, I'm as I allways have been, overtaken by a warmth that permeates to my very core. I'm not a terribly emotional or empathic man, aside from my work, and only two people alive could solicit such a deep and genuine feeling. How lucky could a man possibly be?
"Yes, my child?" As I put away the talismans, I turn to look at the second of those people. it is still something of a shock, seeing her with her tattoos, though she had gotten them some years ago. She did not seem to suffer for them in appearence, however, nor the lack of hair, nor the hard life of travel she and her mother had endured in traveling with a monk. Indeed, she seems to make the imperfections her own, magnifying her natural beauty. That would be her mother's doing, The Ancestors know she didn't get her charms from me!

"Father," I shake my head a little. Spirits take me if I ever get used to being a parent, or stop thanking my lucky fates! " why do you have to enter this tournament? Mother tried to tell me, but I still don't understand. What could you wish for that was worth your.life"

I smile again, I just can't help it. So clean, logical, and to the point. Even for a monk in trainkng, she was wise beyond her years. Perhapse if I had been her, I would not have not made the mistakes of my youth. I meet her frankness with the same. "Child, do you remember when I told you that there were necromancers that use their abilities for evil, to chain souls rather than free them as we do?" She nodds, though I can see she doesn't comprehend such a thing. For that, I can not blame her. " with this wish, I hope to change the nature of the soul. Wait, that's not quite right. I hope to change the relationship between the soul and this world. If I succeed, a soul wll be unable to be taken or bound. Only those willing would be summoned, and only those with duties unfinished will remain. And then... "

"And then," she continues "we help them to move on. But, father, what if you die?"

I touch her shoulder gently, an unusual sign of tenderness from me. "Then I die. I never have possessed an interest in immortality, and I'm perfectly happy to no move on to the next stage. If life did not end, it would hold no meaning. I was quite lucky to live long enough to meet your mother, and to have you. I could ask for nothing else, and would die happy"

A tear forms in her eye and her bottom lip trembles. The first sign that she is indeed a mortal child and not some ageless monk! How I envy her ready access to her emotions and expressions, perhaps I would have made a better father! "But I will miss you father."

I turn towards the table and pick up my necklace, holding the skull of my father. " and I will miss you, my dearest child, even as I head out on this journey. And that is all it will be, a journey. Should I not return, your mother and, many years later, you will one day be reunited with me, and we can go on such great adventures together! " i hold the necklace out to her "this is the skull of my father, who died when I was somewhat younger than yourself. When I miss him, I need only sing, and he will sing with me. Our ancestors are allways with us, my dear, and I will allways protect you, no matter what"

She holds the necklace for a moment, then runs to hug me. I smile and hold her, then listen as she begins singing a song of departure, of safe travels, weary roads, and the return home. A tear rolls from my eye as I joined her, singing of love and companions, friends and family. Soon, her grandfather joins in, then his aunt, until there is a chorus of family, singing of love, of home.



Sanctus -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (8/3/2018 16:51:06)

Where were the stories of this? Of frustration, rejection, dejection? I held what was left of my hand close to staunch the bleeding. My boots thudded softly into the ground, the weight upon them imagined only, wound born, fevered. Only one had responded. The one who yet pursued me simply chanted. At my pace he would reach me far too soon. Where had my madness gone? The only voice left was that incessant chant, and the howls of the wind slipped before him. No, no there was more. A woman laughed amongst the wind. I slipped to the ground, and prayed again, begging to be heard.

“Please. Don’t let her be right. Talk to me. Aid me. Listen! Grant me this before arms need be drawn. Why not let mercy win this day, this championship?”

The wind grew, and the spirits rose into sight. I had but moments. So the king sat still in the dirt, and took what comfort he could in the twilight, hoping it was twin enough to offer this short respite. Soon they would arrive, and the battle with them.



roseleaf320 -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (8/3/2018 21:53:04)

“Do you have a place to sleep?” I asked, moving my lips slowly and conveying the question as best I could with hand signals.

The person shook their head and motioned to the ground beneath them. “I sleep here.”

“I have a place to sleep.” I hoped vaguely pointing at a random building would make any kind of sense. “You come with?”

They shook their head faster this time, looking downward.

“Have you eaten?”

Again, no, a small movement, almost sheepishly. They were reluctant to let me know that.

“I will come back.” I got up and made my way over to a food stand at the edge of the plaza, trading a few copper pieces for a loaf of bread, a small container of butter spread, and two fruits I’d never seen before. The person working the stand kindly wrapped the ensemble in a light cloth with a dull spreading knife (cost a few extra pieces), and I thanked her and made my way back to my new friend.

I sat down next to them and spread the cloth out, cutting the fruit up and spreading butter on the bread slices. We sat and ate in silence, but it was the best meal I’d ever had, and the best hug I’d ever been given!



After the fright in the hallway, the continuous, overwhelming action and sights within the arena, and a LOT of heat drain, Bei was ready for a nap. So when she saw the soup man come sliding towards her, she was more than happy to let him knock her off her feet.

She tumbled forwards over him, her foot catching on the soup-device that attached to his back and yanking it as she continued to slide. She grabbed desperately to his ankles in an attempt to slow the both of them, allowing the momentums to cancel each other out, and dug her thumbs into his ankles. Or what would theoretically be his ankles- it was hard to tell exactly with the thick boots he had. Maybe that would hurt him. Probably not. Regardless, the fall left her sore. If I could shock him this would be a lot easier, but I’d hurt myself a lot worse. Because someone decided to cover me in soup.

She prepared to spring back upright, hands pulling taunt a long wire that she had unveiled during her fall, when something froze her in her tracks. Seeming to come from her own skull, a loud clap reverberated through her body. She felt sheer panic, wondering if the arena itself had finally decided her existence was no longer amusing to it, that she was no longer worth the effort.

This life that never should have been will finally be no more.

No. She would not succumb to those illusions. There was a source. Over there, Glowy Man, his disks pulling away from each other, his hands falling back as if from clapping at a show. His disks had made that noise, that echo. He was still rather far away, at least compared to her current opponent. Should she run to him, attack him? No, there would be no point. If he made a move, she would gladly fight, but for now she was set on her course. If this crazy soup man wanted to make her own lightning backfire, then so be it. She was tired of it. She could best him even without that.



My friend seemed so overly happy that I'd sat with them. I guess... maybe that's the first time anyone's done that. Do people not normally do that? Do they just let others fade into the background? I can't believe that no one besides me decided to stop and show this person any decency. I want to go find them again. After this is all over. I want to make them smile again. Not everyone wants things like that?

Maybe I could really help other people. With food and dance! Maybe that’s all I need. But I still want to show them I can do this. I am important, even if I’m flawed. I’m more than that, I’m downright awesome. My family might still love me. I have to believe they're good, that everyone is, even if it's hidden. If they aren't, I think I could still make it here on my own.

I’m getting kind of sleepy.





Kooroo -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (8/4/2018 1:08:37)

Elias shunted down with his foot, digging his heel in for balance as the handcannon crackled and tried to fly from his grasp. His foe intercepted the attempt on their sword arm with their shield, so he swung around and began running in the other direction. As planned, the blue creature hadn’t anticipated the change in direction, and their size was working against them. A short anti-clockwise sprint, and the creature’s entire left, flank was open to him.

A smorgasbord of armoured targets presented themselves, each more tempting than the last. The joints and head would be the hardest to hit, but they weren’t encased in plate and thus, were the most vulnerable. But was the risk worth a miss? A blow to an armoured body part might still be wounding or give him all the opening he required anyway.

Elias crossed his right arm over his body and pulled the trigger, aiming instead for his adversary’s ribs. He was rewarded immediately; there was a roar, and his foe stumbled.

There was a loud creaking noise, and then his opponent’s armor started moving, as though disassociated from their body. A split second later, and then the well-worn suit of plate gave up and collapsed, shedding off their host’s form.
... Well. That is an opening.
Elias raised the pistol once more, prepping a disarming or disabling shot.

And then his foe spun and twisted, turning and hurling their shield at him.

Elias had been shield-bashed twice in the past, and had once had kite shield swung into him like a bat. Both of the shield-bashing incidents had been unpleasant and dazing enough, and he’d been out of commission for a week after being smacked like a baseball.

So when the tower shield spun at him like a discus, Elias knew instantly that he’d be done if that shield hit him. He threw himself to the side, but for once he hadn’t been quite fast enough. The shield missed him, but clipped the handcannon, sending the silver flintlock spiraling into the air behind him. Elias landed on his side and rolled to his knees, before springing up to face his opponent. That… had been a good throw. He had to give them that.

The tall, blue creature loomed ahead, both weapons drawn. They approached, slowly, their footsteps silent, but announcing minacious intent. Unperturbed, Elias stood up straight, and switched the blade to his right hand, rolling his wrist and his arm as he did. He took a first step backwards and then another, and then his boot bumped into something. Elias reached a hand out behind him and felt.

His fingers touched a wall. A cold, damp wooden wall.

The Arena wall.

A flicker of surprise shot through his eyes as he locked gazes with his stalker.
Oh. Flamin—

His thoughts were cut off, as his aggressor made their move, the claymore striking with murderous intent. Elias kicked off, and twisted to the side, the moonlight glinting off his blade.



nield -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (8/4/2018 15:26:47)

Her armour fell to pieces around her, but Ineria was not surprised. If anything she was surprised that it had lasted as long as it had. Her armour had been on its last legs for quite a time now. Plate peeled away, her breastplate rending in twain, tearing chain links as it went, a catastrophic chain, and soon she was protected only by the cloth she wore to keep the chain from pinching. She did not miss a beat, however, placing her shield on the ground, briefly stabbing her sword into the ground once more, slipping her arm out from the shield, grabbing it with both hands, she spun at the boy, and loosed, it spinning through the air, a giant steel harbinger of death.

Ineria did not stop to watch its progress however. Quickly she reached into the bag attached to her waist, from which she pulled a fragment which had once been the central blade of the Illustrious Illistria. Still as sharp as ever, she placed it in her mouth, securing it between her teeth as she bent down, grabbing her mace from its securings to the plate that had once adorned her right thigh, and picking up her sword. Both weapons at her side, with her hand up near the mace’s head, she approached the boy slowly, measured. Well, there’s one upside to losing my armour. Without all that extra weight my leg is doing just fine.

The boy backed up before she reached striking range, much more cautious of her now. No doubt due to the fact he seemed to have lost that gun of his, iut no longer in his hand nor in its home at his hip. Not, however, cautious enough of his surroundings it seemed. He backed up right into the Arena wall. Ineria’s eye flashed and she lunged forth, her blade heading for the boy’s chest. In response he bounded off the wall at her, his own blade stretching forwards as he passed by alongside hers, which thudded into the Arena wall. She swiped her mace left, catching his blade, forcing it away from her body.

The boy drove his left fist into her chest, forcing air out of her. That felt like I got punched twice, not once… was that fancy gun of his just some sort of focus? Letting go of her sword, she rammed her hand, open palmed into him, catching him on the shoulder and forcing him away from her, allowing her to wrench her sword from the wall and turn to face him. The boy remained cautious of her, seemingly unwilling to make the first move. Ineria allowed a smile to crease her lips slightly, then she tossed her mace up in the air, her hand darting down to the bag at her waist, pulled out the fragment that was once the right-hand blade of the Illustrious Illistria and flung it at the boy. Reaching up she grabbed the mace out of the air and ran at the boy.

He ducked under the fragment hurtling at him and wound up his arm. Contrary to Ineria’s expectations however, he let the punch fly early. The unexpected timing, combined with the force of the air hitting her in the gut, caused Ineria’s mouth to open and eject the spearhead fragment contained within towards the boy’s face. She could only assume he was as surprised by the sudden ejection of metal from her mouth as she had been from being punched while beyond punching range, as instead of dodging, he raised up his left arm.The blade, still sharp enough to split a hair in twain, bit deep into the back of his forearm.

Pushing through, Ineria swung at him, but he darted away, coming around to her left and letting out a kick. Like his punch before, Ineria was not in range of the limb itself, but the burst of wind collided with the back of her knee and she, overextended from her swing, was forced down, left knee on the grass, her right foot forwards. She quickly hurried to her feet as the boy behind her righted himself and turned to face her. As she turned, he leapt in, sword first. She came around, her sword angled oddly, the long reach working against her. She caught him in the side, her sword slicing. Hardly a fatal blow.

The same could not be said of Elias’ sword, buried to the hilt in her chest, however. Her breathing became ragged, her left arm dropping her mace and she staggered back, as Elias withdrew his sword from her. She couldn’t even see him. All she could feel was warmth flowing out of the hole in her, being replaced by… C-cold… Is this what it’s like, for other races? This is what the cold is? Not invigorating… but so draining... She swayed on her feet, unsteady, planting her sword into the ground and leaning on it to avoid toppling over, some of her own words from four years prior burst into her mind. "May you die on your feet! Die on your back, or your front, and know disgrace eternal." Why? Why do I even care? It’s so cold… I… I don’t want to… want to die...

The light in her one remaining eye went out. Her body stood, briefly. But then, slowly, the corpse that was once Ineria Aluriest toppled silently backwards, falling into the yearning fog and was gone from sight.



Kooroo -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (8/4/2018 18:15:41)

One more thrust, and then it was over. For the first time that day, his blade found its intended mark on his target, tearing through their top and impaling her through the chest. A moment passed, and the sword barked, announcing Elias’ triumph.

He gritted his teeth and pulled on his sword, its hum filling the air once freed from his enemy’s chest. Then he stepped back and waited, watching as the life faded from the warrior’s remaining eye; as their body swayed; as they began to slump and then finally, collapsed backwards into the mists.

Elias scanned around for the other competitors, then released his held breath, and gasped at the stinging pain in his side. He sheathed his blade and raised his hand to the primary source of his discomfort. His fingers traced along his enemy’s parting gift; a long and nasty slash across the side, where the armor opened up for his arm. A touch closer to the right, and the sword would have gone straight through his lung. He grimaced as he thought about it. He’d had some awfully close misses before, and that had certainly been one of the closest.

The wound was bleeding profusely, but it probably wouldn’t be fatal. Hopefully. He hadn’t any doubt of how Annette would react, though, and worried that she might avenge the fallen fighter.

Elias glanced at above the walls, at the mists that shrouded the stands. He’d hoped to have avoided any close calls, or any situations that might have worried his friends, but… Well, there was no doubt that they had seen that fiesta. It may have even been worse, depending on how good or bad their seats were, but he had no time to worry about that, or what he’d have to endure once he made it out. Lectures and probably a shouting with most of them, at the very least.

The other competitors seemed busy dealing with each other, so he probably wasn’t going to be attacked or ambushed unexpectedly. Still, there were another 6 competitors to deal with.

Elias scowled slightly with distaste. Though murder was typically in his job description, it wasn’t to say that he liked or condoned it. Whenever it came to work, the entire group never took on an immoral or unsavory task, no matter the pay. Money was important, but it didn’t define them, nor was the amount so important that they would stoop so incredibly low.

A few years back, he’d gotten into a difficult situation which had ended with him in a gladiatorial ring. Survival had been a challenge, but not wounding or killing any of the other participants had been arguably tougher. Almost none of the gladiators had been willing combatants on that stage. Most of them had been unwilling competitors like him, with hopes, dreams, homes, families and normal, ordinary lives that they wanted to get back to.
He felt a pang of guilt and glanced at his recently deceased foe. Would anyone miss them, wherever they came from?

This was different, he reminded himself. All the competitors were here by their own choice. They all knew the risks involved and all had their own goals—and their own wish. Elias had heard the stories, champions past and victims slain. Not all of the people in the Arenas would have done the same amount of research or follow up, and a few might not have heard of the horror stories. But everyone knew what they were here for and what they were willing to pay for it.

After all, what sort of idiot would enter by accident? Was that even possible?

A dull, aching throb had begun to spread through Elias’ left arm. Elias looked down, and immediately saw the problem; a sharp, shard of metal that had stuck into his forearm. Judging from the fact that he could still move his fingers painlessly, it must not have stuck too deeply. Still, the jagged piece of shrapnel looked especially sharp, and it had penetrated the metal guard of his gloves by accident. He looked over once more to the corpse.
Did she spit this at me...?

This was probably going to hurt. He was hesitant to remove the metal piece without knowing how large it was, or how deep it had gone. Probably not too deep.
But at the same time, he couldn’t risk another foe hitting it deeper into his, which would definitely ruin his hand’s mobility and dexterity. Elias gritted his teeth, and then grasped the metal fragment with crimzon-soaked fingers. The young man counted to four, and then wrenched.

The shard flew out, and a small wash of blood came with it, but besides a short, but agonizing spike, the pain wasn’t as bad as he had expected. Aside from a dull throb and a stabbing feeling when he clenched, it didn’t make him want to amputate at the elbow. Which would have to do.

Elias regarded the scrap of metal, holding it up to the moon’s light. For such a small thing it was strangely heavy. And it was sharp, of that there was no doubt. It looked like it was a piece of a larger weapon, but he wasn't sure, nor did he particularly care. What mattered was that he could probably do some damage with this, in a similar way as had happened to him. Maybe his opponent had left him with more than just wounds.

A final boon from a fallen foe… Sure, why not?.

This was when the pouches on his belt would have been useful, since they seemed like a good spot to keep a dangerously sharp piece of metal. The leather pouches hadn't been opened in over 13 years, however, and a quick check confirmed that they wouldn't be opening at that moment. So instead, Elias pocketed the sliver, and aligned it so it was flat against his leg. Once satisfied, the young blade-for-hire began the arduous search for his gun.



Starflame13 -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (8/5/2018 22:30:47)

Air chilled and goosebumps raised as the laughter returned to the arena, harsh as before. It echoed as it rolled out over the fog, cold and unnatural. The attention of those watching sharpened as the dance slowed, light and dark twining sensuously together as mist stilled and spectators held their breaths.

The fog rose up, past the hands and heads of the competitors, past the clouds that formed the boundary between fight and festival, filling the senses of combatants and witnesses alike.

Then the arena itself screamed. Light wrenched itself from the darkness, shadows tore away from the light that birthed them. The two divided, each coalescing into their own half of the arena, burning away cool mist and slick grass until the sigil of sun and moon blazed out from bare earth.

And when the chaos had stilled, when the dance had stopped, when their eyes had cleared, only a handful of the competitors remained. The Elemental Lords had chosen their Paragons. The Finale was about to begin.



roseleaf320 -> RE: =EC 2018= Twilight Arena (9/2/2018 23:29:28)

I trudged out of the arena, feeling defeated and confused. What do I do now? Why did I even come here in the first place? I’m a sixteen-year-old girl. An Elemental Lord wouldn’t have seriously chosen me to fight in the final competition, I don’t know why I ever believed he would. Uncle and parents probably weren’t even watching, and if they were, what were the odds they’d randomly choose my arena to watch? It’s all been for nothing. This was useless. And I was, frankly, pretty stupid.

I’d wandered absentmindedly to the plaza where I’d first met Cass (a nickname I’d given her- I’d started to feel insensitive just calling her “the deaf person” in my head). It was deserted now, with practically everyone in the city rushing to get a good seat for the Finals. The finals I wasn’t in, I thought sheepishly. But if the plaza was deserted, what was that sound? Like a rock slide, or firecrackers. As I stood searching for the source of the noise, a small crowd emerged from the corner opposite myself. Only around five or six people, with Cass at the head. And they were all clapping.

“Are you really only sixteen? I’m sixteen!”

“Bei you looked awesome out there! You stood up to those grown-ups like it was nothing!”

“You’re so brave, I wanna be just like you when I grow up!”


Were they really talking to… me? To the kid that had just failed? Done nothing? But they made it sound like I’d done something incredible. I guess… it was pretty cool that I even got into the arena at my age. And that I hadn’t died or broken any bones. But… to these kids I was a role model.

Cass smiled at me, the expression flowing calmingly over my body like a waterfall. “Good job, little one.” Even though she’d only motioned the saying, I could almost hear it in my mind as clearly as if she was speaking to me herself. Tears streamed down my face and I ran straight to her, jumping into her open arms. I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so glad.

Maybe, in the end, I’d gotten something better than I ever could have wished for.



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