RE: =EC 2019= Cellar Arena (Full Version)

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roseleaf320 -> RE: =EC 2019= Cellar Arena (7/28/2019 18:48:28)


Five.

Ice slid towards stage right, slowing to a halt at the boxer’s feet. Piercing screams still echoed in Bassareus’ ears, though the source had long stopped. They served as a reminder of the shrill warning of the blades, gone for now, but which had come so close to Bassareus’ flesh.

Four.

Advancing towards the boxer, Bassareus noticed his right arm hanging limply, dripping blood onto the otherwise clean stone floor. He was turned away from Bassareus, instead facing the beautiful Angel. Had she somehow done that much damage to the man, across such a distance?

Three.

Smoke billowed behind his opponent, a small attempt at diversion while his attention was elsewhere. In the end, it probably wouldn’t matter.

Two.

A giant hand shot towards the Angel, slamming down hard onto her fragile body. Would she, too, be thrust into the blades?

One.

Now about halfway between his starting point and the brawler, Bassareus crouched down, his fingers brushing the floor. Waiting. Watching.


Zero.

The trophy burst, sending shards flying through the air. The magician’s arm curved upward, a wall of ice appearing just in time to fracture under the impact of pieces of the shattered prize. In moments everything was over, the shield falling to the ground and cracking. All that could was returned to the magician’s body. In the end, his left limb was entirely intact again, while his right hand was a patchwork of flesh, ice, and pure air.

The image of the Angel, jerked around by this man, seemed stuck in his mind. She had caused a distraction somehow, and wound up getting the brunt of the man’s focus as a result. If she died here, she would have sacrificed herself just to save a man she didn’t know.

It seems to be my turn, then, to return the favor. Fly away, pretty angel.

Leg became a dragon’s tail, curled and elongated, and Bassareus kicked low into the smoke, aiming to hit his opponent’s ankles. The boy had sent two already into the blades. Now it was his turn to kiss their lines.



Kellehendros -> RE: =EC 2019= Cellar Arena (7/28/2019 21:30:45)

It was good to be back on the battlefield.

The scale was small - at least when compared to many of the engagements Sark Ynet had fought over the years. But the war cries, the screams of agony… They brought a smile to his face, though in truth it was more a baring of teeth than any expression of mirth. All that was missing was the scent of burning, dust and grit on the wind.

--Blood and bone. Life and limb. It was always like this, o Dragon mine.--

Had it been? Betimes it was hard to remember. Over the years many details of his memory had blurred, edges softening against time’s unyielding armor. And yet, some memories sparked still, fierce and sharp like goads.

“Disdain no tool that comes to hand, boy.” What irony, though his father saw it not. To give his son such advice, only to tell him the ring was forbidden fruit. “A Dragon serves the God-Emperor with all he is and all he has. A day will come when a hard choice will be given. A man hesitates, a Dragon chooses.”

So he had chosen, set his course, each decision laid down in service of his desires.

And now, he wanted the knife-ear's blood. And yet... And yet there was a choice here. Mismatched eyes, one flesh and one stone, swept through the Cellar as he halted. Why should he settle for a dram from the swordbearer when he might quaff deep of her, and the others?

The scarred one was down, swatted from the air. Her assailant might have been the fop with the riotous hair, or perhaps it was another. Sark Ynet’s gaze passed swiftly by, and it made little difference in the end. How and why were less important now than where. Particularly as the popinjay slid something across the stone at the slender man, and then followed to engage hand-to-hand.

Closer by, the husk advanced upon the abomination, which cried out a denial in answer to the knife-ear and closed to strike. In the downed woman’s hand a blade glowed, warning patterns of light dancing along its surface. Pretty, but useless against the construct’s reach.

A brabble of sights and sounds, and yet within the maelstrom of chaos there was order. Unlike the wild melee upon its surface, the tile-bound pattern was perfect, pure; a structured set where each element was precisely the same, divided just so by four intersecting lines. The dead-lines. So clear, so stark, so… purposeful.

Had they known, those architects of these bloody spaces, had they foreseen how something so simple and elegant as a crimson line would draw the eye? Did they realize that those who did battle here would be drawn to them, so different from the unrelieved starkness of the rest of the Cellar?

Mayhap they did. Sark Ynet was not about to argue the convenience of the matter either way. Like moths to flame, the combatants in the arena gathered along the dead-lines, and who was he to let such a lovely opportunity pass him by?

The wiry man pivoted, ranseur twirling about his hand into a reverse grip. Twas wrong, perhaps, to use it in this way, casting it off - like spear or javelin - when this polearm was meant to gracefully catch and deflect blades. But then, the throw was short, and his target was very large. Hefting the weapon up, Sark Ynet flung out his left arm to counter-balance himself, scattering dusty motes into the air once more. One step, two, a skipping leap, and he hurled the ranseur at the western plate with a shout of effort.

Metal clashed, the siren roared, and the Dancing Blades departed on their destined courses.

Here there were no ashes, no burning, only the dust that fell from Sark Ynet's umbral limb. But in conflagration's absence, the bouquet of blood would yet suffice.



Dragonknight315 -> RE: =EC 2019= Cellar Arena (7/28/2019 21:47:54)

Screams echoed across the killing floor. Morrigan’s head throbbed with agonizing pain, her heart beating in her skull as she clung to life. She rolled her head back and forth, trying to glimpse her assailant's shadows beyond her sword’s crackling light.

Another scream, much closer than the last. A flicker of movement from both sides. The sirens wailed once again, announcing the presence of the blades.

No more chances.

Morrigan closed her eyes and placed her head on the ground, focusing solely on the blade in her grasp. In this moment, they were one, their fates tied together. She entrusted all of it to the blade— her mana, her will, her hopes and dreams. Her skin pulsed with burning energy, the aura flowing from flesh to metal, the blade growing brighter and brighter.

If you knew what I did, you would understand. Death is the ultimate end; I’ve seen it, this ‘afterlife.’ Silence is no paradise.

Freedom from that fate is worth any cost. I will not die here today.

With one final shout, Morrigan raised her blade high into the air as it overloaded with mana.

“O ancients of my paradise, release the bolts from the heavens!”

As she spoke, the light of the blade condensed to a single point at the tip. It flowed down the edge of the blade and into Morrigan.

Release.

At once, the sound of thunder echoed in the Cellar as a bright flash erupted from Morrigan’s being, a blinding teal in every direction. The air rushed outward, carried by the wave of raw force and energy. As the sand sphere collided with the wave, it was deflected away, crashing against the ground.

The bright light continued onward, its lethality decaying fast, but not fast enough. The jagged man had moved away, but the crystal and the elemental were just within reach.

But Morrigan knew not of these things. She opened her eye to the blinding teal light around her, slowly fading away. Suddenly, another light arose and pierced through her curtain of lightning.

A flash of crimson.

The scythe carved along the middle of her through, the blade piercing her throat and filling it with blood. Her mouth went wide to scream, but the scythe had taken her voice. Her blade fell from her hands and clattered to the side. Her head soon followed.

No. . .

She had been here once.



superjars -> RE: =EC 2019= Cellar Arena (7/28/2019 23:58:12)

A new weapon was always exciting. Seeing it move through the air. Discovering how it felt, how it performed. There was nothing quite like it— and to experience all of that in the heat of battle was exhilarating. The melodic tones of her connection with the forest spirit thrummed within the woman, sparking creativity and purpose.

A flash of white in the distance drew the shaman's attention to a distant shattering. She could make out ice crystals from the center of the arena. Around the same time, the armored foe threw an attack at the glowing combatant. What was it going to take for the others to take the shaman seriously? To face her in combat? At this point, it was just insulting.

She spun the wooden hoop about her arm, pushing herself north to intercept the crystalline creature. The daggers danced upon the withy surface of her rotating creation. While maintaining control of Xalia, she could manipulate the wood. On each pass, she slowly adjusted its size and shape, gaining finer control over its movements.

The klaxon call wove with the notes of the song around her, now a familiar tone. She glanced downwards to see the death lines, one a few steps behind and the other several feet to her left. Shandrae was still preoccupied with the rapidly encroaching blades when a new sound entered her senses: a thunderclap echoing from the left. She slid to a stop as Zacile cried out in warning, its form blown away by cascading energy.

Xalia fell silent as their bond dropped and the shaman reached out to the desert spirit, right before the wave slammed into her, casting her small frame upward and backward. Inertia sent her head slamming into the floor upon landing, a whiplash impact against the unforgiving floor. Shandrae blinked through fuzzy vision, fighting to retain consciousness.

The half-elemental groaned as she pushed herself onto her side, staring hazily towards the source of the blast, the motionless, bleeding form of the harbinger of electricity. Lurching to her feet, Shandrae clumsily rushed to retrieve her weapon so as to face her opponents anew. Well, let's not do that again.



Necro-Knight -> RE: =EC 2019= Cellar Arena (7/30/2019 20:59:38)

Roth withdrew his arm as quickly as he’d extended it and the spell traveled towards the mad woman with merciless speed. As it did, the woman seemed to be gathering everything she was, everything she had, and unleash it purely for wanton destruction. As much as his rage burned behind his sapphire body, his soul burned brighter to continue living, to go on and be rid of this cold and unfeeling prison.

As he’d already suspected she was preparing something, another spell was already flowing down his arms, but the distinct sound of shattered ice drew his focus long enough to slow his formation of his shadow guard and he nearly missed the most satisfying thing Roth had seen since he’d been awakened from his slumber. Even as he brought his arms up to begin forming his guard from the mana flowing in his forearms, the hooked spell cut deep and clean into the woman’s throat, sending her falling back even as she sent her own spell flying out in every direction.

He smiled even as the blast of lightning and pure force arced towards him, clearly seeking the most conductive object in the room, and he was knocked off his feet as his half-formed guard fragmented from the violent impact of the spell. The voltage bit and burned across his body as he landed hard on his side and rolled a few feet, the servos and metallic muscles beneath his outer chassis shaking the same way any living being would, and Roth finally understood the true state of his existence. The pain was not enough for him to let darkness wash over him, but it was the first human sensation he had experienced since the war, since he’d lost his mortal flesh… and if he could’ve been pushed to tears, he would’ve welcomed them without shame.

He felt something. It was pain beyond anything he’d experienced except for in his final moments of the war, but he felt it, true as the day sun and he felt his soul swell with excitement and hope. In her dying moments, she had gifted him the greatest thing possible, for if he could feel pain even in this form, surely he could be restored to his former self? As he fought his shaking body to sit up, Roth suddenly waved a shaking hand involuntarily at something that hadn’t been there before. Words, or what he assumed were words, flashed over and over across the corners of his vision in crimson letters. While he could not make out the language, he’d seen enough war machines go down on both sides of his battlefield days to understand that was not a good sign, hope aside.

You felt pain… that also means something is wrong, so don’t get stupid. Stupid gets you dead, soldier.


Not quite done trembling enough to rise to his feet, Roth settled for a knee and realized the blades had gone by again as he’d been flying across the arena and was hit with a sudden wave of relief that he hadn’t continued his approach. Nearby, the walking plant didn’t seem to be faring much better, though he hadn’t noticed her approach into the blasting zone of the mage’s last act.

She could’ve just saved your life, soldier… maybe I’ll thank her when this is all over.



Kellehendros -> RE: =EC 2019= Cellar Arena (7/30/2019 23:27:52)

Hard on the heels of the siren came a full-throated cry - one last scream of defiance from the knife-ear, followed by tumult of thunder that deafened the howling klaxon. Azure light washed the walls beyond, and Sark Ynet felt a wave of force crash against his planted leg. His knee buckled, folding from the blow and staggering him before the pressure burst’s expansion gathered up the wiry man and hurled him after his ranseur.

As though the impulse of the strike was not enough, it was accompanied by dancing tendrils of lightning that struck with serpentine speed, licking over the chain of his armor and turning his flight into a tumbling whirl of spasming limbs. Blood filled the jagged man’s mouth as he bit into his tongue, jaw snapping closed as his muscles contracted and seized. Thankfully, both electricity and blast proved short lived, dumping Sark Ynet in a careless heap at the foot of the western plate. Well and good that might be, but the general ache suffusing his extremities - and the ringing in his ears - attested that there was little enough to be grateful for. Only, perhaps, that he had not been closer to the swordbearer when she triggered the lightning-laced detonation.

“Found one thinks he’s a drake, eh?” The mocking voice came, as always, from above him. A Tarikan commoner. Sark Ynet had never known his name. “Not much fang, eh, Rodekian?” Rodekians and Tarikans struck and shoved for advantage about them. But the line had been holding.

The wiry man’s umbral arm lifted, and then fell back to his chest, a flare of old, remembered pain carving across the limb where flesh and shadow met. He hawked blood, lips drawing back in a rictus of fury.

--I would not see you fall here.-- They had come softly, those words, and it had seemed as though he had all the time in the world to consider them, as the axe that had taken his arm spumed bloody arcs and labored up a stuttering inch at a time. --I have watched a long time, o bearer mine. I have seen the nisus of your journey, the desires of your heart.--

Sark Ynet’s dark hand twitched, fingers elongating into demoniac claws that scrabbled against the tile floor. The battered digits of his right hand would not answer his command. There was another pain, a radiant heat throbbing down his human arm.

--I can save you. If you allow it.-- The axe had reached its apogee as the line buckled, Tarikans surging forward with howls of victory. --The Empire will endure. All I ask is a little blood.-- Within his blazing skull the voice sounded… amused. --A little more, that is.--

It was the ranseur. He had fallen on it - been driven onto it, more truthfully - with the weapon’s head braced just so that all of his weight had met the foreshortened spike, driving it into the flesh of his shoulder. Teeth grinding, he forced his limbs to obey, reaching behind himself to grip the polearm’s helve with his left hand and then jerking back. Agony sizzled up his arm and across his back, followed by the slow, warm trickle of blood.

Accepting the spirit’s offer had hardly hurt. And, say true, how could he have done otherwise? In his hand was a tool such as the Empire had never known, and Sark Ynet had told his men nothing but what they already knew. The line could not falter, not before the Dragons arrived with the main force of the Imperial Army. And so the deal was struck. There was but a brief burning sensation, as of a knife being drawn down his right shoulder, across his back to his left hip. And as the axe descended Sark Ynet had an arm again. Not just any arm, but one made of swirling shadows.

A bark of laughter tumbled from the jagged man’s lips as he flogged himself to his knees, spitting another wad of blood to stain the Cellar’s floor.

He had laughed, reaching up, catching the Tarikan’s axe in a grip of iron. “To me, Rodekians!” His voice had been thunder, the roar of a dragon promising fury and retribution to the stunned commoner above him. A twist, the bite of metal into flesh, and he had stood over his would-be slayer, ululating his blood-hazed invincibility to the sky as the Tarikan dogs came, came to die by axe and sword. “A drake, a drake! To me, Rodekians. Not one step back, and let the debt be paid!”

They came.

The Tarikans paid.

His smile was a crimson horror as Sark Ynet lifted the ranseur with his left hand, using it to lever himself to his feet. At his right side the arm hung limply, fingers twitching as he growled through the pain and demanded they attend. Reluctant they were, but respond they did. His human hand gripped the haft of the polearm lightly as his left leveled the weapon in the direction of the construct.

Feet planted solidly, the jagged man fixed his gaze on his next opponent. “Seems we’ve broken the knife-ear,” he rasped. “You’ll not find me so easy, abomination.”



superjars -> RE: =EC 2019= Cellar Arena (7/31/2019 20:01:48)

The woman snarled at the arena. This cursed place had been nothing but trouble since the fighting had begun. Despite her best efforts to feel the rhythm of combat, to sing the song of her element, it seemed as if all worked against the shaman. She closed her eyes momentarily, letting a few deep breaths pass between her lips, slow and calming. She reached out for Xalia, who responded with airy tones as they made their connection. She had been trying to experiment with her spirits, potentially gain an advantage with something her opponents had not yet experienced. But that time was over. Her desert spirit was out of reach. The new weapon showed no sign of granting her what she sought. It was time to return to basics.


The sounds of shouting echoed from the nearby woods, giving the shaman a sense of how swiftly her pursuers approached. The band of cutpurses had stumbled upon her camp purely by accident and she had expended the powers of her three spirits to allow her to slip away from them. She ran onwards, taunting jeers and whoops of laughter pursuing her through the trees.

A clearing opened up in front of the woman and she burst into it, looking around wildly for which direction would lead to freedom. She slid to a stop in the center of the clearing, next to the stump of what must have once been a massive tree. Behind her, several figures skulked at the perimeter of the space, spreading out with sneers on their faces and beady eyes affixed upon her unnatural appearance.

“‘Oy there, creat’re,” a voice sneered from behind, causing her to twirl in fear as she realized there were more here than she had realized. “Why don’ you come wiv’ us? We promise we won’ hurt ya.”

Emboldened by the man’s words, the figures started to move out of the gloom and into the clearing, one from each cardinal direction, slowly advancing as they brandished terrible weapons. Shandrae tried to back away, but tripped over a branch and fell next to the stump, her hand coming to rest upon its surface.

Her awareness was suddenly filled with music, pulsating through her fingers and down into the core of her body. It spread like wildfire to all extremities, filling her body with its essence. She recognized this feeling: an ancient spirit still resided within the stump, the last remnants of the life forces of the tree which once stood there.

In her desperation, Shandrae reached out to the forest being, promising it continued existence in exchange for a measure of its power. A note of hesitation thrummed through the shaman’s mind as the spirit assessed her worth. She opened her eyes, watched the bandits close in on the center of this space. She cried out in panic to the three spirits which floated around her. But none made a sound, too exhausted to even attempt a connection.

She placed her hands back on the stump and felt it respond. The ancient energy had made its decision about the young woman, ready to form a bond. She closed her eyes and reached down towards what remained of the ancient tree. The wood pulled out of the ground and flowed up to meet her hands, straightening out into a quarterstaff. Gasps of surprise sounded throughout the clearing as she stood up and opened piercing brown eyes that stared down the leader, weapon held to her side glowing with power.

“Not worth it, men,” the leader coughed out, backing away, nearly stumbling over a grouping of vines that had appeared behind him. As the shaman glanced at the other three directions, they were also facing down dangers that had previously not existed. Gaes, Ferrul, and Vezzin shone with new life from within their material, now floating up to surround their master.

My name is Xalia, Great Tree of the Northern Forest, her new spirit sang into the clearing. The bond is made. Share with me your life, and I will protect you from harm. The light surrounding them dissipated and she was left alone with the four, safe.


To her right, the crystalline figure knelt, seemingly equally affected by the unconscious fighter’s wave of destructive force. Forward was the strange-armed one, who had somehow been impaled by their weapon. As she watched, the ranseur was painfully removed, and the man struggled to his feet, holding it aloft. The shaman thought that her time had finally come, but as the words of challenge spat towards the other, Shandrae could feel the anger welling within her. The cascading notes of Xalia’s song crescendoed with the fevered pitch of the woman’s rage as a bestial cry ripped forth from her throat.

“You… will ignore me... No longer!” she screamed at the man, bursting forward with the hoop of wood held in her hands. Vines and daggers fell away, released by the changing form as the wooden mass pulled tighter, elongated, and became a familiar weapon in her hands. This dark-armed bastard might be proficient with his ranseur, but she had spent countless hours working with Xalia. She rushed across the red line, the rest of the arena falling away. Closing the distance quickly, she slid her hands upon the knotted surface of her spirit, finding her grip, preparing for the attack. Her body coiled as she arrived, instinctively getting low to the ground to afford the man a minimal target for counterattack.

The woman made a feint to the left, trying to draw the man’s attention, then sprang to the right, cupping her weapon and thrusting the wooden shaft up towards his abdomen. She had every intention of allowing her momentum to carry her farther along that path, skidding by the man to the north, preparing herself for the next counter. Finally, she was within the thrill of battle. Finally, her song would be heard.



draketh99 -> RE: =EC 2019= Cellar Arena (7/31/2019 23:10:58)

Inhale. Exhale. It burns a bit. The musk, catching and twirling about, competing with the floral afterscent. That was the amber, wasn’t it? Then the cherry and spice working in powerful unison to catch beneath the eyes and lift. The dragon’s blood resin did its work. Sickeningly sweet, the aroma of citrus clouded the mind before clearing again, rolling waves of fuzzy consciousness and rude awakening.

Round glass flasks over small flames. Steam wafting off a blue liquid, leaving a much darker and vicious product. Are one of those burning? Only a bit. A little bit won’t matter.

A small black cast iron pot now glowing around the bottom. Kraken tallow takes a while to reduce, doesn’t it? Good, too fast and it may ruin, it’s not easy to get.

This is all coming together nicely, everything is much quicker than it seemed like it would be. Does the dragon’s blood affect time? It isn’t impossible. Pressure behind the tongue, it’s hard not to gag when the smells mix. Tallow to syrup to glowing ash, then pulverized ginseng to bind it all together. Just the smell of the mixture refuses to leave the tongue, a hint of something that just won’t leave.

It’s finally ready. It’s been measured, marked, and sectioned off. There’s some paper to write it down and a small stopwatch to record the time. Time… It’s time…

….

Everything tingles a bit, a buzzing in the back of the skull that flits with unfamiliarity. Air feels lighter, easier, richer. It burns just a little bit. Where does it burn? Everywhere.

….

The stopwatch is going now, at least the minute hand has moved a bit. When did it start? It’s much further than it was. It feels amazing though, everything seems so light. Arms and legs move about with no weight, no resistance, no effort. Light is brighter though, so much brighter. How long has everything been so detailed? It’s dizzying.

….

There are so many of them now. The hands all float around the room effortlessly. They clean, sort, sift any number of things. Some of them are large, some smaller, a few are absolutely massive. There’s just so, so many. They all work. They all work.

….


Glass breaks, wood cracks, foundation shakes, and tiles clatter to the floor. They’re so strong, stronger than they’ve ever been before. They glow so bright. Glowing, it all glows, doesn’t it? Strong, so strong. So strong, so strong, strong, strong, strong, burn.


….

Burning. It burns now, like it was, but more now. Control will have to win, focus will have to win. Fighting it works. No it doesn’t. Everything’s far too bright now. Arms feel like bursting, fingers spark. Are those sparks real? It’s impossible to tell. Pressure behind the eyes, close to bursting. Copper on the tongue, slowly branding.

It’s a lot now, it’s far too much. Far, far too much. The world shakes, flits, and twirls. It needs to stop, it all needs to stop right now. The hands are just as erratic. They’re angry hornets, their stingers bruise. There’s no controlling them now, there’s no control left.

Stop stop stop stop, it won’t stop. It’s far too much and it won’t stop. The world spins like it did, but faster. Copper has leapt off the tongue. It’s red now, there’s so much red. Where did all the red come from?

It hurts so much, the pressure behind the eyes wants to burst. The sparks on the fingers no longer fly, they coil like serpents.
The dizziness needs to stop. The world’s fading now, everything keeps blurring. Everything’s blurring much more than it should. Colors are dripping, dripping and disappearing. They’re going somewhere. Everything goes with them. They’re in a tunnel, everything’s at the end of the tunnel. The tunnel keeps getting longer and longer and longer and longer and longer and longer and longer and longer.

Perhaps sleep will help.

Another blurr, then nothing.



“Where in the hells is he?” Diana’s mind raced. “I can’t believe he’d miss this. He promised. He promised.

She raced through the alleys, brushing each and every wandering body out of her way. She took each and every turn along the path she knew by heart.

“Maybe he slept in? He’s been studying for that entrance exam a whole lot lately. I really hope he passes this time. It’d be so wonderful for us to be at the academy together. He must have fallen asleep.”

She turned the final corner, the familiar old shack of a house now sat in sight. She cleared the makeshift fence, reaching the door.

“I can’t believe he slept in, I swear I’m gonna kill him. I’m really gonna kill him.”

The door was locked, though she clearly didn’t mind. A swift kick popped the latch right out of the frame. She would fix it later. She cleared the entry room, only briefly noticing the state around her.

“What’s he been doing here?” She asked herself. “Even that old picture of his mom and dad? He’d never…” Diana quickly strode over and picked the small picture frame off the floor, dusting off what broken glass she could before setting it back on the wall. She turned and quickly strode back to his door, turning the knob. This one was locked too. “What the hell is he doing back here? And… is something burning?”

The air froze in her chest as Diana looked down, noticing a small dark puddle that stuck to her feet. She quickly launched her shoulder at the door, splintering frame and latch alike. The metallic and musty stink met her senses, dragging tears from her eyes. Burnt tallow, old ashen incense, and the sandy smell of shattered glass.

“Jaxdon what on earth did you d-” The phrase caught in her throat as she dropped to her knees and scooped the boy up, tears welling in her eyes.

“No, no no no! What did you do?!” She quickly checked and ran her hands all along his body, across his skin. She checked for bruises and desperately searched for a pulse. “Cold… Why is he cold? What would make him cold? What did he do?!”

Diana bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, forcing herself to calm and to think. She lifted Jax and walked over to one of the low, wooden workbenches. She kicked every flask, bottle, and tome on the table and quickly. She rushed over to his bookshelf, tearing tomes away until the right one caught her interest. She rushed back and knelt by Jax’s side, murmuring as she thumbed through the pages. She gasped in ever so slight relief as the recognized the incantation seal.

Diana traced her fingertip over the blood etched sigils on the page as she loudly announced the incantation.

“From the sprites of the storm and serpent that sails the sky, I pray for favor and command lightning to his form!”

Her eyes lit up, glowing blue for a moment as white hot sparks shot from her hand as she hovered her palm over Jax’s chest. The scent of burning flesh stung her nose as his form lurched, spasming for only a moment. Diana quickly ripped her hand from the sigil in the book, ending the sparks. She watched him closely. His eyelids fluttered and his chest twitched.
She followed with a firm, sharp strike to the solar plexus. Jax gasped. That gasp was beautiful. Gasping was breathing. He was breathing now.

Diana knelt over the boy’s chest and wept.



Jax clutched at his forehead. The world was spinning, his ears were ringing, the entire world felt so hot. That heat made even more absurd by the searing cold that pricked his skin. A cough forced the clogged air from his lungs. That cough sent searing pain up his chest. He sat up, though a few loud clicks inside his body nearly prevented him from doing so.

“What….What on earth was that…?” He murmured out loud. The world slowed and quickened far too much for him to worry about how long he was sitting there, or who else heard him. Memory of the past few moments slowly crept back into his skull, cautious to return after such a trauma.

“Th- the trophy… It exploded?” Jax looked down at his body, shard of ice lacerated and stuck into his skin. The sharp contrast of hot blood and cold ice exasperated the burning sensation. Every wound throbbed with pain in time to his heartbeat. He looked back up, noticing he was several feet from where he had been standing.

“I fell to the ground… Then…. A dragon’s tail?” Jax looked up and around the room. There were blurred shapes all about, yet none of them dragons. Jax tried to stand, yet his body wouldn’t. A sharp pain and a slip sent him onto the ground. A high yelp escaped him as he landed on his mangled hand. He looked down at the ground, horrified to find that he’d slipped on his own blood.

“Oh… No. No no no no….” Jax gulped as panic set in. That puddle was quite a bit. Jax quickly slipped his good hand all over his body before a cold sensation allerted him to finding the right spot. Pressure felt cold against his inner thigh, right next to an icy spike that had cracked and fallen apart. Just seeing the blood rush out of the wound brought him to the brink of becoming sick all over himself. He shivered and forced it back, forcing himself to think. His focus was now but a flickering ember.

“What can I do? I have to stop it, I have to get out of here… I have to-” Jax’s hand slipped over his pouch. He felt the chalky cubes roll around under the leather. “I have to…” Jax unclasped the pouch and brought a small cube to his lips. The musky, sweet smell nearly made him sick again. That smell brought it all back.

It was all right in front of him again. The musk, the buzzing, the energy, the floating. He remembered the strength, the focus, but then the burning, the dizziness. He remembered the world fading. He remembered a tunnel before the entire world went dark. And when the world finally did return, Diana was crying. He hadn’t seen her smile since.

A tear rolled down Jax’s face as he put the cube away. He snapped his fingers six times in a star pattern, barely able to mumble out a coherent incantation. Six hands appeared out of their respective glowing sigil gates.

Three of these hands rushed to his side, tearing at his clothing and using it to tie off his leg. When the makeshift tourniquet was uncomfortably tight, all but one flew away. The last hand stayed behind and pressed down onto the wound, keeping searingly painful pressure upon it.

The remaining hands flew off rapidly, three towards Night and two at Bassareus, flailing wildly like uncoordinated and enraged hornets.

“I have to do this…” Jax whispered, looking at his two opponents. “I’m sorry, you two… I promised them I’d do this…”



Chewy905 -> RE: =EC 2019= Cellar Arena (7/31/2019 23:22:23)

Up.

She had to get up.

If she didn’t get up, she’d die. All of her effort, all of her training, all of the time Maled had spent drilling combat prowess into her, all would be wasted if she didn’t. Get. Up!

Her mind screamed at her in pain. Insisted her wings were broken. Insisted her legs had broken with them. That was a lie! Her body knew it was a lie! She could feel her legs. They hurt but she could feel them. But her mind refused to believe her. Her legs refused to move. Even though the weight was gone, the boys arcane hand missing from it's place upon her, the pain would not let her move.

The alarm rang. Loud. Clear. A harbinger of Nigh’s death. Her head was on the executioner's block, her throat begging to be opened completely, for the Lords to finish what had started a year ago.

Nothing would stop the will of the Lords.


She planted her arms, careful to keep her hands behind the red line. She tried to push, but her strength failed her.

One second passed. The blades flew.

UP!

All her strength and fear flowed to her arms, and she shoved. The blade passed. She watched it move down its blood red trail, cleaving directly where she had been moments before. Her hair, flung outwards with the force of her push, met the steel. It did not slow. White locks drifted to the ground, settling down gently. Nigh collapsed onto the line again, fatigue once again hitting her entire being. Her wings hung limply from her back, feathers dropping off at random. Her breathing was heavy, but silent.

In the distance, she could just barely make out the showman through her blurred vision, fighting into a cloud of smoke. The boy was nowhere to be seen. Had the showman saved her? Repaid her by diverting the attention to himself, as she had for him? And yet, he was risking his life again. It wouldn’t be long before he was once again forced onto the lines. She clawed her way forward along the ground. Each pull required all her effort, cracking her nails as they struck the stone floor. Excruciating pain shot through her body over and over again.

It was too much. The stone floor. The paneled walls. The showman. The red lines. The faint cries of the crowd. The pink hands, shooting erratically through the air above her. They all faded away as Nigh collapsed.


A rooftop.

A cursed man, skin black as the void.

She spoke, she soothed him.

He listened.

His hand tapped her lip, and he stepped back. Why?

Cold steel met supple flesh.

Blood scattered. Her dress, her wings, her skin. All stained with crimson essence.

She threw her head back, and screamed.

There was only silence.



But not this time.


Sound. Deafening, pained, fearful sound. The scream echoed around the cellar walls, danced along the red lines, and greeted the fans above. Her bow, discarded behind her, exploded into splinters of useless wood. Her shield followed suit, spraying metal shards across her that tore at her dress and skin, leaving a tattered garb fit for a ghost. A voice, dead for a year, had returned to greet the world with a command. It demanded mercy. It demanded distance. It demanded peace in this place of war. And, like the Lords, it would not be denied.



Kellehendros -> RE: =EC 2019= Cellar Arena (8/1/2019 0:01:46)

It was the construct to which Sark Ynet addressed himself, but it was the husk that answered. The vine-bedecked woman seemed to feel slighted in some respect, as though she had not been paid the attention that was her due by the other competitors in the Cellar. It was… just so laughably juvenile, this petty insistence upon being noticed, upon being… appreciated. Well and good, but her craving for attention and approval put him in mind of Letta, and that was not a subject that brought him joy. Still, this one would have her due he saw; the odd hoop in her hands came apart, morphing into a quarterstaff as the freakish woman charged.

He kept one part of his attention upon the abomination - it would not do to be caught out at this juncture - but focused the greater part of his vigilance upon the husk’s onslaught, letting her see his crimson smile. “My wife said those words to me once, little creeper.” There was mania in that rictus grin as he prepared to receive her. “I carved out her heart, for conspiring against me.”

If the words rattled her, the vine-clad one gave no sign of it, coming in low and hard. It was clear to the wiry man’s mismatched eyes that she was good. Her carriage, the ease with which she handled the weapon, her locked gaze, all made it apparent she was confident in her abilities.

Confidence was not expertise, but it was hallmark enough for him, enough that he ignored the quarterstaff’s distracting spin, the way its upper limb whisked through the air in a probing swing toward his left.

A feint.

There were two great downfalls when doing battle with an opponent, no matter who that foe might be. One was to give them too little credit, believing them inferior to you in skill or dedication. The other was to give them too much credit, assuming that they overmastered you or knew more than you did. The former could result in devastating reversals, as the Tarikan dog had discovered to his woe. The latter could result in paralysis, a crippling lack of initiative that let one’s enemy take the lead and set the steps of the dance.

It was a measurement Sark Ynet made in a moment, identifying the testing nature of the attack, divining his newest assailant’s intention. He needed no help from the insidious motes that continued to fall from his arm for this, only the benefit of his own years of experience and training. Infuriated though she may have been, the husk intended to assess him, to take measure of his own experience and the extent of his injuries.

Her true attack came hard upon the heels of the feint, a straight-ahead thrust from the lower limb of the creeper’s weapon. --Prevaricate,-- came the whisper in his mind, conveyed with the impression of a predator’s ripping teeth glinting in the dark. --Dissemble.--

But that had only rarely been his way. The jagged man judged the range of the strike precisely, rocking back half a step to slip from the attack’s reach, thereby casting his own lure. It was an invitation for his foe to extend, to reach and commit to the strike truly - and overreach, opening herself to reprisal. Sark Ynet was not surprised when she demurred, and his umbral hand twisted, looping the ranseur’s head up and sweeping it to the north. Metal and wood clashed, and he pushed his opponent’s thrusting weapon up and away.

With a dancer’s graceful pivot he squared himself to her, as the vine-clothed thing was borne north on the wind of her rush. Light glinted off harsh metal as he gave the husk his reply. Pushing his right arm forward with a snarl of pained effort he swung the end of the ranseur after her, shoulders heaving and driving the haft's cruel spike down at her trailing calf.

--How fickle love, o Dragon mine. Truly fitting then, that ever it ends in blood and pain.--

As if to accentuate the point, another scream of agony ripped through the Cellar. A woman’s voice, high-pitched, keening, and redounding from wall to wall. But Sark Ynet had heard a thousand such howls of mortal pain. What was one more, when he had watched - and smiled - as the city of Brenth rent itself to bloody tatters while his army sat encamped without?

No, loud it might be, and wretchedly annoying, but the jagged man and his jagged blade were set upon their course. Now it was the creeper’s turn to bleed.



Dragonknight315 -> RE: =EC 2019= Cellar Arena (8/1/2019 16:52:55)

Far away from the inner workings of the Cellar, Morrigan slowly opened both of her eyes. As she awoke and sat up, flashes from the previous battle flooded her mind, reaching for her throat with both hands, but there was no blood nor wounds. She gave a sigh of relief as her arms fell into her lap.

I’m safe?

A chill ran through her skin as she examined her body for any signs of damage, but to her surprise, all of her equipment was gone, replaced with an ivory gown that covered her whole body.

No. . .

Morrigan scanned her surroundings — no one. None of her competitors were present. Infact, nothing from before was present. To Morrigan, it was if she was floating in space among the stars, sitting on some force for solid ground. Countless clouds of light floated in all directions, flashing in an out of existence. For many, it would be the most beautiful sight that they had ever witnessed. Indeed, the first time Morrigan saw it, she thought so, driving her to tears.

This time, she also wanted to cry, for this beauty was her worst nightmare. Morrigan leapt to her feet and ran, her bare feet hitting the astral floor.

Morrigan ran, and ran, and ran to no avail. No matter how far she traveled, the vast expanse seemed to move with her, keeping her company. But for Morrigan, she had to keep going or else. . .

Lost in her panic, Morrigan dashed through one of the clouds of light, and for a brief moment, her will was not her own.

She felt love for a nation she knew no name for.

Sadness for the passing of a family she never had.

Anger towards an invader she never fought against.

Regret for a broken promise she never made.

She could see the moment that the person died. Broken, miserable on the bloodied ground of the battlefield, cannons ringing through the air.

But it was not just that one life that Morrigan experienced. No, she felt the lives that came before, all that the soul used to be. They were a soldier defending their home in that life. They were a conqueror the life before, a doctor and priest in another, a thief in yet another life, and so on since the dawn of the living.

All these lives had hopes, dreams, fears, regrets — she experienced all of them, all that made up their lives in an instant. It drove her mad, stumbling to her knees as she recalled the truth.

When I die, my soul will move on, just like everyone else's. When that happens, I’ll disappear. My ‘next life’ will be completely different, knowing not of my struggles and desires. There’s no such thing as a happy ending or an afterlife.

In death, I am undone, made meaningless.

Everyone’s lives were meaningless.

Her mind raced back to the expedition all those years ago — the weight of the rubble, the taste of smoke and fire, when she almost died. She awoke in this place, and when she realized the truth, Morrigan knew what she had to do.

She swore to never die.

Then, death had let her free. She awoke next to the entrance of the Tele’mare temple. The complex had completely caved in, leaving Morrigan nothing to show of her adventure save the blade in her hand. Her companions were nowhere to be found. She cared about neither. Her friends, the expedition, the academy — all of it paled in comparison to the singular goal in her mind.

Live. No matter the cost, she would live.

At first, her experiments were promising, extending her relative youth by years. But as the bodies piled up, the benefits were diminishing. It didn’t matter if she had another two-hundred years to live; she needed absolution.

And so, she found her way to Bren and its championship.

“If only they knew how shortsighted they were. Their wishes are fleeting. . .”

Morrigan looked to her hands with a sigh. “. . . but so am I.”

They were fading into the same cloud of light as the others. It had already claimed her fingers, slowly working its way down her palm and into her arm.

This was it. It was over. In her final moments, she gave one last scream to the universe.

To her surprise, it responded in turn.

A haunting scream pierced Morrigan’s ears, rousing her from her slumber. Her eyes went wide as she spat out the blood from her chest. Red still flowed from her wounded neck. Pain pulsed through her with every heartbeat, her back burning again from its wounds.

She was alive.

Her right eye glanced to her right. She couldn’t see the elemental, but the crystal was still there, focused on whatever was in front of him. She had to remain hidden.

With utmost caution and stealth, she slowly reached out for one of the longer scraps of her cloak. Hand quivering, she lifted her head and tied the teal cloth around the wound. It was a temporary measure, but one that would keep her awake. All she had to do was survive for a few more moments.

She would not go back to that place.



superjars -> RE: =EC 2019= Cellar Arena (8/1/2019 22:01:59)

A slight mistiming, some minuscule overcorrection on her part, and the proficiency of the jagged man had led to undesirable positioning in the battle that he could exploit.

Retreating from her thrust, the half-elemental left his false invitation unanswered, instead sidling to the right in hopes of gaining a step in their dance. Her movements were met with an additional push, but she readily spun around with its momentum to prepare for an attack from the side.

Catching her unprepared, a blur of movement from the vicious warrior as he pivoted behind her, simultaneously with a sharp cry that echoed through the arena. The woman froze, looking down instinctively to search for the dead lines. She quickly realized that this sound was unlike the klaxon call that sounded for the coming of the blades. It grated at her ears, reverberating through the arena. She felt the sting of pain and panic from each of her spirits as they reacted to the shrill cacophony.

A sharp pain interrupted her train of thought, pulsing within her leg. The jagged blade slid through flesh and into muscle, pain searing up her leg, knee nearly buckling as the shock of the strike reached her head. Her pulse quickened as the edges of her vision blurred.

Shandrae blinked through the sharp pain, digging her hands into the stave. It reshaped in her grip so that she could jam it back at the chin of the dark-armed combatant. If she gave him time or means, he would destroy her leg. Even against one foe, there would hardly be a chance to overturn such a disadvantage. Against two... No. She could not linger on the thought. Better to steel her resolve and keep it from becoming reality. I fight for my spirits. I fight for myself.



roseleaf320 -> RE: =EC 2019= Cellar Arena (8/2/2019 11:14:08)

Hands grabbed at Bassareus Laverne as he stepped to the stage, pulling him aside for an autograph, a kiss, a proposition. Two seemed stronger than the rest, pulling at his ankles, begging him to perhaps a more private location. Screams echoed against the tavern walls, the excitement proving too much for simple clapping at the appearance of such a prestigious magician. He stood, reveling in the praise and joy. He lived for moments such as this.

Soon it would end.

In the Trial of Dancing Blades, the hands were not kind, beckoning. The screams were not of excitement. Fingers wrapped around his arms and ankles, ready to mount his head into the guillotine’s crimson path. All around him, voices buckled in pain and fear, their viceral tones overwhelming his ears. This dance was no longer to impress the Lords. This was chaos. The darkest, most animalistic heart of mankind lay in this stone cellar.

Bassareus Laverne would be the one to destroy it.

The Angel’s despair seemed the most haunting of all, so cracked and sharp that it sent his body several feet backwards as it wailed. He fell to his knees, wanting nothing more than to weep for her, to wail with her. But his show had not ended yet, and he could surely take it back into his control. Weave beauty back into the chaos. And he must begin with the boy with magical fists. He had started all of this, the screams, the blades, the fear. Finally, Bassareus would finish off this intruder.

Their distance had lengthened since their last encounter, the boy now several feet north of Bassareus, on the other side of the crimson lines. It seemed he, too, had been moved by the sudden cry. But a quick run soon shortened the distance, and Bassareus stood face to face with his attempted murderer.

Concentration made time seem to slow. Slowly and purposefully, Bassareus reached out his arms. There would be no fist fight this time, for the boy seemed crazed, mumbling to himself and shivering. For a moment, Bassareus debated leaving him be and moving on to a more dangerous opponent. But a constricting of his lungs reminded him of just how dangerous this boy could be. Best to ensure his forfeit before thinking further.

At first, nothing seemed to happen. But shards of ice broke from Bassareus’ flesh- hands, arms, and shoulders joining into a new form. Tendrils, winding tightly around the boy’s body, small leaves revealing an ivy-like inspiration. A perfect trap, echoing the pain he himself had inflicted before.

A beautiful death.



Starflame13 -> RE: =EC 2019= Cellar Arena (8/3/2019 22:00:38)

With no touch to the plates and no warning of any kind, the siren once more began to scream. Louder and louder, its clangor subsumed all conscious thought and feeling - driving competitors to their knees with its force. Blood bubbled up from the grooves below, the crimson rivers soon overflowing to pool across the arena floor. Reaching out to every corner until there was no escape.

Then a flash - of light so bright that it hid the room from sight, or perhaps of shadow so deep that no eyes could pierce it. It cut through the scream, leaving behind a deafening silence. A disturbing stillness.

By the time the combatants recovered, the Cellar had returned to a pristine white. A spiral staircase now rose upwards from the center tile - an exit for those who chose to seek sanctuary from the tomb they stood within. But such a release was not for everyone, as only a handful of competitors remained.

The Paragons had been chosen, and the fight for Champion was soon to begin.



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