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ChaosRipjaw -> RE: =WPC 2020= Hellfire Battlefield (2/15/2020 15:18:47)
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Location: Fragrant Valley. The Demonslayers’ Inn.
Time: A few days later.
Situation: Anticipation
The soft aroma of sweet orange, peppermint, and lemon drifted in the breeze. Plants and vines grew along the paths, not trimmed but aligned naturally. Such is the way of the Dao.
A great white eagle dropped from the sky through the clouds. With a great cry, it swooped towards the balcony of the nearby inn. It was an odd place for an inn, overlooking the great valley. The sign at the entrance was emblazoned in Eastasian script: Demonslayer’s Inn.
On the balcony stood a person who looked like a young man with unkempt hair. Dressed in white robes, he had his hood pulled up, shadowing his eyes and pale face from the sun. The eagle spread its wings and came to a halt, landing neatly on his outstretched arm. He raised his hand and the eagle opened its talon, dropping a miniature scroll into his waiting palm. With another cry, it opened its wings and dropped down into the valley below, before catching a thermal and rising swiftly into the sky.
The young man opened the scroll. It had only two Eastasian script characters on it: “BEI SHAN.” North Mountain. He went absolutely still. Slowly, his hand closed into a fist, crushing the scroll.
Sariel Shadowlight, the Relic Guardian, the Xi Wai, turned his crimson eyes to the sky. “Caeos Essence,” he hissed through his elongated canines, “your day of reckoning is at hand.”
Location: Battlefield Hellfire
Time: Pain blurs the perceptionoftimeeverythinghurtsarrg---
Situation: Pain pain painpainburnsstabwoundpain---
Phase: 2
An outside observer would have thought that Caeos Essence was dead, killed by the lightning strike. Or rather, that Caeos Essence had vaporized, and had been replaced by some strange monstrosity that wore armor that seemed to warp and shift before the eyes as though mockingly leering any attempts to discern its details.
He lay limply, though his left hand was folded over the Sliiker’s hilt. The sheath twisted awkwardly under the folds of the clothes he had shed to manifest the Eldritch armor. Although his body was still, his mind raced through the haze of pain and fear.
Opponent one. The Nightcrystal. Tall woman, armored in crystals. Can create crystal blades from her flesh, which can be imbued with heat or acid. (What an overabundance of crystals.) Cause of two injuries thus far. Primary enemy.
Opponent two. The Little Rogue. Looks similar to a rabbit, but distinctively catlike. Yes, no, maybe so? Equipped with daggers. Uses explosives. Assisted in injuring Opponent one.
Opponent three. The lightning caller. The Stormcaller perhaps. Fires lightning bolts. Use of other elements unknown. Cause of two injuries thus far. Exercise extreme caution. Second primary enemy.
Opponent four. The Red Girl. Uses a katana. Was able to reflect a lightning bolt. Only possible candidate who threw the exploding projectile---
Wait.
A memory flashed into his mind, something that his ears had registered but his mind had not. In the first scuffle with the Nightcrystal, he dimly remembered hearing the Red Girl say, “Akabane, Yura. Yoros---” and she had cut off upon striking at the now dead pale man. All nonsense words, although he could’ve sworn it sounded like an introduction. Her use of the katana implied she was of the Eastern culture, particularly the Island Nation of the Far East, so he made his prediction: her name was Yura, and her surname was Akabane. Although he was versed in Eastasian languages --- and he was certain that she was of Eastasian origin --- the word she had said afterwards, “Yoros,” didn’t ring any bells, unless that was her middle name. But the manner of punctuation made this possibility doubtful. Interesting.
Then again, the Second Campaign had never made it that far, thanks to the retaliatory response by Hollow Lake’s army, so he’d never really made a thorough study of the Island Nation’s language.
Opponent four: Yura Akabane. Almost the cause of one injury thus far. Threat level unknown.
Something landed near him with a thud. He shifted imperceptibly and was surprised at what he saw. During the chaotic struggle earlier, apparently Yura had charged to attack the Stormcaller. If he had been judging her solely by her lightning deflection feat, he would have assumed that she would have made short work of the Stormcaller once she got into range. Apparently not; he had heard the crackling of electricity that preceded the sound of impact and knew that Yura had been hit.
He was lying in an awkward angle, with his head pointed towards the inner ring of fire. From what he could make out, it seemed that Yura had landed on top of the fiery ring. He noted with interest that she had not rolled out of the fire, involuntarily or otherwise.
Fire resistance?
The next thing he knew, there was a howl as the Stormcaller raised her staff, ready to bring it down on Yura’s head. A thought flickered in the back of his mind. Why would a magic-user not finish off her victim with a spell?
A yell of defiance interrupted his thoughts. Good girl, he thought. Something flew over him, a shape he now recognized. A bomb.
It was tempting to get up and strike, but he remained motionless. The last time he had decided to attack first, he had almost gotten disemboweled and dissolved, and had nearly taken a nuke to the back as well. The armor would protect him from catching the stray blast, assuming it were even stronger than the one that hit the Nightcrystal.
There was a bright flash of light and he heard cursing and sounds of a scuffle. From the direction of the sound, he predicted that the Stormcaller had taken a flashbang to the face. The detachment he was feeling suddenly shattered as his blood turned to ice.
The last thing you want to do is blind a spellcaster.
MOVE!
Fortunately, the moments of rest owed to playing dead had helped him tremendously. The sustaining aura surged as his center of gravity shifted violently to the side. The muscles in his limp right arm abruptly tensed as he flipped himself off the ground, using his arm as leverage. He spun counterclockwise, over the flaming barrier.
Just in time, as a crackle of lightning surged from the Stormcaller’s palm. Not just any typical lightning bolt either; this time an entire stream of electricity flowed from her hand in a cone shape, flooding the entire first ring.
It was fortunate he had moved when he did, otherwise he would have likely ended up as fried calamari.
Also just in time, as a claw nicked his back.
Caeos continued spinning and landed on his feet once again, Sliiker ready to draw.
He registered the tall, furry monster that had attempted to stomp on him, but dismissed it, his mind returning to the more important matter at hand. This was the third time she had attacked.
Opponent three: the Stormcaller. Cause of two injuries thus far. Relatively uninjured.
Apparently, she had blasted away blindly, hoping to kill any potential attackers. (He noted that the furry monster had taken the brunt of the blast, as its fur was singed and smoking.) Flashbangs were especially hard on the eyes, even if you managed to close them in time. Still, she was a mage; Crizox knew if she had spells to negate blindness.
Ordinarily he would have paused to take in the entire situation again. But this woman had nearly been the death of him three times now, and had nearly gotten away with all of them, unlike the Nightcrystal.
Primary enemy.
No time. His armor could protect him from the beast should it choose to strike. He drew his empty revolver with his right hand and hurled it to his right, making sure that it clanked hard against the dirt. At the same time, he silently danced to the left, took a step forward, brought both feet together, bent his knees, and leaped.
He did not utter a sound.
War is deception.
The Sliiker left its sheath and he transferred it to his right hand. If she took the bait and struck elsewhere --- anywhere but him --- or if she hesitated, she was dead.
If she saw him---
Hope is a sad thing.
Hesitation is defeat.
Like a hawk descending on its prey, he hurtled forward, ready to cleave the Stormcaller in half.
One way or another, this ends here.
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