=EC 2022= Forge Arena (Full Version)

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Starflame13 -> =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/17/2022 0:00:46)

Sunlight burst over the horizon, waves of blue rolling forth to subsume the fading curls of dawn. The golden rays slid across steel armor and threw sparkling motes of light along the edge of silvered weapons, marking out the fighters that moved amidst the throngs filling the city of Bren. Ozone still hung faintly in the air, the scent just detectable over the sizzling meats and heady spices of the food vendors that spilled into the streets. Shouts echoed and laughter rang across the squares, their fevered pitch growing louder with each newcomer that joined the festivities. From strangers to old friends, visiting nobles to lowly cutpurses, lone travelers and full caravans - all were drawn in by the Arena’s call.

Power hummed under the excited babble, a siren song that resonated throughout the entire city. Its notes dragged the crowd onward, through the gleaming city gates and across twisted streets of shops and inns. Onward, past grimy alleyways and grand courtyards and all the houses that stood between. Onward, up and over the final bridge to follow in the footsteps of Champions past, treading along the well-worn cobblestones of Supplicant’s Way. Onward, until the Complex itself stood before them; a looming gateway that swelled to fit the rising tide that surged towards it.

Here, the horde parted. Hundreds of spectators streamed towards the stands, shoving and jostling against each other in the hopes of achieving better seating. The handfuls of hopefuls instead found themselves alone. Whether by hired officials, their own finely-honed instincts, or by unseen magic itself, the Arena tugged them forward to their fate. A destiny written in bloodshed and carnage. A chance for one to stand victorious. A hope of earning a boon.

All that stood in their path now was the Arena itself - and the greatest fighters this world had to offer.

Smooth stone split with chips and cracks, a heavy heat now emanating from the jet-black bedrock that formed these halls. Brilliant, molten orange peeked out through fissures in the rock to show the way forward - though the magma dulled and hardened as soon as the competitors passed by. Even as the fires snuffed out, dying coals warmed the air to an unbearable temperature as they led to the final barrier. A wall of lava, flowing as smoothly as a waterfall, cascaded downwards and bathed the now-darkened hallway in an intense crimson glow. It pulled the last of the moisture from the air, cinders sizzling in the ashes at its base.

Ardor. Imbalance. Wrath. Ravage. Few can escape the eruption of an untamed Forge.

With a deep rumbling of stone, the curtain of magma slowed its fall, then ceased entirely to reveal the arena beyond. A cavern of rugged stone, walls and floor alike covered with criss-crossing crevices that leaked burning scarlet light. Smoke, thick and dark, choked the ceiling above - through which the faint roars of a muffled crowd reached those within.

Air and magma cooled together, veins of glowing warmth fading to dull, gray stone. Ashen clouds roiled down from the ceiling to envelope the combatants, stifling tendrils that filled the room with a putrid stench. The floor rumbled slightly as the earth chuckled; the tremors gave voice to its amusement at those now held within its grasp.

A flash of stark brilliance, a thunderous crack, and stone burst upwards in a salvo of embers. Light remained - a crackling column of living lightning that charged the air through the raining clouds of soot. The air cleared enough for its blaze to illuminate pillars of black stone that encircled it, their surfaces cracked and pulsing, shining white. Static snapped, the occasional spark catching along the edges of the stone - burning out just as quickly as it appeared.

A deep voice reverberated throughout the chamber, flecks of ash shivering as they drifted downwards in a soft, sooty rain. “And so begins the Trial of the Cursed Forge. Fight or Die, adventurers, but let the Elemental Championships begin!”



Necro-Knight -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/20/2022 20:24:22)

‘This ash… falling around us, it is like when we first met. Do you remember, my child…?’

“I couldn’t forget if I tried.”

---------------------------------------

Where pale ash fell around them now, it had been black snow then. Weightless flakes of obsidian that clung to every surface as it fell from a blood-red sky. Eryx had been imprisoned at the Rose checkpoint leading to the nearby town of Falconreach, being shackled and incarcerated on grounds of the smuggling of magical weapons and “meeting up with magic conspirators”.

He’d looked around at the other inmates lining the narrow halls of the Rose headquarters and wondered how long these crimes would matter when the sky turned red, black snow clung to the window of his cell and the stale stench of death was carried on the wind. The apprentice Soul Weaver had expected Rose reinforcements from the western town of Oaklore when the sky fell dark, but judging from the pale faces of the soldiers on duty, Eryx realized his assumptions were incorrect.

The Cult of Valtrith rolled in like a black tide of fog a few hours later. Necromancers that followed a twisted amalgamation of some of Lore’s worst monsters, their only goals to crush or corrupt all resistance to their dark master. Eryx had heard of the Cult’s activities near Falconreach during his travels and heard many warnings that despite the freezing cold of the winter, the signs of their coming darkness was unhindered.

Sitting in the corner of his cell furthest from the black-specked window, he made the same futile mistake of asking every Rose guard during the duty swap if they had a plan.

“I know hunting evil magic users is part of your job but it’s a numbers game now and unless you let us all out of these cells, it’s a game you’re going to lose,” he’d said and every time, he received the same answer.

“Silence, criminal. For all we know, you and your ilk summoned these creatures to aid you.”

He wanted to argue the absolute lunacy of such a train of thought but the threat of being gagged for the remainder of his imprisonment killed those words in his throat. In spiteful silence, he watched and listened as the Rose soldiers fought off the seemingly endless undead monstrosities that appeared from the obsidian blizzard. Every wave, the Rose returned with less and less of their own forces, before the Weaver awoke one bitterly cold evening to find no one on-guard.

The cries of battle drifted, muffled, through the thin walls of the headquarters and Eryx noted how few of them sounded human. The thought of a possible escape while still shackled with the magic-neutralizing chains had just barely begun to form in his mind when the double-doors of the headquarters were blown open and the mangled form of a Rose soldier crashed into the bars of his cell. While the body crumpled on impact, a gleaming object clattered to the floor through the enchanted bars of Eryx’s cell, its aura radiating with the same crimson color that had overcast the sky.

The apprentice weaver stood motionless for what felt like hours, staring at the double-ended dagger as if it would leap from the floor and impale him. When it failed to do so and Eryx’s body forced him to release a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, thoughts of escape and safety rushed to the forefront of his mind once again. The dagger was tainted, cursed, that much was clear… but would avoiding such corruption be worth sitting here to await the undead horde to come and break him like they had the Rose? Trained soldiers, veterans of past magical wars, were falling to these monstrosities. What chance did he stand, a Soul Weaver apprentice who had done nothing more than fail his Edelia exams and dream of adventuring? Eryx didn’t need the answer.

He reached for the dagger, choosing to ignore the tremble in his left hand as he did so, and clasped his fingers around the icy-cold grip. He’d expected pain, agony, some form of assault from a cursed thing that rejected his advances… instead, a cool voice purred in his ear, as if someone had appeared in the cell next to him.

“By the eternal abyss… I thought I would never be free of such barbaric abuse… Greetings, my child.”

The voice was feminine, as much as Eryx could tell through the echoes and whispers that seemed to dance at the edges of the sound. He frowned, looking down at the weapon. Nothing visibly had changed and the sudden cry of battle outside again drew his eyes up, though he couldn’t see anything through the blizzard of shadow.

“Ahh, yes… you hear them too. My siblings, being forced into walking prisons and made to dance against their will. You can relate, child, I feel it… trapped in your own prison by your own kind.”

“Who… are you?”

“My name is Eleftheria. I am a Spirit of Darkness, or I was before I sought a mortal host on this plane of existence and instead was dragged into a conflict I had no say in. I, like my siblings, seek to find a physical form of our own but not when it is shoved upon us… it is monstrous, the host must be… perfect.”

The apprentice weaver frowned again and lifted the dagger up to peer at it, the skull on its hand-guard almost peering back, despite its empty sockets remaining dull.

“So you are elemental parasites?”

“Some of my kind would wear such a title, yes, but… they would also settle for an improper host. Breaking the form to suit their needs the best they can, like this wretched thing I was forced into… But you are different.”

“You want to use me.”

“I want us to be free. I can feel the magical chains weighing on you, smothering what little talent you have, child. I was shackled in that flesh prison the same way, but together… we can be free of both our chains and bring vengeance down upon those who would use us as tools or discard us like waste…”

As if drawn out by destiny, the victorious cries of the few remaining Rose troops rang out over the howling snow, the moan of the undead having finally fallen silent. Eryx frowned, a combination of frustration and resentment settling into his chest. They should’ve died… been ripped apart by the undead and he could’ve made his escape. It didn’t matter where, anywhere was better than dying in this cell. Now, they would return, take away the only social interaction he’d had that wasn’t verbally abusive in weeks and slap on more chains.

The weaver’s knuckles turned white around the dagger as his lips curled with rage. They were the criminals, the monsters, yet destiny allowed them to live while innocents like himself and the other inmates were forced to suffer for choosing their desired path. It was sickening.

“You do understand, child… I feel it in your soul. This rage takes a part of you, burns it in the fires of revenge… but I can take its place. I can set us free,” Eleftheria purred, like an icy-cold spear of reason piercing the inferno that burned in his blood.

Looking down at the pearlescent shackles of blue-violet metal that made his wrists ache and had nearly cracked the dormant Soul Loom gauntlet on his right arm with its tension, Eryx let a primal growl bubble from his throat and rose the sentient dagger in his left hand. The shackles prevented a wide range of movement, but as he let loose with a desperate cry and brought the dagger down on his right wrist, he saw it did not matter.

The dagger bit into the Rose-forged metal and split it like a woodman’s axe falling on a log, runes along its surface flickering and starting to fail as he felt his body’s natural magical flow rushing through the cracks. As he brought the dagger down again, he caught the sight of the three remaining Rose soldiers rushing back into the headquarters, drawn by the cries of terror and rage from the cells. The other inmates had recoiled away from Eryx as crimson energy sparked from the dagger with each strike against his shackles, but he didn’t care. Freedom was within his grasp.

“Yes, child, free yourself from these shackles! Your wardens come and after them, likely mine! Release us both so we may carve our vengeance into their souls!”

The sounds of the Rose men yelling at him to stop were drowned out by a sudden explosion of pain that sent spots flashing across the young man’s eyes. The dagger’s bite had finally broken the shackle on his right wrist and sunk to the hilt in his forearm. The metal of his training Loom was never designed for the abuse of combat and cracked without resistance as the cursed weapon seemed to carved its way deeper with each agonized scream.

He didn’t realize he’d ended up on the floor of his cell, darkness creeping its way into the edges of his vision as his body aimed to shut down rather than endure the tortuous invader now reshaping his right forearm. Again, Eleftheria’s voice pierced the haze, having moved from a purr to a razor-edged hiss.

“No, child, do not break as so many others have! The spark of your life is a small price to pay for freedom and revenge against those who have wronged you. Wronged US!”

The howls of pain were slowly stifled behind gritted teeth, feeling returning to his right hand just as a Rose soldier threw open the gate to his cell and brought a blade falling towards the contorting form. Snapping out with speed that nearly sent another jolt of pain down his right arm, Eryx caught the blade in armored fingers, the bone-white plating protecting his aching flesh from the weapon’s edge. Where Eleftheria had carved her way into his body, a horned skull now sat over the wound on his forearm, a vibrant red energy pulsing like a heartbeat from its eyes.

With a roar of defiance that bordered on feral, Eryx lept from the floor and swung his free hand towards the Rose soldier’s face, connecting with a sickening crunch as the man’s nose shattered. Eryx echoed the man’s cry of pain, albeit it far less extreme as his recoiled, the impact sending fractures of pain down his left arm now to accompany the aches of his right.

“Careful, my child,” Eleftheria echoed in his mind again, somehow closer than before, “I needed sustenance to bond with you properly. Your body alone is weakened, but together… we are everything you’ve ever wanted.”

“A weapon would make this easier, Eleftheria! It seems like I’m doing all the-!”

As if to contradict him on principle, Eryx and the Rose soldiers watched as threads of crimson-black light poured from the mouth of the skull on his new gauntlet, weaving themselves into a row of interlocked vertebrae. Each spinal disc featured a curved edge protruding from its back and the final link formed a crude blade with a tip almost sharper than the dagger he’d previously held.

“Ask… and thou shall wield the abyss itself, my child.”

“By the Avatars-!” The soldier with the broken nose cried, scrambling to recover and counter the blow he’d suffered, but the twisted weaver refused to give the worm the chance. In a flash of motion, Eryx lept from the floor and knocked the man’s plain-steel blade aside, impaling him to the floor with his newly-woven weapon of doom.

With a snarl, Eryx cast his eyes a-glow with the same crimson energy up to the two remaining soldiers, already exhausted and trembling from their previous battle for their lives, only to rush into another.

Pathetic creatures.

With a burst of darkness, Eryx withdrew his blade from the first soldier’s chest and traded an idea with Eleftheria, who silently complied. As his arm rose, the threads between each wicked disc of his blade extended and loosen, allowing the weapon to curve mid-air as he brought it over his head. Too stunned to react, the soldiers simply watched in wide-eyed horror as the weaver of shadow brought the bladed whip around to meet their throats. They fell to the floor without another word to spit his way. At anyone.

For a time, only the terrified whimpers of the other inmates, Eryx’s labored breathing and the howling darkness blizzard reigned. Eventually, Eleftheria’ voice returned to the comforting purr, like that of a proud parent praising her child.

“Yesssss… you see? Life and death can co-exist. This is a lesson even the most ancient of my kind fail to understand, yet here we stand, an embodiment of such an ideal. Together, we shall teach both our worlds.”

“I… I sense your hunger, you want the other inmates’ souls as well… but as you just said, Ele. We need balance. They go free, just as we have.”

There was silence for a few moments before the threads of his bladed whip retracted into his gauntlet, Eleftheria somehow sighing within his mind.

“As you wish, my child, but I will require sustenance if you do not wish for your form to decay any further. Secluding myself to your arm in order to preserve what remains of your soul is exhausting…”

“I appreciate your sacrifice. I’m sure the Rose have patrols out on the edges of Oaklore due to the attacks… We can start there once everyone here is free and safe.”

---------------------------------------

So much time had passed since then, but the falling ash and localized lightning storm around them brought the bloody memory back without pause. The Doom Weaver had made a name for himself, carving out entire platoons of the Rose and foolish necromancers seeking power by shackling dark spirits alike. When he crossed a pamphlet for an elemental competition hosted by elemental lords, they agreed almost immediately.

The best way to end the abuse of both their species, magic wielders and darkness spirits alike, was to earn the favor of the creators themselves. Together, they would rid Lore of such hate and abuse, at the simple cost of whoever stood before them here in this humid forge.

“Eryx… is that-”

“-a humanoid Zard? I saw it… Do you think it is here to compete, or-”

‘-perhaps someone let it in as a stadium beast? I can’t say, child… but I sense the natural fear in your soul.’

The Doom Weaver snorted, eyes flicking about the arena for only a second as he ignored her comment. Some headless creature, a being who seemed to carry the kiss of flame with her, the Zard curiosity, a brute garbed in black and golden armor and finally, a woman with a stocky figure and armor that seemed too heavy for her frame at first glance.

Everyone besides the lizard-man was some form of sentient, but as he directed his gaze back to the white-skinned being, Eryx found himself growing less and less fond of the idea of being jumped by a natural predator amid another duel.

“We take it out first. Perhaps even-”

‘-get the element of surprise, yes, child, I understand. I am ready to feast.’

Smiling for a moment beneath the veil of crimson light he wore under his hood, the Doom Weaver bent down to a crouch, following the curve of the arena’s wall as he approached the lizard-man, each cautious step bringing him closer to the creature’s back.



Dragonknight315 -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/20/2022 21:55:54)

In the forest, she saw her.

Blonde hair, brown eyes. The girl was smiling. She laughed with warmth as she pointed to the still water before them, to their reflections. On the surface, there was the girl again, a perfect twin. Long streaks of gold. Brown eyes. And next to her, there was another girl. As she looked, the waters seemed to move, her reflection tearing itself apart on the water. But she could still piece it together.

Short brown hair. Green eyes. Her own reflection. Both of them, together.

The sight brought her. . . happiness. However fragmented, this was happiness.

She turned to face the blonde-haired girl. With a smile, her companion leaned in to whisper something.

“. . . Wake up.”

Her voice was silenced, replaced with another’s.The blonde-haired girl continued to speak, but as her lips moved, the words were not her own.

“Sonder? Sonder, wake up!”

Her eyes went wide as the young child shook Sonder from her sleep. She gasped for air, a vestige of her former humanity.

“Traveler, are you there?”

As Sonder calmed, she looked up at the merchant’s son. She could feel him staring at her, as if he looked right past her mask. She held her hands up as she pushed herself against the edge of the cart.

“I’m fine! I’m. . . thank you.”

“Okay . . .” He nodded, eyes still fixed to mask. “I wanted to make sure. You asked us to wake you before we made camp.”

Indeed, as Sonder looked around, the sun was almost buried beneath the horizon. Waves of dying orange light swept across the desert sands.

As she turned to look back at the boy,she noticed that his gaze had shifted.

“Your arm. . .”

Sonder seized as she looked to her left arm. From the elbow down, it was stained black, covered in some kind of ichor.

“It was missing when. . .”

Sonder turned to the side, silently fuming.

“I’m sorry, but. . . You were almost dead when we found you. Half buried in the sand, missing an arm. But now you’re whole. That’s something!”

“It’s nothing.” The woman spat out.

The Caravanner recoiled back. Clearly, sensing his mistake, he changed the subject.

“Uh, as I said, we are about to make camp. Father said that you can stay and rest!”

The young boy quickly turned and rushed off to the others. Sonder looked back to her ichored hand. It was not hers, not anymore. But as she squeezed it, testing its worth, she felt the memories pouring forth.

“I’ll help.”

With some practice, it would be hers once more.

“You’re going already?!”

Sonder stood at the edge of camp. It was midnight now. The two were far away from the light of the fires.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Bren is near!” The boy shouted, ignoring Sonder as he continued. “You could just stay with us!”

“I’m afraid I can’t.” Sonder refused to look back as she trodded forward.

“. . . Good luck.” At first, the boy was gloomy. But then he gave one last shout.

“I’ll look for you!”

Sonder stopped. As the boy turned to run back to the camp, his words echoed within her mind. Finally, she muttered under her breath.

“No. No you won’t.”

Sonder was silent as she sat in the desert sands. The first rays of the sunrise stretched across the sky.

With reverence, Sonder pulled the metal plates from her armor, holding them in her lap. She counted the days. The numerous lines that scarred the metal. The first few were longer, but as their number grew, they were smaller and smaller. She traced her fingers over each one.

1486. She took a knife to one of the plates, carefully adding another line in the metal.

1487.

In the stillness, she held the plate in her hand. As Sonder looked back across the desert, she could faintly make out some of her footsteps in the sand. One breeze, and all of them would disappear. But the desert would remain. And above it, the Sun.

She pulled her mask down and looked up at the rising light.

“When everything else is gone, you are there. Waiting for me. . . Or am I waiting for you?”

But there was no answer. No warmth. Only empty rays of light.

Sonder sighed as she rose from the sands. She fashioned the metal back into place before checking the rest of her gear. Finally, she ran her fingers around the cloth at her neck, tightening it as much as she could.

Satisfied, she turned around to face the horizon. Off in the distance, she could see it. The city.

“To Bren.”

It was suffocating.

Like a timid child, Sonder wandered through Bren as dozens upon dozens of individuals walked the streets.

So many people. The most she had ever seen in one place. All of them – each one with their own life. Their own motives. But together, they were like a leviathan. Unfathomable.

How can anyone live like this?

Her eyes darted for an empty patch, but there was always someone there. She could feel her dead heart ringing in her ears, rising to overtake her. But then, something stood out.

An alleyway. A woman was standing there, alone, holding something in her hands. A series of strings bound by a wooden curve.

The noise of the crowds seemed to disappear as Sonder waded towards it.

“. . Excuse me.”

As though she were possessed, Sonder spoke to the woman. They were an elderly woman. Tanned, wrinkled skin and grayed hair. Her fingers plucked the strings with ease, but as Sonder approached, she stopped. Her idle hands began to shake as Sonder towered over her.

“May I hold your instrument?”

“This is a Lyre.” The woman’s voice cracked with age as she spoke. “Do you know how to play it?”

“I–” Sonder hesitated. Lyre. The word seemed to fracture in her mind. But as the elder held the instrument forward, she took the Lyre into her hands. At first, she was slow. Carefully plucking each string with her hands, taking in the sensation. But then, she moved faster and faster. Soon, a song filled the air, and several of the cityfolk gathered around the alleway. But to Sonder, there was just her and the music.

As Sonder finished her piece, the old woman clapped her hands. “Well done! Where did you learn to play, young lady?”

“I– I don’t know.” Sonder quickly shoved the instrument into the woman’s arms. She felt the tears pool against her mask. A familiar joy that felt so distant. The dissonance played havoc in her mind.

“Well, no worries.” The elder smiled. “I enjoyed it. What brings you here to Bren?”

Sonder crossed her arms, shaking as she felt the eyes of the crowd upon her. “I am here to compete.”

“Ahh..” A light filled the elder’s eyes. “Of course! You certainly look the part.”

“Yes. . .” Sonder looked over her shoulder. Most of the crowd had moved on, much to her relief. She turned back to the elder. “Where do I go to participate?”

The old lady gave a smile as she pointed off into the distance, giving a few simple directions.

“Thank you.” Sonder sighed through her mask.

“You are welcome. Now, if you will excuse me, it’s time for my nap.” Sonder grew tense as the woman placed her hand on Sonder’s side. “And remember. The Lords like music, too.”

Sonder watched as the woman slowly made her way down the alley, turning out of sight. Off to the realm of sleep.

Sonder knew it; a part of her was about to die.

She pushed the thought away as she gave herself to the crowd once more.

The day continued as Sonder looked over the entryway to the tournament. Tucked in a corner, she hid herself, watching the city and its people.

She saw the championship’s officials, clad in their robes, diligently attending their duties.

She saw the merchant’s son; the young boy played on the street, running through the crowd until he tripped in front of Sonder. As the boy saw Sonder, he did not greet her as before. Instead, he screamed, picking himself up and running to his father.

So, you found me after all–

She remained there, a shadow on a wall. Eventually, night came and went, and the dawn rose again.

1488.

She carved another line into the metal. But as she put her blade away, a familiar cloaked figure appeared. One of the officials.

This was her chance.

Sonder leapt from her corner. She shouted to the man, her voice trembling as she rushed to meet him.

“Excuse me!”

The official trembled as the noise filled the air. When he saw the masked warrior, his skin went pale. Afraid for his life, he turned as if to run, but sonder continued.

“I’m here to participate! Please, let me in!”

The official stood dumbstruck for a moment as he took everything in.

“You.. Want to join the Elemental Championships? You do know it’s in a few hours?”

“Yes, yes, I know, but I couldn’t have signed up sooner. It wouldn’t have worked.” Sonder panicked with every breath. This was her only chance.

“Now now, don’t–” The official held his hands forward as he tried to calm her down. “There is still time! We’ve had closer calls, just... follow me, okay?”

From behind her mask, Sonder gave a weak smile and a sigh of relief.

The walls hummed with life as Sonder stepped through the stone tunnels. Light rose from the streaks of molten rock, guiding her path forward until she stood in front of the liquid. It reached out with its warmth, far greater than even the desert sun, demanding her attention. But she did not flinch.

“This is nothing.”

As if to respond, the wall parted, giving way to blackened stone and the sound of a crying mob.

She stepped forward, and a voice rose above the crowd.

“And so begins the Trial of the Cursed Forge. Fight or Die, adventurers, but let the Elemental Championships begin!”

The leviathan lives. They are watching me.

As the ashen snow fell, Sonder reached behind her, feeling the top of her spine with her right hand. And then she screamed. Pure, dark shadows twisted around her hands as she pulled from within, willing the simulacrum into existence. She could feel her spine grow full with pain, but she continued. The pain is what made it real. Tangible.

With the shadows together, she pulled her arm, and a loud crack filled the air. The shadows fused, giving way to a long string of bone.

She let her right arm go limp, the bone whip trailing across the ground. With her left, she reached for her mask and pulled it from her face, exposing it for all to see.

“Witness me. You will not forget.”



San Robin -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/21/2022 13:26:38)

“UGH! This is work for flamin’ SERVANTS!” Vu’ur groaned as she threw all the firewood she had collected on the ground. For the past few days she had resided in a forest near Brent, waiting for the tournament to begin.

At first she had considered staying in the town itself, but she tried that once and nearly gave a housemaid who found her sleeping in the hearth, a heart attack. Apparently beings of this world were NOT used to sleeping in a nice and cozy fire. She liked the torches but the pitchforks were SUCH a pain to deal with… She sighed as she kneeled down and spread the firewood until it was enough to roughly cover the length of her body, took out her daggers and started making sparks for the fire.

Not long after, she managed to get a nice fire burning. The warmth of the flames touching her skin. The ashes and embers flying up reminded her of home. Where everything was always at the right temperature. No need for manual labor to make something as basic as a fire. It would just… be there.

“Soon…” she thought as she laid down in the fire. “Soon I will win this tournament and go home at last.”. She closed her eyes, the flames around her rising and falling with her breath. Ashes gently fell around her, covering her like a nice blanket.

The next morning she woke up, brushed the ashes off of herself and siphoned the last of the heat from the embers. Today would be the day of the tournament and she was ready! Ready to leave this dreary plane behind her, ready to feel the warmth of her home, ready to NEVER do a single bit of manual labor ever again!

After checking if she had everything she headed towards the arena. As she walked there, she saw so many lifeforms heading the same way. A walking buffet if she ever saw one.Her sleep in the fire had brought her almost to half of her power, but it wasn’t enough yet… These creatures won’t miss a bit of heat, right? She smirked as she bumped into a few of the buffoons, siphoning a bit of their heat and quickly moving on as the victim shivered.

There it was. The door to the arena, her ticket home! The doors slowly opened and revealed… home? She looked around, stunned. Was she still dreaming? No. It was close but not quite her home plane. The heat, the ashes, even the smell all reminded her of home, but it was still off. and her suspicions were only confirmed when she heard a deep voice echo through the location…

“And so begins the Trial of the Cursed Forge. Fight or Die, adventurers, but let the Elemental Championships begin!”



roseleaf320 -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/21/2022 20:32:16)

Though Alceia had grown used to the turmoil that often marred her waking, the morning she left to die was particularly rough. She woke before the wolves had finished their moonlit howling and dressed only by the humming light of the thick string that rested always against her person. After fastening her dark leather gloves, she pulled it from its place as a belt around her waist and held it draped in both hands. Her eyes sparked with electricity as she stared at the Strand’s plasma glow. She said nothing, her thoughts still held out of reach by the fog of sleep; the barrier that was her only respite from the despair of wakefulness. The path she started on today was her last chance. Perhaps her sister would think her crazy for it. Alceia knew better.

A gunshot; a moment’s breath. The thunderous beating of footsteps a backdrop to the wailing of a mother.

Alceia curled her face in disgust as the sounds yet to comet reverberated through her. Her hands tensed and pulled the Strand of her Fate as if to rip it apart. But the Strand merely pulsed in reply, ever-synced with the beat of her own heart. With a resigned sigh, Alceia loosened her grip and, after willing the Strand to shorten, fastened it as a necklace and draped it over the cloth of her collar. The guest room she was in had been pleasant-- the homeowner had been kind to her during the months she’d stayed. But she afforded no glance back at it as she closed its door for the last time. She’d be able to find a picture-perfect image of it in her Strand, if she ever felt the need. But, frankly, she didn’t want to. She’d lain dormant here for too long.

Despite all the care Alceia had taken to avoid interaction, Calline caught her as she passed the front gate. The girl’s eyes, verdant as the garden she cared for so meticulously, enraptured Alecia’s as she wrapped her soft fingers around Alecia’s wrist. Alecia couldn’t help the rush of scenes that replayed in her vision. All the times over the last three months that she’d caught Calline, a girl of eighteen with a wealth of bubbly energy, slyly watching her train. The times Calline had made a move on her; the one instance in which Alceia had reciprocated, and the many others when she’d wanted to, but had not.

Calline’s soft, melodic voice pulled Alecia back to herself. “Alceia, Father tried to hide it but I pried it out of him; you can’t go! We’ve given you everything you’ve needed. I…” Calline trailed off, twining her fingers with Alceia’s and giving her a slight tug.

For a moment, Alceia felt as if she was drowning. A future displayed itself like theater in her mind: she could let Calline lure her back through the gate. She could teach herself craftsmanship and weave rings from an olive branch. Someday they could have children-- the one aspect of her body Alceia was grateful for-- and tend the pasture with three, maybe seven little ones running amid the sheep and shepherd dogs. And she and Calline could watch over their life and smile.

The Strand, of course, showed no such things. The Elemental Championships had lurked in her future ever since a vision had taught her of their existence. The scenes with Calline were simply daydreams; Alceia had accepted long ago that her life was not meant to be a happy one.

She ripped her gaze from Calline’s as she felt tears begin to well in her eyes. Her rough, deep voice sounded far away as she spoke coldly to the girl. “Go back to your father, Calline.” He’d need Calline anyways. Before she’d learned of the Championships, Alceia had seen a time where she would stay to witness the heart attack that would likely kill him next winter. She hadn’t told Calline that. Knowing would only make things worse; Alceia could say that for certain.

The girl stammered, hands wrapping tighter to Alceia’s. “But-- I love you! And I know you feel the same, if you stay, we can--”

Perhaps Alceia was cruel to pull so violently out of Calline’s grasp, but she feared if she did not she would crumble. “No. I don’t. Goodbye.” Alceia was always a bad liar.

With eyes closed, her Fate sparking against her neck, Alceia turned from Calline, and did not look behind even as she heard her joy slam against the gate and begin to cry.


The streets of Bren-- their celebration, their glee, juxtaposed with the solemnity of a deadly competition-- felt familiar to Alceia. Vendors' calls layered over voices from her past, fresh as if they’d come from this very morning.
“Great food, snacks for the show!”

“Come get your t-shirts here! Buy one get one free!”
She found herself smiling as she strolled down the busy streets, glancing at extravagant arrangements and wares with a large, greasy turducken leg in hand. A gust of wind, a movement in her peripheral, pulled her attention to a brilliant tapestry. Two women locked in an embrace amidst blood and flames. The silk perfectly captured the fire’s glow, the opalescent gleam of the masked one’s dagger. It should feel out of place amidst the depictions of battle; for Alceia, a familiar realization made it seem the most fitting of all.

This wasn’t a war where desperate men went to die. This was an event. A spectacle.

Ever since the Strand, unfamiliar futures twisted into memories, and familiar comforts felt painfully foreign. To have her quest entwine with something as familiar as this… was a rather welcome change. Alceia’s free hand reached down to rub the two-tailed tassel hanging from her waist. A male’s scarlet against a female’s violet; two decorations that once adorned the two helmets she’d worn through her career. Alceia’s eyes sparked with pride. It was a long time since she had called herself a gladiator.

Alceia shoved with the rest of her strength, and her shoulder collided with the man’s chin. He fell down, caught by the grass that bristled slightly in the summer day’s soft breeze.
The coliseum erupted in cheers. Alceia finally caught her breath and removed her red-tailed helmet as medics clammered around her opponent.
A decorated presenter stepped up and placed a wreath of holly atop her short, silver hair. A victorious smile pulled at Alceia’s cheeks.


A piercing cry pried Alceia’s conscious from her past to the alleyway that branched to her left. Crackling eyes found the source quickly-- a girl with tangled golden hair and the stance of a fighter. She was surrounded by several dark figures; perhaps thieves? The girl faced straight forward, head still, as she reached around her wrist and pulled out a long strand of wire.

Metal crashes against brick; bodies fall.

Alceia needed to help, the girl was barely Calline’s age; her feet begin to move towards the square--

The Strand’s glowing silhouette cuts through easily; it whips behind Alceia and meets skin, and the girl begins to scream.

Alceia stood, frozen. Her choices were bound. Just as they always were.

This isn’t Aero.

That’s right-- there was an option her Strand hadn’t shown. Alceia ripped the Strand from her wrist, her shaking hands landing on the point in time a few moments before she’d arrived in the alleyway. Her ears were surrounded by a harsh grating sound as her fingernail, exposed from her gloves’ wear, scraped against the Strand.

It had never grown any less bizarre, having her past rewritten. Her mind almost disconnected from itself as her memories broke from the new reality she’d created. New memories overlaid them, and the Alceia running towards the square passed by the Alceia wandering aimlessly in its general direction. For a moment, her eyes met themselves, and she looked on from both places, both pasts. She was drowning, confused; there was too much to make sense of such that nothing seemed to make any sense at all, and perhaps the world would just swallow her up as she drifted, void of the senses that defined the state of “living.” She touched too much, moved four feet when there should only be two, and because of that she had no feet at all. She heard with four ears, two focused on the idle chatter from the alleyway, two focused on--

The wandering Alceia collided in a snap with the Alceia who was now walking side by side with the girl named Bei Lune. She knew what had happened as intuitively as if it had always been the case: Alceia had been sprinting to relieve some anxiety, and accidentally slammed into a pedestrian who was beginning to turn into an alleyway. After ensuring she was okay, Alceia introduced herself to the girl, and they left the alley behind so Bei could show Alceia around.

Alceia knew the thieves had been waiting; that if Bei had wandered down that alley, she would have been surrounded, and no person-- not even previous Championship contestants, as Bei had explained herself as-- could take six on one. But those were memories only in her mind alone; the Strand, which told the past as she had written it, no longer contained them. Soon, the scenes of her wandering through the street, of noticing the thieves and the girl’s silver wire, would fade just as the other false memories had. Sometimes Alceia wondered just how much of her life she was missing.



The arena complex seemed to glow with the same heat and energy as Alceia’s Fate Strand. Alceia stepped briskly over the obsidian rocks only sparing enough time to ensure the magma beneath wouldn’t spit up to burn her open sandals. The garments were worn with the intention of comfort and mobility-- and partially because the slight heel to the shoe gave Alceia a boost of confidence. She hoped the decision would not prove to be ill-advised. Her concerns were not abated when she found a flowing waterfall of lava at the end of her path. Perhaps this was how she died. Burning to death in a pit of lava. With a finger, she traced the large patch of scar tissue covering the left side of her face. It may at least be suitable entertainment for the Lords-- one who defied conventional belief, who stole and held her Fate Strand as it pulsed with searing energy, now dying in searing hot lava. What a joke that would be, Alceia thought dimly as the lavafall finally receded to reveal the blackened arena beyond.

The smell of sulfur fills her nostrils; a crack louder than any gunshot pierces her ears.

Lightning. Alceia’s silver hair flicked around her face as she glanced to her surroundings, careful to avoid any signs of a trap, perhaps a metal conductor. There seemed to be no such thing, yet ash began to fill the room, to fill Alceia’s nose and lungs as she began to choke on the smell of-- sulfur.

Sure enough, the fragments of her vision began to fill themselves out as the putrid taste, the throb of the earth, the blinding flash added themselves to the scene. How odd it was, to recognize, to remember, smells and sounds she had not yet experienced. How odd it was, that the Lords deemed to place her in an arena with a bolt, ever pulsing, down its center. Like the Strand of Fate ever bound to her, ever echoing the beat of her heart.

Alceia shook her head and unwound the Strand from her wrist. She was here to fight; and fight she would. To her right stood a human-like figure whose skin and hair shone a neon arrangement of sunset tones. She wore only cloth, and gripped a shining dagger in each hand. Alceia regarded her suspiciously; she seemed altogether too easy a target, and her coloring was unnatural enough to hint at the possibility of magic. Magic was never Alceia’s strong suit; it would be best to avoid that one for now, or at least stay back long enough to see what she was capable of. Fortunately, to her left was a better candidate. Head to toe in obsidian, her leftbound opponent looked like a walking suit of armor. They hoisted an oversized, spiked halberd.

Shining sword slammed down on the ornately curved halberd. Alceia pulled down on it in a right-hand hook and jammed its tip roughly into the dirt, softened from persistent rain.
The silver-armored boar of a man in front of her yanked on his pole; it would have been removed from the ground easily if Alceia hadn’t taken the spare moment to remove his head in a clean slice.
“Down goes the Iron Statue!” The announcer’s deep voice boomed through the dreary, clouded square. “The winner is the Swordthief, Alcestis!”


There was no soft dirt to wedge weapons into; but the equipment, and likely the fighting style, would be much more familiar to Alceia. Readying her stance to approach the armored figure, Alceia stole one last glance behind her-- the door she’d entered from had been cut off by smoke, just as the stands had.

Alceia felt something shift as she returned the quill to its dark inkwell.
The Strand grew hot for a moment against her bracer and the image of her swooping signature cemented itself in her mind and the Strand.
The voices of those in the tavern faded as Alceia grasped the silver door knob and stepped out once more into the cobblestone streets. Despite her armor and the relentless summer sun, Alceia shivered.


Ash swirled in front of her as Alceia let out a measured exhale. She had been determined to reach this moment for months. But she couldn’t quelch the feeling of unease that rose from her chest as she realized just what she’d done. She had changed her past hundreds of times, but there was no changing this. She’d signed her name; and so there in the book it would sit, always, no matter what else in her timeline might shift. And yet, she held her timeline herself, a gloved hand on each end of the two-foot-long length.


With her life gripped tight in her hands, Alceia readied for one last fight to the death.




Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/21/2022 21:15:35)

It began with a grumble, a deep down warning from the pit of the maw. Nostrils grew wide, the pouch of skin and hide beneath his chin expanding further and further. Stretched tight and white, filled with sweet breath air. Grumbling evolved to self-satisfied rumbling, a happy tune asking to be politely shared by a sonorous chorus. MJF was tickled pink to provide.

“Brrrrrruuuuuaaaarrrauuauarrrau-” began the song of his people. Well, the unofficial chorus that echoed throughout the annual Brewha. Chuffed at the meal, letting the eruption of well-fed gas spring free in a belch most loud and proud, with flecks of his recent repast arcing high into the air. MJF’s pupils shrink in focus at each visual reminder of the tastes that still lingered upon his palette. There! The slow tumble of a slick spinning sliver, chalk-white bonebright. A flashback to a truly unctuous hors d'oeuvres, a nutty-sweet, feverishly fatty, savory delight of roasted marrow served on bone grill-charred to a satisfying crunch. Then focus flicked to a bit of gummy pale, evoking an echo of the war of sweet syrup and sharp tart that infused the gentle flesh of fresh apricot. Served pit-free, the waste. Lastly a wee gobbet of green. Oho! That had been true decadence. Earthy, yeasty, toasty beer-batter fried in cold-pressed safflower oil encapsulating the pungent sour-hot blast of a spiced pickle snap.

De. Licious.

So of course MJF had shoveled them all into his mouth, chomping down wicked fast in a feast for a king. A breakfast of champions! Nevermind the crowd that alternated between shocked gawk and the saucy laughter of sly sycophants sneakily placing sidebets on the show. He wasn’t concerned that they saw some squat simpleton beast eating an offered melody designed for maximum discord. They needed to learn how to properly taste things! It was easy to isolate and luxuriate! Besides, their dares and bets and ribald logic snares all built up to a free meal for his ravenous hunger. Better to let them believe to be devious and have their jokes, free food was ‘worth its weight in gold’ as they said.

Webbed hands grasped the table edge and pushed, his chair giving a momentary squealing scritch-screech of protest. Some of the laughter died away as he unfolded himself and stood, shades more monstrous for standing upright; tall as most. One of the more greedy onlookers chiming in, “Off to the Arena then? Zard-thing out for live meat?” MJF merely gave them the facade of a gormless grin as he headed out the door.



Outside, lounging a block down the street, Daveed greeted MJF with a deep furrowed frown. The mage didn't even have the decency of handing over MJF's combat gear, forcing the monstrous one to reach past and retrieve it. All so MJF could hear the rumbling discontent deep within Daveed's chest prior to the researcher giving voice to his concerns.
“Does that never get old for you?”

MJF’s lips parted, grinning broad with gleaming gums. They didn’t deserve the toothy one, the one defined by true gratification. That didn’t escape Daveed’s notice. Nor did the surprisingly impeccable enunciation of the so-called Battlezard’s sweetly soothing response. “They underestimate me. You often say ‘work smarter, not harder’.” MJF brushed away some imagined blemish from his waistcoat, then began to strut up the walkways towards the Arena complex. “You say this often, in fact! I need to eat, a great and terrible need! Food to fuel the cool and stay active all the time and chat.”

Daveed hustled to keep the pace, given MJF’s bandy gait and ever so long legs for his body. Relentless, too, in his line of thought. “And you aren’t concerned someone will catch on and seek redress?”

“Phah!” His vocal sac swelled as he croaked out something in the Father Tongue, before he shook his head and resumed in this humanocentric language they had insisted he learn - and learn well he had. “Concerned? Are you saying this offends you? Offends them? The concept of dignity in your culture is so terribly different, but it worries me not at all. They can have their entertainment all they wish, and should they challenge for recompense, you know I am not averse to a good bout of fisticuffs. Should they press the issue beyond that?” MJF twirled his cane, snapping the wicked ridge of the tip up high. “Well. I am never averse to a fresh meal.”

Daveed barely suppressed a shudder, but MJF noticed all the same with the way his thermals spiked.. Not at the weight of the threat; it wasn’t meant for him. It was from the relish with which his ‘specimen’ took towards meals of the freshly slain. Sometimes so fresh they weren’t quite yet dead. The near shiver delighted MJF, and the opportunity more so. He would earn the prize they professed to be worth a 'tournament' of bloodshed... And the promise of such exotic snacks along the way? That was worth a proper smile. One with teeth.



Heat. Heat! Burning, scorching, blinding curtains of Volcanic Glacier-Kill. An endless cascade of the oil-broiling, hide crisping magma that had MJF recoiling in abject disgust all leading up to the arena reveal from his competitor’s corridor. Swearing profusely in a low croaking rumble, he stood there to weather the palpable waves of purely repugnant warmth beyond tolerance, skin prickling with itchy dryness even as the temperature dropped in blessed surcease. Faster than his eyes adjusted, at least, as the arena itself coalesced and cooled into the competitor’s field.

Shock-blinded, he missed the soft snow of sulfurous soot that followed upon the magma rain’s heels. Flakes stuck to his hide, soon to lead to the itchy outbreak of a promised rash, but worse yet infiltrated his nostrils to coat his throat with nauseous threat. A warring mix of burn-sour silk scratching at the back of his throat and the oozing putrefaction of rotten vileness coating his taste buds. The battlezard coughed and shuddered, further swearing swallowed hard in favor of ironbound restraint of his gut.

The rapid blinking of multiple eyelids only just began to clear when the arena proved not-yet-finished with its cataclysmic reveal. The eruption of earth hardly mattered to him compared to the brightwhite flare of light and heat as a pillar pure of electric exuberance escalated his distaste of the affair ever-further. Fortune favored the frog, however, as blissful shadows began to bar a clear line of sight. Though they crackled and sparked actinic fury, the black nature of the pillars helped dull the scorching sight, no matter their own rosy glow. T’was the absolute opposite, a polar inversion of the type of field he grew up and adapted to hunting in, but MJF would not be cowed by the arena’s intimidation.

He shook off his revulsion with a shudder, advancing in soft slip-slap steps that left cooler shadows in his wake. Pupils pulled tight to peer through the swimmer’s membrane to keep his eyes clean of the acrid ash. The lines of sight were poor, muddied further by the persistent hated warmth, leaving him to guess at much. Too many muted colors and blocked views, for an arena that should be filled. He was only certain of one brighter visage at first, just a shade clockwise of center. Vaguely his height, with eyes feverbright and a thankful mix of colors to fill their shape of armor and cloth and hair. Distinction would come, should they close…

…but any analysis was shorn clear by shrill scream followed by the unmistakable crack of bone. Cross-shaped pupils flicked towards the source, and though heat alone saw nothing but muddied absence, graceful motion brought uncanny clarity. Twas a fine figure brandishing a curled whip of segmented ivory, and MJF twitched as the concept clicked into place. An undead, or something like it, what with their rotten, tainted flesh long cooled from anything edible. Sour prospects for a snack along the way, but where there was one, there might be more, and he should be wary given how poorly he could spot subtle shifts in the thermal ranges of sight. Better to make them move.

"Brubrruahgh, burbrahagh. Hut-hut. Ahem." It was a vain attempt to clear his throat, as burnsour still soaked his palette poor. Yet if any thought that his language, surely the impeccable enunciation that followed would put that thought to bed. "Well then. Who might engage in gentlemanly bloodsport with me this day? Though I will warn you fairly, I have a strong left!"



Synthe_ -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/21/2022 22:48:58)

”Please, help me understand! You claimed to come to our humble village in order to make things better! So why- Why do you insist on bloodshed?”

The plate of metal masking Ambriel’s features let not a shred of emotion escape.

“No hint of evil can be left to fester under His domain, no hint of infection can remain lest it return once more. It’s nothing more than an... unfortunate twist of fate that you live in a place which must be amputated.”

Ambriel took note of his thoughts as his arms brough the halberd down on the man, same as he always had. His heart was that of a lake devoid of life, surface unmoved by all but the gentle wind overtop.

Indifference... Maybe I am getting used to this.



Ambriel, despite performing the same duties as his numerous subordinates, always traveled alone. Popular belief among the clergy was that he was cold, untrusting, and felt that no help would be more productive than what the other Arbiters could offer.
In truth, this assumption could not have been much further from the truth. While he may have been commonly recognized as the highest, most devout of the Arbiters, Ambriel found it rather difficult to see himself that way. Indeed, he had performed countless expeditions into the darkest corners of the world, successfully expelling evil wherever he walked. Indeed, His halberd had ended the sinful rampage of countless demons. Indeed, his eyes had witnessed more miracles than anyone else.

Then why... Ambriel thought to himself as he finished his daily prayer, sitting in the middle of an empty field.

Do I still live devoid of Your presence...?

Every other Arbiter he met spoke volumes of witnessing His splendor, sparing no words recounting the inexplicable power that He evoked at a mere glance. But Ambriel, the theoretical highest of all Arbiters, had yet to even hear His voice. Without even this basic level of understanding, how could he be expected to stand on an even level with his fellow man?

Perhaps He is still awaiting greater devotion.

...

A warm blanket of brilliance covers the soul, strengthening the body as the blood within seems to flow that much faster.
Confidence, faith in what shall come. Exactly as it should be.

His thoughts coming to a close, a small effort brought Ambriel to his feet and focused him on the task ahead. Sparse trees dotted the otherwise endless field of tall grass, casting elongated shadows under the moonlight. Days from the nearest town, about two hours past sunset; in his mind, a better time to seek out corruption could never exist. Under the cover of darkness, manifestations that seek to oppose His teachings would inevitably reveal themselves, and just as inevitably would they meet their end.



Countless weeks of travel and combat before bled into the weeks that came after, Ambriel never once experiencing a thought that exceeded mild interest. It had been too long since he felt excitement. Too long since his heart had experienced the thrill of true purpose. Countless hours of exploring the ends of the earth led him to a foreign town, one that sat in the cradle between mountains and an unfamiliar ocean. From his high vantage point he could tell that this place was nothing more than a den of evil, the shadow cast by the mountain range clearly hiding it from His light.

Upon further inspection, Ambriel’s distaste only grew. Men and women bustled in the dirty streets, conversing and interacting without a care in the world for that which allowed such a place to exist. People insisted on standing too close to him, shop owners shouted too loudly. The entire city was nothing short of disgusting, greed and corruption permeating every aspect of its existence.

The abhorrent, vile aura of this city muddles my thoughts. It takes effort just to stand still, the complicit demeanor of everyone here pushes my tolerance to the brink.
Absolute contempt. That is all I feel for this place.
In accordance with His will, as are all things great, I will rectify whatever it is that hides it from His light.



It did not take long for Ambriel to discover his quarry, as it were. Any experienced fighter could glean a sense of how threatening someone was just through observation, and in this regard the Arbiter had significant experience. Most of the sinners milling through the city seemed to be no more than average citizens, perhaps corrupted by proxy rather than choice of their own. However, that small percentage of exceptions revealed itself as Ambriel passed through the center of town.

Here, condensed into an impossibly large building were the souls of hundreds of warriors, murderers, and thieves. Ambriel could pick up on it without even seeing them; perhaps it was the structure of the arena that made it so clear. His will often made itself known in unnatural ways, and this was no exception. The Arbiter was sure, this was the place that needed cleansing. Here he would find his purpose for the time being, a chance to prove himself once more.

A few hours passed, the events of which Ambriel hardly remembered. All but completely fixated on his goal, he soon found himself deep within the arena, half-listening to the directions given to him by attendants posing in serious-looking uniforms. Righteous fury was blinding, and for good reason. An Arbiter's existence was for the fight, to scour the ends of the planet for every hint of darkness. He did not exist to converse, to question, or even to judge.

He ended up in a place not unlike Hell itself, perfectly fitting for this city of corruption. Rivers of fire melted their way through the slabs of basalt, eventually receding to just below the surface where all that remained was the soft glow cast upon the walls. Opening into a massive clearing, the aura of corruption hit Ambriel as a wave of severe nausea. Ominous shadows cast by the rock-covered magma shrouded several other figures among the stones, now in a small semicircle. The area seemed to be ripped straight from the domain Ambriel had only heard stories of, occasional flashes of crimson energy lighting up the cave for but a moment. This had to be the destination he was seeking, and strangely it looked as though the demons he had been hunting were blissfully unaware of his presence. Each other figure, though difficult to get a good look at, never gave more than a glance in his direction.

Only giving Ambriel a few seconds to inspect his targets, a bone-shaking voice suddenly emerged from the walls.
And so begins the Trial of the Cursed Forge. Fight or Die, adventurers, but let the Elemental Championships begin!

Once again it seems I have been led to a distant battleground. I know not what this Championship entails, nor who these people are.
But my instinct does not lie, guided by His orders alone. If it is my place to cleanse this city, then so be it.
With the righteous light of the Father, I swear I will burn away the corruption until naught but embers remain!



Necro-Knight -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/24/2022 17:16:26)

Each slow, calculated step brought him that much closer to the lizard-man competitor and if his breathing wasn’t but a fraction of what a living being’s would be, he would’ve been monitoring that too. This creature was a predator and Eryx was unaware of just how acute its senses were, so better safe than devoured.

Too many times Eleftheria had needed to instruct him on how to perform his own form of first aid when he tried facing a situation head-on and here, he would have no such freedom. He needed to be aggressive, dominating… more predator than his target. A small part of him, long since buried and starved, recoiled at the thought of ending lives that were not involved in the constant battle he and Eleftheria sought to end, but it was a means to an end.

Given time, any soul risks falling to corruption, be it spiritual or moral. Better to start getting ahead of the game.

Raising the SoulShredder gauntlet, as Ele had begun to call it, he focused what willpower wasn’t being used to mask his approach and his Doom Ally complied. Scarlet strands wove themselves into existence over the clawed fingers of his right hand, extending his hand into long claws built for biting into flesh with their hooked tips. Forming the claws was simple, taking even less soul material than his whip, but what came next was far more demanding.

Stopping what he estimated was roughly ten feet from the lizard-man and dropping to crouch low on his left knee, Eryx spread his enchanted fingers wide in a clawing motion.

One shallow breath… two… three.

‘If we wait any longer, my child, and our opportunity will pass us-!”

The sound of cracking bone, an oddly familiar sound to the Doom Weaver, split the air of the arena and like a macabre signal from fate, Eryx sprung to life.

Thrusting his right hand forward, he channeled his willpower into the woven-claws and sparked the darkness magic within, sending the projectiles flying towards the lizard-man’s lower back. Trailing behind each of the five claws was where the majority of the mana went for this spell, condensing the elemental darkness of Eleftheria into a thread leading back to the claws of his gauntlet.

An accidental trick he’d discovered out of desperation when wrestling with a Rose-affiliated Dragonlord and practiced since, the Doom Weaver had learned that such condensed darkness in his soul threads was extremely volatile when the form was broken and the connection the Soulshredder snapped. This sudden release of control had sent the shadow magic down the only path available… and directly into the Dragonlord’s body, erupting through the barbs implanted in the Dragonlord’s body.

As the barbs flew through the ash-riddled air towards his new target, Elryx felt the curiosity of his Doom spirit mirrored with his own. How would such volatile darkness magic affect a lizard creature? The twisted part of his own soul that had so easily buried his shriveled humanity from earlier howled in a need to witness such pain… such suffering.

Only one way to find out.



Dragonknight315 -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/24/2022 19:13:01)

It was alive.

Sonder took in her surroundings. The red hues from her descent were gone, replaced by a monochrome world. From the center, a column of lightning sparked in the air. Outside, its existence would have come and gone in the blink of an eye. But here, it could shine in complete glory. Stripes of white light swept across the arena, blocked by pillars of stone. This gave way to deep shadows, untouched save for the soft light that peered from the pillar’s cracks. A place of comfort for her kind.

Such power.

The sight filled her with awe, and perhaps some jealousy. With her mortal eyes, Sonder could see the power of the Lords. But there was more. She looked underneath the physical, to her body’s inner sight. And then, it all became clear.

The arena– it was alive. Life essence poured through the stone, traveling like veins through flesh. It wrapped around the pillars, flowing towards the center.

It was alive, and it was watching her.

It would be her salvation.

Amidst the arena’s brilliance, another spark flickered in the distance, just on the edge of her inner eye.

A competitor.

Sonder stretched the whip in her hands as she peered to her left. Indeed, there was someone there. A human, or rather, something in the shape of one. Sunlike skin, flame-touched hair. The figure stood out in the pillar’s shade.

Their spark was the only one Sonder could sense, but she knew there were more. Farther away from the Suntouched, Sonder saw a light in the distance. A warrior clad in knight’s armor, carrying a rope of energy. Their light was their own with traces of yellow compared to the whitish-blue of the battlefield.

On the opposite side of the arena, two competitors stood. Although they were far away, Sonder could make out some details. One figure was bathed in the arena’s light, blacked armor with a white coat. The other preffered the shadows, skulking against the edge. Only the faintest red glow gave any warning of their presence.

Finally, to Sonder’s right, one last competitor stood, or rather, slouched. The being was dressed in the clothes of a wealthy gentleman, yet their form was anything but dignified. They clutched a large blackened bone in their monstrous claws. And then, it spoke, gagging on its own voice before turning eerily sharp.

"Well then. Who might engage in gentlemanly bloodsport with me this day?”

Just . . . what are you?

They were unlike anything Sonder had ever seen. Not even the Coven’s curses had produced something like this, a fusion of man and beast.

The Coven. . .

Sonder reached to touch the ribbon at her neck. The very thought filled her heart with rage. Those witches, the monsters they made– the monster they made her. She could hear them cackling.

“You are my living death, dear mortal. An agent of fear, forever bound to us.”

No.

Without warning, Sonder gathered her thoughts and threw her whip forward. She cracked the air with her ivory, announcing her presence to all.

“I am the living death! Witness me, for I come!”

No longer would Sonder be a slave to others; now, fear was hers to command.

The beast was close, but he still lingered far away. If he drew closer, Sonder’s inner eye would see him. Instead, the Dullahan focused her gaze on the Suntouched and rushed forward.

As she drew closer, Sonder stared at the figure’s face, to their coal-like eyes.

Can you feel it? The pain? The world begging you to look away?

Only a few feet from the Suntouched, Sonder swept her right arm through the air, twisting her whole body into the strike. Her will rushed the spine, moving and bending as though it were alive, hissing through the air. The ivory moved towards the Suntouched’s left leg, ready to ensnare it and pull her to the ground.

Don’t look away.



San Robin -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/25/2022 9:28:09)

Still in awe of the arena, Vu’ur looked around. Were there more places like this in this awful plane? If she had known she would have loved to live there, even if only until the time she could return home! Back to the warmth, infinite heat and being treated like royalty!

She looked around and for the first time since she entered, remembered that this was a competition. A wide array of lower lifeforms with varying levels of heat were present in the arena. While she wouldn’t starve in this arena, some of these creatures might prove to be… difficult to siphon. But nothing she couldn’t handle… after all she had learned how to do that many years ago…


“Lady Vu’ur? Lady Vu’ur! Please pay attention when I am trying to explain something to you!” Kaen pleaded with their student as Vu’ur looked at them with a bored expression. “What’s so important about learning this stuff anyway? It’s not like I ever need to hunt lesser beings!”. Kaen shook their head, they had heard it all before from this lazy heiress but they tried their best to show her the importance of these lessons. “You never know what fate might have in store for you.” they patiently explained, “you are part of the proud vampyre lineage and it is up to me to prepare you for the worst case scenarios.”

Vu’ur groaned and rolled her eyes, there they went again with their worst case scenarios! “WHAT is the worst thing that could happen? Our livestock revolting? We’ll just kill them and get new ones!”. Kaen took a deep breath and clutched their bandaged arm, “As you might know the plane of fire where we live is only one of many and it is VERY possible to travel between them, either purposely or by accident.”

Vu’ur chuckled “So you want me to believe I can stumble and fall into another plane? That’s ridiculous even for you!” but Kaen didn’t laugh. Instead they removed the bandage from their arm, showing a wound, the kind of which Vu’ur had never seen before. “In the plane I ended up in, they called this ‘frostbite’. It was a plane full of creatures with barely any heat… I had to learn how to siphon them to survive.” they sighed, “So please listen to my lessons and hope you will never have use for them…”



She snapped out of the memory as the creature near her made its move. In a flash the creature lunged a whip at her, aiming for Vu’ur’s leg. “DODGE! I won’t let that filthy creature touch me!” she thought as she kicked off of the ground, sending herself in a corkscrew flip, narrowly dodging the whip, sending a small fireball in the direction of the creature.

“Just my luck” she thought to herself, “of all the creatures in this Arena I end up near one that barely has any heat left in them.” She sighed, “It looks like you were right after all, Kaen”. She landed from her flip. Ready to move at a moment's notice, flames flickering in the palm of her hand. She took a deep breath focusing on the creature in front of her, on the little heat it possessed. She smirked.

“I like your fire, I think I’ll take it”



roseleaf320 -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/25/2022 19:15:39)

The arena’s electric Strand cast an ever-shifting light that brightened the dark, slate-like ground beneath Alceia. It flashed against Alceia’s own silver armor, its gleam dulled by the few years it had sat abandoned. Of course it wasn’t in great shape; a new set would’ve been a far better choice. This had just been an excuse to go back, no matter how Alceia tried to convince herself otherwise.

She watched through the sealed window at dusk and longed to enter, to say hello and goodbye. But she was in town only to grab her armor from the arena’s storage and leave-- she was not wanted here anymore. She leaned over the vibrant pink and orange lilies that bloomed beneath her to stare, perhaps for too long, at the small blonde child inside. He played eagerly with a collection of multicolored wooden horses set on wheels; an athyrmata set Admenta herself had played with as a child. Alceia shook her head and turned, the heavy pack of armor swung around her shoulder. The child seemed happy; a glimpse of his bright hazel eyes, his toothy grin, had to be enough.


The gargled cry of an animal caused Alceia to squint in confusion. It was a distance away; perhaps a deer in distress near the house? Or-- an opponent. Light shone not from the moon above, as she’d thought, but from the lightning beside her, angry as the Forge itself. Yes, that was right. She was in Forge; she’d chosen an enemy. Alceia’s eyes assessed him more closely as she began to step gingerly towards him. Though Alceia’s armor flashed and flickered with the pattern of lightning, her opponent’s pitch-black plates seemed to absorb it entirely. Bright golden trim accented the armor’s sharp corners and lines. A man with some sense of style; now to see if his skills hold up to the greatness he seemed to display.

Alceia had to use whatever opportunities she was afforded when it came to a man in full armor. The halberd bared serrated teeth in addition to the normal, horn-like curves of its blade; Alceia could almost imagine it snarling. It would weigh a significant amount, distributed awkwardly down its extended handle. Best to test him first-- his moves, his balance, his armor’s strength-- then go for the weapon. Alceia cleared her throat of ash and called to her new adversary.

Admenta’s hazel eyes glowed softly in the moonlight as she brushed pale soil over her tulip bulbs.
“Doesn’t it make things harder? When you’ve spoken with someone before you…” Her sister held a hand to her own stomach as she rose, as if to steady oncoming nausea.

“Nah.” Alceia leaned over the open window from inside, having taken a break from her own nighttime routine.
“Neither fighter really pays attention to the words, anyways. That’s your free time, your spare moment to size them up before the duel actually gets going.”


Her sister’s voice rolled through her ears, responding to the comment, but the words faded just out of reach. Alceia’s stomach lurched. The signs had been there, even that early? How naive they had been. Not that knowing would have changed anything. She would’ve still ended up here. “Obsidian one!” He turned to her voice and Alceia could see clearly the crest bared upon his surcoat. A country, perhaps, or a clan. The reasoning of other combatants never mattered to Alceia; to consider them would lead to death or humiliation in the arena. Her reason had to be enough; had to be greater than theirs. To her, the boy in the window meant more than any clan this man fought for. “What should I call my opponent? I am Alceia--”

She cut off abruptly as her opponent, indifferent to her address, began to charge. He stepped nimbly despite the armor weighing him down, and Alceia crouched, ready to spring, as he quickly closed the distance between them.
She grows older by the day; arthritis freezes her overused limbs.

Alceia felt dizzy, shaking her legs, which she knew to be healthy, to keep them awake and standing upright. Her opponent lifted his halberd with ease, as if it were but a scarf or a newborn child. The movement was familiar to Alceia; prep for a standard halberd swing, right shoulder to left hip.

Alceia stilled her breath and burst into movement, swinging around her opponent’s right side. Her hair fluttered as the halberd whistled by her. A surge of adrenaline ran through her body, snuffing out the last whispers of decay yet to come. She’d rather overuse her body than lose its parts-- getting old was a ridiculous possibility, anyways. Alceia dropped the Strand from one hand, dangling it so it barely kissed the stone floor. The Fate Strand elongated as if stretched between two immovable loops; its unrestrained end rested in place even as Alceia skirted around her opponent, until it was about the length of a longsword. Alceia flicked her wrist, and her Fate obeyed, lashing out from her gloved hand towards her opponent’s armored back like a python.






Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/25/2022 20:25:59)

Pupils flicked fast to and fro, searching, hunting, questing for a target amidst the heat bloom gloom. A challenger to take up the cause, whether a conqueror's carnival or merest miniature morsel - fresh or foul, vile, foul whatever the case may be. But there naught but silence in close for a long beat breath, only the retrograde echo of enthusiasm beyond the wrought stone inner perimeter wreathing central lightning. Claws rasped against beatstick bone as grip grew titanic with ambush anxiety. Predatory peril that dried hide, kicked the heart into drum-tum-tum overdrive. It was to be one of those bloodbaths: messy, ugly, blink and you're already dead.

His lips curled from corner to corner in coroner's grin, coinciding with crack-whip challenge from the known undead. They blossomed into magnificent motion, choreographed clarity carrying them aside and out of view. He slid a foot sideways, lanky legs bandy bending beneath as he entertained the potential of pursuit. It was as simple as being off to the races - for what interrupted that thought first. The click-clack smack of ecstatic sound as barbs bounced off of bandoliered bone only barely won out, elevated by sheer volume over the subtle pricking pins of pierced hide.

Whilst a pair of the whole host of barbs clattered their way harmlessly askew, a third failed to quite catch firm, scoring a shallow-deep scrape. Fuming fire irritant of red-raw nerves, covered slick by pulsing purplish blood. Before MJF could growl about the gash gained along the grain of defenses-down hide, the rest of the held-fast barbs pumped the panicked pain of their potent payload. His grin ground into grit lockjaw as the system shock unbound springs, accelerating his ascent high and forward. A twitchy, graceless gambit that still took him absurdly aerial, opening the gap between him and the unnoticed assailant. Just enough trailing twine to go taut and tear before the splash against stone.

That was an agony he'd never experienced before, and despite a cough of pain and a residual twitch he burbled some laughter low. His eyes locked on scarlet-rimmed shadow - if there was one undead why not two! - as he gathered feet beneath him and took up a combat crouch. Red for dead. Apt here, just not for heat bleed slowdeath on snow, slush, and ice. "Well bully for you," he remarked, as he drew on those memories for his own purposes. Cold crept casually into the air around him as suited up in icy raiment. All while crooking a webbed finger towards the Weaver with a mocking grin, backed by oil-slick iridescence gleaming from brandished bone edge.

"Come on then. Spice up this meal, before dead-flesh I devour."



Synthe_ -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/25/2022 22:10:00)

Of course, what was your name again? Ambriel? Sounds kind of weird to be honest, but that’s ok! I was about to go climb that hill over there, want to come?



It took a startlingly long time for Ambriel to notice that the heat blanketing his body was not due to his burning desire, but rather the ambient temperature. Despite the sweat beginning to coalesce on his forehead, Ambriel stood perfectly at attention, inquisitive gaze carefully scanning the strange formations in the center of the cavern. Unnaturally frequent flashes of crimson lightning jumped from the larger pillar directly in front, its sheer size exuding an aura that seemed to fill the room even more than the clouds of ash already had.

Insufferable pride was not enough for these people. No, they had to attempt to bring the very essence of Hell into his domain? Surely this affront must surpass that of the misguided, undeniable heresy in its entirety.
Father, this place is further gone than my worst fears could have guessed. Regardless, Your will shall be carried out - With no exceptions.

Ambriel’s eyes shut for a moment as he mentally spoke his prayer.

But of course, there was no response.

A miniscule tinge of disappointment sent a cold rush through the Arbiter’s body, not that he was entirely surprised. Words of approval were clearly not necessary yet, and the faint glow of holy energies coating his equipment was comforting enough.

Perhaps the greatest indication, I know I have committed no sin as long as His power remains.

Unfortunately, the hollow comfort coloring Ambriel’s thoughts was rapidly overshadowed as his mind returned to the present. The weight of the ash pressed down on him, sweltering heat bringing reality to the forefront. Alongside reality came his task, and the sudden realization that he was desperately looking forward to it.

The dark weight of the arena shifted from black to red, a crimson cloud matching the lightning that seemed to burn an imprint on Ambriel’s skin. Fickle imitation of the unspeakable, each and every being here is complicit in its existence.

The beginnings of battle barely reached his ears, the growing cacophony merely another inkling of corruption in the back of his consciousness.

Nothing short of disgust crosses my mind, nothing but-

The Arbiter’s gauntlet grasped painfully tight around the halberd’s handle, unconscious emotions intensifying until pulled taut. Only conviction was left to ensure he did not break, but indeed it refused to shatter under the blazing pressure.

Nothing but...

“Obsidian one!”
A sharp voice cut through the mental fog, causing Ambriel to turn in the blink of an eye. One of the sinners had begun to approach, casually holding a brilliantly glowing rope between her hands. Somehow she looked unbothered by the heat, though her choice of sandals and mere half plate likely contributed. For whatever reason, the thought that such an insignificant creature even considered speaking to Ambriel without even wearing proper equipment infuriated him, the solid metal of his faceplate doing little to hide his burning gaze.

No. Not disgust.
Nothing but hatred.

Though the figure continued speaking, Ambriel didn’t bother to process her words. Blazing thoughts turned to actions as he leapt forward, carried by raw conviction alone. His burst of speed seemed to marginally surprise his adversary, but unfortunately the distance between them gave more than enough time to react.

With the force of a full suit of armor behind him, Ambriel’s halberd could not help being pulled along. A faint cloud of yellow-white wisps colored the air in his wake, dispelling the choking ash if only for a moment. As soon as his steps landed him within reach, Ambriel planted his left boot into the ground, instantly catching on the cracked stone beneath. While this slowed his body in an instant, the weight of the blade carried on. With a firm tug, the serrated edge was brought over his right shoulder, cutting across with the force of fifty pounds of plate armor behind it.

Despite an advance that would catch any casual observer off guard, Ambriel’s target abruptly danced to his right, narrowly avoiding certain death. It seemed she had quite a bit of agility as well, flanking further to the side despite her heavy half-plate. Though his attack did not connect, Ambriel’s halberd hardly slowed as it carved a bright path through the fog. He only continued to push the blade further along, though this meant he was turning away from his attacker. Now that she had entered a blind spot, it seemed unlikely that he would be able to follow up without taking a hit in return.

Not that a sparkly piece of twine poses much threat anyway. Maybe you’ll have a chance to consider your sins before I free you from the chains of sentience.

Ambriel dropped to a low crouch, releasing his weapon with his right hand and leaving his left to guide its path. The foothold that had previously locked him in place now willingly slid on the thin shards of stone coating the ground, rotating his whole body in line with the wide horizontal arc that his weapon was now tracing. A flash of bright light lit up from behind, for a moment highlighting his shadow atop the uneven bedrock. He had less than a moment to wonder where such a light could have originated before experiencing a sharp increase of temperature on his back, a noticeable impact causing his entire body to shift slightly. It did not feel like a weapon of steel, nor did it match any magic he had fought, and no stinging pain blinded his nerves. While certainly unexpected, the strike did not concern the Arbiter as his thoughts quickly discarded the damage as inconsequential. After all, no simple being of corruption posed a danger to him as long as his energy remained...

Slight metal deformation at worst. You may have struck once, but my blade has only gained more momentum. I hope you didn’t forget to check your flank, vermin...

Although he could not see behind himself, Ambriel guessed that his opponent had likely landed by now. Just before coming into view, he made one last motion with his left gauntlet, putting that tiny bit more force behind his halberd. Completing its circle just barely four feet off the ground, the weapon was too long to dodge backwards, and too high to easily jump over. With any luck, the sinner would need to duck underneath the slash or risk being hit. Though there was more than enough time to get out of the way, Ambriel smirked beneath his helm as he allowed his right boot to slip out from underneath. His whole body spinning with the force of the monstrous blade, his foot quickly accelerated as he readied a horizontal kick aimed at knee height.

Successfully duck my blade, and what will you get? A metal boot to the face may not be sharp, but I can promise you won’t be missing my halberd for long.



Necro-Knight -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/27/2022 22:02:00)

‘Ice magic and arrogance. Brings the meaning of cold-blooded into a new light, my child.’

‘Yeah, no kidding…though, that frozen layer will be difficult for us to force our way through unharmed. We need-’

‘-something that has no regard for the ice period…yes, I agree…’

Forcing his eyes away from the satisfying view of the bleeding creature, Eryx’s gaze flicked over its shoulder to the arcing electricity between the many pillars in the center of the ash-filled arena, the corner of his mouth tilting up slightly. While concealing his identity, the Doom Weaver was also eternally grateful for the value of his enchanted veil in combat. No way for his foe to read his face if he had nothing to read.

Only emotions they’d recognize were twisted sadism and apathy, besides. No point in relating to fellow man.

Raising his right arm up in front of him so the skull of Eleftheria on its gauntlet could glare directly at the beast-man, Eryx sent a fraction of his mana into the tool, forming a fist as scarlet light bloomed over his knuckles and wove itself into another smaller skull of pure shadow resting over his wrist. From the base of the darkness-woven skull, a length of spiked spinal columns formed one after the other, the five vertebrae linked with pulsing strands of scarlet soul-thread.

A whip had never truly been the weapon he’d seen himself wielding as an adventurer, but ever since that obsidian winter day, the flexibility and versatility of such a tool had won over both he and Eleftheria’s heart. Their victims typically expected a Chaos Weaver’s style of fighting with blade and soul claws.

Eryx had become more than that.

Widening his stance and leading with his left foot as he rotated around to fully face his foe, the Doom Weaver began to step towards the lizard-man without a word and swung his right arm forward with each step. The motion sent the shadow vertebrae trailing behind and the whip cracked once, twice. Three times. Each snap of the air by the shadow-whip shrieked through the arena around them, like a banshee’s howl being released then suddenly cut short.

While cornering it could prove unwise, the beast would either retreat from his attacks or suffer the bite of the Doom Weaver’s power. Either way, Eryx saw it as a potential victory in this bloody sport.

Time to see how smart this animal walking like a man truly was.



Dragonknight315 -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/28/2022 18:00:25)

Her will fell short.

As Sonder reached out with her whip, the Suntouched leapt off the ground. The ivory hissed through the air, missing her leg by mere inches.

Move.

Her thoughts swept through her arm, flowing through the whip as if it were an extension of Sonder’s own nerves. And so, the whip shuddered, curving to reach for the Suntouched once again. But it was too late. With the Suntouched still in the air, sparks of orange light gathered in her palm, and the Suntouched hurled the fire down.

The human inside Sonder flinched. Fire. Sonder moved her left arm to shield herself from the magic. For an instant, she was baptized in orange light. The ivory went slack as Sonder reeled from the blast. In that moment, she felt it; the warmth seeping through the gaps in her armor. The pain on her skin. However brief, she could feel something.

As the heat died, Sonder gathered herself. She looked down to her arm. The leathers were scorched. Some bits were worn away; others, small flicking fires were still alight.

“I’ve felt worse.” The Dullahan's voice was like a whisper.

As she brushed the remaining fires from her arm, Sonder looked up to the Suntouched, now on the ground. Rather than press the advantage, she remained still, focused, as if she were looking through Sonder.

“I like your fire. I think I will take it.”

Pride. Sonder gave a grim smile.

“Be careful what you wish for. You might regret it.”

Without warning, Sonder stepped forward, sweeping her whip through the air in a horizontal slash. This time, she aimed for the torso, ready to match the Suntouched speed. As fate would have it, the Suntouched ducked to the side. But Sonder would not make the same mistake twice. Immediately, the Dullahan doubled back, twisting her body in the other direction, contorting in a way no human should. She could feel her flesh tearing in her sides. But this pain was hers, of her own will. It would not stop her.
The air cracked as she brought the whip in the other direction, moving to catch the Suntouched mid-dodge. This time, her whip found purchase, coiling around the woman’s neck, the razor ivory slicing into their flesh.

The human Sonder watched in horror as she drew closer to the Suntouched. The scar around her neck seemed to burn with phantom pain, dwarfing the real injuries in her flesh. But, she buried it within. This was not the place for empathy. Instead, she leaned deeper into the very monster she despised.

“You should have listened. You wanted to know what it was like?” Sonder whispered as she clutched the whip with both hands. She stared into the Suntouched’s eyes, watching as her face twitched with the pain of her existence.

“And now you are mine.”



San Robin -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/29/2022 17:55:16)

The creature had gotten hit by the fireball Vu’ur hurled at it, but it seemed… mostly unfazed muttering something before it brushed off the embers of the fireball. Responding to Vu’ur’s taunt before it started lunging forward, another whip attack… How predictable! Vu’ur dodged to the side, making the whip miss by far. She smirked. “So easy!”

However the smirk quickly disappeared when she saw the creature contouring its body in a way that shouldn’t be possible for any living being; but then again, Vu’ur wasn’t sure if what she was facing could be classified as such. Too distracted by the creature’s unnatural way of movement, she lost sight of the whip she thought to have dodged. She did not see it change directions and the next thing she knew, it was wrapped around her neck. A sharp pain hit her as the razors around the whips dug into her flesh.

She got pulled in closer and closer, facing the creature as it whispered. On closer inspection the face seemed to resemble that of a human woman, though twisted and corrupted. Like it was sculpted by someone who didn’t quite know what a woman looks like. These thoughts went through Vu’ur’s head before a sharp pain hit her. A feeling like her head was about to split open.


The creature said something, but all Vu’ur heard was a ringing sound as the splitting pain in her head and the whip around her neck took over her senses. “Let. Me. Go. PEASANT!” She growled between her clenched teeth, as she lashed out as hard as she could, hitting the creature right in its ghastly visage. She felt the whip slack, moving her gaze away from the creature’s face. It was now or never, she had to finish this!

The battlefield was chaotic. It felt like yesterday that Kaen was teaching her ways to survive in another plane. Never had she expected to actually end up in one, let alone a full-on war. Lord Wargoth had decided to go on a conquest and somehow the noble vampyre lineage got involved to fight in this silly thing! She roared as she struck down yet another enemy. The last one of the bunch.

She looked around at the battlefield, fallen allies and foes everywhere. Fires raging and the scent of burning flesh filled the air. At last she could take a small break! “Lady Vu’ur! Watch out!” a familiar voice called out as someone rushed past her. Stunned, she looked down to see Kaen stabbing a dagger through the heart of the enemy she thought she had beaten moments ago, a sword in its hand still pointed at her.

“How many times have I told you to be thorough?! Always be SURE to finish off the enemy before it can retaliate!” Kaen said with a frown. they seemed angry… no… worried? “Behead them if possible! Make sure that if they go down they won’t get back up again! TAKE EVERY ADVANTAGE IN A FIGHT!”

The words of her old teacher echoed in her head. They had been right as always, this wasn’t a game. This was a war! The creature was still dazed, it was now or never! Vu’ur’s hands went to her daggers, feeling the trusty handle and weight as she unsheathed them. “Behead them if possible” she thought. Crossing her daggers and using her elbow jet she swiftly decapitated the creature in front of her. Gazing upon it as its head tumbled to the ground. But something was off… the creature still possessed the heat it did earlier, meaning…

“IT’S STILL ALIVE? HOW?!” Vu’ur thought as she jumped back, catching her breath, healing the superficial wounds and preparing for whatever came next.



Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/29/2022 19:04:43)

Comparatively chilled, MJF felt relieved from the worst of the oppressive heat that the current environs inflicted upon him. All thanks to the scintillating sub-zero scales that now safely encased his torso like some frigid burnished jacket of mail, floating along his endothermic body oils in blessed biomagery. Plip-plop drops dripped to kiss the concrete ground. Puddle-proof slow growth reflecting the faintest edge of hunger-pang from effort expended. Unblinking, baleful eyes remained locked upon his not-yet truly undead foe as he bobbed on bandy legs. Comfortably patient in the long moments stilled, sanguine and satisfied in zen mind as his opponent strategized and schemed.

It wasn't as if the macabre mix of magic and motif nor the total lack of expression seen could bother the arctic ambush hunter. Clash of culture left him cleansed of concern, and the false-pause was but mere preface for the expressive language of motion. The Weaver, all scarlet-sheathed shade shapes slashed with criss-crossed bits of bone, raised their right arm and pointed his way. Crimson coalesced into gloomy masses that hung and swayed, segments sharp and scarlet-twined. Another lover of the lash, but the serrated spines had him in mind of the mermaid seals. MJF licked his chops, and even if there was no rich rubbery chew of a blubber laden meal here, the glacial game also had a wicked-long tail that could cut as well as crush. He bounced on the balls of his flippered feet, raptly attentive.

Motion begat clarity as his undead-ish opposition took a step and began their first mighty swing. The frogman's eyes shot wide, pupils expanding into cavernous crosses amidst their milky pools, catching crystal clarity of the arcing path of scarlet magelight. Each nook and cranny amidst the umbral bone - no, vertebrae! - came into razor resolution. Ah, the beauty of motion! A youth could struggle with such adrenal focus, but the dapperly dressed MJF was far from his first hunt. He saw clearly that the swing would be short, ignoring the high shriek of siren death the mage-born whip elicited.

*Crack!* MJF hopped back a half-step, disappointed and frustrated, rising at his foe's mocking approach. How dare he be treated like some common beast!? Was this a circus, and he the big cat to hop through hoops on demand? His foe's arm rose again for a second warding wallop, but the faux-zard was not about to play the game they wanted. As wailing death trailed through the air, MJF stood their ground. Ever-closer but not yet enough. Acrid breeze from its scything air pushing into his frosty aura. His free hand went to his back as he half-bowed, dared, and began to layer his own entrapment.

Third step. Third extension. Third swing. Doom writ in garnet gloom cast forward with far too much ease, embodying a casual contempt that rubbed MJF raw. He would not be cowed into backing into pillar peril! Nor did he surge forward to come to grips as easy prey for eviscerating entrapment. Before the third crack could clear the air and flick ever so close to his snout, MJF had already leapt instead to his left. Slyly sliding between pillars thrumming black, nearer to the crackling intensity of the arena's center.

He wasn't simply using the terrain to his advantage, introducing hazard against arcing lash, but breaking sight played into his webbed grasp. From there it was a sudden scramble of slapping footfall, moving wide 'round the pillar as he unlimbered one of his azcona. Momentary cover cleared, grip gauged, shoulders aligned, all leading to a fierce fling. A quick cast for a close target, all his long-limbed leverage trading pure power for speed, possibly even surprise. An explosive one, perhaps, given the flurry of fine fragmentation promised by a kiss of keel bone tip. All while cashing in on cooling coating, concentrating cold along his tongue; icicle ploy prepared should the Weaver close in riposte to javelin thrown.



roseleaf320 -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/29/2022 20:44:09)

Alceia watched her opponent’s shoulders as he turned to face her, halberd dropped low for an upward swing. She had the advantage here: he was just letting the halberd’s momentum carry him, and likely couldn’t even see her. She ducked, and it whistled past her--

A crunch, a screeching fire erupting from her nose, as a heavy weight slammed into her face and sent her skidding backwards. Alceia’s lips parted as she struggled to breathe, to fight the encroaching numbness of mind and vision that she knew would leave her unconscious. The bitter taste of blood, dripping onto her tongue from above, gave her focus and brought her vision back. Obsidian’s boot shone with fresh blood-- he’d kicked her! “Oh, you wanna play it dirty like that, tough guy?”

Alceia grasped at her Fatestring, her fingers finding the moment she began to train with her Strand. She had no experience in fighting so close, throwing kicks and punches; but she could. That would certainly work better on an opponent with such a long weapon, anyways. Alceia flicked her thumb to her Fate Strand-- a simple movement. It was always too simple.

The screech of nails on metal filled Alceia’s ears, drowning out the grunts and heavy footsteps of her duel. She gritted her teeth as her soul cracked; like two plates of earth, once aligned, splitting as one drops below.

She stared down at the pulsing string in her fingers.
       With a flick, she forced it out to the length of a longsword.
                               With a twirl, she pulled it inwards and wrapped it firmly in both hands.
   She was familiar with a longsword; that would serve best.
                                  She should take advantage of the new weapon; she’d always wanted to try close range.

The crack widened, a second one forming on the edges of the first.

She felt
                   resignation              anger
Towards her task.
 She would become a fighter once more
She would become something new, more intense, but stronger than before,

To save him.

The cracks were numerous now, spiraling down from Alceia’s skull in all directions, each one enlarging those before it, each one a new throb with a slightly different rhythm. Her lips pursed in concentration as Calline’s gaze poured heat into her face from afar; no, now they pursed against Calline’s own, her Strand held tight against her fists to protect Calline from its heat. Moments she’d never seen, that she’d never lived through, flowed unrelenting through her mind, drops added to an already full chalice. Alceia’s four eyes saw too much, too long, until they stopped seeing altogether and devolved into static. Without vision to ground her, Alceia became dizzy, smells and sensations surrounding her until she couldn’t tell her up from down, her old past from new, her pasts from present. She must be vomiting; or maybe it was just a memory that enflamed her stomach, that filled her throat and poured from her lips. Her knuckles throbbed from the taut Strand’s heat wrapped against them while her right palm stung from the backlash of its whiplike movements. She had to let go of one, but she couldn’t tell which was the original and which carried the change she wanted, and even then she couldn’t tell which pieces belonged to which timeline. Maybe her chalice would finally overflow, maybe this was the change that would drown--

Towering statue flashes in Forge’s light; wolflike maw glints as it closes in from above.


The Alceia that now was snapped onto Forge’s stone ground, her face pulsing from an impact that felt as if it could’ve happened in another lifetime entirely. Alceia seized onto the sensation desperately; its strength, its rhythm, forced away the memories that clamored for space in her mind. It always seemed easiest to live when she was in pain. Alceia licked what she could of the blood that dribbled from her shattered nose. The wolf’s maw-- that had been here; that had been obsidian’s halberd. Static still fading from the recesses of her eyes, Alceia found her opponent looming above her, his silhouette a shadow in Forge’s central light. His halberd’s fangs bared high for a finishing swing. Just as she’d seen, he came from above-- to fall straight down.

Alceia gritted her teeth and sprung towards him in a flurry of movement. She twisted both hands simultaneously to wrap the Strand around her knuckles as she tensed her hands into fists. The heat that threatened to sear through her leather felt as familiar as the muscle memory that spurred her actions; though moments before, both would have felt bizarre. If she tried to swing the Strand like a longsword, she knew it would feel just as bizarre now. She wondered how long it would take her to forget there had ever been an alternative. Likely, it would be quicker than the last time-- whenever that had been.

Behind his dusk-black helmet, her opponent’s scarlet eyes shone with fury, and she met his gaze with equal weight. Lightning flashed from outside and within as she held his eyes and her voice rose to a roar. Alceia tethered her left hand close to her body, while the right led its wrapped Strand end straight towards her opponent’s temple. She had already lost and changed so much to get here, to change what could not be changed. And this man was in her way.




Synthe_ -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/30/2022 22:11:18)

After what felt like an eternity, Ambriel had finally completed enough of his spin to have his target enter his peripheral vision. Seeing as his blade failed to collide with anything solid, it came as no surprise that the slippery vermin had managed to get out of the way in time. Though as Ambriel thought to himself, honestly he would have felt a tad disappointed if such an average attack was what managed to put her in the ground. A cruel, frenzied smile crept across his face as he finally saw his adversary carefully ducking beneath the halberd swing, though thankfully his faceplate hid such an unnaturally vibrant show of emotion.

You lose.


Ambriel always loved the indescribable feeling of completing his goals, destroying the body of the insolent in this case. Yes, that feeling only really showed itself in the face of violence, but how could Ambriel possibly refute his own nature? Naturally his grin only grew wider when his right leg kicked out, making direct contact with his target’s face. The sickeningly inconsistent sensation of a body’s resistance crumbling was music to his ears, and for that moment he recognized nothing else. Only himself, his adversary, and the complete silence that always seemed to follow a devastating hit.

His movements slowed as Ambriel stopped his spin, regaining his balance as he admired the thin layer of liquid light that settled atop the stones, taking on an amber-red coloration from all the surrounding magma. Tiny pinpricks of light mixed with the noticeable splashes of blood beneath his feet, residue left from where his opponent had stood just a moment earlier. Now, she lay sprawled on the ground several feet closer to the center of the cavern, only just starting to recover her senses. Barely audible over the low rumble of the Forge, her strained words reached his ears. “Oh, you wanna play it dirty like that, tough guy?”

Ambriel’s grin shifted to a frown as he began to step towards her sprawled body, halberd carefully trailing behind. Honor is not granted to sinners. Do not attempt to plant guilt in me, for His will cannot be displaced.

For only a moment he closed his eyes, but naturally his thoughts were left with nothing but silence.

Just as Alceia was beginning to open her eyes, the Arbiter had completed his march to her resting place. The serrated edge of his blade hung just above the stone, his hands instinctively keeping it moving at all times. How unusual that this scuffle had managed to draw blood, yet his weapon had not tasted it - the metal itself was hungry, and Ambriel was quite aware of its desire as he carefully raised it over his shoulder.

As he began to bring it down for a finishing blow on his incapacitated opponent, his thoughts were strangely not with the sinner he was actively executing. Rather, he had allowed himself to be blinded by uncertainty.
Black waters of doubt poison the mind, hesitation and apprehension color my actions. Doubt not for Your will, but rather my interpretation. Some indication, a sign perhaps, is all that I ask for, if I may be found worthy.

The halberd struck, though it struck something far harder than flesh. The resonating clang of metal on stone met his ears, the sound so fundamentally unexpected that it seemed to short out Ambriel’s thoughts for a full second. The confusion brought him back to reality, opening his eyes just in time to see his adversary leaping towards him, blazing thread pointed directly at his face.

What.

This single instant of clarity, no longer than the flash of lighting from the forge itself, saved the Arbiter’s life. Moving his head ever so slightly caused the weapon to miss his eye slit, though it still perfectly collided with the side of his helmet. A brilliantly cold shock radiated through Ambriel’s skull as it connected, his vision being replaced with amorphous blobs as his brain lost its ability to properly interpret his surroundings. For what felt like an eternity he was trapped in this senseless prison, mismatched flecks of red and black accompanied by the most ferocious ringing sensation he had ever experienced. His legs moved on their own, though Ambriel would swear they had left the ground behind. Though his dazzled senses would not notice until far later, a wide river of crimson blood leaked out from beneath his helmet, painting his chestplate and the ground beneath.

There was no way of knowing how long it took for his mind to return, though sight certainly came back long before the ringing in his ears departed. Kneeling on the uneven stones, a thick layer of light covered the immediate area. The hit he took was nothing to shrug off, and the force was more than enough to dislodge a large amount of luminescence. He couldn’t tell at the moment, but the vitality afforded to him by such divine energies was likely the only thing holding him back from the abyss of unconsciousness. Ambriel’s hands were empty, his weapon laying discarded on the ground nearly ten feet towards the center pillars.

Even as regular waves of pain washed over his entire body, the Arbiter carefully rose to his feet. Humiliated and left unarmed, his earlier uncertainty had all but been washed away. No, not washed away - rather incinerated in an all-consuming blaze of emotion. His head burned from the pain, but even more so from the sense of uncontained rage that had his entire focus on one person, the one carefully standing over his weapon. He clenched his fists, and for the first time since he arrived, spoke to his enemy.

“Your insistence on defiance is positively abhorrent! You cannot escape judgment, and you’ve accomplished nothing but making it personal.” Burning flames of raw hatred crept their way into his words, perhaps making it a little too obvious how rattled he was. “And unfortunately for you, blind luck isn’t enough to save your soul.”



Necro-Knight -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/31/2022 15:41:05)

By the Avatars, the beast was fast.

He’d seen the counter-attack coming amid one of the flashes of the electricity, so close, but speed was not his body’s strong suit anymore. He’d given Eleftheria so much that he had not truly realized how crippled he’d become until it was beyond repair. Still, the Weaver was already moving by the time his spirit was screaming. Unfortunately, the lizard-man’s reflexes were living, strong… and Eryx’s were cold, near-dead and ravaged by a spiritual parasite.

As the Doom Weaver tried to twist beneath the frozen javelin, his atrophied form was moments behind his commands. The sound of shattering ice accented another flash of lightning that paled in comparison to the flash of dull, distant pain that spread across Eryx’s skull. The spear impacted his right temple as he ducked low and the next second, he was lying on his back as his body’s already-poor balance was disrupted completely.

Eleftheria’s cold voice echoed behind the ringing in his ears somewhere but he was unable to make out the words. For a moment, he wondered how he was still among the living, before the Doom Weaver recalled the enhanced properties of his hooded coat. While Ele’s threads were naturally weak to holy magics, physical abuse had a difficult time piercing the densely woven darkness. While his hood had prevented the spear from possibly piercing his skull or filling his face with icy shrapnel, the sheer kinetic force of the impact had still sent him to the floor.

The memory of his first bonding with his doom spirit flashed to the forefront of his mind again, when he’d lied on the floor of his prison cell, almost awaiting the Rose soldiers to put him out of his misery like a feral dog.

Like a beast.

He’d shown them, shown them his will to continue existing and shown them their place in the world. Now, he needed to show this lizard the same truth.

‘-ild… my child, can you hear me!?’

‘Yes, by the Avatars, I’m… I’m fine. We underestimated how fast it was. It’s…’

‘...not a mistake we shall make twice. We are the unity of life and death… it is just a beast in man's clothing.’

Using his gauntlet to support him, Eryx rose up to rest on his right knee and finally looked up at his opponent. As the thick air of the arena brushed at his dry and split hair, the doom weaver realized his hood and masking veil had been disrupted by the failed attempt at agility. His visage, or what remained of it, laid bare for all to see.

Normally, this would’ve worried him, any connections to his past possibly rising up in the least convenient places possible while hunting the Rose… but here, he was a shadow, a revenant vying for the favor of a dark god. Let them take in what he had become, how far he had moved beyond the limits of what it meant to be human.

Standing back to his full height with only moderate stiffness, Eryx forced a casual façade even as the ringing still lingered at the edges of his hearing, reaching up to run a hand through long, silver hair. His face, once all sharp cheeks and defined edges, had been abused over the years since the Black Winter and now bore scars telling the tales. A wide gash ran from his left cheek and connected to the bottom of his right jaw, exposing yellowed teeth beneath. His nose sat at an awkward angle, as if something had broken it with a swift strike and it had never healed properly… if it at all.

Contrasting his mangled and pale features were a pair of blazing scarlet eyes that locked onto the lizard-beast with nothing less than disgusted contempt.

“If you’re going to truly try and kill me, you savage animal, at least have the decency to do it with your own hands!”

His voice was dry from lack of use and cracked as if he was grinding bones in his throat, but the sound still carried over the arena all the same. A silent acknowledgement from Ele that she was ready, Eryx forced his will and mana into the SoulShredder gauntlet again. Where his whip had formed loose and ready to crack the air, the vertebrae formed rigid now, interlinked with iron-like threads between them to form a wicked blade of bone and shadow extending down his arm.

Raising up his free hand now, Eryx tilted one side of his gnarled lips in a mocking smirk and motioned at the lizard-beast in a “come at me” motion with two fingers.

“Unless, of course… you are too much of a scared animal to fight me… like a man.”



Dragonknight315 -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (7/31/2022 21:05:18)

“Let. Me. Go. PEASANT!”

Sonder gasped as she witnessed the raw fury before her. She held the whip taut, the grasp around the Suntouched’s neck seemed unwavering. And yet, the elemental mustered all of its strength and lashed out. Sonder could do nothing but brace for impact.

As the blow connected against her face, there was a roar of heat from the pain. Then suddenly, it went cold, colder than anything she had felt in her second life. She staggered back, and her ivory went slack, freeing the Suntouched. Not a moment sooner, there was a puff of blue sparks as a set of daggers sliced into her scarf.

“Don’t worry, dear. It will only hurt for a moment.”

The girl looked up to her captors. Eyes stained with tears, everything seemed to blur together. The moon was full, casting its white light down to the forest below. Hints of brown and green and black filled in the gaps. One figure drew closer, their features becoming more clear. Long white hair. Wrinkled green skin.

The girl thrashed against the ground, but the binds around her arms and legs were too strong. She gasped for air as one of the Hags slammed onto her chest, sitting on her to hold her still. With a laugh, they continued.

“We’ll be friends now. Forever.”

Another voice rose from behind, a low guttural chant. The girl felt her blood run cold. She wanted to scream, but they had gagged her with cloth. Robbed her of any freedom.

The Hag reached down to brush the tears from the girl’s eyes. It was then that the last of the Hag sisters came into her sight. With an axe in hand, their intentions were all too clear.

Like a wild animal, the girl cried into her gag, desperately trying to break free. But there was nothing she could do. She was forced to watch as the axe was held above her head.

“With this, I bind you, little one. To be my living death.”

Then, in a blur, the axe came down.

The irony was not lost on Sonder as her head thudded against the ashen stone. She had underestimated her foe. Now, Sonder watched as the world turned over and over before her head stopped a fair distance away. Drops of blood sprinkled the path. As she settled in the shade, she could feel the bruise forming in her cheek. But more, she could feel the static in her hair. Sonder glanced from the corner of her eye, and as she suspected, she was resting only a few inches away from one of the pillars.

I need. . . my body. Where? . .

As Sonder looked forward, she opened her body’s inner eye. She could feel its presence drawing her eyes. A vague, hazy feeling.

But as the currents of life manifested themselves again, she could see them, feel them with clarity– her body and the Suntouched. The flame-kin was defensive, seemingly shocked by Sonder’s still standing corpse. She was fast and strong, Sonder acknowledged, but she once again failed to follow up her assault.

Seizing her chance, she smiled with her bloodstain lips and gave a forced laugh.

“. . . What’s wrong?”

Through space, Sonder reached out with her thoughts, commanding her body and whip alike. Though disjointed, she could still feel her ashen arms, the ground beneath her feet. She swiped the ivory before her, sweeping across the air from left to right, but it was not aimed at Vu’ur. This was a distraction. With her strike to keep the Suntouched at bay, Sonder willed her body back. Using the momentum from her swing, It pressed off the ground, spinning back towards the shadows. The ivory whirled around and around in the air before lashing out, reaching for her head.

As the whip fastened around her head, Sonder could feel the razors in her cheeks. The monster was holding firm, but inside, Sonder was rushing for answers.

I need lethality. I need power. I need–

The body pulled the ivory, carrying Sonder’s head. As her body caught it, Sonder tucked her head in her arm, clutching it as if it were a child.

With her feet in the shadows and her head in her grasp, Sonder gave her command.

“Arise, my shadow.”

At her word, black oil flooded the earth, pouring from beneath the ground. Suddenly, something reached through the oil, a mass akin to a tentacle or a limb. Then another, then a third, then more quickly rising from the shadows, wrapping around Dullahan's legs and lifting her into the air.

In an instant, the shadows wrapped in on themselves, the oil giving way to a distorted body of flesh and bone. Then, a loud, haunting cry filled the arena as the mass reared its legs, solidifying into an armored warhorse.

With her nightmare given form, Sonder looked down towards the Suntouched as her foe raced to meet her.

“I will bury you.”



San Robin -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (8/2/2022 16:02:41)

Vu’ur watched as the head rolled away, leaving a trail of blood in its path. It wasn’t as much as she had expected, but that didn’t surprise her anymore, she had killed many creatures since she had arrived on this plane and had seen many different things, and yet… This creature was still alive despite its head being cut off. Does that mean the body has the main control? Or is the head still linked to it somehow? Which one should she attack to finish it off?!

“... what’s wrong?” The head of the creature had started laughing. It was… utterly disgusting! But at least now she knew what part of the creature to attack! Vu’ur prepared to kick the head into the air, maybe hit it with a fireball or 2. But then the body started attacking, yet another swipe with its whip, one that’s easy enough to dodge, but it made it impossible for her to get near the head.

However the whip didn’t go for her after all, it made a move and grabbed the head and brought it back to its headless body. This whole scene was so surreal it took Vu’ur a while to get over it all. By the time she realized what had happened the body had grabbed the head and... Ran away?


It just stood there menacingly in the shadows, muttering something. Vu’ur was still disturbed and disgusted by the creature, but also morbidly intrigued by what its next move would be. So she decided to watch as shadows reached up from the floor, forming some sort of horse underneath the creature.

Flames flickered in her hands, this fight was about to get a lot harder so she might as well turn up the heat! She ran at the now-mounted creature as it stood there.

“I will bury you.” it sneered.

Vu’ur smirked, it wasn’t the first time she had heard that threat and she’ll make sure it wouldn’t be the last time either! She kept a close eye on the creature as she sped towards it but in the meantime focused the flames in her hands creating 2 small fireballs before combining them to create a medium sized blaze.

“That’s a neat trick you have there, I think I’ll have to start taking you seriously now!” she proclaimed just before she hurled the fireball at the creature. Unsheathing her daggers once more, ready to act.



Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (8/2/2022 18:20:33)

Bound bone wobbled and wavered in flattened arc through the air, but the fast cast of his azcona had been surprisingly true. Though his foe twisted and turned, its point clipped the cowl clean but not quite pure - no fascinating fragmentation into weathered, worn flesh. This time. The pointed payload had primarily passed on by to join the blackened body of the shaft in tinkling clatter irretrievably beyond. Still the twist turned into tumble, and his foe fell flat to the ground.

Did the faux dead play dead, or was the undead true dead? Was it time for a spoiled-sweet snack - lacking the chance to stew and spice and simmer the corpse into something nice - or just another disappointing trick? That was the question of the hour, and MJF felt his stomach rumble in protest, hunger intensifying after recent brash acts. It leant him caution as his eyes narrowed to evaluate the Weaver. Lids blinking, films passing over eager orbs to filter the momentarily motionless into some form of strong visual acuity.. Still just as warm, just as cold, just as aggravatingly ambient as ever. Crumbling frost kissed cool as he licked his chops with remnant rime, leaning against beatstick cane to let the lactic lessen while drawing the lonely twin of his thrown javelin. Nothing wrong with sticking the body again to be sure.

Only the deadman began to draw themselves up to his endless annoyance. What was pulling this corpse's strings? Doom, death, and decay? Hardly deep dreams, those. More world-altering than a wish for a forever-fare cornucopia of new tastes to delight, perhaps, but was it more meaningful? MJF snorted. The straight-laced stiff probably didn't even realize the endless options apparent, seeming so caught up in single-minded sentiment.

If the suddenly blazing eyes and pithy prattle were anything to go by, that sentiment probably involved savage reprise against an ancient perceived slight.

~“Unless, of course… you are too much of a scared animal to fight me… like a man.”~

Humanocentric hubris and narcissistic nonsense; even better the gesture returned straight to sender! Oh how pleasing, earlier frustrations caramelizing into a growing grin; toothy true. So bold a challenge, after backstab and denigration. Refusal to play by proffered fisticuffs prior made the answer simple-sweet.

"Mn. How about…no?" And he threw his other azcona, putting pointed emphasis to his answer.



roseleaf320 -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (8/2/2022 20:16:54)

A thousand punches-- into target dummies, pillows, sometimes walls and concrete-- overlaid in Alceia’s mind as the familiar and the new together collided with her opponent. Her knuckles, bound by fading leather and the ever-bright heat of her Fate, crashed roughly into the solid obsidian of his helmet. Alceia intended to follow up with her other fist, but halted mid movement as starburst flooded from her hands. Her impact brought clumps and droplets of light bursting from the dark metal like snow dislodged from a branch. They kissed her skin gently, a cool, refreshing douse in the middle of a hot and hardened battle. It felt too jarring, too unfamiliar; Alceia reared back and frantically brushed them off her as one would brush off the web of a spider. She braced for her opponent, assuming he’d take advantage of the chaos his light had caused. But nothing came-- he knelt on the ground, blood streaming from underneath his helmet. She should finish him off here, but… she… desperately needed a moment of rest.

Alceia backed up from him to assess her surroundings. The halberd lay discarded on the ground-- probably from backlash when it collided with stone. Alceia hooked her foot under the halberd’s blade and kicked it roughly towards the Forge’s center before turning her attention inwards.

The present still swirled around her, and her head throbbed as if a grandfather clock’s pendulum circled inside. It took too long for her to remember the word for it. Concussion. Definitely a concussion. She probably wouldn’t be able to fix that. But she’d fought through those before. Her hand wasn’t in good shape either: stabbing pain radiated through her fingers from the impact on the obsidian one’s helmet. Of course they were hurt, after ramming them into solid, unforgiving metal. If she just, ever so gently…

Alceia forced her right thumb, angry and swollen, across the Strand where it met her first knuckle. The Strand itself barely moved, anchored against the side of her hand. She breathed deep, and her vision split into two as if her eyes had crossed. But unlike before, her mind stayed anchored just as the Strand was. She was standing on solid ground, in the uncomfortable warmth of the Forge; not lost and swimming in the sea of her garbled timeline. She watched, conscious of her bearings, as two short memories played in her crossed vision.

Knuckles, bound by fading leather and the ever-bright heat of her Fate, crashed roughly into the solid obsidian of her opponent’s helmet.
Wisps of warm light burst from beneath her blood-covered knuckles and curved around the air.

Alceia swung high and missed her opponent entirely. His cold metal hand whipped around from her side and grabbed her by the wrist.
A cruel light played in his eyes as he began to squeeze.


If she could just… Alceia had never figured out how to explain the movement she made when doing this, the slight push that shifted the scenes together or apart. They began to overlap, and Alceia had to force them away from their desire to combine completely. She moved slowly, until only the corner of one overlapped with the other. With an exhale, she yanked on the first memory; and with it, pulled the corner of the second.

Her scenes disappeared, and with all of her focus again on the present, she was acutely aware of her right hand; warm from obsidian’s light, but no longer swollen, no longer stinging and broken. She sighed in relief. It had taken many tries to master that. It felt so, anyways, though Alceia couldn’t find any evidence of it in her Strand.

It was then that her opponent rose once more, cutting short Alceia’s moment of recovery. He yelled towards her, his voice strained and furied. Alceia squinted. She could understand his words just fine, but when put together, they didn’t make much sense to her. He seemed to think himself an enforcer of sorts. “And unfortunately for you,” he finished, “blind luck isn’t enough to save your soul.”

Alceia scoffed and shook her head. That sentence she understood. Her voice hung deep and resigned in her throat as she repeated out loud what she’d thought countless times, but never said.

“I stopped trying to save my soul a long time ago.”

The diviner’s tent smelled of incense and holly. Alceia stood beside her sister, whose hands lay protective against her swollen belly.
The diviner, a stout woman with graying hair and a motherly air about her, placed a wrinkled hand on Adamenta’s.
“It is a boy.” the words sparked joy-- Alceia was to have a nephew! Yet the diviner’s words echoed low and sorrowful, as if diagnosing a terminal illness.
Adamenta’s smile rose and fell as she picked up on a touch Alceia could not feel.

“Will he be alright?” Perhaps it was newfound motherly instinct that slipped the quiver into her sister’s voice; the punch of urgency when the diviner remained silent. “Ravine?”

The diviner seemed to stare for a moment not at Adamenta or her unborn child, but at Alceia;
hands toughened and calloused from battle, sword sheathed at her side. It was a privilege, a mark of status that allowed her to wield it outside the arenas.
The diviner’s clouded gaze, the curl of her eyebrows, made it seem more like a mark of infection.
“He will die…” the diviner trailed off, grim, pale eyes first meeting Adamenta, then Alceia once more before fleeing to stare at the incense bowl to their side.
Alceia’s stomach dropped as the words Ravine had chosen to withhold boomed in her mind like a throbbing tumor.

“By your hands.”


That had seemed… slightly different than Alceia thought she remembered. What had changed? And when?

“Then your life is forfeit,” the obsidian one responded.

Perhaps it was.

Mind swirling with regret and a loss she couldn’t place, Alceia pushed her steps forward towards her opponent. Advancing guaranteed that he’d be too far away from his weapon to recover it. She closed the distance quickly and reached forward with her Strand still wrapped in both hands, pulled taut with about a dagger’s length of string between them. The thick armor of her opponent ensured he looked barely damaged at all; but Alceia could tell from the way his voice wavered earlier that his head was swirling just as hers was. She readied her Strand and aimed for a wrap around the obsidian one’s neck-- one of the only places that his armor would need a seam. She leaned to her right to get a better angle on it, and was met not with bare skin, but metallic armor, as obsidian arm barely grazed her ear in a flurried punch towards where she’d just been. A close call-- one that Alceia couldn’t afford again, with the amount of damage her skull had already endured. Running on instincts she gained just moments ago, Alceia thrust both hands towards his arm. She wrapped the Strand securely around his wrist and began to roughly twist it. She’d already stolen his weapon, but as long as he had limbs, he could still fight; render an arm inert, and she might have the opportunity to go for the head.

But using both hands on only one of her opponent’s left her vulnerable to his other. Twisting his grappled hand, her opponent grabbed her wrist. Alceia’s breath caught in her throat as an eerie familiarity washed over her. His cruel red gaze bared down on her from her false past. She hadn’t lived through that memory, merely used it; yet its presence now struck a primal terror within her. Alceia fidgeted like a fish being hung, desperate to get out of his grasp, hard metal scraping against her skin. She shrieked, but was cut short by his cold fist as it swung hard into her face. Bone shattered and hot blood brought warmth and the taste of brass to her mouth.

With a screech, Alceia yanked her hands from her opponent’s grasp. She could barely see through the scarlet hue that colored her vision; yet she swung around her opponent still, reaching behind as he tried to recover his balance and wrapping the Strand around his neck. This fight would be over quick either way, but she’d tried dying before; if he wanted to kill her, he’d have to sever her Fate first.



Necro-Knight -> RE: =EC 2022= Forge Arena (8/3/2022 21:54:45)

‘Well, you heard it, child. A beast… nothing more.’

“Then flaying its soul shall rob me of no sleep…”

Eryx was ready this time. How insulting of his foe to think he could simply stand there and try the same attack twice. The wise often said that the mad would try the same technique multiple times and expect a different outcome. With silent agreement, Weaver and Spirit alike agreed that it was past time to show this creature the error of its ways.

Instead of trying to twist his body into another dodge he wasn’t sure he could execute properly, Eryx swung the blade of shadow in an upward arc, the barbed edge catching the spear of bone and shattering its form with a swift and unamused motion. Even as shrapnel peppered his coat, the Doom Weaver continued the momentum from the counter and snapped his right arm back down, directing his fist straight towards his foe.

The sudden jerking motion seemed to disrupt the threads of twisted soul holding the weaver’s blade, releasing the barbed vertebrae to coil and twist back down his arm until the gaping skull leading the spinal weapon rested over his knuckles. Trailing from the skull’s base and hanging over the weaver’s arm by only a few scarlet strands of shadow, each vertebrae elongated until a chain of simple spikes waved softly in the hot air of the forge.

Resting his left hand on his SoulShredder loom, Eryx fought the sudden wave of exhaustion that preceded the most powerful skill in his arsenal. To grant him the power her host demanded, Eleftheria had to provide a substantial amount of herself as the spark that ignited the mana Eryx himself channeled into epitome of his Doom magic. While close to it, the Doom Weaver’s body was not yet truly dead and robbing it of so much primordial energy brought once-distance aches to the forefront of Eryx’s mind.

Phantom pains of old battles won long ago brought the weaver’s focus back into acute clarity. This battle, this place, this foe… Any sacrifice from the weaver or spirit was worth proving to these gods that their cause was just… and no beast was going to stop them.

“From the depths of the abyss, from the echoes of the void, Doom Queen Eleftheria grant me your might,” Eryx’s voice rose in volume with each word, still raw and cracked, but a second sound soon echoed behind.

A young woman’s voice, pure in its malevolence, ringing out behind the dry voice of her host.

“Show those who live that they are not beyond the grasp of Doom, strike down the fools who feel safe in a world of Light!”

Erupting from between the jaws of the skull over his hand, the first thorn of darkness hanging from his arm shot towards the beast-man, the sound of a shrieking woman bouncing off the walls of the arena. In the seconds that followed the sudden release of energy, Eryx heard his true spirit’s voice cackling in delight. Even drained, the Doom Spirit’s passion for snuffing out the spark of living things burned brighter than ever.

‘Yes, child, show him! Show this beast that death and darkness and the void is the true destiny of all things!’

Another thorn slithered up his arm and was immediately fired from the skull after the Doom Weaver took a breath to remain steady.

‘Show him!’

A third, readied and shot towards the pathetic beast that was still foolishly clinging to life. Eryx could no longer tell if it was Eleftheria or his own inner voice screaming for the lizard-man’s destruction… and he didn’t care.

Death was the destiny of all things.



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