=EC 2024= Sky Arena (Full Version)

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Starflame13 -> =EC 2024= Sky Arena (7/28/2024 15:04:25)

Curls of dawn parted to waves of brilliant blue; the sun bursting free from the horizon to illuminate the city of Bren. Eddies of wind swirled in every corner of the city, playfully tugging at loose armor and singing its way along silvered weapons. Occasional gusts surged through the crowded streets, a flicker of raven-black feathers fluttering in their wake. From strangers to old friends, visiting nobles to lowly cutpurses, lone travelers and full caravans - all were brushed by the Arena’s breath.

Power hummed under the excited babble, a solemn call that resonated throughout the entire city. Its purpose - stark and bold - dragged the crowd onward. Through the gleaming city gates and across twisted streets of shops and inns. Past grimy alleyways and grand courtyards and all the houses that stood between. 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 meet 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.

Arched ceilings gave way to open air, bathing the competitors in cool, stark sunlight. The rays hovered, then receded before them, retreating around corners and slipping into darker hues of dusk-tinged purple. It fled through curls of scattering clouds and gave way to a black floor, the marble laced with veins of silver. Mages milled about its outskirts, their dark billowing robes with matching shimmering embroidery just visible through the gathering darkness.They neither spoke nor glanced at those approaching, merely stepped aside to allow them to pass further into the mist.

Escape. Wonder. Vastness. Void. All were alone beneath the vacant space of Sky.

A deep gong rang out - a single tone that found no surface with which to echo - and the mages lifted their arms skyward. The heavens flared above the marble expanse, rippling hues of amber and violet and indigo as the floor ascended upwards. It rose smoothly until it reached the level of the stands surrounding it, the view of the spectators quickly hidden by the darkening shadows of night.

Blackness encompassed all senses, pressed in from all sides. It swallowed sound and sight and left those within it shivering for lack of warmth. Then a single bright streak of starlight. Then another, and another, a shower of meteorites that raced across the sky in a never-ending arc of blazing silver. They cracked to the ground, one after the other, consolidating into a constellation of asteroids that sent flickers of light dancing across the veined marble below.

With a last cascade of gold, the glowing orb of warm sunlight sunk through the center of the arena, a rainbow of evening colors descending in its wake to paint the competitors in gentle, somber tones of twilight. The asteroids twinkled, then dulled, dark rocks hovering in the captured and frozen final rays of sunset.

The gong rang out once more - this time echoing off the debris of the void itself as the voices of the mages swept forth beneath its tones. “And so begins the Trial of Infinity. Fight or Die, adventures, but let the Elemental Championships begin!”





Anastira -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (7/31/2024 1:06:57)

How to commit murder, in three steps:

- 1. First - assess victim. This is the most important part - and Epithet’s favorite. Eyes the color of sewage? A chin the shape and size of a cancerous melon? Stab.

- 2. Next - prepare attack. Adopted? No, the woman standing next to him dotes a little too much. How unfortunate. And yet, there’s still low-hanging fruit to be had… Twist.

- 3. Finally - deliver pain. She smiles sweetly at the man as he passes. “You’re so ugly, I bet your mother wishes you were adopted!” A second to take in his response: his eyes, widening and glassy with the beginning of tears (delightful), his mouth, opening a little in shock (wondrous), the little tug at his lips that tells her that he knows she’s right (perfection). And…fatality.

The older woman on his arm, his mother undoubtedly, glares at Epithet and then at the man - secretly agreeing with Epithet, perhaps, but also furious that someone other than herself is speaking the truth of her son. She opens her mouth and Epithet can almost feel the anger coming off her in waves, like bright summer heat rippling through the air between them. The mother’s just ready to jump to her son’s defense, to call Epithet the cruel little gnat she is -

Ah, but Epithet likes being cruel.

“You,” she cuts the woman off, her smile widening till it feels as though it’ll split her face in two. “Don’t you wish you had something to show for your life? Other than…him. Old hag.” She mutters the last bit under her breath and wheels around, out of the dining area, the crowd of people parting before her: half of them openly glaring, the other half trying desperately not to catch her attention. She gives a couple of those casual glances, enjoying the evidence of their fear: uncomfortable side-glances, heads suddenly turning away, gazes abruptly cast downwards at the floor.

What a truly, truly wonderful life. (Hers - not theirs. As far as she’s concerned, they might as well be garbage in a smelly heap.)

She steps outside, into the glorious, shining sun, and tips her head back to enjoy its warmth against her face. A beautiful day. A perfect day to enter the arena and find herself some worthier victims - perhaps some who might even fight back. Wouldn’t that be nice - instead of a simple takedown, a brutal spar? Something to whet her sharp tongue against…

She takes another step forward, lost in thought, lost in glory: the great cerulean sky, like an endless inverted sea; the sun shining gold, a dazzling coin suspended among the clouds; the wind a playful thing all its own, skipping and tripping and dancing through the streets. The breeze carries with it a million fragrances multiplied by a million: sweet fruits, charred meats, spices clouding colored into the air, perfumes from every corner of the universe. Epithet can’t help herself; she takes a light step forward and giggles, twirling, her ragged hair flying out as she moves, her teeth glinting sharply as she laughs - and stumbles directly into another person.

“Watch it.”

She stops, frowning. A person stands in front of her - girl or boy, she’s not sure - red-haired with white streaks and skin the color of burnished gold. She blinks and the person is in motion, a throwing star spinning through the air like a snowflake; blinks again, and it was just her imagination. She frowns.

“Well,” a voice says, from next to the person, and as Epithet stares a woman materializes from the shadows, hooded and tar-fingered, her eyes flashing from the dark. “Aren’t you pretty.”

Epithet narrows her eyes, shouldering past the two of them. “Stop taking up my space.”

But the other one lays their hand against her shoulder, skin cool as stone. “We’ve a need to speak with you, friend. All respect, of course.”

“I don’t even know you.” She twists away from them, throwing a quick glare backwards. “And I’ll cut you up if you don’t leave me alone, sure as the dew at dawn.”

They smile, amusement glittering in their eyes. Strange, those eyes, like looking into the dying embers of a fire. “What a pretty turn of words. You haven’t changed at all since we’ve last met.” They tip their head and proffer one hand. “Wister.”

The woman in the hood frowns at Wister. “What are you calling yourself now?”

Now? What kind of question is that? Never mind; rather than be caught off guard, Epithet decides to lean into the implication. “My name’s Epithet. But Pithy works too. A name is like the wind, it comes and goes…”

“Yes,” the woman sighs. “We’ve learned that, with you. A little painfully, in fact. But you’re right,” she adds aside, to Wister, “she hasn’t changed much. Still thinks herself awfully clever, doesn’t she?”

Wister nods. “Awfully clever.”

Epithet curls her lip in disgust. “It’s not so very nice of the two of you, trading banter about a soul within an echo’s space. You know I can hear you.”

“Mmm. Just as you tell all those insults to people’s faces?” Wister holds up a hand and watches idly as frost begins to form at their fingertips - naturally or by magic, Epithet’s not sure; perhaps this soul is just that cold. “You don’t remember anything, I can tell. But I know you, Epithet. In fact, I know about Nefeli -”

“Who is Nefeli?”

Wister and the woman share a glance.

“No,” Epithet says, straightening and glaring at the both of them. “I don’t want to know. I don’t like either of you. You,” she casts the words at Wister, “look as though you’ll never grow up, and you -” she jerks her chin at the hooded woman, “look as though you’re scared of your own ugly shadow.” She spits at their feet and wheels, striding away across the uneven cobblestones, in search of another victim.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Wister calls after her. “You’d hate me if you knew.”

“I already hate you,” she shrieks back, breaking into a full-out sprint to get away from them as fast, fast, fast as possible, and for once the way the people part in front of her is not because of her insults, and for once that fact truly, deeply bothers her.

She stops once they are no longer out of sight, their words already mostly forgotten as she eyes a merchant’s stand selling oysters, steaming and dripping with spicy-savory sauce. She’s reaching out to snag one, hoping to use an insult as payment, when she swears she hears the hooded woman’s voice in her head: what boon will you ask for?, and she tries to ignore it, discarding it as imagination - but the words lodge themselves deep in her chest and spread outwards like veins of ice, and the cold has nothing to do with her hallucinations of snowflakes.

Because the truth is - Epithet doesn’t know.

She can’t remember.
______________________________________________________________________

This is what she thinks of, as she stands at the edge of the arena, her feet planted against the black marble veined-with-silver - trying not to think about how it looks exactly like the hooded woman’s hands. This is what she thinks of, as she finds herself beneath the simulacrum of an open sky, at least half a lie to her eyes. This is what she thinks of, as the sun melts into twilight, as the gong rings with a sudden musical finality, as the canvas above her head is painted in countless vibrant hues before deepening to black, as she sinks into the shadows of the ascendant arena: it is beautiful. The shooting stars painting the sky, brilliant and blinding, silvered as they twinkle and settle into place.

It is beautiful - a simple thought, easy to wrap her mind around, something that staves off the deep-seated sense that something is not right.

But it is not like her to question the world. She is a simple being. She is insults and appreciation - the two are not mutually exclusive. She can appreciate that the natural world is beautiful and still laugh at others’ pain, because, truly, she has never met a person that is not ugly.

She is a simple being, and maybe that is why she doesn’t remember what she intended as her boon: because it simply doesn’t matter. After all, there’s no one she would use it for, because no one is worth it. All that matters, in the end, is that she wins. Just because it will feel good. Just because she can.

And so, as the gong rings out another time (really? is it not overkill? the sound so heavy it vibrates through her bones…) she bares her teeth and searches for her prey.

Short, frumpy, with hair the color of straw? Yes, this one will do well. What a truly hideous creature.

This is going to be just too easy.



Chewy905 -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (7/31/2024 7:44:48)

Camellia Dictari lay awake, her sharp eyes running races along the lines, cracks, and knots of the inn’s roof. She’d once more lost her grip on time—a feeling that had been rampant these days—leaving her only knowing that on this moonless night, it was late. Hell, it would have been late for anyone that had slept the night before. Or the two before, for that matter. Her gaze traced a circle around a particularly large knot in the wood and pressed on, continuing down the wall and out the darkened window. She was not avoiding slumber. Why would she? There was nothing the night could bring that could possibly outmatch her feats performed under the light of the sun.

A bold-faced lie unbefitting of her position in The Family.

Fine. She sat up, the bed creaking as her weight shifted. She hadn’t even bothered to slip under the covers—not that they’d add any particular comfort over the weight of her armor. If there was truly nothing to fear from the night, then she could meet it in wakefulness just as well. Camellia shut her eyes—ending their desperate race—and drudged her way through a dreaded wall of memory.


Her blade weighs heavy in her hand, its bloodied edge just barely kissing the room’s worn wooden floor. The chain wrapped ‘round her right gauntlet slips off, retreating to its sheath’s coiled nest aboard her back. One blow. Ever so rarely was her work one blow.

Did she… pray? Did she recite the slaying-words of The Family’s rite? Drat, the wall is too muddied, the detail lost amidst greater matters.

She glances down, staring at the fa-

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Camellia hissed violently as her eyes snapped open. She gripped herself tight, trying to tear out the alien, violating feel of the letters and words that flowed beneath her scales, beneath her skin. They shrieked through her blood, rushing from the ends of her limbs, up through her heart, and into her mind. Her hands chased them, a bare and gauntleted claw alike pressing into her scalp and dying them red with blood as the screams forced any conscious thought to the edges of her brain, leaving nothing but a maddened cacophony of noise. She bit down a scream and swung her gauntleted arm to her bare, letting a single sharpened faux-claw slip past a scale and into flesh. Pain exploded in her mind like a firecracker, trying in vain to best the endless words that sang so sickly, so loudly. Only when the paralytic joined the fray was any progress made. Pain and noise alike dulled, and she breathed an unsteady sigh of relief as she toppled to the ground in a heap. Her ears barely registered the clatter, her mind taking only the briefest of moments to worry about any possible guests in the neighboring rooms.

She again lost the time, lying perfectly awake against the rough floor rather than atop the soft bed. When the noise finally faded and she could once more feel her limbs, she carefully rose to her feet. On instinct she reached for her sword, still propped against the bedpost, then paused. Even here, even with the reminder of her rage still echoing at the far reaches of her ears, she couldn’t fully abandon the damned steel she’d sworn upon. Without another thought, she grabbed her chained pride and slung it over her back in a swift, practiced motion.

Blade upon her back, Camellia slipped out of the door and went for a simple, nighttime walk.

Again.


Even in the dead of night, the city of Bren was as awake as Camellia. The sweet scent of baked goods and the ever-busy rattle of forges crossed her wandering path, trying in vain to ignite her senses and draw her towards any true direction. Instead she simply marched on, sparing not even a smile to the passerby both dubious and pure that caught her eye. No one dared truly try to barr her path; not that there would be reason to.

Even the crowds of the night thinned as the warrior approached Bren’s crown jewel. The grand Arena loomed above her, daring her to take one more step, to cross the threshold of its gates and abandon her oath, her life, for a mere chance at something new. It wouldn’t matter that the Arena wasn’t open today. It wouldn’t matter that she hadn’t known rest since she entered Bren’s depths. Her claws would tear open every single foe in her way. She would stand before the Lord of Darkness. She would cast aside these damned letters. And she would be free from The Family.

Free from the only existence, peace, and love she’d ever known.

Her foot left the ground, unsure for the first time.

“You’re not really going to do it.”

Camellia pivoted and threw a punch with the exact force necessary to break her Brother’s nose.

She stumbled three steps away from the Arena as her fist met empty air.

“Sloppy.” The harsh voice sang from right beside her. “Really, Sister. You’re so far gone that you can no longer discern even a simple misdirection?”

Camellia collected herself and turned opposite from the voice, barely catching the movement of the figure that stepped ever-so-dramatically out of the shadows. Amber Dictari’s emerald cloak sparkled in moonlight that sheathed him like a spotlight. His hood and chainlink veil masked his expression, but she could still see the disgusting mirth in his eyes that peaked out from beneath.

“Come to gloat, Brother? Come to cheer in victory as you finally drive me away?” She spit the words at his feet, hoping any satisfaction he derived from the act would drive him to leave her all the quicker.

“Perhaps.” His eyes scanned her up and down, lingering on her bare arm, and widening when they finally settled on her scarred face. She smirked. Even the ever-prepared Presenter could be surprised, it seemed. “Lords, Camellia. I knew you hadn’t taken off your armor since your last mark, but to do that? Are you insane? If Mother and Father learned-”

She cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand, pretending she couldn’t still feel the burning sting of the scars. “Every chain-link bled from my flesh bid me knowledge of my actions. I’m not interested in hearing your opinions. If you spout any more disgusting words, they should only be an answer for me. Who was my last target?”

The fool had the audacity to look surprised at her request. As if he didn’t know. As if this wasn’t all his fault. “I’m no Page, Sister,” he blubbered. “And I don’t care enough about your work to bother spying on every assignment handed down by Mother and Father. I have more important things to do.”

Camellia clenched her fist. It would be so easy to cross the space between them and break him. Break him so badly that, this time, his words wouldn’t be able to realign his bones. But she needed her strength for tomorrow. She ignored the pulsing ache of exhaustion that suggested other, more pitiful excuses.

She settled for hurling a curse with such ferocity and violence that, were speech her magic instead of Amber’s, surely his ugly form would have burst into flames. Amber, to his credit, was unperturbed. No, it was worse than that. She could feel the cogs turning in his head. She didn’t need to see his face to know the grotesque smile that formed beneath the veil.

“You. Don’t. Remember.”

The three words dripped with joy. “You forgot. What did you fall for? Were you, the ever brilliant Purger, ‘best blade of our family’ bested by a simple dead-man’s switch?”

“OH SHUT. UP!” She was sure her roar could be heard across all of Bren. Perhaps it even woke her poor neighbors at the inn. She didn’t care, she couldn’t care. “I can feel your precious little letters! Your disgusting, scuttling words! You bound me! I have to spend every day chasing something you won’t let me remember, and every night reliving pieces of a moment you won’t let me forget!”

She burst forwards, driving her beloved claws towards his throat. He parried with a deft, calm word, the ill-prepared magic preventing her from slicing his skin but not from closing her hands tight against his windpipe. Still, the words flashed in the air, granting him just enough space to breathe. Hopefully not enough to speak.

“So listen to me.” Camellia sang, mimicking her Brother’s favorite phrase placed before each of his treasured speeches. “Once I bid the Lords to cast off your ever-so-lovely curse, I will take one hand, just like this.” She squeezed down, delighting as his magic flashed and strained against her might. “And quiet your voice. And with the other, I will draw my beautiful sword, the ‘best blade of our Family’, and sever YOU from them.”

She gazed deep into his emerald eyes, letting her purples drink in every ounce of panic she so rarely got to witness her Brother display.

“You would abandon… The Family..over one measly curse? Over one… lost memory?” He croaked the words out as the expression in his eyes shifted. They held an almost pleading softness that she had never known Amber to display. What was that expression? What was that look? Did he dare pity her?

Exhaustion hit her like a blow from the Lords themselves, the aftereffect of her outburst driving her hands to loosen and her eyelids to flutter. It took everything she had to keep her knees from buckling on the spot. Yet still her rage burned, tireless and fierce.

Amber’s expression changed once more. Those emerald eyes glinted with mischief. She could see a faint glow from his lips beneath the veil. No. No, last time she’d seen this face, she had awoken in the streets, having spent her night performing street magic for the Pages. She tried to stiffen her grip, but her muscles finally succumbed to the fatigue of three sleepless days.

“Listen to me, Sister. Your waking mind has been addled by too many useless little thoughts. Return and rest soundly, at The Family’s behest.”

Amber’s words danced through the air, slipping into Camellia’s ears and winding beneath her flesh. They slammed against the curse already sleeping within her mind, shoving it aside and taking hold. Her body relaxed instantly, eager to follow the blissful command while her soul screamed against it, unable to produce any sound louder than The Presenter’s best. Her Brother leaned in, a final whisper plunging her into a deep stupor, soon to be followed by a dreamless sleep.

“Goodnight, Sister.”

Camellia woke wearing a luscious set of bright pink, Bren-made sleepwear that she’d never be caught dead owning, much less wearing. More importantly, she woke feeling rested. It was a relief she hadn’t known she missed, accompanied with a vulnerability she hadn’t felt since…

The words crept back, slithering beneath her skin and shrouding the last memory of her exposure. She shoved the thought out of her mind before they could spread, groaning in annoyance and confusion. Really? Did her Brother’s grip on her memory really hide death and delicacy alike? Camellia slipped out of the bed, irritated that a pleasant sleep had to be so quickly spoiled. A check of her coin purse revealed it was significantly lighter. She had half a mind to tear her newfound clothes to pieces but… they were quite nice. Then she saw her armor.

It was set aside neatly, each piece placed upon the table in the exact manner she would whenever Mother or Father gave her permission to doff it herself, rather than having a Page remove it. This placement allowed her the smoothest, quickest process of donning it again for a new day, and had taken much experimentation to discover the exact order. She’d found the days she could start the fastest went the smoothest, and it just made her happy to do. The chance to add her own unique touch to The Family’s ways had filled her with pride.

But this was an invitation. Amber was calling her bluff, daring her to turn her back on The Family now that he had freed her from their protection. Memories drove an itch to her arm. She rubbed at the chainlink scars, reliving each searing brand that had scorched her with every piece of armor she tore off her scales. She bit her lip, refusing to let a single tear join the one she’d shed that night. Camellia took one careful step away from her life that bound itself upon her flesh almost every day since she’d sworn her oath. She turned and looked back over her shoulder. Her armor still sat upon the table. Every violet scale glinted with familiar light, every nook and cranny known to her skin. She lifted her hand from her arm and delicately caressed the scales upon her neck, working her way up to the brand around her jaw. A careful talon traced the scars there as well. She was free…

She was free.

Free…

Without a word, Camellia set about donning her life, savoring the snap that rang out as each piece locked into place upon her scales.


Bren’s looming coliseum was no less imposing beneath the light of day, but it held no foe she couldn’t break, no obstacle she couldn’t tear to pieces. Camellia caught a flash of emerald in the crowd, and could feel his eyes, see his Lords-damned smirk full of triumphant pleasure from the sight of the armor upon her. She shifted her chained blade on her back, trying to shake off a growing weight upon her shoulders. Without sparing her Brother a word nor glance, she stepped through the threshold and continued into the depths of the Arena.

Guides and signposts brought her beneath divine archways of even more impressive grandeur than that of The Dictari House. These hallways soon gave way to open air and a cool, bright sunlight that compelled Camellia to shield her brow. As swiftly as the light arrived, it swept away, turning to the beautiful shade of purple that Camellia had always favored. Her pace quickened as her boots echoed loudly on the marbled floor until she came to a stop deep within the hazy mists. Her eyes caught the movement of robed figures that crept through the fog and made way for her and whoever else may be present in this shrouded place.

Camellia did not flinch when the gong rang out, fine and true. She did not stumble when the floor flew skyward. She did not gawk at the beauty of the changing, swirling skyline. When the blackness came and the pleasant chill enveloped her, she allowed herself one sigh of contentment before her mind once again sharpened to a razor edge. Her eyes tracked the shooting, sparkling meteorites that raced overhead, confirming with complete certainty that none would strike her place. When the sun fell from the sky and took its home at the center of the battlefield, Camellia used its twilight to examine the foes that joined her in this divine bout.

To her right, a young woman of fairly grotesque composure. Her unkempt hair matched her filthy form, and her claws that were sharpened to a point looked like they’d snap off before they could truly scratch through Camellia’s scales. Camellia stifled a scoff and instead glanced to her left.

This one was more presentable, more fit a foe for her claws. The woman wore a carefully prepared, armored vest similar to those of the local, inferior overseers that Camellia would often argue with. She regarded the pistol at the woman’s side with a cold glare. Mother had trained her against such uncouth weapons, but Camellia doubted she could close the distance faster than this officer could draw and fire. She glanced at the meteors that hung in a ring about the battlefield’s center. Perhaps, she didn’t need to close the distance…

As the chanters declared this trial’s name—“Infinity”—Camellia calmly strode forwards. She left her back to both foes, inviting any foolish cowardice that she could crush without remorse or honor. She turned as she came upon the asteroids, sizing them up one by one and selecting a particularly large one to stand beside. Camellia gazed at her quarry, expression neutral. The woman returned her gaze, still and calculating. Camellia’s right hand closed to a tight fist, iridescent scales and chainlink scars alike twinkling in proximity to the ever-setting sun. She imagined her Brother’s visage upon the rocky face of the asteroid.

“Officer.” Camellia called out in a hard, rough voice.

Scale met stone with the full force of the woman’s scorn. No match for Camellia’s iron will, the asteroid buckled beneath her and soared away, course set to banish a foe from this arena in a single blow.

“Catch.”




Starstruck -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/1/2024 21:03:35)

Trouble was coming to town.

A black cat with pricked nape shrieked and fled, passing under no fewer than six ladders and startling a murder of 13 crows, who flapped so mightily in every direction that it was enough to knock a mirror off the wall and shatter it to pieces.

“I am so sorry about that,” said the pretty young bartender, as she quickly swept the shards of glass into a dustpan.

“This is free, right?” responded Deandra mirthlessly, tapping the side of her glass of moglinberry juice. It wasn’t blood, but it definitely looked like blood. Her eyes were fixed on the bartender’s, making her feel pinned to the wall like a dead moth.

“Y-yes? On the house.”

“Good. I’ll hold you to that.” Deandra took a big swig, finally moving her eyes away. The bartender let out a little confused noise and resumed sweeping. All around the bar, conversation resumed, and for a moment, Deandra looked almost - overwhelmed? Had anyone been looking, they might have seen her eyes flitting in all directions, her ears twitching, her skin crawling, her teeth wiggling. But nobody was looking, because a batty old woman parked at the bar for 8 hours is the last thing anybody wants to look at.

“Yeah so I haven’t told him it wasn’t his…” “...he isn’t fun to be around anymore, he just stopped…” “...he makes me so mad sometimes!”

Deandra took another sip from her glass of moglinberry juice and swirled it aimlessly, seeming to weigh her options, then sighed.

“Did you want another glass of moglinberry juice?” asked the bartender, who had returned at some point.

“You know,” she responded, “people are still just as rotten as they used to be.”

“Pardon?” said the bartender, not sure what was happening.

“But now, people talk. And they travel. And they love to sweep things under the rug to make themselves look good. But underneath? Same old horrible human soul.” Moglinberry juice had never looked more like blood as Deandra gulped the last few ounces down, the red liquid splattering on her makeup and staining her lips crimson. The glance she gave the bartender was near feral.

“Um.” said the bartender, certain that she was speaking with a crazy person. “I- I’ll be right back.”

“Can you pour me another juice?” asked Deandra, after the bartender had taken two and a half steps and was flagging down a coworker for assistance.

“Sure,” she responded wearily. “I can do that.”

“Also, it’s dusty over here,” called Deandra at her back. “Do you even polish the glassware?”

==~=~=~==

“What is it that you really want, sugar plum?”

“Uh, I want-”

“More than money, darling. Money is such a boring desire. Those who covet it imagine themselves with all the things they want, but are too weak to ask me for.”

“...I want her to love me again.”

“Are you sure, darling? Convincing people to fall in love isn’t easy. I can’t just snap my fingers. The price will be-”

“Can you do it or not?”

“Get me another glass of moglinberry juice, and I’ll tell you my price. But if you can’t pay…”

“I’ll pay. I promise.”

==~=~==

As Deandra walked through the vaunted halls of the arena, spilling moglinberry juice carelessly from the dust-covered glass she still clutched in her hands, a guard walked up to her.

“You can’t have this.”

“Ooooh, I’m sorry,” said Deandra, handing the glass over to the tall, muscular, heavily armed guard with no hesitation. “It just tasted so good.”

“I’m sure it did.” The guard stepped away, glancing down at the glass in his hand as he tossed it into a nearby shrub. He had never seen moglinberry juice look more like blood in his life.

==~=~=~==

The arena was astonishingly gorgeous, of course. Even Deandra, who liked cramped spaces with many cats, looked impressed at the show. Not the mages’ twilight show. A demon cares little for visual ostentation. Darkness - greed, envy, desire - bloomed like springtime flowers as the 8 competitors allowed their naked ambition to take priority over their kindness, respect, and peaceful natures. Here, life was less important than dirt. Here, kindness could have lethal consequences. Here, people would kill.

As Deandra’s heels click-clacked on rough stone, easy walking despite the terrain, her nose twitched. An archdemon had near infinite capacity to distinguish between wants and desires, bordering on mind reading, but Deandra's palate was nowhere near as refined yet. It would take a century or two before she could name the dark ripeness of a lust for violence from the peachy sweetness of benign pining. Fortunately, this arena left little to the imagination.

To her left, a lively potpourri of moral dubiousness wafted through the twilight, but a particularly tart sour note caught Deandra’s attention. Not sulfurous like the tell-tale sign of a demon’s mark, but not nearly human, either. She huffed, looking with her eyes like some manner of crawling insect, but it didn’t help. Some manner of wraith? A fey spirit? Too far away to tell for sure. To her right stood a short elf, perhaps mirroring Deandra’s own petite stature. Another pale girl, small, but much tougher-looking than the other one. The smells from this one were sublter, but the hunger was evident.

A smile curled her lips as she strode ever more confidently towards the floating asteroids in the middle, not even flinching as the competitor to her right took out what was obviously years of repressed anger on one of the floating rocks.

Trouble was here.

Post edited to remove inappropriate content. ~Starflame13



Dragonknight315 -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/1/2024 22:00:54)

She writhes.

Deep beneath the earth within a maze of steel and concrete, Lunara writhes in her captivity. Her ears ring with screams as the ranger pushes against the adamantine shackles that bind her wrists and pin her to the prison wall. With muscle and bone and every fiber of her twined soul, the half-elf fights and fights and—

“Knock it off, will you? There’s no point.”

The ranger stalls, the words piercing through her ears like daggers. With her energy spent, her bones aching from the strain, she hangs defeated from the shackles. The stale air grows silent save for the guard’s heckling.

“That’s more like it... was getting real tired of your screeching.”

<How dare you...!>

She tries again, pure spite and determination fueling her will to resist. Like a hungry predator, she looks out from across her candle-lit cell towards her would-be captor. Her eyes spy the man’s insignia, the plain white stripes against his black coat’s shoulders.

<An enlistee, barely even out of training...>

The young soldier stands smugly before her, the cell door wide open. An act of mockery, their victory self-assured. Oh how easy it would be to pluck out the soldier’s eyes were it not for these infernal chains...

“I told you, shut up!”

The guard draws his sword as a show of force, but before he could put it to use, several more men piled in from the hallway.

“What are you doing?”

The soldier gasps— and so does Lunara.

<That voice...>

“I thought I made myself clear. If you so much as touched her...”

“N-no sir. I didn’t do anything to her.”

“... I’ll see to that. Return to camp; I’ll take over from here. Understood?”

“Y-yes sir!”

Lunara takes little joy in seeing the young soldier’s face filled with fear. After all, she is next in line...

“Now then.”

As the guard shuffles away, three men take his place. Two young, one much older, all officers wearing winter active gear. Though their presentation was immaculate, they could not fool the half-elf. She could smell the fresh blood and sweat that cling to their clothes... a uniform that she had once worn.

“Hello, Lunara...” The graying officer smiles as he takes off his glasses, tears dripping from the frames. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? It’s a shame we had to meet in these circumstances.”

A year ago, the ranger might have returned the gesture. But now, there is no love in her. Now, he is her prey.

“TRAITOR!” The beast howls, her words echoing throughout the entire bunker. She writhes and thrashes in her chains, unable to be contained. “So it was you, you—”

The ranger bites her tongue, her throat closing from sheer anger. “How could you... Explain yourself, Mallory!”

The officer lets out a deep sigh, seemingly expecting her indignation. Unwilling to answer her question, he asks one of his own.

“... How is April?”

Lunara gasps, her voice suddenly stolen from her. She casts her eyes to the side, their golden hue dimming from the mention of her wife’s name.

“I remember when you first told me about her...” Mallory continues with a heavy voice. “You had this glow when you turned in your papers. Dyed your hair blue, said you were going to settle down and raise a family... It’s a shame I couldn’t attend your wedding—”

“Enough!” The ranger interjects. “I swear, if you mention her again, this one... this one will—”

She weeps. Tears trickle down her scarred voice, her mentor’s words stinging her ears.

“She’s gone." Lunara's voice was but a whisper, yet it carried such venom. It was enough to make Mallory and the others step back. "She’s gone, Mallory, and it’s your fault.”

Sick of his nonsense, the ranger pulls her gaze up, her golden eyes meeting Mallory’s gray. “Cut to the chase. What do you want?”

“... Very well.” With a sigh the officer returns his glasses to his face. “I have no intention of killing you. That is the last thing I would want... Rather, I want to negotiate your surrender.”

“Surrender?!” The fire burns in Lunara’s nerves, her whole body red as she lashes out in disgust.

“Yes. A surrender.” The officer lets out a heavy sigh. “This rebellion has cost me dearly. Were it anyone else and I would have simply executed them. But you... I don’t want to do this, Lunara.

The officer steps forward. Caution keeps him an arm’s length away, but he wants to make his point clear.

“ I’ve known you since you were a little owlet... so I’m only going to offer this once. Surrender and I will spare you and your soldiers from the worst... I’ll even help you look for—”

“SHUT UP!”

The ranger’s shout leaves the room silent.

“... We took up arms for Alevia in its hour of need, “ Lunara continues, her voice low and measured. “And now we find ourselves in peace, you decided to throw everything away?... And to think this one saw you as a father.”

“Listen, Lunara!” Mallory pleads. “If that crownless princess has her way, then there will be no place for us. A peaceful Alevia cannot—”

“Us?” The ranger interrupts, her voice rising once again. “This one has found her place, Mallory—”

Lunara shifts in her chains, her will struggling against the adamantine metal. Though the ranger was far removed from the surface, she could still feel the moonlight flooding her veins. She channels it— gives herself to it— the moon would be her deliverance.

“—and this one will not surrender!”

Without warning, the bunker shakes. Dust and dirt from every corner of the room swirls into the stale air. A wind sweeps across the room from Lunara, a living tempest. It throws the men back against the metal bars. As it does, Lunara feels it taking over. Her clothes, blood bonded to her like a second skin, melt into the half-elf’s form. In its place, a sea of white, brown, and black feathers sweeps across her to take their place. Her digits fuse to her nails, the nails curl into living blades. Her bones hollow, her muscles tighten, her yellow eyes turn to orbs of pure black—

Then, her wings unfurl. Like paper fans, they spread wide out across her arm in untamed glory. In mere seconds, the half-elf disappeared; now, the vengeful were-owl bares her teeth in her place.

A blood-curdling scream echoes across the concrete prison as Lunara pushes against the walls, the magic overflowing from her feathers. The shackles hold strong, their strength absolute. But the wall strains under the storm’s pressure, the smallest cracks appearing at the edges. If she could rip the fixture from the wall then nothing could stop her from tearing the traitors apart.

“I’m sorry, but I must...!”

With her fury made manifest, the beast hears her godfather-turned-traitor yell through the whistling wind. Though the tempest buffets him, he too refuses to stand down. Mallory wades through the storm, standing just barely before Lunara before reaching out with his hand only too suddenly. In an instant, the beast bites— the were-owls maw sinks to the officer’s skin, her fangs piercing through leather and traitor flesh with ease. It even strikes into the man’s very bone.

<Blood.>

The whole world falls silent as the red drink stains her mouth, the taste of flesh overtaking her tongue... It had been years since the beast had tasted it. The feeling floods her senses, long buried feelings now rising to the surface. Lunara made a promise to April to never again sate her appetite with it...

Just this once, the were-owl makes an exception.

As she tears into her godfather’s palm, blinded by her primal indulgence, her prey moves. Without warning, the beast feels something sink into her neck—

And she screams.

Lunara spits out Mallory’s arm, blood still dripping from her face as an alien sensation takes over her.

<... Wrong. This feels so wrong. What is happening?!>

From her neck, it spreads, it swells, sweeping through her veins like poison. Painful beyond reason, it was like... the moonlight was fading from her soul. Fear takes over the beast’s heart. She twists and writhes in her bondage. It is only after it is too late that the shackles break from the walls. The turned-ranger slams against the floor, falling over onto her side. As she tried to gather herself, it was then that she spies the needle in her neck.

“What... did you do?” Lunara cries out. She forces the human speech through her bestial throat, the pain muddying the words even further. One by one, her feathers molt from her wings, their color fading before her very eyes.

<No... It can’t be! Anything but—>

Her entire being halts as Lunara falls limp against the ground, unable to struggle against the process. An excision. The light starts to fade from her eyes. As the darkness swallows her sight, Lunara feels herself slipping away, her soul bleeding out from her neck. The last thing she sees is her godfather, his face wet with tears.

“... Save me, A-April...”

“APRIL!—”

The half-elf screams the name as she writhes. Body shaking, arms flailing about— Lunara writhes until at last she finds herself in a bed. Drops of cold sweat like tears trickle down her spine and cling to her night robe. Gathering herself, she clutches the sun hanging from her neck. Her wide eyes dart around to the shadows of her surroundings for any predators. Lunara finds herself far away from the concrete bunker. Instead, she is in her inn room, one of many in the city. Fused stone and imported wood bind the space together. And though her covers were tossed aside, the half-elf feels warm. It seemed natural. Homely. As though the inn and itself sprung forth from the ground itself to take care of her.

“I...”

The woman’s breath is heavy. Chased by once distant prey, the severed one tries to steady herself—

“Excuse me?...”

—only for Lunara to gasp, her bones nearly jumping out of her flesh as a loud knock graced her door.

“Are you okay, madam?” The voice is soft. Familiar. No doubt it belongs to the elderly innkeeper. He keeps his voice low to not disturb the other guests.

“Y-yes.” The half-elf lies, her reply sharp in its simplicity. “It was... a nightmare. That’s all.”

Another lie. Another link in the chain that binds her. The severed one finds it too easy to lie now. Instinctual, defensive— her human lips cannot utter the truth, so Lunara finds reprieve in deception.

The old man does not question her words; he instead questions her.

“Is that so? Do you need me to come in?”

“No! No— I’m fine, promise...” Another lie, another shudder that runs through her spine. The half-elf insists with a raising voice, her arms crossed and clutching her shoulders. No one can see her in such a state...

“Just leave this one be, Sir.”

“Oh, okay. If you insist.” The voice pulls back, unwilling to push deeper. Yet, he leaves something in his place.

“Breakfast will be ready in a few hours. Please, join us if you cannot sleep. ”

With that, the keeper disappears, and Lunara is left to her lonesome.

<A nightmare...>

The half-elf turns to the window at her bedside towards her only remaining companion. High in the midnight sky rests that orb of silver and white. Brilliant, pure, complete in its shape and purpose unlike herself.

On nights like these, Lunara finds herself in that place in her sleep. Such a dream deserves to be called a “nightmare.” Yet for all her shaking, Lunara cannot bring herself to name it such. Truthfully, she cherishes it.

Trembling with fear, her blood quickens. Feathers sprout and claws sharpen. In her heart of hearts, the half-elf feels it. Bathed in moonlight, She feels alive— she feels their absence. In phantom pain she spreads her wings, arms outstretched to the heavens as she bids herself wondrous flight. But the winds do not come, and as the sensation subsides, she feels... nothing once more. The half-elf reaches out to touch the silent, distant moon only for her hand to falter against the glass.

<This is the nightmare.>

Lunara withdraws her hand and turns away from the window, unable to bear the sight any longer. And as she turns her gold-rimmed gaze, the half-elf finds herself staring into a mirror—

—but this reflection was not hers.

The girl leans in, her eyes wide in disbelief. Lunara sees her— she sees herself. Not the weak, pathetic husk before the mirror but the real her. Her severed soul made whole. Cyan hair, feathers overflowing, her mantle fused to her form. The were-owl stares back at her with glittering eyes of pure gold. She smiles— and behind that smile is another. To the side, Lunara makes out another figure, this one only an inch taller. The sight of her pink locks ignites something within the refugee.

“... April.”

Like an ignited line of powder... the fire burns, Lunara stewing and festering before the mirror until—

—an explosion.

Lunara’s hand rushes forward, knuckles slamming into the mirror with years of untapped fury. The glass yields no answer. No reply. It simply gives way to the ranger’s violence. The crack spirals out like a spider web before crumbling to shards. The girl screams— first in anger, then in pain— before biting her lip. Bits of flesh like ribbons stain the lodged glass pieces, a mosaic of her own essence. And as the blood rises from within, Lunara stares at her hand.

<... It’s hurts.>

Instincts take over the refugee and Lunara falls to her knees. Tears like molten iron stream down her face, her whole body flushes red as the blood rises from her open wound.

You’re inside me. I know it.>

The pain, overflowing and abundant, is no enemy to the half-elf. Next to her silent companion, it is the closest thing she has had in years to a friend. The pain keeps her sharp; it guides her towards her goal— or so she tells herself.

<If only this one could free you...>

Before Lunara could continue to wallow in her grief, the knocking returns— and with it, the innkeeper.

“Lunara!” The voice echoes louder, his concern outweighing any nightly decorum. “Lunara, was that you again?! Are you sure you are alright?”

The half-elf sighs, unable to look away from the shattered mirror.

<Pointless... Why did I...>

“No...” The inner truth slips through her mouth, a desperate plea. Though it pains her to do so, she cannot bear it any longer.

“This one is not well. Please, come in—”

The half-elf rocks back and forth in her chair. Her eyes fix themselves to her bandaged hand, the sullied red cloth standing out from her pale skin and green night robes.

“... Sorry.” Her face sinks low, her mind heavy with grief. Lunara dares not lift her gaze else she might meet the innkeeper’s.

“Why?”

“... The mirror—”

“No.” He interrupted. “The mirror can be replaced, but you know what I am talking about.”

The woman replies with a shut mouth but open eyes only for the innkeeper to let out a deep sigh. The two were tucked away in some corner of the inn, far away from prying eyes. Quiet. Too quiet— the half-elf laments in her missing senses. It had been years since the fall, yet Lunara simply could not get used to it. The slightest breeze, the gentlest of footsteps, the very iron that dwelled within a person’s sword and their blood. Had she still possessed them, she could make out everything within the building. Its absence made her feel vulnerable beneath the innkeeper's gaze. She refuses to answer.

Sensing her hesitation, the innkeeper sits up in his seat. “A different question then. What brings you to Bren?”

Lunara’s eyes shift, the gold sparking within her eyes. She lets out a soft sigh before forcing out a smile.

“Why does anyone come to this city?”

“You’re here for the wish?”

The answer was obvious. The girl rested her hands in her lap, the burn creeping beneath her bandages. Her words come out dull, without passion.

“Most people under your roof are here for the contest— if not to participate, then to spectate it or profit from it. Such is your business.”

“I had assumed as such.”

“Then why ask this one the question?” Her eyes roll up towards the ceiling. Another poor habit her human life has taught her.

“I wanted to hear you say it.” The elder leans forward, his hands clasping the refugee’s. She gasps, her body flinching as her eyes shift back.

“I have no clue what you are going through, madam... But whatever it is, do not lose hope. The competition is right around the corner. Can you endure for just a little longer?”

Kindness. Lunara can see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch. A trap, her human heart tells her. She has already said too much. And yet...

“Hope—” Lunara forces out the word. Tears pool at the corner of her eyes, her grief unable to be contained any longer. “Hope is painful. This one has endured much— given up so much for hope.”

Indeed, the girl gave up much just to make it here. Her homeland, occupied by her betrayer stepfather, now a land far more barren than this desert— her remaining possessions, even her wedding ring, pawned to make the journey— her wife, seemingly spirited away without a trace...

Her voice trembles as she dares to ask the question. “When the day comes, if this one fails... then what will I have left but a coffin for a body?”

“If, you say.” The elder smiles at the fallen ranger. “Believe in your strength, Lunara. You’ve made it this far. Let the day come. ”

The half-elf wipes her tears with her bandaged hand. “Very well... Thank you, sir.”

“No need to thank me. I simply told you what you needed to hear.” The old man leans back in his chair with his infectious smile.

The half-elf’s heart cannot find fault in his wisdom. “Perhaps this one can believe...”

Soon, Lunara finds herself smiling too.

“If you don’t mind, I do have one question?”

“Yes sir?” Content, the half-elf replies without thought, unable to see the hesitation in the old man’s eyes.

“That necklace...”

As the innkeeper’s voice trails off, Lunara freezes in her chair. She glances down, and sure enough, she finds the amber sun hanging out of her nightgown.

“A warding sigil, right?"

At first, the half-elf remains silent, her shock and surprise unable to be hidden. Years of instinct and trauma flickers through her mind, her hand trembling as she brushes the aged necklace with her bare fingers.

“... It was a gift from my wife.” The words catch on her throat, the whole truth unwilling to be said. But she manages that much. It is enough for the Innkeeper to catch on.

“Ah...”

Tension— In that moment, the air brims with unmistakable melancholy. Still, the severed songbird smiles.

“Well then.” Sensing the opportunity, the innkeeper stands from his chair. “I need to start making breakfast for the other guests. Why don’t you come along? Consider it repayment for the broken mirror.”

A giggle escapes from the half-elf as she gives a spirited nod. The thought takes her back to her company days. “This one’s cooking might not be to your tastes, sir.”

“Nonsense.”

Rising from her chair, Lunara follows the innkeeper, a newfound hope glimmering in her soul.

<When this one awakes, you will be missed, sir.>

The day arrives.

The half-elf sighs as she laces her clothes together in her room. Tunic, bracers, leggings boots— a jumble of mixed together parts that could scarcely be called armor. Her hunt in the market had yielded little, most equipment of worth far more than her nonexistent savings.

<A tournament of champions, not paupers.> She reminds herself. <Those with the means will spare no expense if it means a better chance of victory.>

From every corner of Bren, the glimmer tempts her. Prized leathers of exotic beasts, magical trinkets to bestow safety, bows and daggers fit for royalty—

<If only there weren’t so many eyes.>

Without fortune, the half-elf makes do with gratitude. She has armor, something she sorely lacked a week ago. Still, Lunara cannot help but long for her old equipment. Enchanted with her own shifting blood, it was like a second skin, perfectly fitted for her movements. Now she clothes herself in second-hand rags. With each passing second, Lunara feels the burden around her neck. Though the amber hardly weighed much, its presence is like a gilded millstone. The temptation grows stronger and stronger as grief swells in her heart.

<Perhaps this one should try again. There is still time before— No. Never.>

The ranger shakes her head and pushes the thought aside. With her equipment in place, she pulls a sack out from underneath her bed and opens it. For as desperate as Lunara was, not all was lost to her. Carefully, she pulls the cloak from the sack.

<My feathers.>

The half-elf’s body trembles as she cradles the cloak in her arms. The soul survivor, the last vestige of her old self. It was a miracle that Lunara made it out of her prison in the first place. A timely intervention from her highness— but for Alastasia to recover her mantle of feathers? Words could not describe how indebted she was to the crownless princess. It was time Lunara paid that debt.

<With this, this one has a chance.>

The half-elf wraps the second skin around her, and immediately she feels the wind flowing in her presence. As it brushes her skin, she feels something lost returning to her. Relief. Determination. Hope.

<One chance. Once chance to make everything right again. One chance to wake from this nightmare.>

A single step.

The half-elf holds her breath as she stares at the platform. Veins of living silver flow through the black marble plate. Seconds turn to moments as Lunara finds her strength faltering so soon. One step separates her from her fate; one step, and there would be no going back.

She can feel the eyes fall upon her, her nerves fraying with the weight of expectation. The dark-robe orderlies pay her no attention, their nature seemingly one with the darkness that surrounded them. But their presence point to something higher— the Lords. Entities beyond her earthly comprehension. Lunara curses in her heart; she despises being a plaything yet again. But what choice does she have? If the half elf stepped back, could she live with the choice?

<No turning back.>

Her choice is obvious, her answer known before the half-elf even asked the question. She sighs, and then with a deep breath the ranger steps onto the platform.

A gong rings out, its singular sound echoing in the half-elf’s soul. She grips her shortbow, her knuckles burning red as Lunara readies herself for the hunt. But then, the shadow moves behind her, beneath her. The platform rises, and though its ascent is smooth, the sight shakes the half-elf's legs until she feels sick.

The heavenly sun gives way to absolute night as Lunara catches her breath. Truthfully, the change was mercy to her. Darkness is no stranger to her, and as the chilling breeze rips through her chest, it almost reminds her of home.

<Please, spirits of the land, hear this one’s plea. Do not find me wanting.>

Suddenly, a light bursts from the nothingness. It sweeps across the unseen horizon like a shooting star, its presence briefly lighting the way. Soon, another joins it, and another and another. Stars, wishes— little fragments of potential. They shed their heavenly light and dance around the center until the night is not so dark. As twilight gloam grips the outer circle, the half-elf spies the singular light in the center. One single kaleidoscopic light, the infinite potential of a promised wish that held the night back. Only one can claim it—

“And so begins the Trial of Infinity. Fight or Die, adventures, but let the Elemental Championships begin!”

—and it will be her.



roseleaf320 -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/1/2024 22:26:42)

When Vashiryn Est’de Al’darii took his name, his heart sang with blissful melody, each sound a flame that rolled off his tongue and filled him with his people’s warmth. Now, as he stared into his own bloodshot eyes within the jagged mirror clasped in one hand, the flame-bearer’s name sounded more like a howl.

The memory of his king’s voice echoed in his mind, thick with concern. “You have not slept in three rotations. You have not bathed in seven. Please, whatever is troubling you…” Vashiryn cherished each echo of Cin’s voice; within their language of sign, spoken words were rare, special, savored. Cin knew as well as Vashiryn what effect their use would have when he was exhausted. But Vashiryn’s heart, with all its fire, could not muster enough cold to explain that what troubled him was the death of their people.

Alone in his study, surrounded by darkness, Vashiryn’s gaze traced the silver banded web across his forehead, tinted purple from his vision. He would not try again. Aurcinis, as always, was right: Vashiryn would be no use to him comatose. He must stop at some point; he must sleep. But… what if he was close to the answer? What if he put down the shard and, by doing so, lost the whisper Al’dar would send to show him the way?

With a sigh, Vashiryn brought two fingers towards the side of his eye- the Al’darii’s sign for sight- and brought them abruptly swinging downwards. Two fingers folded into an upturned thumb as the knuckles on his right hand kissed the mirror’s surface. Al’dar, please; show me how to save them.

Light burst from the elf’s left hand as the mirror shard erupted in flames. Brilliant orange and purple flickered across Vashiryn’s lavender skin, comforting warmth caressing the scrapes on his fingertips. Vashiryn’s breath stilled as the colors faded into an almost transparent ripple. He leaned forward- seeing nothing at first- before the flames began to shift. A figure arose, its all-too-familiar shape flickering across the reflection of the mirror. Vashiryn’s stomach plummeted. Not again. The figure’s limbs, too many, rose into vision, and beneath them flickered the tiny, shadowy figures Vashiryn knew to be the Al’darii. Vashiryn could not look away, although he knew each movement the monster made by heart as its legs crashed into the elves. Screams he had heard within too many flames flooded Vashiryn’s ears. It must be different. Show me how, show me how. Tiny ethereal weapons bounced off the monster harmlessly. Vashiryn saw the small flicker of flame within flame- his own breath of Al’dar- barely eliciting a flinch from the monstrosity as it crushed them all underfoot. “NO!”

Vashiryn ripped his eyes away with a yell and hurled the mirror across the room. It shattered against a bookshelf, flames sputtering out as pieces chimed against already-resting shards scattered across the floor. Vashiryn brought his thin, bloodied fingers to cup his face and cover his sight. This was no answer; this was the same destruction he had seen within Al’dar for seven days and seven nights. His people’s flame held no extra details, no visions of guidance as it had in the past. Just their complete and violent demise. Al’dar was as fixated on the monstrous premonition as Vashiryn was. It was useless.

Vashiryn thrust himself from his chair with unusual unsteadiness. As the Al’darii’s Hearth, it was his job to advise King Aurcinis, not to sulk. If Al’dar would not help him prevent this tragedy, he would petition the Lord who would-- or find an answer on his own. Which meant he would have to leave. Vashiryn tried not to think of the sadness he knew would be painted on Aurcinis’ face; of the many family members whom he adored seeing every day. His mother’s dimples; Aurcinis’ father’s gentle steps.

Despite his dread, as he turned to glance across his ransacked study, he found himself pocketing a mirror shard from the floor.


Vashiryn shielded his gaze with a hand as light washed over his form. Even within the Arena’s boundaries, he could not escape the tiring brightness of the overworld. He thought back to the dark of his homeland, to their underground sanctuary. The comforting touch of soil whispered in his fingertips, time of day told not by sun’s light, but by soil’s heat. His travel to Bren had been through nights; and a blackened parasol had aided him when daytime travel had become necessary. But he had left that trusted companion at the Arena’s entrance. Clearly, that was a decision he would come to regret.

As if listening to his plight, sun’s light abruptly faded, and Vashiryn relaxed in a comfortable sea of reds and blues within the darkness. But a ripple of a cloak caught Vashiryn’s eye, and he tensed, measuring his steps carefully. Mages. He had heard about them in his research of the Championships: the mages and clerics lurking around the Arenas’ entrances, ready to heal those who fell in the fighting. The dark elf tipped his chin to one side as his eyes darted over their silent forms. One took a half step towards him, and Vashiryn measured his own identical step backwards, eyeing the mage’s sharp shoes as he passed by them. Another turned, just so, for Vashiryn to catch a glimpse of a dark chin underneath the hood. A gong reverberated through the space; Vashiryn’s eyes narrowed. He was not inclined to trust strangers. But if he wanted to consult the Fire Lord, it seemed his only choice.

Vashiryn turned his chin downwards as the floor ascended. He knew what came next was but a spectacle, meant for an audience he could not yet see. This was what unsettled him the most: the idea that Bren had turned this into a show. Walking through Bren, Vashiryn’s nose had curled at all the stalls, the merchants hawking cheap souvenirs, the reporters flitting around desperate for the breath of a competitor to twist into delicious false words. While he fought for an audience with the only one who might-- might-- know how to save everything Vashiryn knew and loved.

His senses faded with a chill and appeared once more. Vashiryn cared not. As lights flared around him, settling into twilight, his eyes fixed only on the flutter of the black cloth covering his lips. A mask to hide his words and expression. Not for them. They-- and he-- would see none more than necessary.

The gong echoed once more, as unfamiliar voices announced their Trial. Infinity.

The creature to his right caught his eye- if it could even be called a creature. Vashiryn squinted, a revulsion quick to surface upon his face. Its burnt skin stretched thin over arms and legs too long and disproportionate for any humanoid Vashiryn had seen, both on the surface and within his extensive library. Its metal armor was made not by fire and forging, but of seemingly random patches and countless, haphazard screws. If he were to fight for the Lords’ audience, it seemed only proper to start by ridding the competition of an abomination such as this.

Vashiryn held his hand out from his body, facing upwards, and folded his middle finger inwards to tap twice against his palm. From that point, Al’dar’s flame burst forth into his palm, its familiar pulse warm in Vashiryn’s heart. He held it for a moment, to assess; to see what this creature would do. To regain calm, holding a reminder of the very thing he fought for.

Let my people last for Infinity.



Riprose123 -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/2/2024 0:16:02)

Shalla’s bare feet clomped against the ground, dust settling between each claw as she made her way down the road. She marveled at each small sensation, from the discomfort of the dust and grime from her long march to the weight of her armor and sword. Each was something new to her newly independent mind and she quietly mused to herself if other Herald’s experienced this same state of wonder. The trees were so much greener in person than in the memories the Kriete had shared with her, the air fresher and the wildlife louder. Her body ached at every smell and sound that spoke of prey, urging her to hunt but her mind swelled with the knowledge and understanding the Kriete had implanted her. She was no longer a mere vessel, but a Herald of Coming, and her body would be brought to heel in the presence of lesser races.

She had passed many of them as she walked the road towards Bren, sent by the Kriete in their all knowing wisdom. The road was lousy -Lousy, where had she learned that word?- with them and while her arms screamed to tear them apart and her tail shifted impatiently in their presence, the most they got from her was a hello in her strange, otherworldly voice and inquisitive looks from her black and darting eyes. Each word spoken in Common felt strange to her as her mandibles convulsed and spasmed in odd motions to form the words, her voice heavily accented and sounding as if it was projected from behind her. She could smell the fear leaking from every poor of the lesser races as the most cowardly fled almost instantly. The braver of them would attempt to hold a conversation but even at their most comfortable they were still incredibly nervous and guarded. She mused to herself whether they knew her purpose as a Herald; some had to know of the Kriete and be somewhat familiar with their ways though many beliefs held by the lesser races of the Kriete were either misinterpretations or outright lies.

Bren quickly swallowed her into its busy streets as she progressed further and further into the city. A radius of open space always formed around her, even in the busiest thoroughfares. The blood dripping from her tail hissed softly when it touched plantlife; even the tough weeds that found perch between the paved stones of the streets were quickly eaten away when exposed to her alien blood. She quickly and quietly made her way into the event grounds, drawing odd stares from all those gathered. Registration took some time but the official, a young elf of some kind was very helpful and even wished her a good day, which drew a bemused smile from Shalla.
Shalla’s entrance into the arena was uneventful. She gazed around giddily, taking in the strange beauty of this place they called Sky, twirling around softly until the gong sounded and drew her into the moment. At the loud sound and the ascension, her body tensed and she drew her sword absent mindedly. Clutching the weapon, she stood in awe as meteorites, strange rocks of silver and black cascaded down toward them. She stood completely still, braced for any possible impact, her mind racing as it tried to predict the routes that any of the heavenly projectiles could take towards her, but none came. Instead her brace was met with another loud gong chime, this one accompanied by words encouraging action, which Shalla decided to follow in good pace. A bright flame caught her eye to her left, the holder showing a face of horror and revulsion Shalla was all too familiar with. Beastial instincts screamed to rip, to tear, but she fought them as much as she would fight those around her. She hefted her blade up, giving a small formal salute and bow. “May I meet your expectations,” she said, piercing eyes meeting the young man’s, mandibles clicking in anticipation.

Bracing herself on the ground, she dropped her chivalric display and roared loudly, mandibles vibrating as she slowly began to approach her chosen opponent.



nield -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/2/2024 8:33:53)

That day, a ball of fire streaked through the night sky and crashed to the ground. From the site of impact rose a creature, breathing hard. The Queen of Ashes had fallen into a World.

I can’t believe this. Sensing something wrong with myself, I checked my power, summoning the Atzilah Flare… but a flame of that paltry size! How could it make me feel like this?!


The creature gritted its teeth, doing its best to ignore its stomach that growled in terrible hunger, while catching its breath. It crawled its way out of the impact crater, which had caused no more harm than ruffling its dress.

The Queen of Ashes was used to luxury, but that did not mean it did not know how to survive in the wild. It hunted through a forest for wild beasts, utilising the Atzilah Grace to cook their meat.

Ugh. Okay, hunger sated. What a pathetic state for the Incarnate of an Elder God… reduced to hunting base beasts for sustenance. Well, I should look around and try to find whatever peasants dwell within this World…


The Queen of Ashes looked down at the city of Bren, grinding its teeth in frustration. In a few months, it had learned of the Elemental Championships and journeyed to partake in them.

They call this a city? This piddling thorpe is centre for these ‘Championships’ in the name of this World’s gods? How pathetic. I walk briskly through the squalid streets, avoiding the peasants and urchins who approach me, lest their filth rub off. Soon enough I’m before the Arena, a paltry thing for the purpose it’s said to hold.

Having already dealt with the menial paperwork, handled by a man who clearly did not understand how privileged he was to have even met me, I walked into the building. They said it would ‘guide’ you if you were here to compete so let’s see if…

Soon enough I was standing upon black marble, surrounded by mist. There were the shrouded ones outside, servants, of course. There was also the sense of others hidden within the mist. Would this place hold those who dared to think they could claim what I had my eyes on?


The Queen of Ashes stood stolid as the ground beneath rose up and remained impassive through all that passed before its eyes. Once all had passed and the Trial of Infinity was begun, it looked right, to the Officer, then swept left. The Queen’s eyes twitched involuntarily, out of neither fear nor revulsion, but disgust.

An overgrown insect dares stand upon these same grounds as I do? I wish I could just sear it from this World… But I find myself without the power.


As the subject of the Queen’s ire turns away from it to focus on another who summoned a flame into his hand, a sinister smile alights upon the Queen’s face. Having decided on a course of action, it grips its sceptre tight and holds it aloft, before striding forth towards the creature unfortunate enough to be the focus of its distaste.



Oddball -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/2/2024 11:34:29)

A long sigh escaped the lone shopkeeper as he carefully tended to his wares. This sector of their once glorious City was largely untouched by the invading forces, but the looming threat they had brought had forced a large portion of his usual customers to migrate towards the city’s center… Where it was ‘safest.’ But as someone who had bore witness to many of his former neighbours transformed into unimaginable horrors? The shopkeep was wary of calling anywhere in this blasted City “safe”

The working day had been slow, as it usually had been, and the lack of custom would have caused his humble shop to have been closed long ago if things were still in the realm of normalcy. It had been so long that most had probably forgotten what ‘normal’ really was and the shopkeeper could hardly blame them. He, fortunately or not, could still faintly hear the sounds of how busy the street used to be. Children laughing as they played in the street, the elderly couple from a few doors down reminding them to stay safe and out of the roads. Perhaps he was simply going mad in his isolation? Such a thing wasn’t too unlikely, he reckoned.

The shopkeep would have to push his personal struggles aside, as the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps caught his attention. Poking his head out through the open door, the shopkeep would recognise the sprinting man as one of his more ‘regular’ customers. With a friendly smile, he waved to the approaching man, calling out to him as he moved closer.

“Good morning, Mr Zhan! What’s got you in a hurry this morning?”

Uncharacteristically, the man sprinted straight past the shopkeep, completely ignoring his greeting as he turned off into an alleyway.

“..How strange.” The shopkeep thought aloud. Mr Zhan had always been an.. Interesting sort, but he had never been rude! He always made sure to return a greeting even if he was in an important business call. So his lack of acknowledgement of the shopkeeper planted a thought inside of the retailer's brain… Perhaps he had been the most recent victim? But if that was the case, who or what had he been running from? Fortunately for the curious shopkeeper, the answer to that question would come only a few minutes after he had returned inside.

A knock against the open door brought the shopkeeper’s attention towards it, letting off a short sigh of relief when he recognised the sight. Standing in the doorway was one of the few members of the PSB who still patrolled this area… And someone the Shopkeeper owed his life many times over to.

“Officer Haith! What a pleasure to see you today!”

The officer simply offered a short nod in greeting before she began speaking, the urgency in her tone put the shopkeep on alert… Something had gone wrong, then.

“No time to talk, Mr Garte. Have you seen Mr Zhan anywhere? I need to discuss something with him.”

Without question, the shopkeep nodded, moving past the officer before pointing towards the alley he had seen the salaryman dart into

“Over there, officer.. I assume this has something to do wi-”

“Can’t talk about it. I’ll be back to explain things and pick up my order in a moment. Is that okay?”

“Not a problem! I’ll be here waiting.”



Olivier takes a few cautious steps forwards as she entered the alleyway that her target had supposedly turned down into. Her hand instinctively fell over where her gun was sat, Olivier gripping its handle tightly as she called out.

“Mr Zhan! I just need to talk.”

What responded was just a mess of squelching noises, and the unmistakable sounds of a human’s scream being cut off. The officer let off a sigh and quickly drew the pistol from her hip. She knew it was too late, but she couldn’t help but try and call once again. Just in case, the chief had always told her.

“Mr Zhan! I’m giving you 5 seconds to respond.”

“H-H..Hel-”

Responded a voice, coming from the corner had Olivier was just about to turn. She paused, her grip tightening further around her weapon as she took a deep breath. This job never got any easier for her, especially when it came to eliminating people she once knew, and was close to in some regard.


Steeling herself to face the worst, Olivier turned the corner, coming inches away from the writhing mass that was once Mr Zhan. Bulbous growths had covered most of the man’s chest, and were leaking a strange black ooze. His back didn’t fare much better, having most of the skin torn away to reveal the muscle and bone underneath, all beginning to twist and tear as the parasite forced the transformation as quickly as it could. Despite all of this? The eyes that silently pleaded with Olivier were, decisively, human. The officer nodded, knowing exactly what the salaryman was pleading for.

With a silent prayer. She holds the pistol out in front of her…
And fires.



“...So that’s what happened..”

Olivier sat across from the Shopkeeper, solemnly nodding as he slowly processed what the officer had told him. She had left out some of the more gory details, but the point had still gotten across.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You only did what you had to, officer. I should be thanking you for keeping us safe once again.”

An awkward silence fell between the officer and the shopkeep. Both sat, finding difficulty in continuing a sentence past the first couple of words. Eventually, the officer stood up, taking her time to look over the shop.

“My order, Mr Garte.”

The shopkeep nodded, leaning down behind the counter and procuring a brown bag. He hands the bag over to the officer with a smile.

“Everything all accounted for!”

The officer took the goods with a half-smile, hooking a couple of fingers around the handles as she saluted with her free hand.

“‘Appreciate it. I’ll let the others know you send your regards.”

“Please do! Tell them they’re welcome anytime.”

And with that, the officer removed herself from the premises. Leaving the shopkeep alone with his thoughts once again. He sighed, moving into the back room and finding himself in front of a blackboard with multiple notches spread across the board. Taking up one of the pieces of chalk, he puts a single diagonal line across one of the marks.

“Another gone… It’s getting harder and harder to justify staying here.”



The walk back to the precinct was a long and quiet one. Fortunately for Olivier, nothing decided to try and jump her as she took some less than savory backstreets. She let off a sigh in relief as the white tips of the building came into view. The area that the Public Safety Bureau’s main office resided in sat in a secluded area of a, mostly, untouched forest. Olivier nodded as the pair guarding the front stepped aside for her, both saluting in tandem as she passed them.

“It’s good to see you, Officer Haith, ma’am!”

The pair said in unison, something that Olivier had always found slightly unsettling. Still, she returned their salute with the same vigor they had shown her. It was polite, at least.

“At ease, gents. Anything to report?

The pair paused for a moment, exchanging glances between each other before, for the first time since she had known them, only one spoke.

“The Chief said they wanted to see you.”


That caused the officer to pause, turning back to face the guards with a raised eyebrow.

“Did they say why they wanted me?”

“No. Just that they wanted to see you when you returned.”

“..Alright then, thank you both.”

With a deep curiosity now burning in her chest, Olivier passed through into the building, saying her quick greetings to any who talked to her first. She pressed on towards the very back of the building, where the chief would be awaiting her.

With a few rapid knocks, Olivier raised her voice as she folded her arms behind her back, stepping back from the door as she waited for the response.

“Chief, you wanted to see me?”

A few moments pass before the door swung open, revealing the intimidating scene of the Chief sat at their desk, hands interlocked as they stared at Olivier.

“Ah. Olivier. Come in, come in.”

“Of course.”

Olivier obeyed, stepping forwards into the room before she closed the door behind her. She couldn’t ever get used to the suffocating, uncomfortable feeling she got every time she stepped into the office.

“Anything to report on today’s mission?”

“It was Mr Zhan from the Old Streets. Looked like a stage 2 in the process of becoming a stage 3. Things weren’t stable enough for me to attempt to bring him back to the precinct, so I made the executive decision to end him there.”

“..I see.”

“Chief?”

“This is the third time in the last few months, Olivier. We can’t make any progress if you keep failing to bring them back.”

“...With all due respect, Chief. I believe it’s better to end them. I don’t see why you need me to bring back the things responsible for plunging our world into the state it’s in-”

“Officer Haith.”

The chief had stood up from their chair, hands slamming against the desk. The sudden noise caused the officer to flinch slightly, straightening up her back as a response.

“It’s unlike you to disobey orders, Olivier. Do you need to take some time away to relearn your place?”

“..No, Chief.”

“Good. I don’t want you failing me again.”

With that, they sat back down, taking a long drawn-out sigh before shoo-ing Olivier out of the room. With a bow, the officer obeyed, taking her leave. She took two steps outside of the room before a breath that she didn’t know she was holding escaped from her. With that display in the back of her mind, Olivier decided it may be time to visit an old friend… Someone who would have more knowledge on the subject of the parasites.



“Like I said, Haith, Rita’s out at the moment.”

The officer sighed again, her arms had found themselves folded across her chest as the oldest of Rita’s ‘children’ stood in front of the church door.

“And as I’ve said, I know she’s inside. We’ve set up a meeting for today, Mi, I need you to let me in.”

The two had been going back and forth for a few minutes now, with Rita’s prodigy refusing to let the officer inside of the building. She had good reasons to distrust Olivier, with what older certain ex-members of the Bureau did to her, but all of her attempts to gain the girl’s trust had been met with disinterest. It would take a few more minutes of the pair staring at each other before a third voice broke the silence, one that came from further inside of the church.

“Mi, you’ve had the door open for some time. Is everything alri-”

The nun paused as they reached the doors, her gaze falling on the officer. Without skipping a beat,they offered Olivier a warm smile, gently tapping on Mi’s shoulder to let her know to stand down.

“I’m glad you came, Olivier, shall we take this inside?”

“I’m on the clock, Sister. It’s ‘Officer.’”

“My apologies, Officer Haith.”

If Olivier didn’t know any better, she could have sworn she saw Rita roll their eyes at the comment.

“Thank you, I’ll take your offer.”

“Of course. Follow me.”



“So you believe that the Chief of the Bureau has been infected by a parasite, Officer?”

Olivier took a long, deep breath. She had known the Chief for most of her life, and while intimidating, they had always maintained a kind disposition with the other officers. But recently? They had been lashing out for no reason, and reprimanding Olivier for things that she had previously been praised for.

“That’s right.. The Chief has changed a lot in the last few weeks and this is the only thing I can tie to it… So that’s why I asked to meet you today, to get your opinion and potential help.”

“I see… Coming here was the right decision, Officer. Between myself and Mi, not a single parasite shall escape us.”

“..Does that mean you’re willing to help me?”

“It does, yes. Could you please wait a moment while I tell the Children that I’m leaving?”

“Of course, take your time, Sister. I’ll be outside.”

The officer didn’t have to wait particularly long for the pair to join her in front of the Church. While they had both remained relatively similar in dress, Mi carried a strange, warbling orb with her that Olivier knew better than to comment on its presence.



“Chief. It’s me, open up!”


Silence fell as Olivier slammed her hand against the door to the Chief’s office. Truthfully, she wanted them to warmly welcome the group in, and dispel the thoughts that had been tormenting Olivier for the past month or so. But Mi had confirmed the presence of a Parasite inside of the Bureau, and it was getting harder for Olivier to ignore the possibility that she had lost the Chief. The unlikely trio had received quite a few weird looks as they had practically ran through the building, and Mi had made sure to point out a few of Olivier’s comrades that she felt demonic taint from.

“Chief! I’m coming in!”

With a nod, Olivier stepped to one side, allowing the much taller figure access to the door. With a single, powerful, blow, Rita punched the door clean off of its hinges, sending it tumbling into the room.

“Pardon the intrusion.”

Stepping into the room, it became clear very quickly that the Chief wasn’t there. A folder lay open on the table and steam still rose from the mug that sat next to it. Until very recently, the Chief was still here… so where had they gone?

“Officer. The back room over there.”

Mi pointed towards a door that sat in the back corner, a very faint purple glow visible from the door’s window. The officer nodded, speeding towards the door before she thrust her shoulder forwards, crashing into the wooden frame and bursting through it. The only notable thing in the small closet space was a tiny, warbling orb… One that Olivier felt was familiar to her, but she couldn’t remember why.

“Through there.”

“..The tear?”

The nun’s prodigy simply nodded before she turned away, looking back out of the main door at the slowly growing group of officers. With a single glare, most of them scattered back to their individual jobs, with only a few of higher ranks staying.

Olivier took a deep breath, placing a finger against the warbling tear before she hooked her finger and pulled, widening the tear further. She couldn’t properly see what was on the other side, but the sudden appearance of a portal of some kind had definitely attracted a few figures to it. She took one last look back at the nun, steeling herself for whatever came next. This was her job, after all, and she couldn’t afford to hesitate.

“Rita. Can you add my usual patrol route to your own? I don’t know when, or if, I’ll be back.”

“Of course, Olivier. I will pray for your safe return.”

With a solemn bow, the nun watched as the officer stepped through the tear, disappearing in a bright flash of purple. The portal maintained its size, but Rita would have to be careful in making sure it stayed open for Olivier’s return. She joined her prodigy, watching the concentrating girl with a soft smile.

“Officers! I require your assistance with an urgent matter. Please, join me downstairs when you can.”




Olivier stumbled as she stepped out into a nearby crowd of onlookers. Immediately, she straightened up, inspecting herself to make sure all of her equipment made it with her. With a quick sigh of relief, she turned her attention to one of the members of the crowd, hailing them with a raised hand of greeting.

“A good morning to you, ma’am. Might I ask you a few questions?”

The well dressed woman barely turned her attention to the officer, looking down her nose at what she would refer to as a “Public servant” But this one had been polite, so the least she could do was humour a question or two.

“I suppose I could answer your questions, officer. Quickly, quickly, I am a busy person.”

Olivier internally groaned. It had been quite some time since she had dealt with a person like this, and her rapidly rising disdain for the woman was visible on her face.

“Did anyone else come through the same tear that I did?”

“You are the first that I have seen.”

The officer silently cursed. If this lady was telling the truth, the Chief had somehow changed the endpoint of the rift… Bad news for everyone back at the precinct, even worse for Olivier.

“Thank you. And where am I?”

That question earned her a scoff, the well dressed woman even rolling her eyes with the action.

“You are in the city of Bren. And it is Tournament season so I really must be off”

Without allowing the officer to ask her to elaborate on what she meant, the woman had disappeared into a nearby crowd of people, leaving Olivier to sit and muse on what she had said. If the Chief really wasn’t here, then there was no reason for her staying, right? Her best option would be to leave back through the tear and try and strategize with Rita. Lost in her own mind, Olivier felt something bump into her as she walked, the Officer taking a few steps back as her mind snapped back to the present.

“Oh I’m sorry, miss. I wasn’t paying attention, are you okay?”


The officer turned to the sound of the voice, a younger woman wearing a set of baggy clothes with short, black hair. A set of goggles sat unused on top of her head as her green eyes met Olivier’s own. The Officer took a moment to steady herself, waving off the girl’s attempts of help.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.. I wasn’t looking where I was going, apologies.”

“Not a problem! Are you here to fight in the tournament?” The girl’s smile was infectious, with Olivier finding herself able to relax just a small amount. But Olivier cocked her head slightly at the question. This was the second person of two who had mentioned this ‘tournament’ and she couldn’t help but feel a little curious about it.

“What tournament, might I ask?”

“Oh! You didn’t know? Well. Once a year they host a biiiiiig tournament in that grand arena over there! There’s usually a lot of competitors and there are even different arenas in there! I heard this year there was a smaller turnout so they’re doing something a little different this year. But it should still be super fun to watch!”

“You’re… Well informed”

The younger girl let off a soft laugh before turning a little bashful, kicking her foot against the ground.

“Well I did reach finals last year..”

“Captain Parr! I’ve got our seats ready”

A new voice called the other girl from afar, waving their arms around frantically to get this “Parr”’s attention. Quickly, she bowed to the officer.

“Gotta go! Will I see you compete?”


“I’ll think about it. Don’t let me keep you.”

With a soft wave, the Officer bid her goodbyes to the strange but sweet girl. Was someone like that really a finalist in a combat tournament? Olivier took a moment to think about her options. It had been some time since she was last pushed in combat, and she longed for the thrill it brought. She had already told Rita that her return wasn’t set in stone… and she had been working without rest for what had felt like an eternity.

Maybe she did deserve some fun. What would be the worst that could happen?

“Excuse me!” Catching up to the girl and her friend, the Officer took a place beside them as they walked, easily keeping pace with the two younger women.
“If you’re heading to watch those fights, would you mind escorting me there? I think I’d like to throw the gauntlet.”




Olivier bid her goodbyes to the pair as they entered the main building with the Officer confidently striding towards the receptionist, who simply looked up as a new figure approached. Stifling a yawn with the back of her hand, the receptionist blankly stared up at Olivier for an awkward few moments before she finally started to speak.
“Name..?”
“Olivier Haith.”
“Element?”
Olivier paused for a moment. She remembered that she had been told that competitors fight for the honour of one of the 8 elemental lords of this land. Now.. what was electricity called in this land again?..
“Ma’am?”
“Oh! Apologies. Energy, I believe it’s called?”
“Correct. Energy”

After her awkward encounter with the receptionist, Olivier had taken to waiting in the hallway that led into the designated arena. Was this really the right thing to do? Join a fighting tournament for fun while her friend struggled back home? She scoffed, chuckling a little to herself.

“If anything, Rita would probably scold me for not joining.”




Olivier shuffled nervously as the gong reverberated throughout the complex and right through her. She wasn’t particularly fond of loud noises, they usually forewarned something’s arrival…And the last one that she had heard symbolized the beginning of the invasion. She kept steady on her feet as the platform suddenly jerked upwards, rapidly ascending until the spectator stands were nothing more than a small circle underneath them. It was certainly lucky that she had recently overcome her fear of heights..

She wasn’t one for initiating a combat, and she doubted that would change even for a free-for-all such as this. She would be contempt with biding her time and picking her opponent when the time was right, but she feared that this contest wouldn’t allow her as much time as she needed.

She raised an eyebrow as one of the other competitors, a large dragon-like being, casually walked forwards, turning her back to both Olivier herself and the one standing at her other side. While revealing your back to a pair of opponents was, in fact, quite a foolish maneuver, Olivier had to respect the confidence of it. This was, clearly, someone who wholeheartedly believed they could deal with whatever was thrown at them. A fitting adversary, then?

“Officer.”

The drake called out towards her, her voice coarse and scratchy. The roughness of it had her hairs on the back of her neck stood up.. Her first impression seemed correct enough. What happened next was predictable enough.


“Catch.”

With a feat of impressive strength, her opponent had gripped one of the many asteroids that lay around the middle of this arena, and had sent it hurtling towards Olivier. She assumed this was supposed to have caught her off-guard, and either have the asteroid come into contact with the general vicinity of her being, or as a distraction to close the small gap between them. Well, she’d have fun playing along, at least.

Without taking her gaze off of the drake, Olivier stepped to one side and pivoted on her back foot. She remained unflinching as the large mass of rock soared past her, whipping her hair back as it did. She rolled her eyes, calling back to her opponent.

“I’d appreciate a little less warning next time, you made that one too easy.”



Chewy905 -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/3/2024 22:54:06)

The officer’s movements were elegant, effortless. A single step, a single turn, and Camellia’s testing blow missed entirely, failing to strike even a touch of fear into this foe. Perfect. No good fight could end in just one blow. Words stirred at the thought, writhing eagerly beneath scaled flesh. Camellia scoffed at the invasion, shifting her focus towards her foe’s taunts.

“I’d appreciate a little less warning next time, you made that one too easy.”

The woman’s voice brimmed with confidence and experience. Camellia had heard these tones before; touted by foes that openly defied The Family and inevitably found their boasts silenced. Camellia eyed the woman again, searching for any traces of strength that filled her hollow words. The officer stood at apparent ease, but with just enough tension in her legs to respond if Camellia were to attempt a surprise attack. A small smile graced the half-drake’s lips. Without a word, she clenched her fist and slammed it once more into an asteroid, blessing it with flight. She grunted at the slight exertion, but used her follow-through to begin a steady, careful advance in the dead planet’s wake.

Camellia called out to her prey, her calm, deep voice that followed the rhythm of her steps. “You’re right, of course. My apologies.” The officer once more deftly pivoted away from the rock, unperturbed by the half-drake’s advance or reply. That was fine. There were still rules to uphold before this hunt could truly begin.

“I despise words.” Camellia spat out the declaration, hoping her Brother was watching, hoping he would feel her hatred with every blow she struck. “But permit me just these few.”

The battlefield beyond her already teemed with life; foe choosing foe and blessedly leaving Camellia and her quarry to themselves. She honed her attention inwards, each step blocking out the noise and taunts of others and leaving this infinite space just a little smaller, just a little more private.

“I am Camellia...” She trailed off, wanting so badly to end her sentence there, but it felt too unnatural. The rest of the sentence, the rest of the name had been repeated too often. One claw itched at the betrayal that writhed beneath her flesh, but scarred lips still whispered an ever-echoed oath between gentle breaths. When the name finally slipped from her lips, it carried far more love than she’d care to admit.

“...Dictari. And I declare you Adversary.”

Her steadfast advance continued, each footstep echoing across the sunlit platform. The officer tensed as Camellia came ever-closer, and the half-drake hid her smile. So the confidence was, at least in part, a façade. She would enjoy shattering it further, peeling it back like ribbons and learning all of what hid beneath. Hopefully there were enough layers to make this last.

“Announce yourself, oh Adversary.” Camellia finished her stride, ending a breath’s step from and towering a foot over the woman as she let the twilight play through her sharpened claws. She looked down, delighted to lock eyes with a green stare darker than that of her Brother. “So that I may pray-not over a nameless corpse.”

The officer stood steadfast, eyes sharp and hard. “It would be a pleasure.” She replied clearly. “Olivier Haith, let us give these spectators something to remember, hm?”

Olivier Haith. Camellia inhaled the name, her eyes shut to the world. Everything else: the gorgeous sunset, the fallen meteors, the other measly pawns that roamed this space, it all tumbled into the infinite. Here, there could be no more words, spoken or forced beneath flesh. There could be no more thoughts, invasive and distracting. There could be no more doubts in name, in life, in fault.

There could only be Olivier and Camellia.

Camellia smiled.

And dragon’s claw lunged for officer’s heart, to tear the world in half.




Anastira -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/4/2024 0:29:32)

Epithet’s opponent is ugly.

No; ugly does not even begin to cut it. In recent years, no one has called Epithet pretty, but this small ugly creature with her mottled skin and rotted-wheat hair is truly grotesque. Not to mention tacky. Perhaps Epithet should have chosen more of a challenge, to impress the Lords - but why bother? It’s all in the spirit of fun, after all, and this ugly thing may not be difficult, but surely she will be fun.

The arena is still echoing with the full, brazen after-music of the gong as Epithet dances blithely towards the woman, step step-step pause step, humming softly as she goes. The tune is one she can’t quite place, but the words settle on the tip of her tongue so steadily that she has to make an effort to throw them away. No good having the wrong words in her mouth…

little silver rain, step upon the stones / dance beneath the stars, twirl on little toes / a mirror of sky stands at your feet / whisper, O hearthlake, here the heavens meet…

She allows herself a little indulgent twirl - Unwanted Advice and “Constructive” Criticism flashing gaily in her hands - and tests the words against her tongue. You’re so ugly, mirrors will crack rather than bear your reflection? No, somehow this woman does not look like the type who would care. Are those stilettos, or growths on your feet? Too on the nose…not her best work. You look so pathetic, even a devil wouldn’t make a deal with you - out of pity! Oh, yes. That’s the one, she’s certain of it. She lunges forward, Advice and Criticism to either side - hefted effortlessly, their weight carrying her momentum from movement to movement with a strange fey grace - ready to speak her first Insult for all to her -

“Well now, a wee faerie. What mischief have ye got planned for me? Here to lance my boils? Pick my teeth?” the woman says, baring her teeth in what Epithet realizes is a small. What ugly smilers she’s got, all crooked and uneven, her mouth wide and toadlike.

Epithet is stopped short for an instant, caught off guard, the Insult dying on her lips before it is even spoken. “You,” she hisses, baring her teeth, the Insult forgotten. “You pitiful, ugly, twisted little creature, the Hells-and-Hells themselves beneath the Hearthlake would refuse you entry!”

She turns her lunge into a wide swinging sweep, not caring that Advice’s smoldering-charcoal blade cuts uselessly through the air inches from its target, dropping to her knees as she begins to weave another Insult. Her pulse pounds with the depths of her rage; she feels as though her heart might beat out of her chest with its force. No; a simple, short Insult is not vengeance enough: this woman deserves to feel pure, true pain, to be Infected with the depths of Epithet’s hatred. A speech, yes, a speech -

Epithet pins the woman with a glare and crosses both blades in front of her - Advice bold and simmering with the fury of the words on its blade, wide and dark as tar; Criticism gleaming ice-cold and cruel in the twilight, as bright as the shooting stars that had filled the space over their heads.

At that moment, everything happens all at once.

Epithet inhales sharply, her chest tight, the blood in her veins running frigid, her eyes and her anger saved only for the woman who has wronged her.

The woman herself suddenly spins, and Epithet anticipates the attack, readying the words to let loose.

A second blur of motion catches Epithet’s eye: a projectile, arcing through the air?

Epithet is fey, but she is not superhuman. She doesn’t have time nor reflexes to dodge…

A thread - an actual thread, like a piece of yarn - appears in the air, in the projectile’s path, and Epithet braces herself for the double on-slaught -

The arrow stops midair, floating in place. No, not floating - held by the thread.

Epithet hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath, but she exhales, shaken, turning to stare: and there the woman stands, exactly as she was a moment ago, ready to receive Epithet’s speech; but she’s smiling. Smiling.

“You'll need to pay more attention if you wish to survive here, sugarplum,” the woman says, snidely. “I'll give you that one for free...for now. You'll owe me for the next one.” Epithet scowls in response, glancing at the arrow and at the woman - and makes a split-second decision: allies. For now. Tentatively.

Epithet doesn’t do allies.

No time to think - no time to change her mind. The archer won’t give her time to catch her breath; Epithet’s sure of that.

So she lunges forward again, sprinting past the woman, light on her feet with her blades sharp in her hands, and slashes out with Advice - gripped in her left fist - at the ranger who had shot at her.

She doesn’t have to think hard about this one. Great ugly claw mark across her face, that look in her eyes…an easier target than the first, even.

Epithet smiles. “You look lost. I’ll make sure you stay that way.”



Dragonknight315 -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/4/2024 23:02:11)

The hunt is on.

The wind dies around Lunara as she tosses her hood over her head. Her eyes dart back and forth behind the tinted glass of her visor as her training possesses her.

<Wide open, easy sightlines. There’s no cover besides the rocks in the center.>

A heavy breath escapes the half-elf’s mask. Dueling was not her specialty. Her wife would have jumped at the chance for an all out brawl, but Lunara preferred more covert methods. Standing on the marble platform, the thought does little to comfort her. Too late for assassination. Even if she could have thinned out the competition beforehand, it would have only earned her the ire of the Lords, and that is unacceptable.

<Best stick to the shadows...>

The ranger steps back, twilight draping over her form. Lunara knows she must pick her battles carefully. She skulks forward, her path tracing the outer edge of the platform. It’s quiet— so quiet. In the dead silence of her own little world, Lunara hears her heart beating in her chest. Her steps are brief; the striking of the boots against the marble is an experience only she will know, the sound muffled by her enchanted feathers.

<Who first?...>

Lunara casts her masked gaze to the right and finds her first would-be competitor. A tall figure, grey-skin adorned with blackened scales and fine cloth. The half-elf is grateful for her visor; in the artificial gloam, the figure let alone their finer details might have missed the ranger's attention. Lunara makes a special note of their pointed ears, her own short ones tingling beneath her hood.

“An elf...” The ranger whispers. Not another elf, just an elf. With each heartbeat, her father’s blood courses through her veins, but Lunara is no elf. She watches with caution as a flame sparks from the figure’s hand, its glow like a lantern.

<Fire magic, moderately armored...Would my arrows even pierce?> Lunara shakes her head. <No. This one cannot...>

The ranger sweeps her gaze to the left. Here there are not one but two potential prey.

First, she sees the dust. Beneath a pall of gray stands a lady. Short, elderly— a tailored dress that would have looked well on her were it not for all the dust. Something in Lunara shutters as she examines the woman. She knows from first hand experience to value her elders, yet the half-elf simply cannot shake the feeling. There is something wrong with this woman.

<Dressed somewhere between a funeral and a business meeting... And that spotted skin... Too many uncertainties.>

Approaching the crone is another challenger. Lunara gasps the very instant the half-elf spies her.

<A fey!—>

The second figure is almost the antithesis of the crone, yet the two share more similarities than Lunara cares to admit. Childlike with pale ghostly skin, long claws, and ragged hair— the way the being carries itself is unmistakable. It is as if she were plucked straight out of a nightmare. Though the moonlight had left Lunara’s form, its mark still remains. She can feel something ancient stirring within her... As the fey approaches the crone, Lunara seizes up. She spies the twin red and blue swords in her hands.

<Fey are rarely ever that direct... What are they doing here?> Lunara shakes her head wishing she had some cold iron arrows. <Not important.>

The ranger strides a few feet before crouching down. Her hand reaches for the quiver, and her finger traces one of her feathers. The thought strikes Lunara like lightning— two competitors right next to each other, both highly dangerous. One is riddled with uncertainties, the other’s wildness stands plain for all to see. With one shot the half-elf could wound them both. All it would take is one sacrifice. But is this the right opportunity? Is it worth risking one of her remaining feathers against an untested foe?...

The half elf’s hand moves away from the were-touched bolt instead wrapping around an ordinary one. She notches the arrow and draws back, an act she has done thousands of times before. But Lunara struggles with it— the bow feels wrong in her grip, its form ill-fitted for her sorry state. Her arm and spine sting as her decayed muscles move into place. She is shaking, her whole being desperately aching for release, but the ranger takes a deep breath and finds her balance.

<Who to shoot?>

The child moves like a dancer, the fey waltzing over to the crone with twirling blades in hand. Suddenly, the fey throws herself forward, her swords poised to strike. But the crone spins back—

<You.>

In an instant, Lunara makes her decision. Her arm shifts, arrow trained on the pale fey. The taut bowstring twangs the air as the half-elf releases the arrow. The half-elf’s hazel eyes follow its path only for her gaze to stop short.

“... Unbelievable.”

Lunara lets out a heavy breath, her gaze fixed to her arrow. Suspended in the air, it hangs mere inches away from the fey’s temple. A clean shot were it not for the crone’s meddling. The elder smiles as she draws the arrow close with some kind of cord. She plays with it like a toy in her grasp, twirling, spinning it as she pleases before finally turning her gaze to the ranger.

<... Spotted!>

The crone moves her lips, her words rendered silent by the dead winds that surround Lunara. The fey joins her as she turns her own gaze towards the ranger. Unheard and unsaid, the two reach an agreement.

<... A plan— This one needs a plan—>

With her cover blown, Lunara throws back her hood and pulls her mask down. The wind rushes to meet her ears as she rejoins the outer world. No point in hiding. There is no way she could win in a two-on-one fight. She must separate them. She needs to find cover—

<The meteors!>

With no time for hesitation or second thoughts, Lunara leaps forward into a sprint. She slides her bow down, desperately holstering it in the quiver’s bands. From the corner of her visor she sees the fey rapidly approaching, her intent as solid as her blades. As fast as Lunara was, there was no outrunning her prey-turned-predator. She reaches into her cloak and fumbles for her blades, barely managing to draw them as she finds herself a few feet from the star-sent rocks. With no time left, the ranger pivots around only to find the fey staring at her. The child lunges, blade sweeping towards the half-elf’s chest. She falls back to avoid the steel, wind rushing behind her as the meteors swing within inches of her frame. Before Lunara can react, the fey speaks, and the air bends to her words.

“You look lost. I’ll make sure you stay that way.”

As the poisoned words enter her elven ears, Lunara gasps. The pain sweeps across her chest with a cold, dull ache. It is suffocating— as if Lunara is drowning in the fey's words. But she has survived worse, and with what little air the half-elf has she curses at the fey.

“Over this one’s dead body!”

Immediately, Lunara finds her strength, her resolve— the half-elf shakes off the pain and tosses her daggers up into the air. She shuffles her feet, her whole body twisting and spinning as the wind gathers around her palms. The fey leans in for another strike. As her second sword rushes towards Lunara, the ranger dives to the left. A twined pair of cords follow behind her like a trail. Green and ghostly, physical but transparent. Like Lunara, they exist at an intersection between both worlds, a fetter between her true self and her husk.

As the ranger lands, she pivots on her feet, carrying her momentum around before swinging her tethers forward. The knives descend, and the spectral tethers thread themselves through the steel pommel rings. Then, she cracks the cords down, and the blades race towards their otherworldly prey.



Starstruck -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/5/2024 21:46:22)

Twilight has always represented something to Deandra. It is the transition period between one kind of life and another. One life is spent in the sun, bright and harsh. The other is spent in eternal night. But so much is invisible when the sun's glare drowns it out. There are a lot of stars in the sky. During twilight, you can see only one: the morning star. The big one himself. She almost got distracted thinking about how handsome he looked with his horns and teeth and vinegar-sour breath. But this was no time to think about all that. There was a fight to win.

Her eyes were keen in this dim light, so it was easy to spot the sneaky one trying to creep surreptitiously along the shadows. There was a delicious concoction of scents wafting from that corner. Definitely someone to keep an eye on. She put on some sort of wooden mask, her hazel eyes barely visible at this distance through the slits. She looked more animal than human, here.

But no time to investigate - the pale girl sprung towards Deandra with childlike glee, and a bit of a dance in her step. If Deandra wasn't so busy, she might have rolled her eyes again. Of course. How had she missed it? The fey folk had no subtlety and did as they pleased with the chaos of springtime. They embraced growth and madness. And yet they all had their silly rules that you had to follow if you wanted to talk to one. Turn down the tea, but not the crumpet! Sing along to the song, but don't you DARE dance! It all made her sick. What happened to asking for things? What happened to basic respect? Annoying!

...Is what she would have said, but as the fey approached, pale as sour milk, Deandra immediately got the sense that there were no rules to abide by, no code of conduct to honor. This was a wild and unfettered thing. Ew...is that dirt on her feet? Sticks in her hair? Does she live in a barn? No, this wretched being clearly had no home at all.

"Well now, a wee faerie!" called out Deandra, her voice dripping with condescension as she put on her best fey accent. (It wasn't good at all, but don't try to tell her that.) "What mischief have you got planned for me?" She pointed her lumpy chin towards the curved toadstickers currently tasting the air in her direction. A bit more time, and they'd seek her throat. "Here to lance my boils? Pick my teeth?" Harvest my crops? She would have said it, but it died on her lips as her prickly verbiage angered the wee faerie. She took a quick half turn to avoid the first strike, and - There!

Deandra had to give that sneaky little elfy that much, and she rarely gave anyone credit for anything. She had lost track of her - no idea that she had even moved. But the pointy-eared little thing messed it up by nocking an arrow and blasting it off willy-nilly, and the motion caught Deandra's eye just as she spun. Acting quickly, she dangled a thread from within her sleeve, a long white strand five or six feet in length.

Ozh acha doq izh. With the point of her heel, she stomped on the thin thread. A normal piece of string would have broken. But nothing about Deandra was normal. The force of the step caused the end of the string to fly out and-

WHK-TASH!

The arrow's momentum was totally halted, and it hovered for a brief second before Deandra pulled on her end and dragged it back to her. She caught it between her fingers, examining it as a smile grew across her face. “You'll need to pay more attention if you wish to survive here, sugarplum. I'll give you that one for free...for now. You'll owe me for the next one.” Her smile grew wider as she impressed herself with her own boundless generosity. But fey folk required caution and care. They were inherently unwilling to form the bonds that demons breathe and swim in. Like birds that fly over the ocean, they needed to be caught before they could be dragged under. Fortunately, Deandra was patient. And with a little nod, she could maybe start...

The ingrate just ignored her. Ignored! Her! Ooh how it burned, coal-black in her souls. The smile died from her face as she packed the thread away, eyes narrowed in disgust as the fey flew towards the cloaked assailant, saying...something. Whatever it was, it wasn't funny. The elf's response was similarly lacking in wit or elegance. Blades flew. How utterly standard!

"It's time for a little fun," she said, to an audience of hopefully anyone. And the back of her dress moved. Hairy limbs with too many joints crackled and shed a shower of dust as they stretched wider and wider. The crone hunched as her back exploded with motion, spreading a silken banner across a couple of batlike wings, the 8 foot wingspan flapping mightily and carrying her up off the ground towards the asteroids. The sound, oh the sound! Like flapping gums mixed with the screeching of condemned souls mixed with breaking glass. It took just two flaps to get to the asteroid with a running start, two more to get a little height, and a little downward momentum with a big punch to send an asteroid flying towards the clashing couple. She landed on a stone further back, panting heavily from the exertion, nearly missing it as she could only glide. Her wings remained, giving her a distinctly angelic silhouette, as she settled down on the floating rock to catch her breath. Delicious scents of sin and vice floated through the air about her as she drew closer to the other competitors, and her nostrils flared.

Perhaps, perhaps. The fey folk could be brought to alignment, or they could be turned against each other. It was only a matter of weaving the strands of their wants together, and the battlefield was hers to control. The biggest web, set to catch the biggest fly.

The smile threatened to return to her face...an evil threat indeed.



roseleaf320 -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/5/2024 22:12:37)

“May I meet your expectations.”

Vashiryn hesitated for a moment, silver eyes flicking across his opponent as it hefted a weapon as patchwork as its body weapon and motioned strangely with a limb. The words themselves were easy enough to interpret: the common tongue came quickly to Vashiryn after decades of outside trade. But it took the elf a breath to realize his foe was even speaking. Its voice sounded as if it came not from the creature, but from the space behind it, a harsh grinding like the scrape of metal against stone, each syllable more distorted than the last. He had not expected the abomination to speak. Of the large underearth monsters his people had fought, very little of them had sound that remotely resembled speech. As he watched the creature, Vashiryn grimaced, and a lilting, distorted voice scraped at his memory, echoing off of cave walls. Eleven rotations; eight lives. Vashiryn remembered the faces of every explorer he had personally sent into the new cave system. And he remembered, when he finally arranged the hunting party, the screams for help in voices he knew were already dead.

Vashiryn shook aside the ache in his heart. He would not make mistakes here, as he had then. He would not allow this voice to fool him. Monsters have no right to speak.

Without taking his eyes from the monster, the dark elf reached into his pack and closed his thin fingers around a flame-bearer. A flicker of pride tempered his brow as his blacksmiths’ labor sat perfectly within his hands. Antyraen’s sign flashed through Vashiryn’s mind, an intense look crossing his friend’s face as he handed Vashiryn the small delivery. A point towards Vashiryn, and two fists that crossed across his chest and flared outwards. Be safe.

For you, Vashiryn vowed, as he held the stone over the flame within his hand. Visually, it seemed as if nothing had changed; but as his flame dispersed, the small stone throbbed with a soft heat that reassured Vashiryn that it had served its purpose. That a breath of Al’dar had awoken within the jet-black stone. The creature approaching him reared its head back and let out a violent, bestial roar. Better. The Al’daren lowered his hand and rolled the stone across the arena floor towards his foe.

He intended for it to pass under her feet; if he was lucky, the creature would chase after it, but Vashiryn never gambled on luck. His eyes fixed upon a point on the ground in front of Shalla’s advance. If he stabbed down into that spot, the monster would either be pierced through or, more likely, herded back into the explosion. Vashiryn could reassess the situation from there. With sharp movements, Vashiryn reached towards his chest with both hands, pinched, and pulled them forward as if pulling formless strands. Vashiryn felt a yank within his heart as Al’dar’s fire burst to life above his head in response. The Al’darii language; all started with Al’dar. Though he could not see it, Vashiryn felt the spear above him forming, as familiar as a partner. Modeled after his King’s spear, Chalybe, the flames morphed into a long point. Their tendrils echoed the curled flames that decorated Chalybe’s steel. Vashiryn’s fingers spread and both hands bounced upwards once, palms facing him. Above him, a strong, thick shaft formed behind the point, and though the fire could not reflect it, Vashiryn’s mind saw the intricate spiderweb pattern threaded into it. He took a measured breath, and curled his hands into the final sign: his left palm facing his right hand as it folded into a single point. With a burst of energy, Vashiryn scraped across his left palm, its point aligning with the beast’s approach.

His mind flickered back to Aurcinis in full armor, white braid and spear both flowing with unparallelled grace. Cin always jumped at the chance to join their hunts. “What kind of King would I be if I did not fight alongside my people?” Vashiryn’s heart panged, and, almost unconsciously, he brought his right hand to his chin. Fingertips brushed against the thin cloth across his lips as he made a gentle flick out from his face. Within each hunt, the small sign echoed, a blessing before the kill.

Fuel our Fire.




Oddball -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/6/2024 10:17:44)

”Just stay on high alert, you know nothing of what this one is capable of. Do not get overconfident.”

The officer was silent, waiting for any form of response to her taunt. If she could gain the ire of this warrior, she could more accurately predict their next move. Those angered tend to all fall into the same rhythm of wildly swinging, and Olivier was most adept at avoiding thoughtless strikes. Though, from the drake’s reaction? It would take a lot more to get under her skin.

A second asteroid, without declaration this time, found itself soaring towards Olivier. Like the one previous, she near-effortlessly avoided the incoming potential blunt force trauma, watching carefully as her chosen opponent stalked towards her, and called out to her.

“You’re right, of course. My apologies.” Her voice was calm, cool, and even deeper than the officer’s own. There was just as much confidence in her words as there was in her movements and it had become very clear to the officer that this was not someone she could easily manipulate into making a mistake. She’d do well to remember that not every person thought and reacted to things in the same way the parasites did…

How long had it been since she had fought something still capable of rational thought?

“I despise words.” That much was clear just from the way the words were forcefully spat out, like the drake was forcing herself. Olivier was half tempted to interrupt and tell her that introductions and the like weren’t necessary, that they could get a strong enough impression of one another just through an exchange of blows. But before she could, her opponent continued.


“But permit me these few.”

A silent nod. If the target wished to converse with her, despite their clear disdain for doing so, then Olivier would not stop them. All around the pair, the sounds of the beginning of combat began to spring forth, indicating that the other competitors had chosen their targets. But the Drake’s fearsome glare was focused on her, and her alone.

And she preferred it that way

“I am Camellia…” A name. Or at least part of one. The larger of the two had stopped there, provoking a nigh unnoticeable tilt of the head from the officer. Perhaps, in her culture, surnames weren’t given? Or, more than likely, hers carried more weight than most. Olivier simply chose to stay silent, eyes trained on her foe as the sounds around her began to muffle. This is the one she would focus on. This was the one that would give her the fight she didn’t realize how desperate she was for.

“...Dictari. And I declare you Adversary.”

Olivier felt her muscles tighten as Camellia continued advancing towards her. Each step the drake took echoed throughout the officer’s body, causing her to tense up even further. If her opponent were to try anything now that they were practically sharing the same space? She would be ready to pounce.

“Announce yourself, oh Advensary.” The emphasis placed behind the word ‘adversary’ had not gone unnoticed by the officer, but she had nothing to lead it to at the moment. She just had to stay vigilant. This was an unknown place, likely filled with things that Olivier couldn’t ever dream of seeing after all, nothing was off of the table. The pair finally locked eyes, the endless pools of black did very little to hide the drake’s want for combat.

How refreshing. She was so used to things actively trying to hide their bloodlust that it was a breath of fresh air seeing something wear it so openly on their sleeve.

“So that I may pray-not over a nameless corpse.”

It was a bold claim, if not just a little bit touching. So be it, if the fates decided that this would be her final resting place, she’d make damn sure her opponent would remember her.

“It would be a pleasure.”

The officer spoke clearly and confidently. She briefly toyed with the idea of reaching out a hand, but ultimately decided against it.

“Olivier Haith, let us give these spectators something to remember, hm?”

The drake had fallen silent and Olivier could only guess that she was repeating her target’s name so that she may not forget it. Well, now she felt even more pressured to make a lasting impression.

Then, as she awaited any movement from the drake, she did something that caught the officer by surprise.

Camellia smiled.

And, instinctively, Olivier smiled back.

And when Camellia’s claw suddenly struck out, aiming to tear Olivier’s chest to ribbons? Her smile grew wider.

With the same finesse she had shown earlier, Olivier stepped to one side, her eyes still focused on Camellia’s own. This was her opening, she had to make the most of the tiny window of opportunity she had been given.


With the sudden twist of her body, Olivier curled her hand into a fist, and struck out at the still outstretched arm of Camellia. The blow wasn’t intended to completely harm the drake, it was still far too early to be dealing debilitating blows, but it was enough to give Olivier the window for a follow up. She stepped in with her left foot, lurching her body forwards as she struck out at Camellia’s chest with her palm.

While the force behind the strike was plenty enough to unbalance foes of her own size and structure, it had barely managed to phase Camellia, who responded with a swipe of the claw that was intended to take the officer’s head clean off of her body.

There was such limited space between them that Olivier wouldn’t be able to gain enough distance to avoid the blow if she were to try… But that wasn’t her idea to begin with. At the last moment, the officer dropped low, ducking under the lethal swipe from her adversary. And with her legs tensed, she leaped up, arcing her arm upwards to catch the drake in the chin.

If Camellia was still locking eyes with the officer, she would notice a brief spark of purple lighting across the woman’s form.



nield -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/6/2024 21:37:43)

Ha, now here we have someone who understands his place! Not drawing the slightest bit of attention to me and holding this insect’s gaze well, you are well suited to be my servant!


The Queen of Ashes strode forth, its presence unnoticed by the poor creature its eyes were focused on. The dark elf threw a stone and summoned a spear from the sky with nary a sound, his gaze squarely on what he sought to destroy.

The poor creature, for her part, struck forth bravely towards the dark elf, perhaps confident in herself. But that confidence was, it seemed, unwarranted, as the spear descended and struck home, screeching between armour plates and searing flesh as flames flickered to life where the spear had struck.

Then from behind, the stone on the ground shattered with a loud boom, sending shards impacting into the innocent creature’s back which arched as she let out a howl of pain. The Queen of Ashes was not one to let such a vulnerability lay unexploited and rushed in, its sceptre swinging on a wide arc.

A sickening crunch sounded out as the sceptre cleanly impacted against the poor creature’s skull and she staggered away, teetering on the arena’s edge for a few moments. Unfortunately, she could not regain her balance and with one final, desperate sound, tumbled off the edge, just one more victim of the Queen of Ashes’ cruelty.

”Hahahah! How refreshing! Insects are usually such troublesome creatures, clinging to life with far too much tenacity. But this one fell just as easily as it ought.” I grace the dark elf with my beneficent smile. “Young man, shall we sweep the rest of these undeserving creatures away?”



Chewy905 -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/7/2024 22:09:28)

Olivier’s fist slammed into scarred scales, knocking Camellia’s arm aside before she could react. Words stirred and writhed beneath Camellia’s flesh, awakened by the ever-rare touch of another. Camellia clenched her teeth, masking pain, fury, and unease alike beneath a stoic gaze. One step, one blink was all it had taken Olivier to avoid and return Camellia’s bloodlust. A gauntleted claw rose up and waited, eager to tear this Adversary’s head apart. Olivier stepped in, heedless of the coming malice, and struck forth with a blow that reverberated uselessly against The Family’s violet scales. The tension in Camellia’s arm released, and her claw snapped across to reap her a trophy, only to cut but empty air. She turned her eyes down in disbelief, locking gazes with a foe far quicker and adept than she’d expected. A single spark of beautiful purple graced the officer’s eyes, accentuating her confident smile. She rose quick as lightning, fist exploding against Camellia’s chin with brutal speed.

Camellia’s teeth rattled as her jaw slammed shut. Iron’s bitter heat graced her tongue; a fang must have pierced some part of her lip. Her scars sang, new pain harmonizing with the searing echoes of memory as she stumbled a single step back. How long had it been since a foe made her step back? A sneer broke her stoic stare. Pain ringing in her ears, Camellia raised a leg and aimed a kick at her foe’s chest. Olivier’s weight shifted to one leg. She was going to turn again, to teach Camellia that all of the half-drake’s efforts were meaningless in the face of a single repeated step.

No.

In one deep breath, Camellia reached within, feeling every aspect of this small, tumultuous world. Cool marble beneath Camellia’s feet. The glint of sunset across Olivier’s eyes. The small, warm trickle of blood from Camellia’s lip. Olivier’s unblemished smile, filled with too-easily-earned confidence. Camellia released the breath…

And tore herself in two.

The weight of the world ripped itself free. Every touch of the battlefield, every blow from Olivier, every scar of past betrayals stayed behind in an empty shell, frozen in a feint. But Camellia disappeared, gone from sight and mind alike as she broke into her own world of one. Words rippled beneath flesh, more excited, more alive than ever. They came unbidden by thought and before she could banish them with pain they flowed through her whole body, intruding upon the half-drake’s separated space. The letters squirmed their way into her mind, pushed aside all other thoughts with ease, and rearranged themselves. From them came a single call, a single name, whispered in a woman’s soft, gentle voice from every direction as the only sound permitted within Camellia’s private existence.

Cami.


Camellia’s leg slammed down in rage. Her gauntlet lunged forwards, chasing the officer’s turn and finally catching deep within Olivier’s armor as they pierced through her side and let a single, paralytic-laced claw taste blood. The world collided back into Camellia with the weight of her single stolen moment, driving her other arm forwards in a follow-through. Camellia threw all her thoughts upon Olivier’s chest, driving her rage at Brother, Family, and that damned voice into a single strike that folded armor like paper and tossed the officer back like a discarded doll.

And still that name, that silken voice that refused to be familiar, echoed in her mind, intruding even upon Camellia’s world of two.

Cami.



Anastira -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/8/2024 0:26:09)

The air sings as Epithet darts forward, blades flashing in her hands, her ragged hair streaming out behind her - dirty, fraying. Her smile becomes a snarl, deep and twisted and ugly, as she draws close to the archer, her blades flashing out in front of her. She is angry, frustrated at being slighted: a fury that make her skin feel hot, so fierce it brings a little hint of color to her skin.

And then the archer is within range, and Epithet skids to a stop abruptly, her feet scuffing against the floor, her blades swinging out -

And yet - even as Epithet’s blades flash between them, the archer draws her own blades, daggers swirling up into the air on cords that seem to appear out of nowhere, every movement punctuated with unexpected grace. For a moment Epithet feels her breath taken away at the violent beauty of it - hypnotized by the shock of those pretty flashing blades, as the archer dodges Epithet’s own swords, her motions as elegant as a ballerina lilting through her choreography.

Epithet recoils - or tries to, rearing back to check her momentum, too late; her body fights her mind, carrying her forward and directly into the path of the archer’s tethered daggers -

It stings. Hells-and-Hells, it stings, burns like someone has taken fire and channeled it directly into her bloodstream, a needle-sharp pain that makes Epithet gasp and stare at the blood beading on her arms.

No. This can’t be. For all her confidence, for all her cutting wit, Epithet has failed to draw first blood. That can’t please the Lords -

As she staggers, righting herself, prowling just out of range of the archer’s daggers again, something else catches her eye: an asteroid, sailing through the air, on a perfect trajectory towards Epithet herself.

What in the clear blue sky?

She turns her back to the archer - stupid, stupid, but what choice does she have? - and focuses instead on the asteroid itself, her gaze locked onto it. Her mind is a panic of thoughts: what can she do? It’s not a person; she can’t shout an Insult and expect it to change course. It’s far too large and too sturdy for her blades to cut it…

She draws in a breath, holds it for a moment, and closes her eyes at the same time.

“Hey, Pithy,” she murmurs to herself, the words streaming out so fast they are incoherent, syllables melting together with the heat of her intent. “That asteroid wasn’t meant for you. It was meant for the archer. All the stars and sky know it’s not going to hit you, so don’t give up ground -“

Her body moves reflexively, muscles flexing, arms counterbalancing as she drops to one knee, arcing her torso backwards until she’s bent almost all the way in half, spinning -

The asteroid hits her.

Not face on: a glancing blow, but she feels the immense blunt-force of it against her body and it spins her to the ground; she can feel an ache already beginning to form, the left side of her face and her ribcage. It adds to the exquisite melange of pain, a dull consistent ache to go with the sting of the cuts from the archer’s daggers. She tries not too think about it too hard and rolls instead, pulling herself back to her feet in a crouch, blades to either side.

She feels a little surge of panic, a closeness in her throat. No, her little elusion may not have worked perfectly, but it worked, even though she’s sure she’s just told herself a lie, and -

Don’t think about it, don’t think about it. She is fey, wielder of cruel wit and cutting words, and lying is her favorite bedtime activity.

But where did the asteroid come from? How did Epithet not see it earlier…?

She takes a glance at the archer, follows the archer’s gaze for a split second: to where Epithet’s original mark perches atop an asteroid… with what look to be bat wings unfurled from her body.

Did she -

No. Maybe. Well, certainly she’s the one that tossed the asteroid, but it was meant for the archer. Not for Epithet. Right? She’s already saved Epithet once; she was just trying to help again, and aimed wrong -

And why does Epithet even care? She’s fey. She has no need of friends.

She turns back to the archer, grinning. “What a bruising! Don’t look - there’s another rock coming behind you.” Cause for alarm, Epithet thinks snidely, just as she realizes: the archer is about to attack, and Epithet thinks she knows when. She feels the rhythm of the archer’s movements, leans back at just the right moment -

And slashes forward with Criticism, smiling as the blade finds flesh, and whispers through her teeth: “Dance all you like, archer, you will dance as my marionette! For a puppet’s all you’ve ever been.”

Yes - Epithet will have her blood, too.




Dragonknight315 -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/8/2024 22:50:40)

Blood—

The fey leans back, daggers sailing towards her direction. Predator becomes prey as Lunara matches her steps. In spite of the fey’s attempts, the half-elf’s blades strike true as they slice into the kindred’s arm. Drops of ichor dot the marble floor— a superficial wound, Lunara knows, but the act brings her the smallest amount of satisfaction and relief.

<If it bleeds, then it can die.>

Even fey are bound to the inevitable, something Lunara knows firsthand.

The half-elf tugs on the wind-made cord, its material responding to her command. She slouches as the blades draw closer, her hands twirling to keep the pairs’ momentum spinning above her. A dangerous play— she could strike the fey down in a moment’s notice, but one mistake, one moment of weakness and the blades could just as easily turn on their owner.

Fully immersed in her act of violence, Lunara stares at the wounded fey. Otherworldly as she is, the half-elf can see the conflict behind her eyes. Awe and rapture give way to fury as the figure glances at their wounded form. The half-elf considers advancing now, throwing herself into the offense. But all her victories before hinged on placing her foes in a trap. A brief lapse of doubt flickers in both of their minds...

The perfect opportunity for someone else—

Before the two could act on their desires, the winds warn her as a rhythm of screams and crackling glass lands on Lunara’s ears. Her attention shifts to the side, and the fey’s gaze follows right after.

The sight shakes the ranger to her core.

<... A demon?!—>

The ranger’s focus slips as the daggers swing in the air. As her arms slack, the cords make a turn around Lunara’s bracer. Sensing her mistake, the half-elf extends her arms at an angle to the side, the cord coiling fast and faster across her forearm. At the last moment, Lunara loosens her grip, her hand ready to catch the daggers. Miraculously both the knives land squarely in her palms next to the tethers.

With the wind wrapped around her arms, Lunara's focus extends outward. She is seemingly unbothered by the act of almost stabbing herself. Instead, the ranger stares at the dust-covered crone. It all made sense now, that sinking feeling in Lunara’s chest— With her eyes fixed to the leathery wings she is certain.

<Demons? Here?!— But we had...>

The sight instills a primal panic into the half-elf. She hadn’t seen a genuine demon in over a decade. She remembers the princess, how her and the republic banded together to overcome the tide of hellfire. She remembers just how foul their existence was, the very land dying as it drank their blood and ate their corpses.

“We’ll send them back where they belong, Lunara.”

For an instant, the black marble falls away from the ranger’s mind as Lunara glares at the demoness. The winds howl and thunder cracks the air as she finds herself back on the front lines of her homeland. Hills of guns and swords and soldiers are piled up behind her. As she stares at the red tide ahead of her, the only comfort Lunara can find is the flash of pink with a drawn naginata at the ranger’s side.

The half-elf grits her teeth, her lover’s words echoing in her mind. She will not let their sacrifices be in vain.

Soon, the battlefield falls away, the arena returning to take its rightful place. Instincts take over as Lunara sees the crone approaching a meteor. Her weight shifts to her knees and her heels, and as the demoness slams into the star-sent rock, Lunara leaps to the side. Much to the ranger’s surprise, however, it was not aimed at her. The half-elf's gaze follows the rock, she sees it race towards the twisting fey, disintegrating to ash as it slams against the child’s face and neck.

This time, Lunara took no pleasure in seeing the fey suffer.

<Betrayal comes when you least suspect it. The sting is unforgettable.>

As Lunara lands on her feet, her gaze shifts back to the demoness. The crone is sitting atop one of the rocks with a relaxed, almost carefree posture. It is as though the demon is watching a performance.

“Are we to be your entertainment?” Lunara spits out the words as she raises her daggers. “This one thinks not, you—”

“What a bruising!—”

Before she could curse her adversary further, Lunara shifts her gaze unconsciously, the fey’s voice demanding her attention. The child is smiling with the same toothy grin as the demon.

“Don’t look— there’s another rock coming behind you.”

Once again, the wind betrays the ranger as the words enter Lunara’s ears and a sudden fright comes over her. Was this some attempt at a reprisal towards the demon, an honest change of heart? Did the crone bewitch the fey somehow and this was part of her game? Lunara did not know, and the thought drove her mad. The half-elf reels back out of habit, her cautious self unwilling to ignore the slightest possibility of a threat. Soon the truth becomes apparent— this is exactly what the fey wanted.

As Lunara moves into a feint, the fey answers her action and becomes the hunter. A complete reversal of their earlier bout— Lunara gasps as she sees the child leap after her with blades in hand. She strikes— she repays Lunara double for her wounded pride as the steel lands against Lunara’s collar. It tears into flesh and fabric alike, and though the wound itself is painful, the words that follow are so much worse.

<Dance all you like, archer, you will dance as my marionette! For a puppet’s all you’ve ever been!>

“No, no—”

The fey draws back as she savors the sight of her vengeance. But it is not enough and the pale child readies for another strike. But as she does, the feathers curl against the ranger’s back. They shift and move as if blown by the wind, their tips glowing with a faint green hue. As the fey lunges to deliver a killing blow, Lunara raises her voice—

“Get away from me!”

—and the tempest answers her call. Like a bird of prey the forest winds rush to kill the fey and her poisoned words in a wave of brilliant emerald hue. It’s cry, her barn owl cry, echoes across the arena as a blood curdling scream. It throws the fey back. A pair of meteors fly out in wild directions to scatter the demoness’s plans. As the roaring tempest fades, the sound of the half-elf’s sobbing took its place.

“You’re still here...”

The ranger tucks away her daggers before clutching her exposed shoulder. Her cloak bore the brunt of the attack, a whole section of it peeling away to reveal the blooded collar and neck beneath. But amidst the blood-stained flesh and fabric stands something else entirely— a large, pitch black spot placed right against the half-elf's neck. Tendrils like spider-webs spiral out from the epicenter, pulsing and writhing before the spot slowly fades. A mark, a scar, a curse against her very soul— it reminds Lunara of all that she has lost since her excision. It reminds her of why she must continue.

“This one is not a puppet...”

The half-elf pulls the shortbow from her quiver as she fights through her tears and her swollen throat.

“This one serves no one now. Not hell nor heaven.”

As Lunara plucks one of the arrows, this time she feels certain. She notches the were-fletched bolt, her arm burns from the wound, but she doesn't care. Across from her is the fey still staggered on the ground.

“Not my godfather. Not even the Lords that watch us now—”

As she trains her sight on the child, the ranger pours her entire being into the arrow. Just as the fey begins to stand, she speaks again, the winds answering her words as she releases the string—

“And certainly not you.”



roseleaf320 -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/10/2024 6:21:04)

As the fiery Chalybe left its place above his head and skyrocketed towards the patchwork monster, Vashiryn almost expected to find King Aurcinis hurtling behind it. He had rarely seen the spear without its user, save for the moments between when Cin let go of the spear and when he shut the latch on its case. Only Vashiryn, as the Hearth and the King’s Trusted, was able to manifest its likeness. To wield it as his King did. To kill with it as he pleased. Vashiryn had never once balked at the responsibility; he certainly would not now. Instead he watched with veiled, thin lips as Chalybe’s flames crashed down upon the creature. It slashed cleanly through the creature’s front, severing patchwork metal pieces and searing the flesh underneath. The creature’s face shone brightly in the flames’ light, each bug-like mandible clattering grotesquely as it let out a piercing screech.

Cin’s practiced hands danced across Vashiryn’s vision, the ritualistic sequence he’d always sign as he returned Chalybe after a hunt. May your metal cleave monsters, but dull against elven flesh. Though he had not the time for the full sentence, Vashiryn’s fingers echoed a section: an open hand slashing down in front of his chest, followed by a bounce upwards with claw-curled fingers spread. Cleave monsters.

The spear finished its path wedged not into Vashiryn’s foe, but the ground in front of it. It blocked the creature’s path forward and wreathed it in flames that reflected off of each of the thousand metal patches, off of each of the creature’s two sunken eyes. In a greater being, Vashiryn might read their wide, rotten gaze as panic. Tendrils licked at the creature’s body, catching and singeing over skin already burnt. And within Al’dar’s mighty bonfire, fed by the dying monstrosity, Vashiryn saw something.

A silver sword. It bears the marks of Al’darii forging, but it is thin and curved, too fragile to ever be useful for hunting. It flickers as it slashes across the patchwork silhouette before disappearing. A scream; a figure falls, clearly Al’daren, his dark skin and elaborate tattoos swirling with life in the flames. A sign; no, a series of signs, flashing in and out of the fire, movements echoing strength and anger. A pointed “you;” the negation for “obey.” An “f” mixed into a series Vashiryn does not recognize.


Vashiryn blinked, and it was gone, Al’dar’s flames deafening in their silence. It had shown him all it wanted him to see.

Vashiryn’s glazed-over eyes barely registered when his Flame-bearer exploded behind the monster, just as he’d planned. The wisps of joy that fluttered-- Al’dar had shown him something new-- were overtaken in waves as Vashiryn desperately tried to understand what he’d seen. His people made hunting weapons; that was all they ever needed. All disagreements between their people were solved diplomatically. Vashiryn and Aurcinis had overseen many of the most prominent disagreements themselves. But a sword, clearly useless against the hard, armored flesh of underearth monsters, and the scream of one of his own…

Vashiryn bit his lip to force the vision aside. His unconscious mind would parse it, slowly, but his conscious attention could not waver. Vashiryn’s gaze flicked to a whisper of movement from behind the monster, and the dark elf took a step back to observe as a new being swung into view. This one looked much more like himself, a tall humanoid with elaborate silken garments. Her bright pink hair swung with her movements as she swerved up to the patchwork creature and slammed a weapon into its form. Vashiryn’s eyes were drawn to the weapon, what seemed to be a scepter, charred and blackened from fire. Either flame or scepter-- likely both-- had suffered some form of misuse to arrive at that state. The monster reeled from the strike, stumbling backwards on two legs. Vashiryn’s eyes darted from the creature to this new humanoid. She seemed to be watching the creature, but he would not let himself be hit by a surprise strike. Vashiryn sucked in a breath as the monster’s foot hit the shadowed edge of the arena-- and slipped, sending the monster and its terrifying voice tumbling into nothingness. Vashiryn dipped his head and repeated a sign; a second blessing for when hunts had finished: Fingers flicked from his chin, this time curving to the side as well before flicking downwards. Thank you for fueling our fire.

His new opponent, her various shades of pink, red, and gold flowing behind her, approached him from where she stood. Vashiryn noted a savage glint to her eye as she let out a bubbling laugh. Vashiryn eyed her suspiciously as she spoke of insects and tenacity. She spoke loudly and with a brashness that grated at Vashiryn’s ears, so used to the elaborate flow of sign. But her common language felt more flowery than some of the tradesmen Vashiryn spoke to; and certainly moreso than the voices he had overheard within Bren. It would be reasonable to guess she had at least a decently-high station. “Young man, shall we sweep the rest of these undeserving creatures away?”

Her clothing-- elaborate silks under skilled chainmail-- would certainly have marked royalty among the Al’darii. As she smiled broadly, Vashiryn searched her face; one eye blue, one green, each shrouded in a regal calm that kept Vashiryn from deducing her intentions. He parted his lips for a moment before giving voice to his breath. Even speaking with surface dwellers, who often used their voices freely and expected the same, Vashiryn tried to spare as little of his own as possible. He spoke quietly, so no one but his addressee could hear, and the cloth covering his lips barely rippled. “What do you seek from the Lords?”

Her voice was strong, and Vashiryn felt his own determination and love echoed as she spoke. “To restore my kingdom and its people to what they should be.” Vashiryn stole a second glance at her charred weapon and wondered what state that kingdom might currently sit in. He could not feel empathy, with so little information; but he did feel, at the very least, that this woman matched him in more ways than one. Which elicited both respect and suspicion.

Vashiryn tipped his head down in agreement to her answer. He glanced across the battlefield, finding each other opponent in turn. If he were to agree, they would need a target. His eyes landed on an oddly shaped humanoid a distance over his shoulder. It seemed to be wrapped in haphazard fabrics, and engaged with two other opponents. Two opponents who, as one let out a visceral scream, seemed very enthralled with one another. Vashiryn could, potentially, draw the cloaked creature away from its current engagement. And he was, admittedly, not keen to rush into a fight with a woman who seemed more similar to his station than not.

Vashiryn met the pink-haired woman’s eyes once more, threading a hint of approval and strength into his voice. “I seek the same. I agree, for now. I promise nothing for the future.”

As the last words were leaving his lips, Vashiryn cupped his right hand and tapped it once more to call Al’dar. The eternal flame’s breath erupted just as always, as if it had not just shown him new insight after weeks of fixation. Though Vashiryn regarded it with a suspicious gaze, it remained silent. Fine; he’d figure it out himself.

The flame left Vashiryn’s hands and flew towards the black-robed figure. It was a far reach; the flame would maybe get her attention, but not much more. It was more a statement towards his new ally; a declaration of his target.

As Vashiryn watched the fire’s path, the signs from his vision clicked, and dread dropped into his stomach.

The long form for Al’dar- which ended with fingers curled into an “f”-- bleeding into a new sign. A letter placed strongly against the shoulder and drawn down to the speaker’s waist. A wider and more elaborate version of “king;” but with Al’dar’s “f” instead of the typical “k.”Something greater than their king. Something with more force; more absolute power. A shiver ran down Vashiryn’s spine as the word was given voice in his head, and Al’dar’s flame hurtled towards his newly chosen foe.

Flame emperor.




Starstruck -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/10/2024 7:31:13)

The asteroid sank immediately lower as Deandra clung to it. She huffed a bit, upset that she couldn't remain in the air and retain the high ground advantage, but at least it was gentler than dropping to the ground like a sack of potatoes or getting tangled up in wings and bones and joints. Much better. The only thing better than her ill luck with the floating rocky things was the fact that she accidentally seemed to have thrown the other rocky thing at the wrong target. Instead of bashing the ranger in the noggin and providing a clean shot for a quick kill, it bowled over the closest thing she had in this place to an ally. DINNERTIME? NOT YET.

Ah well, there was still time to weave a few charms. Everyone always called her so charming and friendly. So she spent a few precious seconds leaping off the asteroid with a strong flap of her wings, and then began strutting towards the two competitors locked in a deadly dance of combat. Her wings folded back under her funerary garb as the smile that had previously threatened to return now danced a samba on her ugly face.

"Get away from me!" shouted the elf - no, more than shouted! Screamed! The winds reacted to her call, and Deandra raised a hand to her face to ward off incoming debris and attacks, but nothing came her way, in the end-

PHEW! WHOOSH! KABOOM!

Streaking past her ear flew a glittering purple and orange fireball. The heat of it threatened to ignite the delicate fabric of her clothing, and she leapt back - instinct - too slow - as it slammed into the floor with a small explosion and left a soot mark on the rough stone. Deandra whirled. Who? and laid her gaze on another elf. Tall, dark, NOT that handsome. She could mess with this one, she felt it instinctively, and her smile widened as he strode towards her. But she cast her gaze back forlornly in the opposite direction, smelling the brilliant tapestry of sweet and sour darkness that wafted from the locked combatants like a pie cooling in the window on a gorgeous spring day. A creature such as Deandra has no business resisting temptation like this. But perhaps...perhaps she could make a scene. Pull all of their attention back to her. Promise them the world and have them rip each other apart. And as their injuries mounted and their exhaustion grew, Deandra would be there to claim her reward. She could taste the boon, it was so close. Tangy like a skunk's spray, sweet like a tar pit, salty like the ocean, spicy like a dung heap covered in fat biting flies. Why, it was enough to get her in the mood to...

Anyone standing within a few feet of Deandra would hear some kind of whistling sound drilling into their bones, as her unfocused telepathy blasted out the opening notes to the instrumental of her favorite song. Further away, the effect was muted. But what everyone could hear

MY, MY, MISS ELEMENTAL PIE!


was a racket like
nothing else
eighty cats fighting in the alleyway while someone played an accordion badly
oh my stars and garters this is bad!
quote:

the competitors in the stands covered their ears


TOOK THE WAGON TO THE FLAGON BUT IT WAS ALL DRY!
was that even the right lyric?
H E L P

"Covering my ears isn't doing anything!"


Deandra's dusty, blistering soprano rang out in the misty twilight like the juicy deliciousness of sour milk mixed with all the tender sweetness of moldy pizza. The psychic echo rebounded through the air, hitting the mind a half-second later with a reverberating effect.
AND THEM GOOD OLD BOYS EATING A SANDWICH ON RYE - SAYING THIS'LL BE THE DAY THAT I DIE!!!


There was nothing like a little performance to put you in a good mood and take your mind off the high stakes, really! Deandra was feeling extra invigorated with each clack of her heels against the stone floor. One rendition of the chorus instead of the full 18 minute performance she usually gave; how unfortunate for these competitors. Hunger gnawed at her chest, and you can't haggle for souls when you're busy singing - plus it took a lot out of her to sing that well, and she needed to save her energy for combat. The rest of the song would have to wait, although she was CERTAIN her legion of adoring fans in the stands was calling for an encore...



nield -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/10/2024 20:51:46)

The dark elf took his time to carefully observe me, which doesn’t feel good. You should just gratefully enter my service. After a brief moment he spoke in a voice like a whisper, one that seldom graced the world, “What do you seek from the Lords?”

I didn’t even have to take a second to think about my answer. “To restore my kingdom and its people to what they should be.” Yes, that’s right. Once that happens I will naturally have my power back. The dark elf nodded and turned his gaze over the arena and I felt the corners of my eyes twitch. But what can I do? This World has its own gods, so I can’t expect this man in front of me to know of the Elder Gods, or know just how much weight my words hold… but it still doesn’t feel good that he can so easily turn his gaze aside.

His gaze settled on another combatant before turning to meet my gaze and spoke once more, “I seek the same. I agree, for now. I promise nothing for the future.” I felt my empty left hand twitch as the dark elf summoned a flame in his hand. Should I just crush his head here and now? No, this fledgling child of time who thinks he can simply make such a vague pact and break it when he wants… even with that, he uses flame. He will be far easier dealt with than most others

I smile as he hurls his flame at the distant target. “I am Atzilah, Queen of Nazos and Incarnate of the Elder Goddess of Fire.” This peasant should at least know whose service he is entering, even if he bears the mistake of thinking he can leave it. Then my features transform into a scowl as a most vile sound starts sounding out. At its source is the entity the dark elf threw his flame at. Well, at least he picked a target that needs to die. I run towards the target and use my sceptre to hit the rocks floating in a ring in my path towards that awful screeching.


The Queen sits with her chin resting on her hand observing her subordinate kneeling before her, with his arm held across his chest. “Have the dissidents been rounded up yet?” She asks, an imperious smile on her face. “My Queen, there are too many to be summarily dealt with in so short a time.” That had been my answer, deceit and guile laced into each word.

“Ho. So my knights have such trouble with mere rabble?” She had not bought it one whit, her smile simply growing wider as she enjoyed these little verbal duels. “My Queen, even insects in great numbers can fell a single great beast.” “My knights are not alone. Exterminators would not have trouble with pests.” “My Que-” “Unless they’re not doing that job, of course.”

My body had trembled at those words. “And you. It is always ‘My Queen’ and never ‘Goddess’. Do you not revere me?” “I speak to you as Nazos’ Queen, not the Goddess so I-” She had laughed then, cold and mirthless. “How droll. You dodge the question once more. Answer me.” She had grown tired of this game. “Of course not. The Elder Goddess of Fire would never ask for our worship.”

“I see. All of you continue to deny me. Then I’ll just have to burn all those who do so.” “...If you do that, My Queen, nothing will be left but ashes.”

She had laughed at that.

“If Ashes are all that remain, then it is over ashes that I will reign.”

That day, Nazos turned to ashes and everyone died. Naturally, Queen Yvaun Ezhelle vos Nazos perished too. The Queen of Ashes was all that remained. Harpos, the Elder God of Secrets and Memories had entombed me in the Queen’s memory of that day and from there I record all that creature sees and does.



Oddball -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/10/2024 21:23:10)

The officer internally cheered as her fist came crashing up against the drake’s chin. She knew that this wasn’t going to be all she needed to defeat her, but getting a clean, solid hit in was a good start. Even a heavy blow like that one had barely managed to shift Camellia, who had taken a single step back from the sudden force. She’d just have to keep the offensive up, wear her opponent down until the perfect opportunity struck.

As the drake once again tried to strike at the officer, she shifted her weight onto her back leg and prepared to pivot out of the way. She knew that the drake wouldn’t keep falling for the technique, but Olivier was prepared to take advantage of it as much as possible.

Her opponent was tough, and obviously physically stronger, but if Olivier could just keep her speed advantage, she’d have a way of seeing this fight to the very end.

At least, that was the plan.

In a single, solitary blink, Olivier’s plans fell apart right before her very eyes. The Camellia she had been attempting to dodge suddenly shifted, as Olivier found herself no longer directly in front of her adversary. Instead, the drake was at her side, claw already half-outstretched to cut at the officer’s side. Olivier’s padded clothing did very, very little to protect her from the razor sharp claw. She hissed in pain, trying to move to block the next incoming strike, but found herself sluggish and unable to react in time.

This was going to suck..

With a noise somewhere between a grunt and a yelp, Olivier felt herself forced backwards as Camellia’s fist came crashing into her chest. She couldn’t do anything about being turned into a ragdoll from the overwhelming force that had been used against her. While flying backwards, Olivier’s hand instinctively found itself drawn to one of her grenades, channeling a small amount of her electricity into it to charge it.


As she hit the floor, Olivier rolled backwards, steadying herself just before she was sent tumbling off the edge of the arena. If Camellia had used even a little more force, she might not have been able to save herself…

She quickly checked the state of her armour after the blow. Still holding together, but the dent was going to take quite a while to buff out. Unfortunate.

Well.. If her close range tactics had lost their advantage? She’d have to make use of something else.

Standing, she quickly grabbed for her pistol, drawing it in one smooth motion. At least she’d be able to take a shot befor-

In one, quick, blur, Camellia was upon her. The distance between the two disappeared in an instant. With no time to react, Olivier’s wrist found itself crushed in the drake’s claw, forcing the officer to drop her weapon. Afterwards, Camellia knocked the weapon aside without much care, the grip around Olivier’s limb loosening just enough that she was able to wrench herself free.

So her opponent was fast, too… She had kept that one under wraps. No matter, the officer also had tricks up her sleeve.

With a heavy slam against the marble flooring, Olivier kicked off of her back foot and sped towards her flying weapon, reaching speeds quite unimaginable for humans, at least.
With a quick dive, the officer caught her weapon and rolled to the side, pulling one of the grenades off of her back before she quickly tossed it towards the drake. It hadn’t been fully charged, and she knew that someone of Camellia’s stature wasn’t going to be affected much by the grenade… But it would give her just enough time.

Olivier felt some of that confidence she wore return as the drake took the bait, swatting at the grenade to bat it away only for it to explode against her muscular form.

And with the bait snatched, Olivier had the perfect chance.

Just one shot had charged, but it would be enough.

“Catch.”

And with her mimicking of the drake’s first words to her, the officer pressed the trigger down on her weapon, sending a bolt of warbling electricity rocketing towards the, partially, distracted drake.



Anastira -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/12/2024 0:20:03)

Confidence is a double-edged blade: cut the foe, cut the wielder.

Blood rushes through Epithet’s veins, hot, cold, cruel, lovely, thrilling. Where Criticism cuts into the archer’s flesh, confidence bleeds out: from the archer into Epithet - at least, this is how Epithet imagines it in her head, a strange emotional transference. “No, no -” the archer is saying, even as Epithet smiles, already searching for her next words, weaving her next precious Insult. She readies, lunging forward: never so light on her feet, never so quick or fast or graceful; perhaps she will change her name again after this, molt like a snake spurning its scales, maybe next time she enters an arena it will be as the Fleet-Footed.

She throws all her weight into the lunge, all-in, feeling Advice pulling her forward with its heft, seeking flesh, seeking a deeper cut…

“Get away from me!”

Epithet’s smile widens. Silly archer…her words can’t affect Epithet. Only Epithet’s words hold true pain.

But as Epithet plunges into her cut, shifting from one foot to the next with the follow-through, something changes. Epithet is lost, for a moment, searching for it, trying to understand the shift in the air, and as she hesitates she topples backwards: a surge of wind like the tempest of a storm, tasting of damp earth and fresh rain and everything green, whispering of bird calls and faraway inlets and distantly roaring waterfalls, as glowing as an emerald and as fragrant as a bouquet.

Epithet is transformed, teleported: somewhere far away she stands on a boat that rocks on a sea the size of a universe, staring at the reflection of a thousand shooting stars, and her hands are firm on the polished wood of the captain’s wheel. An older man stands behind her, stocky with loose-hanging jowls, but he is singing - and it is the most beautiful singing she’s ever heard. His voice is deep and rich and swells with the depths of the sea, and when he plucks his guitar she tastes seafoam and brine and hears the high call of the gulls. The song is vaguely familiar, even now, and she sings along with it happily:

“Sail the Hearthlake, the old man said, look into the mirrors there / and you’ll find your face staring straight back, and there your future fair / don’t you want to know, my friend, how you’ll live and die? / Oh sail the Hearthlake, there’s magic there, and never a dry eye…”

She laughs as they heave along into the verse, a pretty jumble of notes, and lets the wheel go. She climbs to the edge and hangs off the rigging like a monkey, staring down into the water: her long dark hair billowing dirty and ragged and magnificent behind her, one long arm thrown wide, her motley outfit of veil and hat and belt and breeches and sash whipped about by the wind. And at the edges of the Hearthlake, where the land encroaches, she spies the Melted Forest, knotted branches hanging low and silver against the water, fires burning from afar. The forest is fragrant; she leans into the smell, drinking it in.

“Sail the Hearthlake, the young widow said, sail if you dare / and you’ll find the candles of many a child still burning with care / a soul may come and a soul may go but the Hearthlake never lies / once you look, then you’ll know when to say your goodbyes…”

The music feels suddenly distant, the words dying on her lips. Her gaze trails from the forest at the edge of the water to the water itself, a million hues of green, blue, white all colliding together and folding into themselves at her feet. And somehow, amid them all, she sees her face: her hair dark and ragged and wild, her skin tanned dark by days under the distant sun, her eyes storm-gray and iced with defiance as they search the water for something beyond reach…

The rigging presses hard against her palm, chafing as it snaps in the wind. She feels suddenly unsteady, overturned. Her balance shifts forward; the rail is damp with seaspray…the music trails off behind her -

The water is a shock, frigid.

The man drops his guitar and slams against the rail, reaching, but too late.

The Hearthlake drinks the girl as though she is nothing, as though she is liquid, and swallows her whole, and she disappears -

“This one serves no one now,” Epithet hears, and she looks up to see the archer standing over her, feathers tipped with a faint green glow. “Not hell nor heaven.”

The archer nocks an arrow, and Epithet does not move, even though she screams at her body to obey her - to do something - and both Advice and Criticism have been knocked from her hands, off to the side. You’re going to die, Epithet realizes suddenly, the raw edges of panic finally setting in. You’re going to die and this archer is going to be the one to kill you.

“Not my godfather,” the archer is saying, her voice a million miles away as Epithet fights to her feet. “Not even the Lords that watch us now - and certainly not you.”

Epithet does not have time to collect her blades. She scrambles backward, hands-and-knees, searching for them by touch, her eyes trained on the archer, but she knows that arrow will fly true. She felt the power in the wind and she feels the keen violence of the hunt. She feels the pain of the arrow, too, a piercing splitting stabbing pain; she sees stars, she feels her own blood draining from her body, she gasps for air and comes up short. A single, stabbing pain at first, followed by a thousand fiery lines of heat as the arrow…explodes? Every arrow-fragment a separate supernova of agony all its own; Epithet’s blood dotting the air like miniature fireworks…

She sees red.

She steels herself. Inhale, exhale…

Deliver.

She does not need her blades to infect a person’s mind. She only needs breath.

“You are lost, aren’t you? Or perhaps you’ve lost something. Do you ever wish you could have it back? Maybe that’s your boon. Willing to kill every single one of us to repair whatever small thing it is. Insignificant. Inconsequential. You don’t need it, but you think you do. Why? Why are you here? Why do you bother to fight? You say you’re not a puppet, that you serve no one, but I don’t think that’s true, because everyone serves someone or something - no matter whether they’ll admit it…”



Chewy905 -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/12/2024 19:07:45)

The voice wouldn’t leave.

It was incessant, hiding just under Camellia’s attempts to focus on her foe. The words had never been active without cause, without her pushing against a wall of memory that they wished to conceal. But this was different. This was like a single layer of the wall had peeled itself off and ventured into Camellia’s idle thoughts, unwilling to flee. When she ignored it, it simply grew louder. But if she dared attempt to recognize this voice, the wall swelled with restless writhing, and threatened to drown out everything else.

Her Brother would never do this. His tortures were brief, purposeful, even if that purpose was mere humiliation. Never did they interfere with her work, interfere with The Family. This call forced her to acknowledge it, to split her focus from her Adversary and listen. So this voice, these words, the very heart-shattering betrayal that had spurred her onwards, may have never been a betrayal at all.

If that were true…

One idle claw traced her bruised and scarred chin. The other unconsciously reached for her sword, knowing that it was not and would never again be untarnished.

No.

Camellia spat her discontent upon Sky’s marble tiles, throwing her gaze towards her discarded Adversary and forcing the echoes to be as quiet as they’d allow. Olivier was battered, but not beaten, her armor barely withstanding Camellia’s blow. The officer crouched from her landing, teetering over oblivion at the edge of the battlefield. It would take only a single pu-

A flash of movement pulled Camellia’s eyes to the officer’s side. She was reaching for her gun.

Absolutely not. Camellia launched off her feet in a single breath, leaving behind a slight groove in the tile below. Wind whistled in her ears as she cleared the distance between her and Olivier before the drake’s own muscles could tire from exertion. Momentum carried into her arm as she clasped one claw on the officer’s wrist, and, in a single smooth motion, crushed down on the officer and knocked the loosened gun aside. And then, in a flash of lightning with no thunder in its wake, Olivier disappeared.

Camellia barely followed the bolt's movement, turning just in time to see a small steel orb on a collision course with her chest. Instinct drove her to bat it aside, only for it to detonate as she struck. Lightning flashed from the contact, striking across her armor in a myriad of sparks. The purple scales glowed briefly, then darkened, pulling the electricity within and scattering it along Camellia’s skin. She bit down, the static flooding through her body for a single brief moment. That was nothing. Camellia shook off the storm and returned her gaze to her opponent, invigorated… and stared down the barrel of a gun.

It sparked with a wild storm, clearly far more intense than the simple static Camellia had just borne. With the last vestiges of the grenade prickling at her skin and her muscles chained down by exertion, there was nowhere to go. So she took one, deep breath, and planted herself in place. It was as Mother always said: “Display no weakness, no pain. Show an Adversary nothing but The Family’s best in their final moments.”

“Catch.” Olivier called in mockery.

The warbling, shrieking orb careened into Camellia’s chest in silence. Her armored scales flared up, granting the blast passage, leading it to every inch of Camellia’s being so it could kiss all of her.

And she once more tore herself in two.

Only her world of one would see her stagger, see her drop to one knee as the lightning danced across her muscles and seared her to the bone, see her childish fury split Sky’s marble in one blow. This entire storm, this lightning bolt of pain, she would condense it all within a single moment, a single second in her own world. After, she’d realign with her self on the battlefield and show Olivier it meant nothing to her.

Then the words writhed.

Cami.

More split from the wall, from the tips of her fingers to her back.

Cami.


Each letter carried not sound, but memory. Tumultuous, solid memory forced upon her with each pulse of the storm that ate at her limbs.

Cami.


A hand gripped her wrist, tight and forceful. It pulled forwards, driving her body with it where she met a familiar embrace.

Cami.


A second hand traced her back, her scales… her own scales. It moved in time with the lightning that surged through her now, playing along each scar as a voice she couldn’t imagine forgetting lovingly whispered her name.

Cami.


A single nail caught at the space between her scales, pressing down just enough to drive a jolt of pain unlike the torturous bolts that had just begun to trickle away from her flesh.

Cami.


This… all of this. This pain, this passion. The call and the gentle touch and the lightning and the pain and the fact that she STILL. COULDN’T. REMEMBER.

This could not possibly be borne within a single, solitary second.

Camellia screamed a curse into the ground as the world rushed into her and put her pitiful hunched form on display for her Adversary. The voice and touches both remained, phantom calls and caresses far more powerful than the owl’s cry that echoed over the battlefield now. The half-drake closed a hand around her blade out of rage, knowing she’d refuse to draw it, knowing that even if she had deserved to wield it, this foe didn’t deserve its edge. Olivier encroached upon her in slow, measured steps, pistol in hand. Camellia could feel those sharp green eyes locked upon her, watching for any further trickery, any sudden bursts of speed. Her foe called to her, gesturing upwards with that damned sparking weapon.

“Up on your feet, I know you’re not done.”

Camellia took a breath, appreciating the pause, appreciating the respect. With a nod, she obeyed and rose to her full height. She shook off her shame, forcing it and the ceaseless memories as low as she could. She stretched her arms high, enjoying the pop of her muscles as she strained high as she could. And she stepped back, sliding into a ready stance, eyes locked on Olivier.

She feinted once. Twice. Eyed the way Olivier moved and reacted: not falling for the bait but not willing to ignore the possibility of a heavy blow. She lunged out and froze, one arm half-extended in a punch that would never be delivered.

One single second. Spent right here, looking Olivier in the eye.

Olivier stepped back.

And Camellia spun forwards, one leg axing down upon Olivier’s shoulder, one arm pulled in to defend against retaliation, and the other held at her side in wait. No matter where Olivier slipped off to, no matter how quickly she bolted away or towards the half-drake…

Camellia would catch her.




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