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=EC 2022= Cellar Arena

 
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7/17/2022 0:00:27   
  Starflame13
Moderator


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

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

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

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


Level hallways turned to spiral stairs, their steps leading the competitors deep into the heart of the complex. A collection of solemn figures stood against jet black walls, their faces as smooth and expressionless as the stone behind them. Healers checking their potions, surgeons fingering their scalpels, and clerics with one hand on their holy symbols and the other on their shovels. Their presence explained the prickle of magical energy that all felt as they approached the single entrance, and served as a final warning about the heightened danger awaiting in the arena below.

Impact. Pressure. Domination. Termination. No injury found relief within the confines of the Cellar.



Instead of a door, the fighters found themselves lowered into the arena upon a single slab of ivory stone, which slotted seamlessly into the floor of the room below. Walls of the same polished stone boxed them in while dull gray light spilled on them from above. An unpleasant dryness choked the air - whether from the additional magics of the arena or from its position deep below the sands, no one knew.

A high-pitched hum filled the room. Sourcless, pervasive, but demanding the hopefuls’ attention as it grated upon their ears. The light above brightened in tandem with the sound’s intensity, flicking through a range of colors faster than the eye could process. Air itself fled the room, thinning the atmosphere and leaving those within gasping, struggling for breath as their senses slowly slipped away…

Then the whine cut off with a slight pop as air rushed back in the arena - though a faint breathlessness remained. The light - now a bright, electric blue - receded back to the ceiling above, but left in its wake shimmering, mirror-bright tiles that filled the corners of the room. Tiles upon which a single drop of blood fell downwards from the ceiling above - then bounced.

In the reverberant silence, the ashen visage of one of the clerics could just be made out through the hole through which the fighters had descended, bloody rag clutched about one hand as he called to those below. “And so begins the Trial of Impulse. Fight or Die, adventures, but let the Elemental Championships begin!”
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 1
7/19/2022 23:21:20   
  Chewy905

Chromatic ArchKnight of RP


Bren. His very first steps within the legendary city were strange ones. Weeks of memories bubbled to the surface. Trips taken to the parks with different partners. Meals eaten at shops by a tongue that had never tasted such delicacies. A looming colosseum that pulled at his form, dragging him to take ever more steps towards it along perfectly known never-traveled streets.

The mage pulled at his hood, not noticing as his hand passed through it. The mage adjusted his mask, small droplets of water sticking to it and sliding down its surface before re-congealing with his form. The mage tapped his wooden staff against the ground, ignoring the unfitting vibrations of the metal umbrella that struck the stone. Stop. Head tilt. Thoughts.

Memories tugged at his brain, trying to pull his feet in several directions at once. Where was he to go? What had his friend, her beloved, their brother told them to visit first in such an expansive town? He was here for… what… again?

Revenge. No, that had been fulfilled years ago. Experience? Yes, experience. To practice his swordsmanship. To challenge opponents he had never seen before. More tentative steps towards the looming structure that dominated the town.

Taste. The tidal wave of memory struck harder than the pull of experience and purpose. Cold numbing his gums, tickling at his tongue, sweetness beyond measure filling his mouth and slipping down his throat. The term for it… it refused to come to mind. A drink alone at night, before bed, from the last bottle in the cupboard. A drink in the morning, from a mug beside his sister. A drink in the midday, surrounded by company in a loud tavern. Eyes scanned the buildings as more shy steps dragged him deeper into the city's pull. “The Leaking Horn”, its sign new, gleaming. Shambling brought him to its door. Wavering tugged it open. He advanced to the counter, oblivious to the gazes that caught on his shimmering form, on his inconstant shadow, on his covered face.

That taste. What was that taste? A fuzzy companion, hugs bringing warmth through a cold night. A bushel of red orbs, picked at their prime under the golden sun. There it was.

“Moglinberry Juice. One bottle.” Always mind your manners. Grandmother’s words. Said to them before they left home so many years ago. “Please.” His voice oozed out, muffled behind the featureless mask.

The blond tavern keeper raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he popped the bottle open and set it before the mage.

Manners.

“Thank. You.”

He did not remove his mask. He did not drink from the bottle. He simply sat there and remembered the taste he had never drank, the experience he had never had. The tavern keeper shrugged and moved on, preparing two more bottles and a plate of wings while mumbling about some “guest of the day.”

Fear. The wave struck once more, slapping his face aside and directing his gaze at the stall at the side of the room. Echoes bubbled up to his mind’s surface. A scritching of a pen on parchment as she prepared to sign her life away. A cry of her voice to tell the scribe to stop, to tell him she would not be participating. He lifted the steel silver of his blue-fabriced staff and separated from the counter and made for the stall, bottle abandoned. Once the line finished shifting, he stared at the scribe. What… was he supposed to do here?

“Hello, are you here to sign up for the Elemental Championships?” The scribe's voice was kind, reminding the mage of his son.

“Yes.” The mage tilted his head. The answer had come immediately, with no confusion. Where had the fear gone?

“May I get your name, then?”

That was a far easier one. It was always at the surface, no matter how much tried to drag it under. “Ulum.”

“And your element?”

“Water.” Another tilt of the head. There were so many memories of using other tools. Bolts of lightning and blades of shadow. The staff he carried now called the wind to its side. And yet… he found he could answer no other way.

“Excellent, I could tell at a glance. Please sign here.”

The scribe extended a hand, pen outstretched. Ulum took it gingerly, and scribbled his name across the line below the long, long list of risks. Droplets fell from his hand, wetting the paper beneath. “Thank you.” He whispered. The scribe nodded, a happy smile across their face. Ulum stepped aside. Where now? Out. Down. It was an entrant's duty to enter that looming colosseum. He turned and strode towards the exit, remembering the path down the streets and to the complex. Before he could open the door, it swung away by itself.

“Simon! I’m hereeeeee-OOF!”

The sing-song voice broke as the woman collided with Ulum, and he fell away and within.




The sun beats down on the quiet pondside, though the figure beneath their umbrella feels not a ray. Wind blows gently, rustling tall grasses as it passes over the rippleless surface of the water. The figure under their shade leans forward and looks down at their mask’s reflection, perfect and unbroken. Slowly, they remove the shroud over their face.

They are greeted by the smiling face of a scarlet haired woman. As the figure tries to flee, reflected arms rise from the pond's crystal clear waters and wrap around their neck. Body meets reflection as they plunge within. The water floods up their nose, into their lungs, choking them with memories they do not wish to possess.

Scent. Burning flesh invades her nostrils, skin burning away from a ploy of her own design. She must survive. She will survive. She has a wager to win.

Wager. The word seems so entrancing for some reason. The figure chokes on it, breath stolen away as they sink deeper below the waters of the past.

Desperation. She convulses, limbs no longer under her control as heaven’s wrathful bolt ravages her body. She keeps her hand shut tight around her knife.

Why does she hold it so tight? What is she doing that she needs the blade so badly? The figure’s vision blurs, the light of the sun slipping away.

Sight. Her brother stands proudly before her. She embraces him, grateful to have returned, happy to have had such an experience.

What experience? What brought her such joy through such pain? They are losing themselves, becoming one with the life they have never lived and always lived. Every attempt to move, to stroke to the surface, is fruitless.

Sound. A voice reaches her ears, soft and soothing, but full of meaning. “Remember that now and forever you are Paragon still.”

Paragon. Paragon Paragon Paragon. That is who she is. That is who they now are.

Immediately the figure begins to sink faster. No. They are not Paragon. They cannot call themselves Paragon. That is this woman. If they wish to make this memory true, they must become They must become. They must truly become. Life and breath and soul slip away as Ulum becomes a soldier of scarlet hair and mirthful youth.




Ulum coughed, water that was never inhaled spilling out of her mouth and onto the inside of her mask. She groped blindly for her brother’s blade, grasping the umbrella tight.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I was in such a rush. Here.”

Her own voice met her ears, spoken by the woman standing over her. Ulum looked up, gazing at her reflection as her hand met her hand and pulled her up from the floor.

“Woah, did you always look like me? You nailed every gorgeous detail.” The reflection smiled and tipped her hat down, admiring herself all the while. “Jacklin Elizabeth Smoke, pleasure to meet you, me.”

Tentatively, Ulum returned the gesture, though with less vanity. “Pleasure. To. Meet. Me…” Who is she? One is Jacklin, one is Ulum. Jacklin is a mirthful soldier of scarlet hair. Ulum is a mirthful soldier of scarlet hair. Jacklin has felt lightning kiss her skin, fire burn her flesh, as has Ulum. Jacklin is Paragon, now and forever. Ulum…

Ulum is not.

Ulum staggered back, ripples growing from her steps, hand gripping her sword so tight that her knuckles turned to the blue of true water. “Paragon. I want to become Paragon.”

Jacklin laughed. “Makes sense, that’s why most people come here, though most are trying to go further than that. You registered and all?”

The scribbling of the pen. The son-scribe’s voice. Their own name written on the line. “Yes.”

Jacklin stepped past Ulum, reaching for a pair of bottles as they slid down the counter towards her. She held one out, an inviting smile directed at her newly found twin. “Got time to spare before your match? I’d love to hear all about this neat little mimicry you’ve got going on!”

An itch pulled at Ulum’s mind, and she raised her hand forward towards the offered friendship. She had always loved meeting new people… Right? No… he hadn’t. He preferred to be alone, practicing spells at the crackling of a campfire. But that sounded so boring. There was something new to be done here; never had she stopped and shared something with herself.

Feeling. A wave of memory demolished Ulum’s senses, tearing her away from this new friend, away from this chance to share who she was with herself. Footsteps. Hundreds, thousands of them, taken down the paths of Bren’s streets, carrying a bevy of emotions impossible to feel all at once. Forced, Staggered steps took her out of the tavern, leaving a confused Jacklin with an outstretched bottle. Ulum shuffled after the echoed path, lost in the unstoppable current of memory. Was every one of these tread paths hers? Had she walked these streets this many times? Shuffling turned to walking turned to running turned to sprinting turned to a desperate rush. A path he had planned to tread, but never reached. A path she had walked once. A path taken by desperation, by pride, by confidence.

The colosseum towered over her, its presence palpable and threatening. She did not pause as her ferocious steps brought her through its entrance and her foot touched down in its sand, sending a ripple across its surface.

The memories. All of the memories. Fled. And Ulum fell forward and within.




There is no sun, no stars, no light over the pond. It is cold, yet the figure beneath their umbrella feels not a chill. There is no wind to rustle the grasses, no disturbances to the always rippleless waters. The figure under their unnecessary shade leans forward and looks down at the water. Slowly, they remove the shroud over their face.

They are not greeted. The black waters reflect not a thing. And the figure feels relief.




Ulum caught themself mid-fall, stabbing their umbrella in place to prevent a sandy faceplant. Their form flickered for but a moment, becoming naught but the waters they always gaze upon, but a moment of concentration forced it back into the form of the soldier, that Jacklin they had met. They stood up straight, taking in the crackling power of the structure around them, and took a deep sigh.

Sixty-seven days since their last lucidity. If they remembered correctly (and they always did), that had been the result of a mind-mage, probing too deeply at a lost child in the woods. A conversation with that mage had revealed the details of the Elemental Championships, and a caring, careless pat on the back had caused Ulum to fall within once again. They tilted their head, feeling the pull of the colosseum's force. Had the magic of the structure really called to them so strongly? It was convenient, for sure, but it brought with it a distinct sense of unease. It had been too forceful, too much like the storm of memories that controlled Ulum’s whims. Still, they had made it to Bren, they had successfully signed up, and they were standing within the famous colosseum now.

They slid the lower half of their mask away and spit, ejecting some of their own water onto the grains as they stepped deeper into the complex. It was such a human action, such an alien thing for an elemental to do, but that one warrior they had met did it constantly and the motion had become second nature. Ulum adjusted their mask and flipped their umbrella upwards. A click of a button shot Home open, the sight of their pond filling them with melancholy. Perhaps, once this was all over and Ulum was truly Ulum, they would return. Ulum shut their eyes, turned in the direction of the magic’s current, and strode forward with confidence.




There was an amount of humor to it, in a grim way. Ulum moved calmly past clerics and surgeons and healers as they anxiously fingered their little tools. Holy symbols for gods that paid Ulum no mind, scalpels for flesh that Ulum lacked, and potions that would simply mix with their watery form and bubble away uselessly. It wouldn’t matter that this accursed Cellar provided no repair; if Ulum’s body gave out it would mean their mind had died long before. They gave a gentle nod to the gathered convocation and continued down the spiral steps before stepping onto the raised ivory platform.

With a rumble the platform began to descend, and Ulum quickly stepped away from their compatriots and adversaries, retreating under the shade of Home and away from the threat of an accidental bump. Their stolen eyes peered through the eyeless mask, assessing the company one-by-one. One harpy, who was already seeming to lose hold on herself. Four humans. No. Three. The gray-haired man had lines and grooves that seemed far more machine than flesh. Did machines have memory? Ulum hoped they wouldn’t have to find out. That left a knight in earthen armor, a large woman as masked as Ulum themselves, and a prideful warrior in unprideful leathers.

It was a shame. Each of these combatants had their own lives, their own histories, their own goals, and all would need to end so that Ulum could finally have Ulum’s own. They raised their free hand to their mask. Should they remove it, and address their equals with their false face? No, a simple handshake and Ulum would be lost again. They needed to stay lucid for as long as possible, or else they’d be left to the current of these foes' memories.

High-pitched humming met Ulum’s ears as the slab slotted neatly into the floor and the stoney sky above began to glow in a rapid kaleidoscope of color. Then the air fled, bubbles rising in Ulum’s form to try to join it. There was a memory there; the choking breaths of a climber, a pick triumphantly raised overhead as her lungs battled the atmosphere. Ulum tilted their head in interest; breath was such a foreign concept. A collective, required act taken by every last form they had been, but never themself. Yet as they focused they realized their chest rose and fell as if they, too, were partaking, even now while lucid. They stopped their false breath as the air returned and the light shifted to match Ulum’s true watery hue. With interest Ulum noticed the blood bounce off Ulum’s functional kindred in the corner of the room. A curious thing; a mirror that repelled as it reflected.

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

The call had barely finished as Ulum backed off the platform and away from the liability of touch, exposure, and sentience. The retreating, rippling steps carried an extra spring, a weightlessness that Ulum, oddly enough, possessed no memories of. To soak up as much of this newness as they could, as themselves. That was their goal.

They touched down next to one of the lovely, horrible mirrors. Perhaps, beside the reflection of their reflection, they could simply watch as the others fell upon one another, and Ulum would be as unnoticeable as a ripple in a rain-soaked pond.

Ulum held Home open overhead, gazed into its pleasant view, and wished for such an unlikely conclusion to the coming storm.

Post #: 2
7/20/2022 22:52:27   
Anastira
Member

Wister blinks in the sunlight.

It’s a bright thing. Untamed. The flood of it is blinding. Not painful, but almost - just like the cobblestones beneath Wister’s body, sharp enough and hard enough to ache gently, but not enough to truly hurt. Wister sits up, reaching out to feel around in the narrow space between their body and the leaning facade of the back of a squat, dark building. There, nestled into the shadows under the building’s overhang, gleams Fairest and Celsius, Wister’s oldest - and only - friends.

Wister shakes their head quickly, a sharp jerk to wake themselves up.

“Good morning,” someone calls out, voice edged with bitter mocking. “Couldn’t afford an inn?”

Wister glances across at them, unbothered. “Didn’t want to,” they say, flashing a bright smile. “It was a beautiful night. Lots of stars. Seemed a shame to waste it under a roof.” They sneak a glance up at the sky - cloudless, like someone’s reached out with an oversized hand and swept all the clouds away. “Look at that - clearest sky I’ve seen in my life!”

The person looks at Wister, and at Celsius glinting next to them, and turns suddenly to walk away, fear growing in their eyes.

Wister swallows sadly and looks away, turning to polish Fairest carefully with their sleeve. They can still taste the perfect sweet-bitter balance of last night’s beverage of choice, delectable on their tongue. Fruity, fresh, the kind of drink that makes you feel somehow brighter and more alive - notes of something sparklingly tropical, and an edge of mint. Wister would love another, but not today.

Today is more important than that.

Wister sharpens Celsius against the cobblestones with quick sharp strikes - even though the blade is already razor sharp - and then they go back to polishing Fairest, staring deep into its deadly mirror -
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Wister, the voice says. Its tone is admonishing, a parent speaking to a misbehaved child.

Wister thrashes, raises their head, spits. The manacles around their wrists bite against their skin.

Wister…. Before Wister, Nefeli stands tall, hands spread wide, skin a deep burnished red that seems to glow like a hearth. Her eyes are transparent - blank vacuums of space staring directly down at Wister’s hunched form - and her hair is cropped shorter than Wister’s, little translucent locks floating around her head like a crown. Wister, please. She tips her head at him, kneeling close. Everything about her feels androgynous, transient, as though she might become anything at any moment. Your betrayal -

Wister tries to speak, but the words catch in their throat. Instead, they shout, and the words ripple like water, undulating. yOU kiLLeD the CHild -

He wasn’t a child. He was old.

hE HAD a chILD’s mIND -

He was already broken. He chose that end, not me.

i’M SUre hE’s glAD TO be DEad.

WISTER. I call the shots. Nefeli shakes her head and her whole body rustles. We are talking about YOUR mistakes -

you’RE A THIEF -

The world is DYING, Nefeli says, and reaches out her hand, and the hearth expands, expanding, there is warmth, too much warmth; Wister burns in it, basks in it, pulls it into themselves, and Nefeli stutters backward, eyes wide -

Do NOT TOUCH ME -

Nefeli pauses, considering. She reaches one hand out, turns it over, stares at it. I’m trying to fix everything, Wister. I need your help.

whAT aBOUt the OTHERs? suRELY someONE -

She shakes her head. Which ones? You already killed the best of them. The rest are all too broken to be repaired.

and i am not?

She shrugs fluidly. No. There’s nothing broken about you. You’re flawed, prideful, but broken? No. Not broken. She smiles. You want to be the best. There’s nothing broken about that. And I have a job for you, Wister. Something you’ll like, I think. She takes a step closer, burning still. Prove to me. Prove you ARE the best.

bETTER than tHE GIRL? the ones i KILLED?

Nefeli’s smile widens. Better than all of them combined.

i am not powerful.

Of course you are. Your power comes from your will, and your optimism. The only thing you lack is control - and that’s why THEY are dead. And that’s why I have placed…boundaries…to keep you in check. My child…go now. Do this thing for us all. Then the Home will forgive you - She reaches out to touch Wister with her hand, and Wister has the strangest sensation of being picked up, of being flicked away, and Wister says, softly, why did you bring me here, but everything is already gone -
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Prove it. Prove it.

Wister takes Fairest in one hand, and Celsius in the other. They suck in a breath, feeling the warmth rushing fire-hot through their veins, and rise to stride through the streets of Bren.

“I will be Paragon.”
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The stairs spiral down and down endlessly, and Wister counts every footstep as they descend into the heart of hearts. With every step, Wister becomes more sure they can feel Nefeli watching them. Her eyes appear in the walls, in the darkness, transient and yet utterly recognizable, twin beacons burning bright. The others have failed, one after another. Wister saw them fail and turned away from their failures.

But Wister will not fail, because Wister is better than them all.

When Wister steps onto the ivory slab of stone that lowers them into the arena, Nefeli’s eyes stare up at them from within the slab itself. When Wister raises their eyes to survey the blank, polished walls, Nefeli’s eyes stare across, meeting their gaze. When Wister looks directly upward, at the dull gray light seeping all around them, Nefeli looks down like a queen upon her subjects - or a parent upon her children. When the silence becomes a whine, it is Nefeli’s voice singing an order, and when the light above turns blue, it is Nefeli, calling Wister to take their rightful place.

In the silence, Wister sinks into a crouch, Fairest held in front of them and Celsius to one side, a hunter waiting to pounce. Smiling - wickedly.

“Hello, friends,” Wister says, giving Celsius a quick twirl in their hand. “May I have this dance?”
AQW  Post #: 3
7/20/2022 23:12:40   
shuurp
Member

Over the past year, Nellone had grown more used to seeing others of all shapes and sizes; going from her usual life of avoiding all others, including other harpies, to consistently entering populated towns across the continent, she’d quelled her instincts enough to not turn right around and walk back to the safety of her cliffs. Yet, entering the city of Bren took her back to the mindset she’d had many suns ago, and she took the entire morning just to make it halfway through the crowds surrounding the arena.

Merely an hour before the competitors were to enter the arena, a faint song tranced over the waves of chatter and sizzles of grills to reach Nell’s ears, quelling her fears and focusing her mind on one thought: Amily?

Following the sound of her sister’s voice, Nell weaved through the crowd, the wind pushing against the bustle to clear a small path for her. Between the scent of roasted meats and blinding sun bouncing off of the polished edges of sharp weapons, the wind worked overtime to keep Nell moving forward against her hesitations and towards the source of the song.
Suddenly exiting the edge of the crowd, Nellone spread her wings in an attempt to slow herself before slamming right into the side of the arena, only barely managing to stop herself in time and leaving scratches on the cobblestone as evidence of her near-miss. Yet, the song still emanated from within the large walls rising up before her. Every time Nell tried to listen more closely, the song seemed to disappear, but as soon as she questioned herself it started again in the same mimicking manner.

Get a grip, Nell.

Looking on either side of her, she saw on her left a steady stream of people in colorful clothing entering some sort of stairway and on her right a smaller group of people standing around a sign and a second entry into the arena. With the wind on her back, she made her way over to her right.
Between the weapons and bodies, she saw upon the board many large chunks of texts, of which she could only understand one. The last sentence stuck out to her: Does the Cellar call out to you?

Dodging the exaggerated movements of some of the potential competitors chatting around the entrance, Nell stepped forth into the large empty hallway that stretched out before her.



Ignoring her apprehension and doing her best not to let it show, Nell stood tall next to the other competitors on the ivory slab she and the others were directed to stand on. This false confidence went away, of course, the moment the slab began lowering into the large arena below.
With the slow but unexpected movement of the floor, Nellone looked down and saw the gaping emptiness that was the open arena around her, and as her vision violently swirled, her already shaky façade completely shattered as she collapsed forward and the opponent beside her dove to catch her before she hit the ground.

While she didn't completely faint, the face staring down at her contorted with the rest of her view. Muffled sound came from the competitor, and Nell squinted and tried to focus on the outline and words.

“What?” Nell asked as she began to come to. Slowly, the slab sunk into the floor of the arena.

“Are you ok, madam? Quite a tumble you took.”

Before Nell could respond, cheers erupted into the arena, reverberating around the contestants, and a booming voice announced: “And so begins the Trial of Impulse. Fight or Die, adventurers, but let the Elemental Championships begin!”
Post #: 4
7/21/2022 1:39:31   
Riprose123
Member

Helmold’s body creaked with well worn exhaustion. It was a fatigue he knew well, one achieved after miles walked for days at a time in a suit of heraldry and plate armor. With no horse to call his own, as his order eschewed all mounts, he was forced to march in full battle regalia. He had often asked the knight who raised him why they couldn’t carry their armor and was often met with blows and sharp words. The aim was always to impress and intimidate, which could not be achieved if a knight was dressed in peasant with his armor in a bag. He had wished so many times before to eschew the armor and walk amongst his garden without its weight, but as it was forbidden by his order so was it forbidden for him. The mailed fist of his master made sure he knew what was allowed and what was not. The painful lessons that it had taught him held firmly to his memory and kept him in line with what the order prescribed. Helmold had sword when the order prescribed him a squire of his own that he would teach her their ways in a different way. He treated his squire with the same care as his plants. His squire had been ordered not to accompany him, as this tournament was his burden, prescribed to him by the old men of the order but much like her master she took great pleasure in disobeying the older knights. As she trudged along beside him in her lighter gear of chain and morning glory, he couldn’t help but marvel at the endurance and fortitude that the orphan girl showed. She was the closest thing to kin he had.




As the road slowly changed from dirt to mud to cobbled stone, they quickly realized that they had entered more civilized lands. Before long, the town of Bren and all its festivities surrounded them. Helmold could feel the holly and ivy dig deeper into him as it raged at the unnatural around him, far from the plants’ home. He cooed quietly to it, calming his plants best he could as he led his squire deeper into the town. “Sure beats the monastery, don’t it?” his squire asked, eyeing her surroundings.

Helmold chuckled at her improper speech. Where he had endured more than one lesson on proper common and the use of complex modes of speaking, he had never bothered to correct his squire, instead encouraging her cadence and grammar, much to the annoyance of the older knights.

“In certain ways, it does Squire,” he replied, her title sticking sourly in his mouth, “learn this town for it resembles many like it. The races create these places as bastions against the wild, much like our gardens, but where our domains resemble man and nature at peace, these places eschew the natural in all forms. The races bend these places to their will.”

They made their way through the streets until they sunk themselves wearily into barstools at an inn come nightfall. With his squire’s help, he had found the entrance to the arena where his burden would commence. The scribe who signed his name and element had offered nothing more than curt replies, an occurrence that Helmold had become accustomed to. While the knights of his order preached the need for chivalry and courtly manners, using these tenets to lord their perceived superiority over those of the civilized world. Helmold had learned long ago that the only things separating any of the knights from their counterparts was a surcoat made of plants. The plate of food the tavern keeper brought him did little to ease the weariness of the road or lessen the burden of his armor. It wasn’t until he was alone in his room that the plate the ivy clung to his body fell loudly to the ground. While he certainly had the strength, he lacked the drive to remove each piece, instead letting it clatter loudly to the floor as he made his way to his bed. His plants clung to him as he quickly fell asleep, providing comfort and security in the strangeness that he had been forced into.




Awaking the next day to the clamor of his squire hammering on his door, Helmold quickly collected his discarded armor. Once he was dressed and his holly settled in, he met his squire in the hall. “Your armor is stunning this morning, me lord,” she said, hefting his spear and shield, “I’ve brought your weapons, please accept them from my care.”

Smiling, he took the familiar weaponry. He let the holly hold his shield on his back, electing to carry the spear with him. The weapons that dwarfed his young squire were the perfect size for him and he remarked at the sight he must be, a fully plated and armed knight crested in garden plants, making his way deeper and deeper into the arena. When it was clear that the procession of spectators and combatants were divulging, his squire looked to him for a long moment, before pulling him close to her. The hug was unexpected, but welcome and though Helmold thought he heard her say something to him, he couldn’t be sure over the noise of the crowd. With one final look to her knight, she followed her own procession, and Helmold followed his deeper into the Cellar.
Helmold’s designated position was easy enough to find. Standing among those that seemed so like him, yet so different, he readied himself for the coming conflict. The knights had been clear on his burden and the purpose they set for him here. He raised a quizzical eyebrow to his opponents, noting the two masked, the harpy, the warrior with weapons already at the ready. His own spear and shield were soon in his hands as the floor began to move, lowering them deeper into the darkness. He could feel the screaming of his holly and the fear of the ivy as they descended, deeper into the place that only roots went. The harpy suddenly fell forward, and Helmold caught her, using his shield arm to support and keep her upright. After inquiring whether she was alright, any reply was quickly cut off by the booming announcement of the commencement of the games. Helmold looked once more to the Harpy, who still seemed slightly woozy and after making certain she was solidly on her feet, turned his back to her to face whatever would come. He held his shield loosely at his side and rested his spear lightly on its butt striking a knightly posture.

While he knew little of impulse or dying, he would fight the best he could and stand against any that came before him. He would win and with his boon he would do what was required to restore his honor. Such was his burden.
DF MQ  Post #: 5
7/21/2022 21:25:43   
deathlord45
Member

“Hahahaha!”

“Let me down, you villain! Lout! Scoundrel! Ill-bred vagabond! Do you even know who I am or what you’ve done!?”

“Sorry your ‘highness’, but I can’t let you go until I’m safely outta this place.”

The clamor of metal on stone rang out as a tall gangly figure ran up the inner walls of a grand chateau foyer towards the gaudy stained glass windows that loomed high above untouchable by any guest. Hog-tied and slung over the figure’s left shoulder like an uncooperative sack of potatoes was the so-called glamorous, fashion disaster, of a teen-aged daughter of a multi-planetary business mogul.

“You should probably stop squirmin like an earthworm that’s just hit the water! We’re bout to slam through a window.”

“DO! NOT! TELL ME! What to do you filthy disgusting mongrel! Now unhand me and I promise you, daddy will not maim you too badly.”

Using her free right hand, Francesca shattered the ill-fated glass-work that separated them not only from open air but also from at least Fran’s freedom. Putting all her momentum into her next step Fran launched the unconventional duo out into the pouring rain that was being actively filtered to reduce its acidity over the chateau’s grounds. As the pair sailed through the air, several teams of snipers took aim at the dashing rogue who was currently making off with their charge and several valuables, only for the pair to disappear from view midair. Hidden by a combination of cloaking device and the weather above, Fran’s ship had lain in wait for its captain’s dynamic return through an open cargo door, bringing both the objective and some extra goodies.

The still uncooperative potato sack of a merchant princess was tossed to the ground unceremoniously as the cargo closed, sealing her within the ship with its crew. Only a small group of crew members had paid attention to their captain’s return, two of which rushed to pick up the potato sack while the others leisurely crossed the distance between where they were resting to where their captain now was.

“Captain, welcome back. What do you want us to do with this ballast?”

“Take the gems and then see if ‘daddy’ is willing to pay to get her back and how much.”

“Understo–”

“YOU BETTER NOT DO ANYTHING TO ME OR DADDY IS GOING TO MAKE YOU ALL SUFFER! No matter what, he'll save me and kill all of you!”

The little rich girl looked so smug glaring up at Fran while she was held aloft by two burly pirates, until she started to look around at the members of the crew and noted that not one of them seemed worried about her threat.

“Is that so, princess? Guess you’re just not worth the hassle. Change a plans, valuables then airlock. I’m going to bed.”

“AYE-AYE! CAPTAIN!”

As Fran walked towards the inner parts of the ship, the truth of the situation finally started to settle into the mind of the brat she had brought along on whim.

“W-w-w-wh-what do you mean airlock? NO nonono NO! I’m more valuable alive! I know all sorts of things daddy doesn’t think! Stuff that’ll keep him off your back for years! P-p-p-plea-please, I don’t wannaaaaaaaaaa dieeeeeeee!”

The potato sack of a girl started bawling as a couple of crew meticulously began removing anything off of her person as they moved towards a nearby airlock. Tears and snot began streaming down her face as she began to thrash wildly or at least attempted to as she was firmly held in place by the two burly pirates.



The room was small, as were all important crew quarters on the ship, the only real difference between the captain’s and the others was that she had an ensuite bathroom. With practiced ease Fran mostly threw herself onto her bed and passed out having spent the last three days on her feet doing all the work for this most recent escapade. As she quickly drifted into unconsciousness her thoughts briefly turned to her past and all the choices that brought her to this point.

She dreamed pleasantly of the past and the fun she once had traveling world to world seeking nothing but adventure. The rose-tinted trip down memory lane however wouldn’t last long as cool breeze tore Fran out of her rest frightful force.

“CLOSE THE BULKHEADS YOU MORONS WE’RE VE-nting… atmosphere.”

Instead of the dimly lit captain’s room with things being ripped towards a hull breach, Fran instead found herself on a vast plain planet-side near a rather large looking city. Only she had never seen this city or this planet before, not from her own adventures or from various exploratory reports from other factions.

Seriously! Again! At least I can breathe in this world, I really should add a rebreather or oxygen generator into this mask.

Her stomach released a mighty roar as the sharp pains of hunger shot through her body, as she moved towards this unknown city.

Francesca was spellbound as she walked through masses, catching herself staring at all the non-human looking aliens around her. She also saw that they traded in gold and silver coins, something she had heard was done in the distant past. The city itself was just as enrapturing to her, the wild, wide and varied building materials and designs all draped in an ever flowing and shifting rainbow of banners and silks.

Still clutching her gut who’s grumbling was being drowned out by the festive cacophony of street performers, coin hungry merchants hawking wares, and the energetic masses that talked amongst themselves or gawked at others. Fran heard snippets of why the city was so lively, something about a battle tournament that doubled as worshiping the local gods. Hearing countless stories of former champions and the miracles that they were granted, intrigued the stranded pirate..

Moving with the crowd and using the naturally packed streets to bump into people to create openings for Fran to swipe a handful of coins to buy some food. Thankfully the colorful masses created the perfect cover for the towering woman to hide in plain sight. Following her nose Fran found a little street stand selling tacos en masse being one of the only foods the ground star travel recognized.

After consuming a hearty meal of meat and tortilla, Fran began properly exploring the city though unbeknownst to her every step took her closer and closer to the Arena. As she found herself standing in front of the competitor’s entrance the various snippets of the stories of previous swirled through her mind.

One perfect wish huh? Guess this would be the fastest way back to the ship.

Taking one last deep breath, Fran plowed ahead, committed to do whatever she needed to in order to go home.



It was quite an eclectic bunch Francesca found herself alongside deep in the Arena as they descended on a stone slab elevator. Sighing internally she was slightly bummed that while it was certainly a colorful group it did appear to be mostly humans of some sort. The stand outs being a robot of some sort and a bird woman, had they not been in a battle with their lives on the line Fran would have loved to pick the bird woman’s mind about her kind.

Alas, the first chance I really have to talk to an alien and I have to kill her to get home.

As the stone slab elevator neared the bottom, Fran noticed out of the corner of her eye that the bird woman had collapsed.

Why did she drop? There wasn’t a noticeable change in pressure or atmosphere.

The bird woman had been caught by what looked like a knight straight out of a children’s picture book. As Fran watched from the corner of her eye she felt the air pressure severely lessen and gravity weaken. Instinctively she forced all the air out of her body to prevent the sudden pressure imbalance from hurting her. Decades of living with only thin metal plates between herself and a slow painful death had instilled a deep rooted fear of that form of death.

Did I walk into a trap? Was this all some weird ploy to get me to walk straight into some horrific death machine? Wait no. The atmo pressure is stablizin.

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

I guess this is when the killing will begin.

Fran had fallen to her hands and knees from the stress and panic at thinking they were about to suffocate.Taking a couple of seconds to steady her breathing, before rising back up to her full height. A quick scan of her surroundings revealed mirrors and everyone spacing themselves out trying to create a temporary of their own here in this box. Noting that the knight had turned their back to the bird woman, Fran drew her blade so she’d have it ready. Advancing on the bird woman, who looked very out of it, the pirate silently apologized for having to kill such a rare creature.

“Hold still lass, so I can make this quick.”
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 6
7/21/2022 23:58:11   
markthematey
Member




Travel progression: 100%
Destination: “Bren” has been reached.
Running diagnostics for “S.Y.M.B.-01”


Core AI:         |??????| 100% functional
      Minor error: Error code unknown. Report to creator during future maintenance.
Assistant AI:      |????------| 64% loading…
Tenants:        |??????| 100% functional
Memory Chip:       |?????---| 93% loading…
Energy Core:      |??????| 100% charge
Respiratory System:   |??????| 100% functional
Motor Functions:    |?---------------| 12% loading…
Sensory Systems:    |??????| 100% functional
Combat weaponry:   |??------------| 27% loading…

...
...
...


Diagnostics completed.
Report:

Unit is 100% functional.
Errors: 0 Major 1 Minor

Proceed and complete the current command from client “Rosemary.”

Execute -s “Core_AI_Start_Sequence”





There is always a moment of nothingness at the beginning. A gap between Symbol’s consciousness brimming to life and his body gaining function. A second of being trapped within your body, with no function or form. A wandering mind with nothing but itself.

Is it fear that he feels at that moment? Impossible, fear is something learned, something taught, and he has no data describing how fear felt. Yet the unease never went away.

Just as that moment feels like it will never end, a weave of thousands of lines of code flares. Hundreds of sequences bring Symbol’s body to life. A jolt of energy runs down his spine, his fingers flex at the pulse. Each of his parts quietly hum, all working in unison.

The body’s hundreds of sensory organs feed a stream of information to Symbol; the sounds of the bustling streets engulf him. A soft breeze washes over his skin, reassurance that he was in full control.

Target Destination:
“The city of Bren” has been reached.


Like a switch, his eyes flick on and immediately dilate, configuring themselves to the sun's brightness. Processing the new influx of information, he stands in a street filled to the brim with passerbys. Questioning glances are passed his way; a stranger standing motionless in the center of a busy path.

One by one, he ticks away at the internal checklist he feels compelled to complete. Each system is tested; all operate to satisfaction. He could almost feel a sense of relief that no major problems arrived.

With his self-diagnostic complete, his attention refocuses on his current command.

Current Command:
Win the elemental championship and get the wish granted


Moving into the flow of the crowd, Symbol ushers himself towards the heart of the city, his metallic eyes constantly scanning the crowded streets. The silhouette of each person becomes highlighted in his view, the assistant AI attempting to reap any information possible before they pass.

No detail is too small, any and all information can be important. Wisdom is to use past information obtained to solve a current problem. To this end, even a small conversation on the roadside could help solve a future issue.

Symbol approaches the arena at a steady pace, taking time to observe anything he could as he moves.

Most of what he sees is stored in his memory chip, but he doesn’t think about it beyond that. Except for one interaction; a father and child coming to one of the many food stalls. The child begs for a sweet and the father obliges. Then the child happily thanks the vendor and moves on with the treat.

All it is was a common event shared between many parents and children. Yet it makes Symbol pause. He stares blankly at it. As if his coding glitches, he feels a yearning of some sort.

His thoughts are interrupted by a desk lady beaming brightly, “Are you here to sign up for the elemental championship?”

Caught off guard, Symbol responds quickly, “Yes.”

Silence

“You don’t look like you’re from here? What brings you so far to join?”

Such a question annoys him. A superfluous conversation would only delay him in completing his task…

Annoyed? That would imply he can feel such a feeling. He was sure of that. He was created to complete a task, such a feeling would only hamper his ability. Right? He brushes away the thought. Simply complete the command given.

Symbol gives an unmoving stare as a response.

She continues to smile but her brow raises in confusion, “Okay… I just need a name and an element.”

“Name: S. Y. M. B. dash zero one. Element: Energy. Write my name as Symbol.” His voice remains flat and unemotional.

A log replays from his memory chip, a familiar voice with a simple reminder. "Never forget your manners. A small bit of kindness can go a long way.”

Symbol pauses, thinking of a proper way to end the conversation. Scrubbing files within his mind he comes to one Symbol believes is fitting: a well-mannered butler. Leaning in, he replicates a smile and gently adds,


“Thank you for your time.” Perfectly mimicking the tone and posture of the man in the memory. He holds the pose for a moment before turning and walking towards the arena.




Symbol stands in the arena and the roar of the crowd falls deaf on his audio sensors. Erroneous information to the task at hand.

As the platform lowers Symbol begins an analysis of the enemies. Five foes to be felled. Each stands in his path to completing his mission.

Of all of the opponents, the spider-masked warrior is highlighted in a deep red in Symbols optics. A warning from the assistant AI toiling through the information.

This is followed by a dirt-cladded knight in a lighter red and so on. Each person is tagged from most to least threatening at an initial glance and prediction.

To Symbol’s surprise, the winged being collapses before they reach the bottom. We came here to fight, to gain something we couldn’t otherwise, and you can’t even stand? Something brews within Symbol’s chest, another superfluous feeling. His face contorts for a second before returning to a neutral expression. Focus on what's ahead.

Combat mode initiated.
Chosen Style: LongSword
Initiating M.W.H.A.


Symbol rolls up his sleeve, exposing his right hand and the many intricate seams that run through it. They separate from each other and the device within spins a compacted blade to where his hand used to be. The blade that rapidly unfolds and the bolts that line it fasten themselves, locking the blade to its rigid form.

Symbol takes his stance. His arm stretched to the side and his blade pointed out diagonal towards the ground. An audio log plays in his mind, To be indomitable with the blade is to never fear your opponent. To have the confidence in your own skill to win.

A voice echoes through the underground arena,

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

Post #: 7
7/23/2022 21:30:28   
Riprose123
Member

Helmold watched the opponents in front of him with a skeptical eye. He could hear one move behind him, but he couldn’t be sure of the purpose of their movement. Instead, his focus was drawn to the two in front of him. One had waved their hand and made a blade appear out of nowhere, while the other wielded a sword and shield quite like himself. Helmold’s grip on his spear tightened as the foe farthest to his left inquired about a dance with any of the others. He smiled to himself; a smile so handsome that it would infuriate other men. He clapped the pole of his spear against his shield.




Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack!

The sound of dueling swords crescendoed throughout the keep. Helmold’s arms had long grown fatigued, but he refused to allow his knight the satisfaction of a submission. His blows were sloppy but determined and though they were both clad in soft pants and cloth jerkin, he knew the older was feeling even more fatigued than him. He swung again and again. They had been at this back and forth for hours. What had started as a duel to remind Helmold of a lesson in servitude had turned into an act of defiance. Helmold had reached the age where his physique allowed him to the type of rebellion that his psyche had dreamed of for years. The blade whirled above his head as he struck again, again, again, forcing his knight further and further back.

Thwack, thwack, thwack!

With each collision, the older knight’s sword drooped lower and lower in its defense, until finally after a deflected blow, the wooden sword fell from his hands. He looked to the young squire with hate in his eyes, a fury that Helmold had seen many times before and had terrified him up until now. Now he only had pity to the knight. “Drop your blade, boy, you’ve obviously won,” the knight spit the words from under his bushy mustache, every syllable causing it to twitch in anger.

Helmold shook his head at the old knight, speechless at the victory that lay before him. He raised the wooden instrument to rest just below his chin, before delivering blow after blow upon his exhausted body. While at first there were shouts of defiance, after a while there were nothing more than grunts and cries of pain. Later there was no sound whatsoever other than the ragged breathing of an old man as Helmold’s strikes slowed and stopped.

Thwack, thwack...

Helmold merely looked upon the older knight with something close to pity. He had been nothing more than a scrawny orphan boy when he was “saved” by the order. Taken from the streets, he was nearly helpless when he was handed to his knight, who in turn had treated him as such. Through beatings and insults he had forced Helmold to become something capable of helping itself, but through his rough lessons he had turned the boy into a machine of hate. It was this hate that drew his arm and sword above his head, this hate that blinded him to the old, beaten man that lay where the old knight had been but a minute before. The hate faded quickly as the wooden club came down and Helmold was made aware of what he had done with deafening certainty.

Thwack.




Helmold’s spear caught his shield, hopefully drawing the attention of the younger man. “Come and meet me! Know me as Helmold of the Ivy and prepare yourself.”

With his declaration done he sprung forward, driving his spear forward at hip height, aiming for the boy’s gut. With his other arm, he readied his shield to block and deflect the almost certain counterattacks.
DF MQ  Post #: 8
7/23/2022 22:50:52   
  Chewy905

Chromatic ArchKnight of RP


Taunts of a prideful warrior, too cowardly to lead her dance.

A damsel in distress, saved by a gallant knight.

And the scheming backstabbing of one that knew how to get results.

Ulum sighed. Had the competition been as rabid as wolves, perhaps Ulum would have been able to sit idle. But if nothing were to occur save for knives in backs and empty threats, the Lords may bore as much as to ignore this Cellar entirely. No… they would have to take action. They would have to draw blood, and avoid drowning in the memories of these oh-too-reasonable foes.

Ulum stepped one foot gingerly atop their grounded reflection. It almost seemed to push back, a foot pressing up and giving an extra spring to their tentative step. Good. That could be used. A memory… but no. It was too soon to embrace this Jacklin’s methods. She was too elegant, too much like the prideful warrior in the arena. Ulum needed…

There. The feeling of the woman’s veins pulsing under his closed hand around her throat. The force of fists slamming uselessly against his chest as he holds her under. His haunting, awful laughter filled his ears to drown out the gurgling. Nevermind that this particular memory ended badly for the assailant, nevermind that the woman had been saved; it had only been Ulum showing the man the effectiveness of his own methods, after all. What had possessed them to do such a thing… no. This wasn’t the time to dig for that thought, it would only get in the way. Instead…

A rock, tossed from the edge of home, where Ulum loved to sit. They loved the way the ripples would spread across the pond, reaching all the way to the other edge on a good day. They loved the way the ripples could rock lily pads so, so far from where the rock landed, as if it was there itself to rock them. Ulum shut their eyes beneath their mask, raised a foot forwards, and stepped. They could feel it. Their own ripple, darting across the room, exploring in every direction with far more haste than Ulum could.

A catch. A rocking pad.

Ulum opened their eyes and pushed, stretching their will outwards as the rock does. Their reflection burst to life, splashing free from the ripple before the robotic foe - the one being that had seemed to only quietly wait as Ulum did rather than engage in useless bravado or shady tricks. The elegant image lunged forth with violence unfitting for her form, hand grasping desperately for the machine’s throat, eyes beneath the mask gleaming with bloodlust.

Ulum’s concentration shattered as the machine moved, blade snapped through watery reflection, the utter speed of the blow cleaving a large line through its form. Memory, forcing its way past Ulum’s defenses before they could stop it. A cold, cold, oh so cold blade piercing her side and dropping her with a splash. And yet she never stopped, she never stopped, she stood up and danced and flew that day.

And she became Paragon.

Home snapped shut as the image erupted, water bursting out at the metal man. They thought of her brother’s blade, sharp and elegant, and water danced down the umbrella to give it an edge worthy of that gift.

The machine stumbled back, the image’s forceful farewell almost blasting him off his feet. Ulum leapt back, pushing down on the reflection of their reflection with all their might. It pushed in return.

Ulum flew, the repulsive mirror granting them speedy passage towards the stumbling machine. Home arced across the air, and Ulum prayed that no errant sparks would strike them when the robot lost its head.
Post #: 9
7/24/2022 22:12:40   
Anastira
Member

A sharp clap echoes from somewhere to Wister’s right, spear against shield. “Come and meet me! Know me as Helmold of the Ivy and prepare yourself.”

Wister turns, gripping Celsius tight in their hand, pivoting on the balls of their feet like a dancer. “Prepare yourself? This isn’t choreography, friend. This is improvisation. No preparation necessary.” The heat is a seeping warmth within Wister’s body, flickering beneath their skin, hot enough Wister imagines they can physically see it radiating from their body, and the place where Wister’s hand meets Celsius steams faintly into the air. Every step Wister takes feels delicate, graceful, and much lighter than they expected - almost like floating. In front of them, the Knight of Ivy charges forward - not like a dancer at all, Wister thinks disappointedly - spear forward and leveled, the point heading directly for Wister’s stomach…

Wister takes a light step back and away, turning the point of the spear aside - but not enough. Pure cold blossoms where the spear splits them open, blood rippling boiling from the open wound, steaming white-hot into the air. Wister gasps in a breath. The air feels cool against their throat, like a balm. Pain lances through their torso.

“Touché,” Wister murmurs, blinking, shooting one hand out to grip the body of Helmold’s spear before the Knight can pull it away. “The tango it is. My turn to lead.”

Wister locks eyes with the Knight in that moment, hand still firmly wrapped around the haft of Helmhold’s spear, Fairest down and to the side. I could raise the shield, a passing thought, but too slow. Instead, Wister concentrates, and the air around them drops by degrees, cold that begins at Wister’s heart and blossoms outwards, fast as a shockwave, as Wister pulls all the warmth from the air around them. “I like your eyes,” Wister says, smiling at the Knight. “They’re very pretty.” The air is blisteringly cold, but Wister feels hotter than ever, almost too. “They’re like moonlight on ice.”

A flash of movement catches Wister’s eye, and they glance down instinctively: the vines on the Knight’s chest have begun to unravel and crawl forward, brushing against Wister’s skin, entwining Wister’s spear arm with his body. Wister cocks their head. “Ah,” they murmur. ”But this is no good for dancing.” Waiting it out, letting the warmth drain fully from around them - surely plants won’t do too well in the cold…

Wister swallows. The vines are wrapped almost entirely around them now, and constricting. A note of panic edges in -

Helmhold reaches out with his shield and breaks the two of them free from each other, just as Wister raises Fairest to destroy the vines entangling Celsius.

So you couldn’t withstand the cold, Wister thinks. Disappointed - almost. They close their eyes, crouching, Celsius and Fairest both braced against Cellar’s floor - and then they catapult themselves into the air and down again, clothes rippling with a kaleidoscope of colors and images: Nefeli’s eyes, thousands of them staring outward in every direction; the rippling silhouette of a Chinese nian, the illusion of a young woman laughing and spinning in circles - except the picture is disjointed, the woman disfigured, the image made of geometric patterns painted in a bold, stark palette. The air around Wister and the Knight is warm again.

As Wister lands, driving the haft of Celsius against the ground with a loud thud, the swirling kaleidoscope of memory and time expands, enveloping Helmold and Wister both within. The eyes of Nefeli stare outwards and inwards, watching, all-seeing, and Wister again feels the heaviness of responsibility, the many promises they have sworn. But Wister knows this is not what Helmold will see, likely; Helmold’s illusions will be of Helmold’s memories, regrets, childhoods; Helmold’s kaleidoscope will be a kaleidoscope for Helmold’s mind, a kaleidoscope only Helmold will ever be able to see.

Except for Nefeli, Wister thinks. Some days, Wister believes that Nefeli can see even into the minds of other creatures. But Nefeli is not here, and Wister is alone.

Wister looks back at the Knight, and when they speak, their voice is nearly a snarl, roughened with exertion. “Now dance!
AQW  Post #: 10
7/24/2022 22:53:34   
shuurp
Member

“Nell?”

Nellone looked behind her to where her sister lay in a bed of sticks and fluff. While Nellone was a short range of greys and blues, Amily was, typically, a spectacle of pinks and oranges. She’d already attracted much attention from other harpies—at this age, the primal drive of keeping up bloodlines overcame the wont for solitude that harpies were known for—but all of the suitors scattered the moment she started losing feathers. Although she was still some form of pink, she was the sickly pale color of a plucked and dying bird.

“Hm?”

Amily looked to the foot of the doorway Nell stood in and fumbled her hands together; they were cracked and bleeding little things. “You don’t have to go.”

Nell’s previously soothed expression pursed, and she took her hand off the door frame to talk back over to her sister. Amily’s eyes followed her as she walked slowly out of the sunset-casted light and into the shaded darkness of the back end of the hut they called home. At the side of Amily’s bed, Nell stopped, looking directly into her twin’s eyes and locking her in a stare.

“Then look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t want me to go.” Nellone wasn’t biting with her words, but she was firm in her genuineness.

Amily opened her mouth to respond and instead erupted into a fit of wheezing coughs. After steadying herself, she looked to Nell’s eyes once more, and instead of speaking she clenched her teeth.

Nellone took one more hard look at her sister’s face; although her eyes were the same, she was missing almost all of her feathers now. Instead of the long plume covering her head, she was pitifully bald and wrinkled like a new hatchling. Her face itself had become sunken, and red patches of dry scales covered her forehead and cheeks. Her body visibly shook each time her heart beat.

Nell turned once more towards the doorway and didn’t stop on her way out.



The wind rustled the feathers around her face as she blinked at the blurry form of black and red approaching quickly from across the arena. Nell squinted, regaining her bearings, as the amalgamation of colors took the shape of a tall masked figure rushing to her with blade in hand.

Barely having enough time to bolster her wings with the worried air, Nell ducked to the left. The scimitar nicked her chin, trimming the tops of a few feathers and speckling them and the blade with a peppering of blood.

In the instant before she fled, Nellone got a glance of the towering creature; instead of an expression, there was a solid black mask with four pairs of eyes and a set of spider mandibles. In the red of the bottommost set of lenses, Nell’s fear reflected back at her.

Without looking back, Nell spun and ran towards the back wall of the arena. As she sprinted, she heard her opponent's words carry on the breeze: “Hard way it is, then.”

Finally feeling enough of an emptiness behind her, Nell whipped around, carrying her winged arm across her body and unleashing a crescent blade of wind slicing diagonally through the air towards the spider-woman.
Post #: 11
7/25/2022 23:27:04   
markthematey
Member

A deep chill surrounds Symbol. The cavern’s crisp air coats his skin, seeping into his wiring. He always wondered why he could feel the cold’s icy embrace. It would only dull his ability and add more superfluous data to process. All of which would need to be ignored right now.

Symbol remains still, his metallic eyes scanning the arena, noticing the strange patterns along the floors and its inhabitants that he would soon slay. Complete the objective, transitioning to combat sequencing.

Despite the risks, he felt serenity in these moments. A second where he could clear his mind of all background operations and focus on one clear objective. The many processes that once filled his thoughts come to a stop as he directs all his energy to complete a simple task.

He waits with bated breath, closely analyzing each movement. The floor slightly warps. A visual glitch? A warble across the floor approaches rapidly. No, my optics function without fail.

Symbol raises his sword in a guard but the ripple washes past and over his feet. The thin wave brushes lightly past his legs. Symbol holds still, a tightness brewing in his chest. Purpose of wave unknown, continue with-

In the corner of his vision, a body begins to form and the assistant paints it deep red. Without hesitation, it stretches an arm in a lunge towards Symbol's neck. He glares at the attacker, the masked woman had snuck past his careful observation. Somehow she had approached without him noticing.

Symbol instinctively strikes. With a retreating step and a flash of steel, Symbol slashes through the attacker's center. She cleanly had been cut in twine. Symbol felt pity for her as he turned the blade for a second attack. To complete the mission. The red marker from the assistant darkens, foreshadowing what's to come. Before Symbol could react, the figure began to burst.

A crashing wave of water explodes into Symbol’s chest, the force causing him to stumble back, nearly being lifted off the ground.

Warning: Internal gyroscope is off-balanced, be wary of- I KNOW! His thoughts jumbled in the whirlwind of sensors feeding information to him.

tap tap tap. The sound of footsteps behind Symbol, followed by one last loud push. Instincts ingrained in code took hold. Pivoting while raising his blade, Symbol faced his attacker.

The masked figure is upon him once again. The umbrella she held flew in a graceful descent towards his neck.

Conducting defensive manue- JUST DO IT, Symbol yelled at himself internally.


His blade has nearly a fraction of a second to intercept the weapon directed at him. A familiar feeling gashes through the side of his neck and a blue oil drips down onto his shoulder. Pain, the most troublesome of all things his creator gave him the sense of. As the sharp feeling infected his senses, a new feeling overcame him. It was as if his mind was flooded with water.

The serene he normally feels in these is shattered. His core drowns in a deep abyss. It washes through his thoughts; his memories, before seeping away. The sincerest form of himself was violated by this unknown sea.

STAY OUT OF MY MIND.

Anger swept through Symbol, the muscles in his arm tense as the longsword glides up and below the side of the umbrella. Once under the guard of this fiend, he pivots the block into a decisive slash across the woman’s chest. The momentum of their failed lunge carries the wounded warrior past him.

Symbol turns to face this wounded snake, the cunning foe who had lost her advantage. He looks into her back as she kneels motionlessly. To his surprise she was no longer there. Symbol was met by a silver-haired individual. One with a red streak that flows to the back of his head. As he stands and turns, Symbol notices metallic seams that line their arms and chest. A familiar featureless white mask covers his face.

Symbol stares at himself.



Post #: 12
7/26/2022 4:48:24   
deathlord45
Member

The flurry of movement as the bird-woman, who appeared to be spacing out, suddenly dipped out of the path of Fran’s blade, before quickly pivoting and running away. A low sigh escaped Francesca’s lips as her glare hidden behind her mask’s lens followed her quarry’s trajectory.

“Hard way it is, then.”

She seemed out of it after that knight put her back on her feet. Maybe she was paying attention the whole time and trying to lure someone into a trap?

The fact the bird had escaped on foot perplexed Fran as she shifted her weight and momentum to chase after Nell. However as she pivoted to follow, the bird had spun around to face Fran, used the motion to whip what the pirate assumed to be her hand out in front of herself in Fran’s direction. Where the hand had arced air distorted and flew like a razor at the pirate captain.

Fran launched herself low and towards her left where the distortion seemed to be further from the ground. As the distortion passed overhead she quickly shifted her body’s motion from a pure dive into a roll back to her feet to keep moving towards Nell. Though Francesca noted a distinct lop-sided weight distribution around her head as she got moving again.

Note to self: Bump up the appointment with Airi to fix this new hair-style. Bird’s back is facing the wall; let's force her into it!

Pushing herself to her full height, Fran readied an almost vertical slash from right to left as she positioned herself in an attempt to stop Nell from fleeing to her right. An itch had started to form in the pirate captain’s hands as they yearned to release the magics held within the gauntlets to quicken this battle.

Gotta save them for later when I need them. It’s gonna be a long day otherwise.

“So, are the wings just for show or do they actually function?”
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 13
7/27/2022 18:25:09   
Riprose123
Member

Helmold smiled grimly as his spear connected, drawing a bloody gash and pained gasp from his opponent. His opponent used the closeness to grab hold of his spear before he could pull it back for another attack, pulling him closer. Helmold realized the warrior’s mistake before his opponent could as the ivy and holly rattled hungrily against his plate mail. Helmold whispered his consent and a vine sprung from his chest, a snake of ivy wrapping its way across his spear and lashing itself to his opponent’s arm. He could see the ivy constrict and restrict the arm holding his spear to the person’s chest, just as he began to have an inkling of what was going on in the air around him.

As the temperature crashed dramatically, Helmold was acutely aware of the numbing of his body. Frost quickly formed and clung to the polished surface of his plate as the plants that covered him relished the sudden change of seasons, unafraid of winter’s bite. He grunted as pins and needles formed in his arms and legs, early warning signs of aggressive cold’s attack on a man’s body. While he still had the strength left in his body, he bashed his shield into the warrior, simultaneously wrenching his spear away from his opponent’s grasp and retreating until he no longer felt the cold. As feeling returned to his extremities, Helmold checked himself quickly. Apart from a general weakness that accompanied time spent in extreme cold, he figured himself relatively alright. One glimpse at his opponent told him that they had freed themselves from his vines, which caused the plants on his chest to rattle hatefully. Helmold responded to his plants in kind, cooing to them promises of retribution for their sacrifice. With his allies satisfied, he was curious to see the warrior launch himself into the air and land dramatically, clothes flapping in a nonexistent breeze. This vision quickly faded as a roaring blizzard engulfed Helmold, his vision suddenly white and snowy despite the warm air around him. He gasped audibly as he was blinded, bracing his shield in front of him and moving forward.

Once his sight cleared again, he was alone, a prismatic display surrounding him, colors shifting in a constantly indiscernible spectrum of light. “What sort of trick...” Helmold whispered to himself, his question trailing off as he waited for himself to answer.

Deciding to leave the vision around him to itself for a second, he weighed his options. Given his advance back toward his opponent, he knew he was close enough that he could likely entrap him with vines of ivy and holly, but that would leave him at the mercy of this strange force he found himself in. He could summon a wall, but odds are whatever had caused the young warrior to disappear would likely merely make its way around the hedge he would summon. The only other courses of action were blind attack, which was not a stellar idea, or retreat which his honor would not allow. No, his best bet was to stay put and attempt to entangle whatever may jump at him. He dropped to his knees quickly, plate creaking as his surcoat quickly rooted and extended out, entrapping all around him but also forcing Helmold to endure what would come. As the colors around him wavered and shifted, time seemed to slow around him. Holding his ground and holding his shield ready, shapes and sounds began to coagulate from the fluid colors around him. Viscous amalgamations approached him one by one, solidifying into visions of his past as they approached. Helmold held his shield aloft as the first trudged towards him, flooring him almost as effectively as a cavalry men’s lance.

“Hilde,” the name slipped from Helmold’s lips quicker than he had expected as the young girl moved towards him with a skip.

She clutched a bouquet of flowers in her hands, the same kind that she would pick from the Keep’s fields. The patterned dress she wore was stained with dirt and grass, a sight that Helmold knew he hadn’t seen in a long time but felt so familiar that he swore it had just been yesterday. Her hair was pulled back in the familiar braids that her mother would weave, ivy leaves interweaving with her light blonde hair. “Hilde, come to your father,” Helmold cried, not moving from his position but dropping his spear and grasping towards his long-gone daughter.

Hilde turned to him with the sunshine grin that he knew too well. She danced her way towards him, but as he drew closer, he noticed quick changes in her appearance. Her dress became ripped and tattered, the vines in her hair and the flowers she held wilting and rotting away. When she turned to him again, what had been his daughter just a moment ago was a charred corpse covered in rags, screaming out in pain until Helmold looked away with a cry, promptly disappearing and leaving with it a haunting silence. Once he had cleared the tears from his eyes, another figure approached, this one a shambling mess. As it approached, its form solidified, limping and grasping at him. Helmold stayed put as every gene in his body told him to run as the desiccated corpse of his master approached, rotting flesh exposing the face of a corpse. Its arms reached towards him as it shambled forward, and as its arms finally wrapped around and its jaws closed on his neck, the knight was left alone again, the only sounds his ragged, terrified breathing. Clutching his spear once again, he straightened his spine as the vines rippled through the ground at his feet. Setting his jaw and summoning a hardened rage as the boy used his fears and regrets him, he clapped on his spear and shield again, screaming against the illusions around him as the colors shifted once again to a roaring blizzard, within which he could see the muffled shadows of long slain opponents.

Setting his jaw and screaming out through the storm around him, Helmold held his shield and spear ready, continuing to bang on them, “face me craven, know me honorably! Let me show you the blade of the man who has lost so much! You toy with me, showing me my daughter and my tormentor and all those who I’ve faced before. Do you doubt yourself so that you must hide like this?”
DF MQ  Post #: 14
7/27/2022 22:34:07   
  Chewy905

Chromatic ArchKnight of RP


Steel bit solid water as small drops of aqua flaked the colliding weapons. Ulum followed through, brother’s false blade kissing the neck of the machine and drawing forth blue oil to the humming air.

Further. You will die, and Ulum will Be. I must.

Too quickly, the machine swiped its blade down Home’s length. Ulum’s chest split as the edge sheared cleanly through them, scattering life across the floor. Ulum fell -

NO! I DON’T WANT TO BECOME HIM!

-forward -

I WANT TO BE ME! WHY CAN’T I JUST-

-and within.




The rumble of thunder, the flash of lightning, can be heard and seen in the distance from the pond’s sunny haven, though the figure beneath the umbrella pays both no mind. Stormy winds blow through, shaking the grasses and carrying with it a scent of ozone. The figure under the shade leans forward and looks down at their mask’s reflection, pristine and gleaming. Slowly, they remove the shroud from their face.

They are greeted by a stoic gaze, a white haired man staring through them. The figure begins to rise, and a single arm mechanically pierces the surface, gripping the figure’s arm. A sharp pull, and body meets reflection as they plunge within. The water floods up their nose, into their lungs, seeping through their eyes and ears as they are suffocated by mechanical memory, inhuman yet ever familiar.

Stars. He watches them glimmer overhead, night after night after night. A reminder of purpose. Of the one thing that keeps him going.

Purpose. The figure grasps for that word, trying to find their own. Their purpose… lies above the surface, away from these infinite reflections.

Thought. He thinks. He feels, no matter what the system demands. And it is because of thought that he is.

The figure is not. That is why they are here. That is why they must -

Grief. The emotion hits him far stronger than anything else. His limiters are overwhelmed, and it becomes all that he is. Nothing but the grief of a horrendous loss.

The familiar grief shoves the figure ever deeper, a plunging force that cannot be defied. The figure chokes on it, as they sink further beneath the surface. The grief of losing themselves. Again and again and again.

And with this common grief they can become. They can become. They can truly become. Life and breath and soul slip away as Ulum becomes a machine following their final grief-fueled command.




Pain echoed from his chest. When was he struck?

Water exited his mouth. When did he drink?

Blade clattered to the floor. When did he detach it?

Hand found umbrella. He turned. He rose. The pain did not leave.

Ulum faced himself, blade tight in hand. Something was missing: no mechanical voice spoke to him. Was there supposed to be one? There had never been one before…

“Threat… Assessment.” Ulum spoke, the words coming out choppy and broken. His hand drifted to the stinging, invisible wound across his chest. “Dangerous. Initiating combat mode. Chosen style longsword. M.W.H.A”

He didn’t know what M.W.H.A meant. Was he supposed to? He tilted his head. Perhaps a technique taught to her by her sister? That must have been it.

A growl interrupted his thoughts. “You…” Ulum tilted his head the other way his audio sens- no… his ears listening as the growl increased in intensity. “Give it back, you can’t have it!”

The same voice, now muffled beneath the mask, answered. “Give… what?” He didn’t have anything. His hand rolled across the invisible gash in his chest. All he had was…

Pain. The wave washed over him, almost pulling him off his feet as he remembered. He cuts down another foe, blade slicing through their chest to repay their blow across his. He bleeds oil, cuts stinging, burning, feeling. Why was he made to feel? He stumbles, but continues. He must make haste. He must go to her. He must kill… No. She must save… No. They…

Hand raised to mask. He coughed up water, choking on the confusion. Like a puppet on strings he stumbled, contorted, and looked at his reflection, His accursed, awful, painful reflection. In an instant Ulum shot forward, pain pushing him on as his umbrella swung once more for his reflection’s neck.

A repeat. Ulum abruptly changed his swing's direction as the machine raised its blade up to deflect once more. The umbrella whipped through the air, completing a full orbit around the reflective soul before slashing across the machine’s leg. His foe stumbled forwards, and Ulum screamed, driving his knee into the man’s chest and keeping him on his feet. Ulum pressed onwards, driving brother’s, machine’s, lover’s blade towards his reflection’s chest.

“I don’t-”

Words from the depths of his being died away, overwhelmed by the clang of steel as the machine knocked Ulum’s blade aside and lunged forwards with his own. Ulum swung his umbrella across, mimicking the motions of the machine that flooded his brain.

Click.

His blade passed through empty air, his eyes tracking the foe’s longsword as it fell to the ground below.

The shortsword plunged into his watery gut.

PAIN. Drop after drop after drop invaded Ulum’s mind as it blossomed in his faux-flesh and webbed its way through his very being. A hundred lives. A hundred moments. Falls cuts piercings burns losses and losses and losses. Lived experienced and felt. All at the same time.

And somewhere within, they cried out louder than all of his, her, their, collective hurt.

Vision blurred, home pointed forwards.

“I DON’T-”

A click of a button on an imagined blade that should have had none.

“-WANT TO BE-”

Home shot open, the tranquil inside of the umbrella gracing Ulum’s sight while its steely cover impacted the metal man with the force of a hammer.

-“YOU!
Post #: 15
7/28/2022 1:51:31   
Anastira
Member

The illusions form around them, swirling, and Wister lets out their breath, accepting victory. Before them, the Knight of Ivy mouths a word - a name? - silent to Wister’s ears. Nefeli’s eyes watch, serene: ever present, yet held off by the strength of Wister’s mind, safely at arm’s length. Wister ignores the eyes and watches the Knight instead, intent on their opponent’s bowed figure.

So intent that Wister nearly doesn’t notice the vines rising around their legs - caging them in, trapping them in their own illusion.

Wait, no, no!

How many seconds has it been? Wister tries to count backwards under their breath, searching their memory, but time has no meaning here. All that matters is winning. Timekeeping was never part of the equation.

Maybe it should have been.

How reckless, Wister thinks. “Reckless,” they snarl out loud. Gripping Celsius so tightly the haft bites against their palm, they rise to their feet, calculating. The vines are growing taller by the moment, tightening around Wister’s knees. They raise Fairest experimentally and snap it down against the vines, the same way they tried when Helmold snagged them earlier - but this time, nothing. Nothing. The vines just keep growing, undeterred -

Taller…

Perhaps, Wister thinks, perhaps, a change in elevation - but the thought is broken off halfway. The eyes of Nefeli are larger than ever, too many of them to count, and they grow closer as Wister watches, and Wister is frozen in place. Frozen - ha, ha. NO. FOCUS! Don’t let the

“Welcome home,” Nefeli says.

Wister staggers.

The eyes are gone. The illusion is gone. The arena is gone, too. There is just a vast, open place, the faint implication of tall wooden walls, a hearth burning warm and bright. And a single woman with dark, coppery hair braided all the way down to her waist, thousands of braids so tiny it hurts Wister’s eyes to try to follow any single one. Her eyes are gentle: green-speckled-gold. She smiles. Her skin radiates warmth - and love. And belonging. Belonging. What a strange feeling.

Belonging, Wister thinks, turning the word over in their head -

“I’m glad you made it safely,” Nefeli says, walking slowly towards Wister, barefoot. She holds something in her hands: a bowl of soup, faintly brown and swirling with clouds of spices and bits of vegetables and a few chunks of fruit. She’s several feet away, but the smell is so strong Wister’s eyes water. It smells enticing.

Belonging, Wister thinks again, wondering why the word feels so out of place in their head.

There’s a girl standing behind Nefeli - no, not standing; hanging. Her feet touch the ground, pointed, tips of her toes swaying. Her hair floats slightly, just enough to tell it doesn’t fall naturally, and her eyes are open. There’s a dagger at her waist. As Wister watches, the girl’s mouth forms a single word - a name: Cailean.

She winces, but in her strange, suspended state, the wince is more of a gentle ripple along her body.

Nefeli’s eyes follow Wister’s. She stares for a moment, absolutely still, and then she turns back to Wister. The color of her eyes is darker than it was a moment before.

“Soup?” she says.

“I just ate,” Wister says, inching backwards. They take a long look at the soup, then at the hearth, the girl, the surroundings. Something prowls in the shadows, tail flicking slowly back and forth. Wister tilts their head at it. “Where am I?” Wister says. “Nefeli…?”

When Wister looks back again, Nefeli’s hand is halfway out, the soup proffered between them, the contents still sloshing slightly with movement, but Nefeli herself is still again. Her eyes narrow; Wister swears their color darkens by another hue. “Nefeli,” she repeats, and lowers herself onto the ground, cross-legged. “Who told you that name?” She licks her lips like she’s tasting the word for the first time. “Nefeli.”

Wister frowns. “No one. I just know it.” They nod their head at the suspended girl, the beast pacing in the shadows. If they look carefully, at the place where the flickering flames dance against the walls, they can make out more figures and silhouettes. It’s a strange feeling, like they have to physically fight to see any of them, as though the creatures are translucent or imagined - except that when Wister sees them, they’re as opaque and as obvious as the sun on a dark night. “Who are they?”

Nefeli’s eyes widen. “You can see them.”

Wister’s hand goes to Celsius. “They don’t belong here, do they?” It’s not a question; it’s a statement. Nefeli knows it. Her eyes go dark again, hardening dangerously. “They don’t belong here, and neither do I.“

“No one else can see them, or me - this entire world -”

“You kidnapped them, didn’t you? All of us.”

She narrows her eyes. “Not you. You came here on your own.”

Wister stares at her for a very long time. The flames hiss softly behind them, crackling occasionally. Nefeli offers the soup again; Wister takes it from her and drinks a sip: savory with an edge of sweet, the perfect amount of silkiness and thickness, rich as it slides down their throat. “This is home,” Wister says, finally. “And you are hospitality. The goddess herself.”

“Yes. I am Nefeli.” She bows her head. “My home is dying. I can’t save it alone.”

“And so you kidnap people -”

“To win the favor of greater beings…and forgiveness -” She stops and looks back at Wister. “Why did you come here? You seemed so happy. Always laughing, always quick with a song and a bit of irony. Always young.”

Wister is silent. Nefeli dips her head. “Your mind is transparent,” she offers.

“I want to go home,” Wister murmurs, testing the words.

“Then go home. I didn’t bring you here. I’m not stopping you.”

Wister squeezes their eyes shut. Fragments of memory dance behind their eyelids: a brook giggling across stepping stones; a breeze sighing across an undulating grassland; steppes along the side of the mountain, brilliant with blossoming lilies; snow falling light on the ground…

And people. Silhouettes moving blurrily across the landscapes, willfully forgotten. There one moment, gone the next. Always moving on.

Always leaving Wister behind…

Wister opens his eyes. “You can’t keep these people here.” They glance at the beast in the shadows with its rippling tail. “These creatures. They don’t belong to you.”

“My home will die.”

“So? They can’t help you.”

“No,” Nefeli says, watching carefully as Wister takes another sip of the soup. “You’re wrong. They’re the only thing that can help me.”

“They deserve to move on. They have lives.”

“This world has lives, too,” Nefeli says, and

NO.

Everything freezes in place, stop-motion. The images try to move forward, but they come one frame at a time, stuttering, and then they fast forward, and rewind, and fast forward again, and distort - oversaturated, bleached of color, mirrored, upside down - Wister staggers -

No. Somehow, for some reason, Wister doesn’t want to be here. Maybe they dread what happens next. Either way, the rich flavor of the soup in their throat, the smoke curling from the hearth, the need in Nefeli’s eyes is all too much, and Wister pushes to break free, straining -

A girl holding a dagger, whispering: I’m sorry, Columba. Her thoughts clear as day - a merciful death, a death with no pain.

A woman pulling her hood down across her eyes, slinking across a city where she does not belong.

A great beast swirling in the night, children running screaming; fireworks, paper lanterns, red banners pulled taut, crimson across doorways and over courtyards. Torches going up; fires hissing angrily beneath the stars.

A young woman smiling at something in her hands, watching fondly as it chirps softly at her. Explosions, somewhere far off. A deep, unending sense of sadness, loss, giving in.

A man made of feathers, disintegrating into twilight -

Wister pushes again, harder. Sobbing. Harder -

Something shatters.

The hearth sputters and becomes blue and spirals upwards -

The girl with her daggers becomes a disjointed, shadowy nightmare figure -

The wooden walls harden, petrified, and turn to stone…

A column of ice rises beneath Wister’s feet, lifting them into the air. The fire in Wister’s chest burns, the air absolutely freezing against their skin. Wister is screaming, roaring; they can feel their own voice vibrating through their chest, even if they can’t hear themselves at first. The arena comes back into focus; sounds begin to reach Wister’s ears again. The vines around Wister’s legs begin to dissolve, but - most importantly - the pillar of ice grows beneath their feet, and the illusions now swirl at chest height, dissipating even as Wister stares: Nefeli’s all-seeing eyes fading out one by one, flickering into darkness.

“I,” Wister grunts, leveling Celsius at their opponent, “should never have made a deal with the devil. Also -” they glare at Helmold - “after this is over, you’re going to buy me a meal. Preferably not soup.”

They spin Celsius once in their hands, all the way around, and lift Fairest in front of them, crouching. “But until then - en garde!
AQW  Post #: 16
7/28/2022 22:49:27   
shuurp
Member

There was no welcome party in a place like this, especially not for someone like her.

Nellone had heard numerous things about this town before: sad, abandoned, decrepit, greedy. It was the reason why she was covering herself uncomfortably with a dark cloak and hood—she hated the feeling of fabric surrounding her rather than the breeze. Although, now that she thought about it, even the wind had died here.

Looking at the buildings alone, this wasn’t a place that was meant to become a dump; there were skeletons of luxury two-story houses, remnants of a cobblestone road, large pillars surrounding an old park, and bladeless windmills. Despite the dilapidation, the most eerie thing about this place was the fact that there were many people who still lived here, and had for their entire lives.

Some say everything was due to a curse, one that was placed upon the town by an abused traveling sorcerer that filled every resident with intense greed; over time, the village had been plundered by its own citizens, and now it was said that everyone who still lived was so afraid of others stealing their stashes that no one left their hiding spots. Others say that nobody here is actually still alive, and instead it is the largest ghost town on the continent. All Nellone knew was there was a singular person here that she needed to speak to.

Her talons clicked on the road through the center of town, and on top of the uncomfortable fabric she felt layers of eyes upon her. She remained steady on her course.

“Who are you?” a croaking voice sounded. Nell paused and scanned the area until she spied a set of bloodshot eyes coming from under a wagon next to her.

“No one important.”

She began to continue on, but a bony, wrinkled hand shot out from under the wagon and seized her ankle. The arm was too thin to belong to a normal person and was almost translucent from being out of light for so long. Nellone tried to pull out of its grip, but despite the frail appearance the arm was clutching her with every ounce of greed it possessed.

“I want these.”

“What?” Nell’s heart thumped much too loudly.

“I want these shiny claws.”

As soon as the voice finished, Nell unleashed a spray of tiny, sharpened feathers around her, striking the arm multiple times until it fell limp. Nell hurried down the road.

At the opposite end of the town, high chain fences and mounds of trash separated a small shack from the rest of the formerly grandiose town. Using a talon to crush the rusted padlocks into the property, Nell pushed the gate open and began tip-toeing around broken cans and bottles. After the initial garbage, it was merely a facade to keep out the rest of the town; instead, deliberate and partial contraptions of which Nellone had never seen scattered the lawn before the house. One of them included three large wood blades at the front, another included a stretch of wood that read “Olem’s Wares” in chipped red paint. Without pausing to examine the contraptions further, she ducked inside the hut to find her last hope.

Nellone smelled him before she saw him. He was laying on the floor about six feet from the entrance, face into the floor, multiple large poles of metal sticking out of his back, and a crusted brown splotch stretching wide on the floor. He’d been an inventor, one that was infamous for his gall. He would have been the only one left that would have agreed to fly up to the sun.

Nell swallowed the rising despair to look around the house and yard for anything that might be useful. The contraptions, though they looked less broken than the rest of this town, were much beyond Nell’s capabilities, and every single one was at most half of what seemed to be a whole. Inside, there was more trash, although it was probably partial to the inventor. As she turned one last time towards the door, a gust of wind blew into her face, followed by the sound of a large roll of paper falling behind her. Stepping over the corpse, she unfurled it:

“The sun rises, the storm breaks, and the desperate and daring surge forth in response as the Arena nears its awakening...Are you brave enough to answer its call? Rise from competitor, to Paragon, from Paragon to Champion, and earn the favor of the Elemental Lords. Ready your wits, sharpen your swords, and join in the festivities as Bren prepares for the coming tournament!”



Nell was again face to mask with her competitor before the woman’s chopped hair had even hit the floor. Despite only nearly dodging the wind razor, the woman immediately recovered into a low sprint, carrying the tip of her sword down and closing the distance almost instantly.

“So, are the wings just for show or do they actually function?” the spider woman taunted as she sliced sharply upward.

Although not fast enough to save the shin of her leg, Nellone raised her right wing up and her flowy feathers turned steel as the blade contacted them. As the blade slid off each hardened flight feather with a low hiss, the damaged pieces floated to the ground.

The competitor noticed this, though, and pushed her weight into Nellone as she swung, shoving the harpy back until she tripped and fell on her back.

"I recommend eloquent defiance for last words. Leaves a better impression though blubbering would also do." The modulated voice had an audible smile.

“I’m not done yet.”

Nellone finally broke her silence, flinging her wing in front of her body and spraying dagger-like feathers all around her. Multiple feathers caught in her opponent’s mask, many more slicing different parts of the competitor’s clothes and skin.

Using the opening, Nellone rolled further onto her shoulders and pushed the competitor’s chest with her open talons and all her and the wind’s might. As her opponent stumbled, Nell once again ran further towards the wall of the arena before spinning. She plucked the longest tail feather she could find and held it up by the calamus. The standing, fluffy feather danced in the low gravity before snapping upright and taut, the newly formed sword bolstered by all of the breeze the air could muster.

“I will get that boon.”
Post #: 17
7/29/2022 16:12:00   
Riprose123
Member

What felt like eternity rolled by as the blizzard rolled around him. He could hear the whispers and calls of the dark shapes that lurked in the snow just outside his vision. Helmold’s shield stayed rigid in the air, covering his body and face, braced for whatever blow that the shadowy figures may deliver. He could only hope that wherever his opponent lay, he was experiencing the same type of hell that Helmold was witnessing. Some of the voices he recognized, some were strangers, and some cut him to the bone.

“You are a knight, aren’t you? Act like it!” cried his Master from the snow, disgust dripping from his words.

“I am with you, forever,” cooed another, eloquent and sweet from the snow that brought noting but sorrow with it.

“Please, please sir, think of my family,” cried another, his begging reaching a fever pitch followed by a ghostly thunk of wood on bone.

As the blizzard around him worsened, the voices began to quicken and merge. Even as mailed mitts covered his ears, the voices screamed and clawed into his brain, piercing his psyche like thorn through flesh. As they drew farther and farther into his brain he stood up, releasing the vines around him in a near blind state of panic. As he did so, the voices began to fade and his breath returned from him. Quickly collecting his and shield as he steadied his feet and ragged breathing, he turned to face his chosen opponent.

Helmold wondered for a second at his opponent’s ability, before he realized that the boy had not in fact turned into a pillar of ice, but instead stood tall upon it. Craning his neck to glare at the young warrior, he twirled his spear once and moved forward, jabbing up at Wister with the spear’s pointed end. “Who are you, that uses my own memories against me?” Helmold asked, gripping his shield ready to deflect an attack, knuckles white with rage.

“Me?” Wister asked incredulously, “I’m a nobody. Why, what did you see?”

“I saw a scared boy that lost his nerve in the face of danger. While I can understand your wit, I will not return it. The tactics you use are craven and cowardly. A knight’s past is their own and how you know of mine is troubling.” Helmold said, his stance becoming determined and stoic. “For a boy so cold and icy, you don’t keep your cool well.”

“Cold?” Wister asked, deflecting Helmold’s attack and returning their own, “I’m not cold. You’re the cold one. That’s the whole point of me.”

As Wister returned the stab that Helmold had offered, his lazy block turned to pain as the spear’s head grazed the side of Helmold’s head. Blood running over his left ear, he stumbled back a half step, breath hissing in pain. His face setting into a grim frown, he spun his spear once, and with the blunt end he jabbed up quickly at Wister, feinting, right, then left, then center. Wister caught the blow on his shield, but with the added coverage of the blunted end and Helmold’s determined strength, he was knocked off balance. As he watched Wister fall down the other side of the icy pillar, Helmold launched himself around the side of the pillar, twirling his spear once more and launching it from his hand as he locked eyes with his target.

“Be it by spear, blade or mailed fist, you will fall beneath me. I will not fail in my Burden,” Helmold shouted, drawing his sword and closing the distance between himself and Wister, holding his shield ready for any counterattack.
DF MQ  Post #: 18
7/30/2022 2:50:36   
deathlord45
Member

Wasn’t expecting them to be defensive appendages, but that’s what I get for assuming anything about an alien lifeforms.

Nell had hardened her feathers to create a shield over most of her body protecting the harpy’s precious vitals from Fran’s blade. Unfortunately it didn’t seem that they were hardened to be actually as strong as simple steel, double unfortunate was that Francesca was taller and likely heavier than poor Nell. The pirate queen quickly altered her approach to better leverage her size advantage to topple the bird and create an opening.

Talons on a mostly smooth floor aren’t great. Even if they aren’t pointy or all that big they still create a slip hazard as they reduce traction. Commendable that she hasn’t fallen from it already.

With a final surge Fran forced Nell to take a half-step back in order to stabilize herself, however the force and momentum that Fran had imparted into the smaller harpy coupled with what Fran assumed was probably a lack of traction caused her to fall onto her back. Stepping forward a half-step Fran prepared a powerful swing that would quickly end this confrontation.

I should at least let her have some last words. Everyone has a right to them no matter what they may be.

"I recommend eloquent defiance for last words. Leaves a better impression though blubbering would also do."

Blubbering really wouldn’t do for a setting like this, but you can’t really do anything about such specific reactions.

“I’m not done yet.”

A hidden grin spread across Fran’s face at the small, yet driven defiant voice of the individual in front of her. The itch to use her gauntlets returned with a ferocity that the pirate hadn’t felt in years of traveling and fighting, as Nell whipped her arm into the space between them releasing a flurry of feather flechettes. On instinct Fran lurched backwards away from the many tiny blades, an opening the harpy wouldn’t leave unused. A sudden kick from her opponent forced the pirate captain even further back.

Alright that one is on me. This is what I get for not listening to my own advice.

A memory of an argument between Fran and her cousin flashed through the pirate's mind before she refocused on the one before her. Pulling some of the feathers out of her mask and stowing them in a belt pouch, Fran watched as Nell pulled out a tail feather that rapidly straightened and stiffened into a mock sword.

At least I lead with my right so I’m not covered in cuts by that attack thanks to the coat taking plenty of the body shots. Nothing feels like a lethal wound but that doesn’t mean they weren't or wouldn't be ones soon. The dress is probably also ruined, so that’s another apology when I get home.

“I will get that boon.”

Yet again a smile spread unseen by everyone but felt by the one who smiled. Determined, defiant of the odds stacked against her, the pirate was surprised that she found someone similar to herself here of all places. Even though she was bleeding from several cuts the pirate captain couldn't help bu be excited at the challenge presented to her in the form of Nellone.

“Good to know you actually got some fight in ya but this really will be as far as you go.”

Fran felt her hair start to stand on end under her coat as energy in the form of electricity flowed from somewhere deep inside of her. Sparks began to appear around her left gauntlet as she lifted it up and aimed at Nell. The little sparks grew in both number and intensity as the electricity coursed out through her nervous system and to the gauntlet, until they manifested and congealed together and arced out in the direction that Fran aimed.
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 19
7/30/2022 23:15:45   
markthematey
Member

The blank mask's eyeless glare bores into Symbol. His stolen form mockingly stands idle but Symbol did the same. His core nearly overloads with a barrage of internal conflict. His mind still feels numb from whatever this mimic did to him.

Symbol feels a glitch as something in his mind unlocks. Whether it was seeing his reflection or the mental invasion that sparked it he doesn’t know. A memory once locked away reveals itself.

Still staring into his reflection, a command rang through.

Reading new memory log.




Symbol stood thoughtfully in a mirror. Eyeing the complex suit chosen for him, he pondered its worth. Is dressing in such intricate clothing for a simple event worth the time spent? He did not know but he felt satisfaction in wearing it.

A knock at the door, followed by a small voice, “Symbol, hurry up! We’re going to miss the meteor shower!” A childish yet jubilant voice shouted, brimming with excitement.

“I will be ready in a minute client Rosemary,” Symbol called back as he fixed his tie.

“I told you, just call me Rosey. I’m going to head to the hill. You better be there!” In a series of small footsteps, she rushed off.

Symbol sighed, They won’t fall for another 30 minutes but being early never hurts. I can’t understand why she isn’t just a hair more patient.

He turned towards the door but stole one last look into the mirror. To his own surprise, he was smiling.




Just as quickly as the memory came did it end, leaving Symbol in a daze. The log is still being processed when an incredible wave of grief envelops Symbol’s core. This intense feeling nearly overloads him, coming from somewhere unknown. His eyes widen and his breath becomes short as the all-encompassing emotion envelops him.

Thoughts are interrupted as the imposter speaks in a choppy yet systematic way.

“Threat… Assessment Dangerous. Initiating combat mode. Chosen style longsword. M.W.H.A.”

The copy’s speech mimics Symbol’s own internal commands. The code that directs his thoughts and actions.
Is this person trying to take his place? No, this was his mission alone. His purpose. It could not have this. Not his form nor his reason for being. He feels a compulsion stronger than anything to complete it. Something beyond his code commanding it.

Anger fueled by grief rises within Symbol. A feeling he knows is irrelevant and that only would hamper his abilities. Yet it directs his thoughts and voice, “You…”

A low growl that grows until he is nearly yelling, “Give it BACK, You CAN’T have it!”

Symbol waits for a response, ignoring the code demanding him to press the advantage as the sham gained its bearings. That could wait, Symbol needed an answer.

The fake raises a hand to its mask still stumbling but it gives no more response. In a flash, it lunges forward, a deadly strike aimed at Symbol’s neck. The umbrella is painted red once more in his optics.

Conducting defensive maneuver

Symbol reacts smoothly, just as his code directs. Symbol mimics his previous defense, attempting to deflect and then ride the opponent's weapon for a swift strike against their chest.

They were prepared. The umbrella pivots, predicting the defense. Whirling in a circle, it whips at Symbol's legs, The sharp edge causes a flow of deep blue liquid to coat his legs. Before he can fall a knee harshly collides with his chest. Grunting in pain, Symbol stumbles back as a pool of blue oil coats his tongue.

Once more, the fake moves to attack, aiming to rake its blade across Symbol’s chest. Symbol’s optics lock onto the incoming strike, able to deflect the blade as it comes inches away. The copy speaks but the words are unnecessary and aren’t provided to the Symbol’s processing stream.

An opportunity. Symbol chains his deflect into a strike at his foe.

Engaging MWHA, weapon chosen: short sword.

The longsword disengages before it ever connects to the opponent's block. It falls and clangs with the ground.

A short sword forms replacing the other. It barely finishes linking together as it passes the fraud's guard driving itself deep into their gut. A stream of water poured out, splashing against the floor.

Symbol lets out a breath of exhaustion as he holds the blade there. Blue oil dripped from his lip as he pants.

Foe successfully eliminated. Carry on with the mission

A silent reassurance washes over Symbol. His goal is never to kill but it is unavoidable here. His likeness speaks once more. Symbol listens to their swan song as he prepares to wretch the blade from its stomach.

“I don’t want to be -”

A sound of a click echoes in Symbol’s processing. Something feels wrong, the rising fierceness isn’t the words of a dead man.

“YOU”

Symbol tries to react but it’s too late. A hammer with the weight of a boulder collides with his head.

Re-analysis, Foe waAs not- ssuccces!~~! Error#!!#@$


Post #: 20
7/31/2022 22:03:45   
  Chewy905

Chromatic ArchKnight of RP


The figure’s face, ever-masked, breaks the surface. A single breath is taken, a single scream of defiance against the gripping tide of memory, before it is dragged down once more.



“Threat remains… LEAVE ME!” Umbrella pushed onwards. He slipped below the surface already, losing hold of that oh-so-treasured voice that had spoken over all the pain. The rage, the grief at this loss stoked his offensive ever forwards. Yet blade slipped out of his gut, metal hand pushed against the encroaching wall, and the man fell free of the rush.

But not enough. Wall crushed shoulder and the man reeled off from the force. A click of a button brought open to closed as water sheathed the umbrella once more. Ulum stumbled back, pain ever-echoing. For a flash, copied metal-flesh turned to watery blue, his pearl core pulsing gently in place of a mechanical heart. He snapped straight up, muttered voice escaping his lips as the metal again replaced his watery visage.

“Target vulnerable. Eliminate… threat.” A cough. Water splattering on mask’s inside. Patchwork thought rolled through splintered mind. Faux-steel blade rose,and the metal man expanded, orange cylinders popping from shoulder and elbow, lightning jumping from steel to steel. Ulum’s eyes widened beneath his mask.

Fear. Pain. The two are felt at once by the Paragon in the sands as her limbs convulse, by the man who was too high on the hill as his clothes alight, by the pond in the sunlit grove. The pond that took a strike from the sky. The pond that screamed as it felt the first thing it ever felt: lightning and electricity scattering across its entire surface far faster than any ripple. The pond that experienced its first ever memory, and wished to never have one again, to hide, to retreat, to run. To run.

Run.

Fire Lightning killed his charge. Snake Lightning bit into her ankle. Demon Lightning betrayed their family. Every horrific memory… They were all… It was always... It had always been... It…

Ulum screamed at the false memories, at the fear, at the lies. He scrambled away, eyes panicked, gut burning in pain both felt and imagined. Umbrella stopped midswing. A click of a button brought close to open once more, shielding sight from the sparking, dancing fear. Dropped blade, forgotten upon the ground, danced in time at the call of the machine’s lightning and unbeknownst to the drowned mind. It spun through the air and clipped the ankles of the fleeing reflection.

And Ulum fell.
Post #: 21
7/31/2022 23:19:59   
Anastira
Member

Wister is beginning to think the Knight of Ivy is slow.

At least - everything feels slow, sort of as though time’s been stretched with anticipation. Even Wister’s own heartbeat feels sluggish. They clench their teeth and spin Celsius once more, a blur in their fingers, as the Knight’s eyes scan from the bottom of the ice pillar to where Wister perches on the top. Wister wonders what they would see, if the Knight’s face were visible: worry? Fear? Disappointment? Confusion? Wonder? Or maybe just a carefully blank slate, void of emotion.

Nefeli was like that. Wister never knew what she was thinking - except when she wanted him to know. Those were the worst times.

“Who are you,” the Knight cries; words dripping with anger, shield at the ready, “that uses my own memories against me?” He jabs upwards as he speaks, the spear flashing dangerously at Wister, and Wister half-dances to escape its tip, turning its haft aside with Celsius, their footing slippery atop the ice pillar.

Wister hesitates to respond. There are many things they could say, and all of them would be the truth. (Dishonesty - Wister hates dishonesty; especially on the battlefield. Manipulation. All of it is dishonorable. Maybe, in a way, Wister is a knight, too, deep down. They’d like to think so.) What to tell the Knight of Ivy? I am Wister, just a lonely orphan. I am Wister, and I’m here to commit a crime and save a world. I am Wister, and I just want home. I am Wister, and I’m nothing but a pawn sent by a goddess’s good will. I am Wister… Names. Names are meaningless. Anyway, nothing too dramatic - Wister isn’t a real knight, after all. They’re just…

“Me?” Wister says, shrugging, affecting nonchalance. “I’m a nobody. Why, what did you see?”

Not a lie. They really don’t have any inkling what the Knight saw. Or, at least, they have no inkling of the specifics. Certain things they can guess at, from what the kaleidoscope’s shown them themselves. Dark things, memories, sometimes even snippets of the future - a real future, a possible one, or a pure fantasy, impossible to know. But it’s never easy. Wister can’t remember a time their own kaleidoscope dreams didn’t rob them of sleep.

But the knight doesn’t seem to care whether Wister’s been honest. “I saw a scared boy that lost his nerve in the face of danger,” the knight throws back. Not very witty, this one, Wister thinks. Also, I’m not exactly a boy. I don’t know what I am, really. Their knees are beginning to ache from crouching so long. “While I can understand your wit, I will not return it. The tactics you use are craven and cowardly. A knight’s past is their own and how you know of mine is troubling. For a boy so cold and icy, you don’t keep your cool well.”

“Cold?” Wister laughs, smirking down at the knight. “I’m not cold. You’re the cold one. That’s the whole point of me.” Craven and cowardly, am I? What a polite knight you are. They stretch downwards, extending their reach, striking hard with Celsius; the tip finds flesh along the side of Helmold’s head, and Wister lets their smirk widen.

The Knight jabs upwards again - left first, and Wister sees it coming, recognizing it for the feint it is, pulling Fairest up to block right, the blunt end hurtling at Wister - why the blunt end? - at the last moment, the Knight’s spear changes direction and hits Wister dead center, turning Fairest at an angle. The ice underfoot feels as though it’s slipping away. Wister reaches forward with Celsius, driving it towards the ice pillar, but too late: the tip barely scrapes ineffectually across the ice’s surface, leaving a long, shallow scar there as Wister tumbles onto the arena floor.

Helmhold is there before Wister can even find their feet, that deadly spear twirling in his hand as he rounds the pillar and launches it; it careems towards Wister and slices them just over their eye. In the same motion Helmhold takes sword in hand, holding Wister’s eyes levelly. “Be it by spear, blade or mailed fist, you will fall beneath me. I will not fail in my Burden,” the Knight proclaims, shield ready.

Wister takes one look at the pillar, and breaks a piece off with their mind, watching it tumble down awkwardly. A distraction - hopefully. At the same time they raise Fairest in front of them, angling it so its reflection bounces off the arena’s mirrors, the same kaleidoscopic quality of Wister’s own clothes.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this of anyone,” Wister says, eyes dancing with amusement, “but you talk too much, my friend.” As they speak, another ice pillar rises beneath them, carrying them into the air - lower than the first ice pillar, but a little wider. Wister’s hands go to their belt; they count out their throwing stars - three frostblades at the ready.

And then Wister waits.
AQW  Post #: 22
8/2/2022 23:06:21   
shuurp
Member

The rising sun’s rays snuck under Nell’s eyelids, disturbing her sleep. Rising, she walked out of the barn she was staying in and observed the results of the light snow that fell overnight. It was cold here, too cold.

“Good morning, Nellone,” the doctor said from a small roofed area on the side of the barn. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine,” Nell responded, huddling her wings close to her and fluffing up her feathers as much as she could.

“You need to put on the cloak I made you, it’ll help you regulate your temperature.”

After going back and taking the time to convince herself to wear the fur cloak, Nellone met the doctor back outside to silently investigate his daily endeavor. Although he was a doctor of the nearby village, he frequently attempted many different types of projects. Today, he had a small pile of glass circles cut into different sizes; some were the size of a large coin, and one was even as big as a large plate.

The doctor smiled after spying Nellone’s gaze. “I’m making mirrors today. They’ll help me see odd angles inside mouths, wounds, and more.”

“Is that like the one in your hallway?”

“Yes, that’s a mirror, too. That one’s for Leah, though. She likes to see what she looks like before she goes out for the day.” The doctor worked as he talked. He had silver hair now, and he wore a thick coat, but his pair of gloves were so worn that he could easily maneuver them. He sprinkled small silver flecks unknown to Nell over the top of the glass, then took a rubber brush and began working them over the top of the large glass circle.

After a moment, he spoke again: “Would you be so kind as to gather some more yalliaso for me? I should finish this today while it’s cold.”

Nell nodded, then set off into the nearby mountains. It was less of a mountain range and more of a mountain, but it held a plethora of herbs that the doctor used to make medicine. He was renowned for his medicinal and alchemical abilities, and while he worked on an alternative cure for Amily, she had begun to assist in gathering herbs since he had trouble in the cold.

Nellone thought of her sister while she gathered the plentiful herb. How was she? How many feathers had she lost since Nell had last been to see her? Has she been able to feed herself? Was she even still alive?

The faint twinkling of a rare omorry flower brought her back to the present. The doctor had spoken of the beauty and incredible properties of this flower, as well as stressed how difficult it was to find. Yet, there it sat, blooming out of the sheer side of the mountain next to her. It was far from both the ground and the next ledge up, but Nell still saw its sparkling petals.

She fluttered her wings gently under the cloak, gaining a few feet of air, and reached out at where she thought the flower was between her dizziness, but it was still out of reach. Taking off her cloak, she spread her wings and once more went up, going as far as seven feet off the ground to reach the flower; her fingers brushed the stem, but before she could grasp it, the world went dark and she fell into the snow.

As she came to, a memory of a healthy Amily’s disappointed and concerned face projected in her mind. How long are you going to live like this? she’d asked that day.

Finally, Nell stood up, and sent a small but precise arc of wind towards the stem of the flower, catching it as it floated down from its birthplace.

The doctor was quite pleased with her acquisition when she returned to the barn. In exchange, he handed her the large mirror. Nellone held it in her arms, staring down onto herself. Once again, her sister’s words rang: Are you ever going to get over this stupid fear of yours?

“I think it turned out nicely,” the doctor said, also staring into it.

Nell nodded.

“It’s for you, Nellone,” the doctor said again. “I wanted you to have it for your room. Leah thought it would help you feel more homely.”

Nell looked at the doctor, a bit confused.

The doctor paused, then took a small breath and continued. “You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you want. I know you have your sister to get back to, and I will continue to work on the cure until I can find it, but you will always have a place here.”


Nell thought for a moment, not making any comment one way or another to the offer. The doctor, looking unexpecting, put a hand on her shoulder, once again looking into the mirror and urging Nellone too, as well. She wasn’t as beautiful as her sister, by any means, but the frost covering the outlines and tips of her feathers made her sparkle like the omorry flower.

“Leah says that mirrors are a very important piece of your day. They help you get up and ready to conquer your struggles and goals. ‘You need to be someone you don’t mind seeing in the mirror every day,’” he finished, mimicking his wife’s voice as well as he could; then he chuckled. “She’s a smart one, that woman.”

When the doctor and his wife had finally passed, Nell buried both of them with mirrors before continuing her search.



“Good to know you actually got some fight in ya, but this really will be as far as you go.”

A crackling sphere of brilliant light built up around the palm of the opponent’s raised gauntlet, and Nell dug her claws into the ground and adjusted her stance to ready for the incoming attack. A bolt shot out, and Nell braced with her sword blade ready to slice the projectile. Instead, the bolt met the sword and wrapped around her in coils, shocking her entire body and capturing her in an unanticipated stun. Nellone could only blink at the spider woman as she followed the lightning, gauntlet raised and aimed to land on Nell’s cheek.

It struck, snapping Nell’s head back and sending another shockwave from the impact down to her toes and back up again. It stings, it stings.

Nell flapped her wings to keep her from falling back into the recoil, utilizing the two feet rise, dug her talons into the back of the gauntlet.

Without a second to think, the competitor responded to the grab by snatching the other leg, whipping both down and slamming Nell’s back onto the ground with a hollow smack. Nellone gasped, the air struggling to make it back into her lungs.

Still breathless, she was struck again. And again. And again. A punch here, a strike with a sword pommel there. Nellone tried to deflect with her sword and wings, and sometimes it worked; others she felt reverberate through her body, igniting her empty lungs and every bone that had already snapped. Her ribs, her cheekbone, her arm, her spine. They all crackled with each strike and shockwave, the pain slowly stifling Nellone’s squirming until she was barely able to hold her sword in between her and the woman above her. As her vision blurred, the expressionless mask stared down at her with bloody freckles. All eight eyes seemed to smile at Nell’s broken frame reflected in the lenses.

You need to be someone you don’t mind seeing in the mirror every day, the doctor’s words echoed in her throbbing head.

Pathetic.

Nell looked to her right, continuing to barely shield and resist at each strike. The kind of dizziness of approaching death was different from the dizziness of heights; it was calmer, in a good way. Across the rest of the arena, she caught glances of a fight between two who looked exactly the same; in another direction, she saw her scattered feathers stuck in the ground at many angles; directly to her right, she watched as a tiny, dark blue feather rose up, fell down, and bounced off of the ground, stuck in a timeless loop. Rose, fell, reflected.

A mirror!

With all of her remaining strength, Nell whipped her right wing down, sending an arc of wind across the ground.

The woman snickered, taking the opportunity to shove her sword into Nell’s exposed arm. Nellone let out a cry, and the woman raised her scimitar with two hands, ready to end this fight.

Without warning, the arc of wind caught the woman’s entire side, slicing from the side of her face down to her legs. She keeled at the pain, blood welling down the slash, and Nell used her left wing to grab the sword from her other hand and prop herself up off the floor.

She wasn’t cautious about it, taking her eyes off of her opponent momentarily, but she slowly stood, legs shaking, panting, and lifted the tailfeather in her offhand as her other limb dangled at her side. Standing was victory enough for the moment.
Post #: 23
8/3/2022 0:20:46   
Riprose123
Member

Helmold’s spear caught the boy above the eye. He had hoped that the thrown weapon would at least maim or even kill his opponent, but so far nothing had gone as he expected. Having been shaken to his core by visions of his past, white hot rage filled him. He knew that if only he could unleash it, it would melt the icy pillars around him, but unfortunately the only powers he possessed were of battle and gardening. His thoughts drifted for a moment, imagining his garden at home, covered in snow and frost...




The mountain blizzards of his keep had blown strongly that year. While the flowers that bloomed in the spring were fast asleep, the walls and hedges were bright and alive with the sound of evergreen vines. The pine trees around him cried cheerfully through crowded canopies. Snow covering their ever-bright boughs. He traced his hands over the rocky walls of his garden and through the crisp leaves of the tall hedges. Wrapped in his long fur cloak, he could hardly feel the cold that assaulted everything around him. The slight sound of snow muffled shuffling caught his attention from the south and he had barely time to react as he turned toward the sound.

As the flurry of dress and furs that was his young daughter flew into him at lightning speeds, he gasped audibly, sweeping the young girl into a tight hug. He could see the Lady of the Keep following closely behind. “Sneaking up on a knight? You must not be exceedingly brave!” he said to his daughter, kissing her face as she giggled and pushed at him in an effort to be released.

“Helmold, I’d release her before she hurts you,” called his wife, wrapping herself tighter in the bear skin that kept her warm.

“My Hilde? Hurt someone? I couldn’t believe it!” Helmold said, twirling his daughter around. She laughed maniacally as she kicked against his chest, trying her best to be released.

He set her to the ground gently, the ivy from his chest wrapping around her hair in a soft crown. One more kiss upon her brow and she was off again, running into the hedges that walled his garden. Turning to his wife, he smiled lovingly, and she smiled back. While their union had started out as nothing more than a political gambit, they had genuinely grown to love each other. While the Masters of his Order had used their connections to advance their influence, Helmold had found a partnership with his wife that he hadn’t known before. From that partnership had come Hilde, the light of his life. “I have news for you, Helmold.”

“Any news from you is good news,” he said, smiling at her knowingly.

Her eyes caught the glint in his and in an instant, she knew that he knew. She burst into tears, smiling and resting her hands on her abdomen. He had her in an instant, hugging her tightly. He had noticed the slight growth of her waist, the glow that she gave off and had hoped beyond hope that what he suspected had been true. Now that he held her, he knew that he was right, but was confused by her tears. “Helmold, I’m so sorry,” she whispered as she broke away from him, “this was my only course of action.”

Confused, he watched as she burst into flames before him, disappearing quickly. “Annette!” he cried, her name falling from his lips to the small, scorched ash that she left behind. He held gingerly in his hand. He knew she had gone, but not where nor why.

It was shortly after that a shrill, childish scream of terror cut through the air, and the sounds of battle and smell of smoke filled his being.






Helmold shook the memories and tears from his eyes, refocusing himself on the present and it’s struggles. As Helmold approached his opponent, he was greeted with the boy’s upturned shield. He looked for a second before raising his own, the glare coming off its reflective surface blinding him. He could see the glare from the reflective mirrors and squinted cautiously, using his own shield to block the distracting display from this so called Nobody.

As he dropped his shield slightly at the sound of growing ice, he was faced with another glacier to overcome. Nobody stubbornly persisted with these pillars of pristine ice, forming them from the ground below. After having knocked him from the first one, Helmold had hoped that the sudden dethronement would convince the craven Nobody to not try it again. It was with a slight twinge of regret that Helmold looked now upon the slightly higher boy that he thought of his far-off spear. He could run to fetch it, but he didn’t like the idea of turning his back to his opponent now that he had the high ground. An idea forming in his head that he only hoped could work, he stepped forward, determined to ground the boy once and for all. His eyes flittered around Nobody as they stood atop the pillar and narrowed as they reached from their belt and let something loose with one quick motion. His shield coming up instinctively, there was a harsh thunk as two projectiles embedded themselves in the hard wood. The third chinked into the chainmail near his waist, and while Helmold felt it pierce through and into his thigh, he knew it was nothing but a flesh wound. Grunting at the minor pain, he broke from his practiced pace into a sudden dash, bringing his shield up quickly and slamming it into the base of the glacier. Willing the holly forward, it snuck from the surface of his shield and into the pillar. Launching himself back quickly, he watched it wiggle through the cold surface, snaking it’s way to the top. After what felt like an eternity, the hedge erupted from the top, covering what little space there was with thick, uniform hedge growth. A smile on his face, Helmold moved around the side of the glacier to where he hoped Wister was, sword and shield at the ready.

“I am a knight of Evergreen. We do not fear the cold.”
DF MQ  Post #: 24
8/3/2022 1:21:58   
deathlord45
Member

Fran surged forward after her arc of lightning, clenching and flexing her fingers as she closed the distance. Her free hand was numb from the surge of power channeled through it; while feeling would return in time, the pirate captain had no time to sit still and massage her hand. Settling on a sudden jolt to wake her arm back balled her non-sword hand into a fist as she swung straight at Nell.

Did… Did she really try to block a bolt of lightning with a feather sword? You’d think a bird-person would know better about dealing directly with the elements.

The pirate queen felt as her hand impacted with Nell’s face; it was as though Nell’s face was empty or was a lot lighter than Fran originally thought. The harpy’s head and part of her body were forced backward from the force of the punch and the differential in weight and power of Fran to Nell. Shifting her weight to continue into a combo of a physical beat down on the poor harpy words heard once over a decade ago poured out from the recesses of Fran’s mind.



“It doesn’t matter how good you are with a weapon. Be it in melee or at range if you can’t hit your target then your weapon is completely useless in that situation!. So change the parameters of the situation to benefit you!”

The cacophony of children younger and some older than Fran rose in protest of their master’s style of teaching them to excel. Covered in cuts, and bruises the young Francesca hefted a shield before charging at her master, though the shield felt heavier than the pirate remembered.



The difference of weight between what she felt and what was remembered hauled Fran back into the real world. Nell had grabbed her free hand with one of her talons, relaxing her fist that had just struck the harpy Fran reached forward and grabbed the harpy’s other leg. Twisting and pivoting around a bit the pirate captain threw her weight into slamming Nell into the floor.

Releasing her opponent’s leg Fran descended down onto her prey like a ravenous beast that sought only to bring pain before death. Looming over Nell, the pirate queen unleashed a flurry of blows of fist and sword pommel in an almost rhythmic trance of brutality.

He’s still moving. Keep hitting, keep hitting, keep hitting, keep hitting…

The rictus smile of long sought retribution that spread hidden under the mask slowly began to tear into a hollow laugh at the struggles of the one at her mercy before a searing pain lanced all through Fran’s left side. The force and surprise of the blow sent Fran rolling across the floor in pain.

“Graaagh!”

A large cut had appeared on her left side from an unseen attack or at least an attack that Fran hadn’t paid attention to. Pain seared through her side partially in her face but most of it was in her leg. A new wave of pain wracked Fran’s body with every movement as she slowly got herself slowly back to her feet. The pirate could feel blood seeping out of the new wounds as she turned to face her opponent, the healthy leg forward taking most of her weight.

“Why? Why are you so desperate for a wish?”

Fran’s voice came out as a growl like a wounded beast being forced into a corner, dripping with hate for another but still directed at Nell in front of her. The wounded leg trembled a little anytime the pirate put even a minor amount of weight on it.

Guess I snapped a bit. Hope it isn’t going to be a trend today. Though I am impressed that she can still stand after that beating.
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