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=EC 2023= Spike Arena

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7/22/2023 22:59:39   
  Starflame13
Moderator


 Curls of dawn parted to waves of brilliant blue; the sun bursting free from the horizon to illuminate the city of Bren. Its golden rays slid across steel armor and threw sparkling motes of light along silvered weapons. Light caught and danced along a myriad of glass fragments, crystals now interwoven through the stone to leave curtains of minute rainbows dancing in every corner of the city. From strangers to old friends, visiting nobles to lowly cutpurses, lone travelers and full caravans - all were painted by the Arena’s glow.

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. Past grimy alleyways and grand courtyards and all the houses that stood between. Up and over the final bridge to follow in the footsteps of Champions past, treading along the well-worn cobblestones of Supplicant’s Way. Onward, until the Complex itself stood before them; a looming gateway that swelled to meet the rising tide that surged towards it.

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

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

Moisture fled the halls, turning the air warm and dry as rough gray stone transitioned to parched, cracked earth. Slim patches of blazing sunlight slipped through slits in the ceiling, leaving bands of sunburnt earth behind. Sandstone walls narrowed as the competitors pushed onwards, their roughened veneer catching at loose clothing and rubbing bits of exposed skin raw. The crowd’s roar echoed off the twists and crevices, their cries a bloodthirsty howl that led the way to a once-gleaming grate whose thin metal was now heavily tarnished.

Hunger. Fury. Madness. Fervor. None remained sane for long upon entering the pit of Spike.

The pulleys creaked and groaned as they once more jerked into motion, hauling the grates barring the fighters from the arena upwards with rusty grumbles. Brilliant sunlight poured down from above, its blaze only enhancing the manic shouts and bellows of the watching crowds. Thousands of slim metal spikes lined the walls of the deep pit, each one mounted deep in the rust-stained sandstone walls. Each point glinting, ravenous with the promise of the coming combat.

Bits of shrapnel covered the hard-packed dirt, remnants of the once-proud Martyrs, tall obelisks of black metal that now lay broken across the arena. In its center rested a spiked-covered sphere, the orb half-buried in the ground and covered with patches of rust. Even now its malevolent aura pulled those within closer; called out to them for death and carnage.

Lightning leapt from the sky above, striking the center of the arena with a crashing boom. When it cleared, the sphere had vanished - its form now encased in a massive pillar of roughened stone, black spikes just barely extending beyond the creamy rock. Interspersed in the chipped and pockmarked sandstone was the black metal of the Martyrs, their edges sharp and shining from their places with the uneven expanse. Even bent, even broken - they hungered for blood.

The shouts of the horde above rippled and merged, their cries warping and distorting until a single proclamation reached the ears of the fighters standing below. “And so begins the Trial of the Savage. Fight or Die, adventurers, but let the Elemental Championships begin!”
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 1
7/26/2023 22:58:02   
roseleaf320
Creative!


 To sleep--
Whole families,
sinking down,
down,
down,


No, not another--
The first queen reached for the horizon,
eyes locked forever outwards,

Stop, please--
Ne’er stopped to think, to breathe, to see,

I just want--
They only wanted--


To wake was always a temporary relief for the Keeper. Eruth raised her head and steadied her breath as she pulled her mind from its stupor. Lips pursed in concentration as the churning in her stomach slowly stilled and lungs released a heavy sigh. Another world-- gone. Its bombardment ceased for now, panicked voices silenced by her lucidity, but they would break her waking world soon enough. They always did.

Panic settled to familiar dull dread as Eruth gathered enough strength to reach for her hairbrush. She pulled the bristles roughly through her dark hair, ignoring the sharp pain at her skull as it yanked at strands entangled from fitful shakes. She glanced at her surroundings: another unfamiliar bed and unfamiliar walls. The present was always more difficult when everything was unfamiliar. What had she…

The archer searched both high and low,
Through city, trees, and plains,
Yet ne’er could find
A rest;
A home;
Vast travels, all in vain.

Yes, she was searching-- the Keeper reached to her bedside for her bow--
But her hands fell upon leather tome. What--
Eruth sighed. That was a verse from years ago; she should recognize it quickly by now, yet here it played with her morning once again. Questing for a home. Eruth shook her head. What a wistful thing for someone to do.

She stood quickly to dress. Fastening the leather chestplate she’d bought for today proved difficult, but once the garment was secure she slipped on her cloth outer layers with ease, wreathing herself in a billowing mix of white, black, and pale gold. Their flowing embrace was… comfortable. Shielding. Eruth glanced to the leatherbound book covered in runes that lay silently on the table beside her. Darkened runes drawn before she could even write script, homes for the first shadows, beloved diary. Now, Eruth’s eyes reflected naught but a tool, a reminder, burning,
burning, burning,
Eruth huffed and shook her head. No use dwelling; this was her weapon now. Slender hands grabbed the book without a glance, and--

“Keeper, please--
Our stories--
We are so lost--”

Shadows descended upon the silhouette behind her, pecking, swarming it as they had in sleep, desperate for a place to land. “Fine!” the Keeper growled through gritted teeth, stomach twisting as the sky, the stars, the sea that was not hers swirled in her vision and her spellbook fell open. Fingers found faded page’s roughness and ripped, paper tearing from the tome with a grating screech. The dead clawed at every corner of her mind, desperately trying to impart their stories to another, to leave some reminder of their existence in the world, voices synchronizing as they swept the Keeper of the Lost into their last chant.

Ocean’s merciful bosom
provides life and rest for all
Yet anger untamable comes even for those
who show her grace, whole ships,
torn asunder, whole families
sinking down
down
down
Ocean’s merciless bosom claims all.


Eruth stifled a scream as the page erupted in her hands, flames curling through her fingers and turning paper into ash. She saw their deaths so clearly-- an entire people, seafaring for centuries, swallowed whole in scarce a minute. She knew their tales as she knew her own memories; mothers, fathers, children in all their lives’ joys and sorrows. Burnt hand opened, the last of the paper’s ash dispersing into air as the shadowed insects stopped their swarm and coalesced into a darkened sphere. Eruth’s dizziness threatened to send her tumbling as the shadows swirled endlessly within her grasp. Breathing quickened, vision blurred, legs gave out--

The Championships.

Eruth snapped her eyes shut and leaned forward with all her strength, hurling the shadows’ swirl into the far wall. “Leave me be!” The sphere hit the wall without a sound, darkness dissipating into a puff of air. Eruth let her back fall against the stone beside her and slid down to the ground with a thump. She tossed her tome aside and glanced down at her right hand, which glistened with red. Fresh burns and long-healed scars looked too similar to truly tell which was which anymore. Eruth preferred the stinging now, anyways. It grounded her-- quieted the voices.

The Elemental Championships. A wish. That’s what she was here for. Eruth stood slowly, careful not to irritate the fading dizziness in her skull, and picked her tome up from the ground. Now she had yet another lost clan; another vast sea of tales she couldn’t possibly hope to parse through. But… it would end up alright. Eruth summoned her strength and exited her room without a glance behind. She knew her eyes would fall only on the flickering shadows that would always-- had always-- followed her own. By day’s end, she’d be free of them-- one way or another.

“Oh hey, you’re entering the Championships, right?” A youthful bartender called up to her as she descended the stairs. Eyes followed her footsteps towards the bar, one covered by a mass of blond hair. Eruth noted his features no longer than she needed to; more interaction meant more memories to store, and she had too much to manage already. “You’ve got a while before entrance closes, want to stay for a drink or two? I’ve got a friend that should be around somewhere, I’m sure she’d love to--”

Eruth cut him off, her voice monotone. “Just a water, please.”

“Oh-- that one’s easy!” The bartender slid an open glass in front of her and Eruth grasped it hastily, grateful as the water rushed past her parched lips.

Water rages onward, unending, unbreaking,
Absorbing all in its path.


The Keeper coughed uncontrollably as raging currents swept over her senses. Even with seafarers placated, more would rise to flood her with thoughts of drowning? She sighed and wiped the spill from her lips. Apparently even a glass of water was too much to ask for now. Eruth placed it down and turned to leave the inn. “Oh, uh,” the bartender stumbled over his voice, and Eruth caught a glimpse of his folded eyebrows as she turned. “Good luck! Uh, the name’s Simon, if you wanted to--” Eruth did not catch the rest of his words as she strode out the door, multicolored cloth flowing behind her like a ghost.

She passed through Bren’s streets with head covered and eyes turned downward. She felt her destination without having to look forward, tracing steps of those before as she approached the towering arena complex. Tome cracked open as she turned up her left palm and reached with her right for the twine in her pocket. She knew enough what she might face here-- she must not be separated from the tome. Twine looped, once, twice, three times, four, to bind the Keeper’s hand to her tome of shadows.

Lives,
Knotted together with vines,
Twined like a basket
Helps carry the load.


The Keeper shook her head at the echoed lines. “Lives no longer,” she whispered to herself. Ties were never strong enough to prevent lives from becoming death.

She heeded not the shakes of fear nor the disgruntled remarks as she brushed past the line of potential competitors. Keeper slipped like a shadow into a shrouded doorway and traced the path towards the arena’s center. She was prepared for this- she had to be. Dried air embraced her lungs as she steadied her breath. It smells like the desert. Eruth shook her head and turned her eyes forward to guide her path, suppressing the unsettling thought. It was like… home.

The Keeper yelped as black fabric caught on the stone and yanked her backwards.

But glinting, arrow loosed behind,
the hunter naught expected
‘til scarlet stained sharpened silver tip.
Gift given,
with love.


The Keeper swung around, dagger brandished in her shaking hand to catch the ambusher. Yet… nothing faced her but a crack of sunlight reflecting off the shining silver. She sighed and glanced down at the cloth that was simply caught on cracked stone. This kind of overreaction could get her killed… Eruth grabbed the cloth with a free finger, not letting go of her dagger as she tore the garment from the wall. Something felt… wrong.

It took the Keeper a moment, as she halted before a jagged gate, to realize the voices surrounding her were not her echoes. A clanking sound caused her to jump backwards as the metal began to slide up, revealing the arena before her. Hesitant feet stepped once, twice, three times, four onto dense dirt, glistening eyes focused on the spiked sphere before her. A curled smile pulled at the corner of Eruth’s lips as she realized what was to come. Keeper’s hand swept across tome quickly, roughly, crumpling page in its grasp. Voice dropped low, intoning the poem that would serve to wreak proper carnage upon this place.

“A limb,
A head,
It matters not
Which first will whet
The Traitor’s axe.”


What? No! Eruth squeaked as flames kissed her skin and formed an axe of shadows in her grasp. What was wrong with her? A whimper escaped her lips and she shook her hand as if it held a spider. Axe dissolved if it had simply been a trick of the light. She hated that myth, yet it had risen to her lips so easily…

Eruth’s body jolted as a crash of lightning halted her thoughts. A flash-- and the center sphere was encased in harsh stone, harsh spikes jutting from its surface. She knew what she’d signed up for, but she wasn’t expecting… this. It was horrid. So many spikes… so many deaths.

Eruth pulled her hood further over her head and glanced around at her competitors. Once, twice, three times… four. Four others for her to best in a brightly lit arena full of spikes. The Keeper gripped her tome tightly; the booming voice did not need to confirm what she already knew. Trial of the Savage.

This place meant nothing but death.
Post #: 2
7/26/2023 23:49:19   
markthematey
Member

Who was the man that stared back at him? It resembled him in so many ways, the creases under the eyes, the wrinkles of its forehead. In the correct lighting, he might have thought that he was staring into a mirror. His fingers were still sore from the hours of delicate painting, the skin retained the texture of the stone while being able to capture the paleness of his own complexion. You could count each rib of its chest as if its skin wrapped tightly around it. Its frail fingers balled into a fist, long nails slightly digging into the meat of its stone palm.

What stood in front of Hetritch was a statue made to his liking, nearly perfect in every way.

The statue's stained gums were black like tar and its lips curled into a snarl. The expression matched the sneer Hetritch made while he scoffed at one more failed creation.

He knew something was missing; when he glared at the glazed-over eye he didn't see anything behind it. He was never quite able to capture the spark of life in his creations. No matter how long he studied how lip muscles pulled the face or how cheeks swelled with a smile. No, the careful detail he studied and applied to his works never changed the final outcome.

A lifeless statue stood in front of him. It looked as disgruntled as he felt. "Bah," Hetritch spurned. He had even searched for the perfect glass marble to match his own eye. Sighing, he picked up the hammer and chisel he tossed to the side not minutes ago and began to walk northward.

Silhouettes of forms lined the edge of his vision, hundreds of poses combined with a variety of expressions, but nothing seemed to fit. Despite his disdain for the statues that littered the canyon he called home, he appreciated the quietness of it. He wished to say he didn't care how many attempts he had made, that he had stopped counting ages ago, but that would be a lie.

Exactly 10,000 statues had formed from his own hands, the last one being his final attempt before seeking a different answer. It pained him that his own skills weren't enough to complete the task at hand but a good craftsman knows when he is out of his league. In truth, he had known for hundreds of years but kept to the arbitrary number he chose oh so long ago. Death had been unknown to him. It avoided him like a plague but he never begged for its arrival nor feared its absence.

It took a long time to notice that he had lived well past what was expected. He did not notice when the shop owners grew weary, and their sons sold him his paints and tools, but rather when their sons began to do the same. The thought grew stale and pushed it to the back of his mind, it hardly bothered him and served as a distraction. Trying to find an answer wouldn't change what he had to do nor get him closer to his goal.

Hetritch rarely left his land. He only did so to get more supplies and possibly a book on autonomy once he felt his grip on the subject slip below his ever-growing standards.

Through the various townships and cities he traded with, he had heard a whisper of an answer to his struggle. In a far-off city, north of where he resided, a championship was held. The stories said that each victor walked away with a miracle in their hands, a boon with which they could do whatever they wished.

"A fool's errand that entices the desperate," Hetritch once said when he first heard of it. What a person can't mold with their own hands don't deserve it in the first place, he reassured himself years ago. Oh how the thought lingered in his mind as he reached the exit to the canyon.

Beside him stood the last in the near-endless line of lookalikes-- or would it be more apt to say the first of the creations? Hetritch side-eyed the figure closest to the entrance. The crudeness of it baffled him. It shared all of his traits yet it was clear it lacked the careful precision and skill that he had fostered over the years of practice. The basic shapes of the form were all off, almost a miracle he could even tell it was supposed to be him.

The nose crooked like a witch and the ears were just chunks of rock left to hang off the side of the head. Some of the stone wasn't even chiseled down to match the form of him. Massive plates of stone were haphazardly placed on the arms, legs, and face. The carelessness of it sickened him. The paint had chipped away many years ago, but could only fault time itself for that flaw.

"The man who made this must have been all thumbs... and no brains for that matter" Hetritch grumbled to himself. He knew the man who made it; it was himself after all. That didn't mean it wasn't worthy of the criticism it deserved. If there was anything Hetritch hated, it was crudeness from lack of care.

To the left of that was an empty podium—the very first statue missing from its stand. Hetritch snorted, "Bandits stole another one, their bad luck they chose that one. Must've looked like the dung of a Hog-rat if it came before that one." Once again he glanced at the statue now behind him, the lifeless eye stared directly forward unaware of the disdain sent towards it.

Hetritch couldn't remember each statue he made; he hardly could remember the one he just finished earlier that day. Failures, each and every one of them. Remember the lessons
they taught, not the dead duck they turned out to be, he repeated to himself. There was no doubt he had improved his skill with each sculpture he completed. The fidelity of his works was getting closer and closer to perfection but the peak of this mountain always stood a few stones away, covered by the clouds, never in sight even as he felt he had to be so close.

The mouth of the canyon grew ever distant with each step, the beating sun and cold nights now forever behind him. There was no reason to return now, nothing back there that mattered.

The days of travel blended together in Hetritch’s mind. He didn’t need any supplies for crafting so he had no reason to stop either. It was better this way, with his thoughts not at the forefront of his mind. So much about the people he crossed aggravated him that being able to faze them out for the time being made him calm.

So much of this world was imperfect. The form was slightly off in Hetritch’s eye, a rage boiled in his heart whenever he saw it. He could normally contain it but the way they don’t try to improve their wretched selves gnaws at Hetritch’s mind. Everything was so wrong and his hands could perfect it. He’d mull over it again and again but decided every time that it wasn’t his place to fix it.

He posed the question to himself, would he be satisfied if someone else perfected his sculpture? Of course, he wouldn’t be, his work was his own. Someone finishing it would steal the entire reason he crafted such sculptures.

So he decided to travel in silence, talking to none and stopping for nothing. It only served to anger him.



He’d arrived at the city of Bren a few days past and registered with only a grunt and a signature. “The less these hobnobs better,” Hetritch grunted as he hobbled forward.

He had tried to ignore the city around him because it confused him. He’d witnessed many people of many types. Each of them is crude in its own way. Why choose to be so different if you can’t even perfect a single form in the first place he grumbled. Some had skin, others coated themselves in scales or fur. Each was so unique but each too rough in their creation! If even a handful of them came together they could easily perfect themselves. Hetritch toiled for endless years on his task yet these people couldn’t be bothered to even begin trying.

These people made so little sense to him, they spent the nights in taverns laying down wasting time. He’d even witnessed a far too large group of them put some mushy things in their mouths and water too. Such a waste of a good painting medium.

Despite his best efforts, anger had grown and raged under his skin.

Hetritch continued forward, a large gate arched well above him. it was of fine design, a simplistic gate that was symmetrical in nature. Whoever crafted this was at least adequate enough. That tempered Hetritch’s mind for the time being.

Stepping into the sunlight, Hetritch squinted his one good eye. Barely noticing sound of a roaring crowd, he took in the area around him…

Imperfect… Flawed… CRUDE…

Those were the first words that entered his mind as he cast his gaze upon the arena and the competitors around him.

The wrath he had kept within boiled up, “would I be satisfied if someone else perfected my sculpture?” The question erupted into his mind.

If they didn’t even try in the first place, it was only right for him to fix it. He saw the flaws they clearly couldn’t. He would be the careful artist they so sorely needed.
Post #: 3
7/26/2023 23:56:03   
TripleChaos
Member

Time.
Time remains frozen, an unbreakable law brought to its knees.
Nothing but Ezkeraz’s thoughts are in motion.

By all means, he shouldn’t be stuck–Every one of me!–here. It just doesn’t make sense, it’s not–It’s impossible!–something that should be–It breaks every rule they–possible.

Ezkeraz takes a deep breath and holds it in his chest. Trying to think in this place is a challenge without a strong will and a significant degree of focus. His chest falls as he lets the air go. Or it would, if he could move even a single muscle.

His eyes remain agape, gazing upon this prison that surrounds him. Upon a backdrop of darkness, countless stars like pricks of light swirl as if carried by the current of a river. In contrast, he is suspended motionless in space, unable to even close his eyes.

Even a fool could tell that this is no normal place he has found himself trapped within; If he was actually mingling among the stars in the sky, why are they moving in such a strange pattern? What is holding him fixed in place? There is no worldly logic to this space. Thus, like any other impossible phenomenon, there must be some kind of magic conducting this reality. Given the environment around him and the condition he is in, Ezkeraz could conclude that this must be a prison.

He is familiar with all manners of sealing, binding, and imprisoning spells—even if he hasn’t the faintest clue as to what makes them work. Maintaining the stability of the timeline frequently leads to detaining anyone or anything whose existence would violate that stability, since trying to erase them entirely takes a great deal of effort. So he has worked with associates that assist him with such magic on many occasions.

Associates... Who was the one he worked with the most? Ezkeraz strains to remember, but to no avail. His thoughts are a mess, out of order and missing pieces. It’s as if his state of mind is stuck in a single moment, captured when he was surprised, or–It just doesn’t make sense, it’s not–confused. His face remains still even as he attempts to squint in focus. He doesn’t need to remember names right now. He needs to find–I need to find a way out–a way out. Then, when he gets out...

... When he gets out? Patience is a useless skill when you’ve been deprived of everything, with even your time taken from you. A second or a century could pass and Ezkeraz would have no way of telling. No sigh passes his lips as he continues to explore his thoughts.

* * *

Nothing but Ezkeraz’s thoughts are in motion.
By all means, he shouldn’t be stuck...

In a single overwhelming instant, he could feel again: The heat of the sun on his cheeks, the weight of his armor, the air in his lungs. He gasps as he lurches forward, regaining his balance. As he takes a step forward he can feel another sensation fade slightly, a suffocating... presence... as if his thoughts are overlapping with many, many others in a space the size of a pebble.

The feeling of relief passes shortly, and Ezkeraz realizes he is standing in the middle of a bustling street. Despite stumbling, people still pass by him, paying no mind to a stranger appearing from thin air. At least from his perspective. Could this still be a part of the–Could this still be a–prison?

Ezkeraz winces, that crowding feeling still lingering. It was hard to recognize it inside that magical prison, but it is a familiar sensation: As if another person was speaking in your mind. Where he was from, it was rare for a person to experience this sensation even once in their lifetime, with a few exceptions. Ezkeraz was one of those exceptions, as were all the people he worked with.

In fact, from a young age, he has been surrounded by people that all share the same talent. He lived at a sort of temple, something similar to a religious order. Everyone there was taught the truth about their talent: Those voices are not imagined, they come from far, far away. From another version of you that could be close or far, similar or not at all like yourself. That’s the end of what Ezkeraz remembers from a few lectures at least.

Most of those in the temple continue their studies, trying to learn more about the nature of “timelines” and “the multiverse.” Though for Ezkeraz, lectures put him to sleep and he lacked book smarts. Instead, he chose to become a fighter, dedicating his life to preserving the stability of all timelines. Hrmm... Why does he feel so strongly about duty if he didn’t learn it himself?

Ezkeraz takes a deep breath. He should wait until he’s on death’s door before letting his life flash before his eyes. He’s been standing in the street for a while now, and some of the street vendors look like they're working up the courage to ask if he’s alright.

As his head turns this way and that in an attempt to take in his surroundings, he glances at his arms. Stretching across both his bracers are streaks of branching lightning, glowing dimly and moving as if blown by a breeze. Ezkeraz rushes to hide his arms by crossing them close to his chest, but no one around him seems to be alarmed. They must be some kind of residual magic from the prison, or perhaps from whatever spell brought him to this city. He lets go of the breath he had been holding unconsciously. He allows his arms to fall to his sides as he joins the crowds that had been giving him a small berth and begins scouting out the city.

* * *

It didn’t take too long before he heard the name of this city, Bren, from a few conversations carried by a pleasant wind. Even with his memories fuzzy, it wasn’t a name that sounded familiar. He could make a guess he wasn’t anywhere in his own world, but some of the unusual-looking people and creatures he passed were enough to erase any doubts of that. Despite that, he doesn't feel as if he has trespassed over any boundaries. It’s almost as if he’s supposed to be here.

A breeze passes through his dark hair and he relaxes his shoulders a little more. Even in strange lands, he is glad to be able to think clearly again. Presently, Ezkeraz had taken off his helmet and is sitting on a bench outside a smithy, waiting while the short man inside strikes his anvil. Now that he’s had a chance to explore the city, his “selves” have most likely spread out, which would explain why that released pressure he felt upon arriving in Bren has further been–relieved–relieved.

Ezkeraz grumbles at his own impeccable timing as he places a hand on his temple. How could something like this happen in the first place? Even ignoring all the jargon about infinities that he prefers to avoid, it should be next to impossible for every Ezkeraz to appear in the same place, at the same time. It would be like funneling an ocean through the eye of a needle. Er, no, was it weaving an ocean of threads with a needle?

“The only time I’d want one of those bookworms around” Ezkeraz mumbles to himself as he stands up. The hammering had stopped moments before, so he goes to speak with the blacksmith. They place his swords on a counter and take a seat. Ezkeraz lifts one of his swords and admires the craftsmanship. Light sparkles in his hands, the flame of the forge reflecting on the silver coins taken from his pouch. He was surprised to find out earlier that the people of this city accept the currency he has.

The blade in his grip shines true like a silvered mirror, and with both edges bearing exactly the correct sharpness for its size, it’s no challenge to appreciate this smith’s skill. It was exactly because of this that it was even harder for Ezkeraz to barely hold back a sigh. He places the coins in his hand on the counter and grabs the other sword. Before the blacksmith could humbly refuse such a generous tip, the swords in his hands flash with a faint light.

The expertly repaired weapons he was holding a moment before were gone. In their place, a pair of replicas. They were the same swords in truth, but that would be hard to discern with the dozens of chips and rust along their edges and the leather on their handles starting to unwrap.

He gingerly places them on the counter again. The blacksmith takes their eyes off the coins, looking up without a hint of humor. Ezkeraz guesses they must be thinking that they should have shoved him onto the street after the first time he pulled this little trick; Or the second, or the third. He couldn’t tell if it was his own serious gaze or if he had accidentally overpaid, but the blacksmith pushes the coins onto a plate and rises from their stool. With only a few complaints about a busy day, they return to the grindstone with his swords.

Ezkeraz walks out of the smithy, returning beside the bench but not taking a seat. The fugue from that prison is wearing off, but he still can’t remember everything. A bout of amnesia. Not uncommon for those stuck inside a magical prison. Besides the memory loss, he feels as though his prison impressed upon him a strong feeling of déjà vu. How long could it have been, inside there?

He shakes his head. He shouldn’t try to grasp questions without answers, that won’t lead him anywhere. Instead, he turns his thoughts to what he can remember and that associate of his comes to mind. After giving it more thought, he remembered how they were actually his mentor, ever since he began weapon training. Despite no longer being their apprentice, he still found himself working with them quite often. Ezkeraz’s eyebrows furrow trying to remember what they looked like, but nothing comes to mind. He does recall that they taught him almost everything he knows, and cultivated the strong sense of responsibility that drives him, all of him, to use his talents for the greater good of all timelines.

That feeling of duty didn’t stop yet another sigh from escaping his chest. He was stuck in whoever knows where, after being stuck in a jail that defied reason, and he could hardly figure how he got stuck in either place. If his mentor was here, they’d probably have some quip about how younger folks hardly know what a real pinch is. Ezkeraz would enjoy spending time reminiscing, but he can’t just sit still. He turns towards the symbol of Bren, the arenas. He can feel a pull in his gut in the same direction. It also happens to be the largest structure in the city, and seems like a good place to start patching together an idea of how to get back to his own world.

After his swords were fixed, of course.

* * *

A rusty gate and coarse sandstone walls on either side surround Ezkeraz as he waits to enter the arena. A stark difference from the neater brick walls of the main entrance, where he had applied for entry. On his way to the arenas, he heard more talk of the Elemental Championship, and how the sole victor is granted a single boon. He figured that with no other obvious choices, fighting to earn that wish is probably his best bet for getting back to his world. Or at least he could use it to make sure it doesn’t get sent back to that prison for eternity.

The application process had been simple enough, and the clerks were helpful in explaining the details of the tournament being held—Although he had to settle on “energy” as an element after trying to explain his talents as simply as possible. It was a shame that they could hardly recognize his magic. Their ignorance reinforced the idea that this tournament may be his only hope to save himself.

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of machinery whirring to life, as the grate in front of him is lifted with more creaks and clashing gears than it was worth counting. He stands before the rising gate alone, but he can’t shake–can’t shake the feeling–the feeling that… that he wasn’t alone.

It makes sense that some of him would be in the same approximate space. Perhaps they started another time or found themselves in different arenas. Either way, Ezkeraz was still glad that it was a more manageable feeling than when he was trapped.

The grate jerks violently to a halt, as if it would have loved to grind itself into scrap against the ceiling. Ezkeraz takes a step forward and a rush of warm air washes over him. The roars of the crowd he could hear before now drum on his ears with incessant fervor. Before him is a sun-scorched arena. Rust-stained sandstone walls surround the parched dirt in a wide circle, and countless metal splinters are embedded in both. The wicked spikes dispersed throughout are only a tribute to the massive sphere in the center, covered in even more spikes. He feels a force compelling him to get closer, but the directionless rage that spurs him to ball his fists tells him that it is far from the tug of fate that drew him here.

With a bit of effort, he turns his attention away from the spikes to assess his competition. Seeing no one to his right, Ezkeraz turns to his left. First is a hooded figure wearing flowing robes, gold colors accenting the black and white cloth. They are holding a leather-bound book, and underneath their hood he can just barely see one of their eyes reflecting streaks of sunlight from the many holes in the roof. The tome in their hand was already a hint that they were some kind of spellcaster, but something about their shadow rubs him the wrong way. Ezkeraz makes a note to give them more caution until he can guess how much danger their magic poses to him.

Beyond the cloaked mage, he can see a person who looks like some of those unusual people he had seen elsewhere in Bren: Humanoid, but with wings and antennae like that of a moth. Around their neck is an expensive-looking lantern, and instead of feet they have talons, with legs more like that of a bird’s. Past them is another figure, far enough to make discerning details a challenge: A petite woman with long reddish hair wearing a knee-length dress, and not holding any large weapons. More unknowns he takes note of.

Before Ezkeraz can check where the last competitor is, the arena is shaken with the sound of lightning. It strikes the sphere at the center of the arena, and once he could get a good look at it again, a towering pillar had taken its place. Composed of stone even rougher than the walls, it has yet more spikes: Pitch black and with a sharpness made more menacing by the glinting light on their pointed ends.

As his hearing returns, another blaring sound fills the arena as Ezkeraz grips the swords sitting in his sheaths.

“And so begins the Trial of the Savage. Fight or Die, adventurers, but let the Elemental Championships begin!”
...
Time.
Ezkeraz’s time is flowing once again, and his chest truly rises as breath fills his lungs.
The tournament begins, and he frees his two plain steel shortswords from the leather imprisoning them.
Post #: 4
7/27/2023 12:54:02   
DaiTigris
How We Roll Winner
June14


 The dark woods no where to be found. The impish creature knew they where many nights gone from today. Still she moved as fast as she could, skittering between shadows of humans, beasts, homes, and alleyways. Then she took to flight up and onto a rooftop. She look around the city of Bern. It was too busy and crowded. Her claws clacked across the roof and she whistled a bit to herself out of habit. Her husband was not here to give the return call to let her know they where near, nor did she expect any of her kind to be in this place. Their kind thrived under the secluded moon light of the dark woods, no doubt at this very moment they where gathering magic to feed their lanterns and practice their magic. Mooth though loved a good fight. She knew many things lay outside those dark woods, each time she found something stronger the more she strayed. She learned more too, of men, villages, and this competition. Each time venturing further to find more fearsome foes. This however was the furthest she had gone: She hoped the competition would be fierce.

She found a place to roost for the night. Time passed, the next day she made arrangements had been made to participate in the championships. Mooth did not understand the need to be put into tiny boxes right before the fight, but she had complied. The chains rattled. She jumped back in surprise and fanned out her wings to stabilize herself. Then the wall jumped up to make an opening. With that shouts from the crowds where chanting spectacle. Mooth hunkered out of the box in excitement and stepped upon the ravaged arena.

The first thing she felt was the bloodthirsty aura and then she lay eyes on the sphere. She saw vague movement to her left and right as others emerged into the arena. She didn't get much time to see what they looked like beyond that as a bolt of lighting cascaded upon the battle field. She focused to the direction of the strike, being drawn instinctively to the flash of light. It bathed and enveloped all, for a moment she puffed up her chest, being reminded of the first time she ever saw the brilliance of sunlight. It cascaded past her, fleeing as quickly as it came. A pillar of rock with blackened spikes now towered above her, like a lone dark tree.

The crowd grew more frenzied, a murderous feeling welled up inside her, till a proclamation broke through.

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

Mooth unlatched her lantern using her feet. Then let out a savage high pitched whistle as she beat her wings to steel her resolve.
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 5
7/28/2023 8:53:32   
nield
Creative!


 “Tara! Time to wake up, sweetie!”

Mmmrph… Why is Mum calling me so early in the morning…?

I roll over and the sun brazenly assaults my poor delicate eyes. “Gah…!” In what I like to think was a graceful maneuver, I rolled back away from the sun… and right off my bed and onto the floor. Ouch.

“Tara! Come on now!”

Mum’s being pretty persistent today huh… I take a deep breath, the tangy smell of ozone sharp and clear. Oooh, Mum’s doing some good cooking! I quickly throw on whatever’s lying around looking– if I do say so myself– absolutely fabulous, before charging downstairs two steps at a time, humming all the way.

“Oh good, you’re up. Don’t want to miss your big day, do you sweetie?”

Big day? What’s she talking about…? Oh!

“Oh right, that's today! Oh I totally spaced on that!”

Mum turns and gives me a smile. We look really similar to one another, like, add 20 years on me, put me in a pretty sundress and bam! That’s what my Mum looks like. She’s got three pans set up on the stovetop and is absolutely cheating at cooking. See, my people can manipulate energy, right? But we get better at that as we get older and at Mum’s age she doesn’t even need to touch stuff to manipulate their energies, just zips the energy about however she wants.

“I’ll have quite the feast for our triumphant little warrior, so whatever else, you make sure you come back to your father and me, okay?”

“I’ll do my best, Mum. Can’t exactly make any promises though.”

“Hey hey, here she is, the challenger awakes!”

A strong pair of hands wrap around my waist and heft me up and I make a definitely dignified sound to announce my displeasure. The owner of the hands guffaws and sets me down and I turn to see Dad’s grinning face. Stocky, stalwart and heavily bearded, wearing well-worn work clothes, that’s my Dad. But don’t let his large cumbersome frame fool you, he’s a consummate prankster.

“Ya lookin’ for’ard to it, Tara?”

“I dunno if ‘looking forward to it’ is the right expression. But I said I’ll do it and I’m gonna!”

“Hey hey, there’s a girl. Best get ready, unless yer plannin’ on going’ like that?”

I look down at myself. Ugh, he’s got a point. ‘Whatever was lying around’ is hardly the correct attire for where I’m going next.

I thunder back up the stairs to my room and run my super critical eye over my wardrobe. Hmm… sturdy pair of pants, throw those on the bed… A nice, decent shirt, wear that too… Ah but a girl needs to feel pretty, so of course I will grab my special dress, because one, it looks fabulous and therefore I look fabulous and two, it facilitates secrets.

Okay, there’s my change of clothes sorted. Next up, what am I taking with me? Metal eyes… I can hand a few out to my friends to watch all the arenas, like usual, but no point taking any into battle. Magcoins and batteries… yeah I’ll take a bunch of each. Thermal grenades, uhhh. Hmm. This might be risky, but I’ll take a couple. Of course I’m taking a bunch of backup blades. And my Kyoketsu-shoge is an obvious choice.

Alright, clothes sorted, equipment set. We all good? Check, check, check and check. Get changed and get everything stowed where it needs to be. Alright, I’m now ready to take the Arena by storm! So, back downstairs I go and out the front door, Dad calling one last encouragement out after me.

I skipped through town, whistling to myself and nodding to people I know. Bunch of tourists all around, like every year, a few interesting sorts but most of them are drab and plain and boring. I meet up with my friends at the usual space, but they’re all subdued and anxious, fidgeting around.

“Hey hey hey! So whose funeral is this?”

“Tara, hey, c’mon that’s not funny.”

Jax is all frowny and serious faced. He’s the ‘leader’ of the group, basically if he left town tomorrow the whole group would slowly disintegrate.

“Oh wow so I guess this is MY funeral you’re all holding, huh? Funny, since last time I checked I’m still very much alive. Look I’ve got EVERY intention of walking out of the Arena. Well, okay maybe I won’t WALK out but, you know, on two legs or all fours it’s all the same.”

Stark silence from everyone, wow they must really be worried about me.

“Look… Tara. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said but…”

Ugh. I hate that. Dumb little heart doing a dumb little flutter thing.

“Azkel, look at me. Hey, in the eyes. Okay, do you REALLY think that I’d enter the Championships JUST because of that? No, come on, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well then why…?”

“Let a girl keep her secrets, Jax.”

“Hahh… Fine… I just can’t believe your parents are on board with the whole concept.”

“Haha, hey, they get me. Oh, and Mum’s cooking up a storm, so when I walk out of the Arena– whether on two legs or four– we should all meet up at my place for some good food. For now though…”

I pass out the Metal Eyes.

“Wow you really think you’re going to make it out? Tara, you're sixteen years old!”

“Look, Syrica there was that girl in Twilight… what, five years back? Couldn’t have been any older then than I am now and she made it out so, yeah, I really think I will.”

They all shuffle about, clearly still unhappy about the whole situation. Good grief.

“Look, none of you have ever seen how I fight, so before you just write me off like ‘oh there’s no way she can fight, she’s just our amazing wonderful beautiful elegant friend!’ wait until you’ve actually seen me in action.”

Okay, see, there we go, got a few smiles.

“You’re our wonderful, goofy friend, Tara. But alright, yeah, we’ll believe in you. Come back safe.”

Ugh, stupid heart. And why is it so warm out here suddenly?!

“Yeah okay great gotta go!”


Okay, look. I’d be lying if I said that standing in front of the gate to the Spike Arena, of all arenas, didn't have me nervous. I’d be shaking in my boots, but I’m wearing dancing shoes, so no time for shaking. I’d dance to calm my nerves but this hallway is cramped, let me tell you, no proper attention to design aesthetic, tsk.

Truth be told, I don’t like the Spike Arena. Don’t like the way the crowd of otherwise calm and gentle people bay for blood. Hearing all that while on this end of an Arena gate… whew, not a position I envy anyone.

Oh! Here we go, up goes the gate… oof, looks like the Martyrs have seen better days… Rusted sphere in the center… tang of ozone in the- wait, ozone?

I’m pretty sure I just barely got my eyes closed in time. When I opened them again, no more sphere, no more Martyrs, just one big, imposing, terrifying pillar. Then comes down the call. Trial of the Savage? And they put gracious little me in here? Uncouth, I tell you.

Well what are we dealing with? To my left… an old guy. But not like, old, I tell you this guy is old old, like ancient. He also looks like he really, really needs a bath. To my right, a moth person. Alright, we’re dealing with this now. More people further right, but let’s just focus on the immediate perils for now, shall we?

Well, nothing for it I guess. I take a few steps forward, twirling the blade of my Kyoketsu-shoge on a foot of rope with my right hand. Old dude has to come this way, moth person could go to the others, so I’ll focus more on old dude for now.

“Well then, let’s all have some good clean fun, shall we?”

I call out with honestly more pep than I’m feeling right now, but hey, confidence is good! Even if it’s fake!
AQ DF MQ AQW Epic  Post #: 6
7/29/2023 23:53:16   
roseleaf320
Creative!


 Death,
Death,

Death at the hands of a blade,
Death at the hands of a river,

Death on the points of endless spikes,
Death on the ends of conquerors’ spears,


The Keeper of the Lost died a thousand times over in an instant as the arena’s bloodlust bombarded her mind. She could not tell which set of eyes showed her own present and which showed the lost; she wasn’t even sure whether she had eyes to call her own.

A piercing screech cut through the Keeper’s deaths and snapped her mind back into the arena of Savagery. Chest rose and fell sharply as the beating sun, the roaring crowds, the endless spikes surged back into focus. The Keeper slipped her free hand behind gold and white cloth to rest above the dagger at her side. The screech could mean a threat; but Eruth’s breathing slowed as panic was met with a splash of relief. The sound had grounded her-- just like her burnt hand always did.

Movement drew Eruth’s eyes to a human-like creature a short distance away from her. From its head sprouted two large, soft antennas, and where its arms would be spread two wide, elaborately patterned wings. They folded gracefully back and forth through the air as the creature seemed to prepare for takeoff. A single, small light sparked within Eruth’s eyes, barely enough to be noticeable as the moth plucked a kaleidoscopic lantern from its neck. Eruth brought her hand to her stomach, feeling the fluttering of the ever-present butterflies beating in time with the living moth. She imagined watching a world from above, free to flit through the air as she pleased. If only she could fly as they did…

Fly home, little bird
To sandy beach,
Fly home, little bird,
To scattered nest,
Fly home, little bird,
To shining teeth,
Fly away, little bird,
Or you’ll be next.


Eruth recoiled from the voices that beckoned her towards tiger’s waiting maw. She could not fly, she would not want to, had not wanted to since age nine when that poem earned her a three story fall and four weeks in bed.

A strange shimmer caught the corner of her eye and jerked her back into Savagery’s arena. Eruth gritted her teeth as the voices faded and she turned her head to face a human fighter. A basic leather helmet framed dark hair and a sharp, concentrated face. His grass-green eyes traced her form, searching, assessing. Eruth took a deep breath, studying his gaze. She never really thought about how she looked to others, and she had… never much cared for mirrors. What kind of person did he see within Eruth’s layered robes?

Her gaze moved towards his armor, and Eruth felt her eyes caught by strange, colored cracks in the fighter’s armor. Eruth’s brows furrowed as she traced each in turn, unable to find where one stopped and another started. Bright red lines shone in her pupils, flicking instead to bright blue as her focus shifted across his form. Each line shimmered with a thousand different shades, ever-moving, neatly dividing his body into two opposing sides. Fire grew to envelop the left side of her vision, bright as noontime sun. Streaks of blue on her right blended together into a single crescent moon. It was as if…

“Tell him what he holds
Tell him what we know
Our life’s circle,
Keeper please,
Keeper, please,
Keeper,”


Desperate voices pleaded to be seen, to be known, to exist once more in the mind of another. The Keeper thrust her tome outwards, a yellowed page fluttering with the movement. Eyes opened wide, pale blue and red reflected across them as Eruth’s thoughts disappeared and the Keeper’s mind was swept into the eternal cycle. Lips parted, and the Keeper’s voice rang deep and clear as she intoned aloud the lost ones’ rite of life.

“Moon’s ice trails Sun’s fire
sweeping silvered scythe,
Each morn, carves lives anew
Reborn like babes in light.”

Darkened runes glowed against the Keeper’s entwined hand, and a thin line of bright cinders erupted around the nearest opened page. Orange flickered bright in Eruth’s eyes as the embers collapsed inwards, crumpling blackened page into dust.

Poem’s spheric shape distorted in the beating light from above as it coalesced in the air a few feet beside her foe. Distortion turned to blackened shadow, curved in a sweeping crescent. Eruth fumbled for her bearings as her vision returned. She took a shallow breath, eyes clinging to the shadowed moon as it shot directly towards her foe’s torso like a carving scythe.

Take them from me, please...
Post #: 7
7/30/2023 20:12:22   
TripleChaos
Member

Ezkeraz breaks his gaze away from the imposing pillar at the center of the arena. His eyes turn toward the hooded figure that stood closest to him. He would have preferred to get the jump on one of his opponents, but they were already facing him. It’s no doubt they’re trying to glean as many weaknesses from his appearance as possible.

The hooded figure still had not drawn their weapon; something near their hip by the way their hand rests at their side. It’s likely they have some kind of magic they read from the book in their other hand. The thread that binds their hand to it gives Ezkeraz the impression that it must be crucial for their casting. Destroying it first would be ideal, but he has fought mages before. Rushing in without gauging their abilities first is foolishness.

Ezkeraz's feet leave new cracks on the dry earth as he inches toward the hooded figure. Their hood conceals their face in shadow, their eyes underneath the only feature that he could discern. Like mirrors they catch the few rays of sunlight and shimmer in his direction. Before he could move far, they stretch their tome outwards and begin to speak an incantation.

His mind races as he steels himself. Words continue to leave their lips. Casting is limited by speech, preventing multiple spells from being cast at once. Embers appear in their book, lighting only a single page on fire. Casting is limited by their book, its pages specifically. No, irrelevant; There are too many pages to count. The ash of the page falls past their wrist onto the ground, scattered among the metal slivers. With their incantation finished, there must be something–something’s coming–I know that already!

His focus wavers at the flare of emotion, distracting him for a crucial moment. A shadow creeps out of the corner of his eye, before darting towards him. He leaps forward to avoid the magic coming at his flank, but that moment’s distraction slowed his reaction. The curved darkness would have hit him square in the chest, but instead scrapes his side just above his hip. His leather should protect him from a grazing hit—

For an instant, his senses are blinded by contrast. His eyes see the darkness of a cramped room and a figure standing near him, instead of the sun’s light upon the tan dirt; The crowd’s roars leave his ears as he hears a voice, but not long enough to make out a word. Even if for only an instant, he recognizes this scene. He had been there before, not long ago.

The illusion ends, and Ezkeraz’s senses return to the arena as he steadies himself after his feet land on the ground. His knuckles turn white as he grips his swords, and he uses his wrist to feel the spot he was struck. There was no blood or tear in the leather, but he couldn’t feel the pressure his hand put on it.

Ezkeraz’s heart was racing, both from whatever spell struck him and as a reaction to that sensory surge. That hooded figure hadn’t harmed him, but what was that hallucination? What if–I can’t go back!–they had magic that could trap him again?

He takes a step forward and raises his swords. He is still alarmed at their magic, and can’t be sure what direction it could come from. But it only makes sense to find strange magic in a strange place like this. He won’t give them another opportunity to cast a spell that easily.

His frantic thoughts did nothing to stifle his muscle memory, as he takes a deep breath and aligns his swords: One in front of the other with their points parallel, he holds this unusual stance for only a moment before a flash of light covers his hands and blades. The sudden exertion of holding back the tension of his bow was familiar to his hands as it appeared with an arrow nocked and pointed at his opponent’s hood. Finally letting his held breath escape, he lets the arrow free, launching towards its mark.
Post #: 8
7/30/2023 22:57:13   
markthematey
Member

Ire flooded Hetritch’s mind. Eight nearly symmetrical gates placed around the arena irked him greatly. Each covered in irregular spikes, their assembly clearly got the desired effect they had…

But that wasn’t good enough. The way each spike was placed had no relation to the ones that surround it, let alone consider how they should contrast with the other similar gates. Whatever sculptor handled these lacked the vision needed to create the entire full piece. The more Hetritch thought of it the more it stroked his temper. “A group of humbugs has more coordination than the hands that made these.”

He pulled his eyes from the gates and they landed on the competitors to his right. He didn’t want to mull over the design more than he had to.

Firstly there was a smaller human-like being. Their hair stood out beyond all the other features; vibrant streaks of reds, oranges, and yellows flowed brilliantly. Matching the warm colors was her dress which reminded him of a warm hearth.

Hetritch flared his nose, far far too bright, it pains the eyes to look at. A fiery passion isn’t enough to reach the pinnacle I need. He was a hard critique, he needed to be. To not give the same prying eyes to other people's work as he would his own would be disrespectful to their efforts. If the even did put effort into it in the first place.

Second was a creature unknown to Hetritch, it looked as if a moth from his canyon had grown to the size of a man. As he appraised the being his brow furred slightly, the closer he looked the harder it was to make out its form. The details looked smudged but there was a definite softness to its skin and fur.

Either the crafter forgot to finish or simply didn’t care enough to, Hetritch sneered, they are simply, far too crude.

Hetritch unlatched his hammer gripping in his right hand and chisel in his left. As he glared down moth-like creature it begin to move forward. It moved towards the center of the arena, near a large spiked tower his eyes glossed over earlier.

“You will be the first sculpture I will fix” Hetritch mumbled under his breath.

Hetritch took a firm step forward, firmly planting it into the ground below. He lowered his hunched shoulders lower and tensed the muscles in his legs. The strength in his legs didn’t match the frailness of his form. Calling what he did running wouldn’t be correct, each step nearly launched him forward in an unwieldy leap.

In only a few steps he found himself close enough to his moth-shaped canvas he approached. Pressing down harder than before, Hetritch launched into the air with a gruffed shout and a raised hammer.

“First, I’ll sculpt you a new head!” Hetritch spurred, anger lacing each word. Reaching the apex of his jump, the insectoid had time to recognize the threat. If they hadn’t noticed his approach in the first place. The wind wisped past his ears and he felt it through his thick leathery skin.

The moth under him raised the lantern it carried. Light pulled from the surrounding around it channeling within the glass casing. In the blink of an eye an uncountable number of light pellets sprayed towards him. They peppered Hetritch’s body, his thick skin mostly defended him but one by itself didn’t do much but the volley made Hetritch wince in pain. The

The swing faltered going wide of its target. He clipped the wing of the being but the attack wasn’t nearly as clean as he would like.

Hetritch tumbled to the ground, the light had disorientated his fall and he tumbled slightly as he hit the ground.

“Cruming mousetail,” Hetritch cursed to himself. He placed his hammer hand on the ground trying to push himself off the ground. This took time, his crooked back made the movement awkward and pained.

He only got up to one knee when a harsh object smashed his back, he couldn’t see but he reacted as fast as he could.

Swinging his open arm widely, he turned with the arc. The wild swing was made mostly in anger at the unexpected strike. The moth-like being had already leaped back and the swing cleanly missing.

Hetritch glared at them with his one good eye. Narrowing his brow in anger he nearly spits, “You’re creation is flawed, let me fix it.”
Post #: 9
7/31/2023 1:12:30   
DaiTigris
How We Roll Winner
June14


 Mooth gave a shake as she invoked the power from her lantern. A mist of glistening light particles clung to her body, giving her protection she would need for the fight. Then she brought her wings down in a rapid succession of beats till she took off. She gazed about the arena. To her right she saw the figure of white flowing cloths shoot forth a black sickle of shadow towards the brutish man with the strange glistening hands. She veered hard to her left thinking it would be better to let them fight. To her left She swooped past a strange olive skinned folk in a fire hued dress with flowing flames and flowers adorning their wild hair.

Then she saw it barreling towards her: a humanoid, but from it’s hide protruded stone and gray hair. It was old, that much she could tell. In an instance it leaped into the air towards her, raising the blunt hammer in it’s hand for a strike as it shouted:

“First, I’ll sculpt you a new head!”

On instinct she pooled magic into the lantern, orbs of light began to form around her.

The motes of light cascaded into it, but it wasn’t enough to stop it from barreling into her. She tried to turn away but the hammer came down on her wing, a pang of pain and then a downward fall along side it. She spread her wings wide as she crashed down into the ground, landing sprawled forward but with her legs under her.

“Cruming mousetail.” the being cursed as it brought itself up on one knee with it’s back to her.

Mooth chattered in annoyance before springing up. In one fluid movement she lashed out at it with her wings to knock him away and jumped back. It futilely tried to strike her back in anger only striking empty air. She let out a small laugh to herself.

It glared at her like an angry beast and growled: “You’re creation is flawed, let me fix it.”

“You no fix, not broken! Mooth strong!” Mooth gave an annoyed whistle as she gauged her next attack.
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 10
8/1/2023 7:59:41   
nield
Creative!


 Aaand… no response.

I let out a sigh. Bunch of stiffs I tell ya.

Old boy’s looking like everything he sees offends him personally. Rude.

Light draws my eyes over to the moth person who starts glittering with light. Should I say that’s too on the nose?

But that’s not all. Wings fluttering to life, the moth takes to the sky! …Okay they get off the ground at any rate, flying towards the pillar.

Old boy’s moving too, looks like he’s getting ready to run. Careful you don’t break your- Huh. Okay, that’s unexpected. He’s not running so much as bounding forward. Do you understand how much strength his legs have to have to move like that? He’s not some frail old man. I mean, you never know, you know?

He leaps full into the air on a collision course! Mothly, dodge him!

“First, I’ll sculpt you a new head!”

Okay, first of all, RUDE. But Mothly’s not defenceless as motes of light gather and fly into Old Man Stinky, slowing him a little. But even as Mothly tries to fly out of reach, he brings down a hammer on their wing! Ouch! Both crash down to the ground.

Well, can’t just sit here and watch. Time to move into action. Step step step and twirl forth. Twirl and twirl and twirl… and throw.

“Your creation is flawed, let me fix it.”

Wow he’s just on a rudeness combo isn’t he?

“You no fix, not broken! Mooth strong!”

…Did Mothly just call themself Moose? That’s a weird name. I’m sticking with Mothly.

I wait until the blade of my Kyoketsu-shoge passes over Old Man Stinky’s head to grab the rope again and yank down hard.

Okay, seems like Old Man Stinky’s strong… but maybe not fast. He moves out of the way, but only enough to send the blade into his shoulder instead of his skull.

Well, here we go, give it a tug and… uh? Wait. It’s stuck. Why is it stuck? Stuck isn’t good!
AQ DF MQ AQW Epic  Post #: 11
8/1/2023 22:32:05   
roseleaf320
Creative!


 Dark spots darted across the Keeper’s eyes as her moon’s scythe sliced into her opponent’s side and disappeared. She studied his face carefully, body held as if waiting for a breath. Do you hear them? His lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed, sun and moon still shimmering across his armor. Please. The Keeper had always heard their voices as if they spoke her words, could not remember a time when their memories glowed any less vividly than her own. Eruth stood motionless as sun’s red arm reached up to push a wrist into the scythe’s kiss.

See them.

A whimper escaped the Keeper’s lips as her celestial opponent raised twin swords and readied them in her direction. He had heard nothing; not really, not the way she did, with pleading lives made fragile in her hands. She had hoped, faintly, that in an arena of the best mages and fighters, perhaps she could find…

Of course not. There were no other Keepers of the Lost. Not anymore.

burning, burning, burning,


burning- Eruth shrieked as an arrow hurtled towards her, catching the sun’s reflection like an open flame. Her body jerked away, and sharp pain slashed across the tip of her ear. The Keeper gasped as the arrow ripped through her cloth and yanked the hood from her head. In a split second, shielding darkness became blazing light against her scalp. Eruth’s breath caught as a shiver ran down her spine. She was not meant to be seen, not like this, flushed in sunlight. She was meant to find shelter in shadow, to be a dark solace for the Lost. Shadows kept her from the world’s chaos, from people’s prying eyes, from having to interact and speak and bond. It kept her safe.

Secrets rest in shadow’s embrace
‘til light turns its gaze;
they scatter like cockroaches
and wilt in its heat.


The Keeper forced her eyes shut as voices of the lost and the spectators alike howled through her head. She felt and heard too much at once: it was too hot; the light shined too bright; liquid slid down her neck from her damaged ear; sunlight streamed into her eyes. Keeper’s fingers dug into her tome as too many people, too many cheers, and too many eyes stared down at her, and the lost screamed to her in warning.

If in the forest you stumble upon
twin lights dancing
like sisters playing in a grove;
run.


Embers flickered once more in the Keeper’s eyes as page turned to ash. The shadows against the ground beneath her fluttered excitedly, unhindered by the oppressive sunlight. Darkness formed a sphere in the air between the Keeper and her opponent, large enough to blot out her view of his face. Two swirling black pits stared back at her as it shot towards the archer’s face. Eruth shrunk from their gaze and took a few fleeting steps backwards, fighting the urge to flee entirely. Who did everyone see, as the Keeper’s shadowed face was bared to the light?

Was that not something Eruth should know?

Post #: 12
8/2/2023 20:52:25   
TripleChaos
Member

The arrow flies toward the hooded figure, released from the bow that had suddenly appeared in Ezkeraz’s hands. His aim is true, but they only just manage to dodge out of the way with a jerk of their torso. He misses their head, but the arrow gets caught on the cloth of their hood, cutting a gash along their ear and revealing their face.

This hooded figure unveiled is a woman with dark skin, the scorching sun shining upon her black hair, intricately braided and still partially hidden as it flows into her regally-colored robes. Numerous golden baubles are placed within her midnight locks, scattered seemingly without order. He could only see the sharp glint beneath a hood, but the dim blue of her eyes is exposed for a moment before she shuts them.

Even as Ezkeraz looks at his opponent, thoughts of that illusion she inflicted refuse to leave his mind. He could feel such a vivid scene parting some of the fog in his mind, but could that be another–a hallucination?–trick? He reaches down to pull another arrow from his quiver. He doesn’t have the luxury of time to explore his thoughts. He needs to win this tournament before he can allow himself that, and holding back now won’t help, even if he’s starting to tax his endurance. He begins to draw upon his magic.

The light of his left arm which had been wandering towards a leafy cyan is overtaken by vibrant red in an instant, matching his other arm. The cracks on his bracers stop flowing and become fixed as they glow brighter. This glow spreads from his hands onto his bow, from the center toward the limbs and onto the arrow from where he holds it near the fletching.

The air between them distorts into another shadowy projectile, starting to form the shape of a sphere this time; another spell, level with his head. Like reflections from a pair of mirrors, clouds of dull red energy match his form as he nocks an arrow. The dark sphere fully forms and doesn’t sit still for even a breath. Not an instant after it darts towards him he feels his own magic reach its peak, and he releases the tension in his bow. Two more arrows follow his own as the phantom bows at his sides fire their arrows to match the first, aimed at the torso of his opponent.

Ezkeraz ducks towards the ground, his offhand avoiding the metal splinters in the ground as he catches himself. A shadow hurtles over his head; it was aimed high, so he was able to avoid it. He pushes off the ground and digs his heel into the parched ground as he charges toward the mage. Bringing his arms in front of his chest, a flash of light consumes his bow. He grips a pair of swords now in his hands and closes in on his opponent.
Post #: 13
8/2/2023 21:56:36   
markthematey
Member


Hetritch glared down at the shadow-wisped moth in front of him. He meant his words, nor in an intimidating way. He wanted to fix them. There was so much potential he just had to bring it out.

“You no fix, not broken! Mooth strong!” nearly whistled out.

Why couldn’t they see! Hetritch grumbled to himself. No matter, if it’s for the better… A slight woosh of air flicked behind him. He quickly turned to see a blade twisting down toward his skull. In a panicked moment Hetritch couldn’t think of anything but to move out of hte way but he was too slow.

The blade came straight down onto his shoulder. Sinking into his flesh, the only thing that stopped it was one of the large rock shards on his back. A white mist immediately began so seep out, surrounding the blade. The mist wisped away almost immediately. Hetritch grunted in pain… pain he’s felt before but never like this. He’d chipped a nail and cut his hand during his crafts but never to this extent. His shoulder screamed at him but it felt as if his life was draining from his body at the same time.

Panic set and Hetritch did the first thing he could think of.

“FLARING HUMBUG!” Hetirtch roars as he grabs the already taut rope of the weapon. With one arm he yanked it as hard as he could.

She was pulled off her feet immediately. The unexpected force made her landing rough, dropping her weapon, but a tight roll saved her from hitting too roughly.

As this happened, Hetritch gripped the blade with his left hand and clenched his teeth. In one swift motion, he ripped the weapon out of his shoulder. The blade bit into his rock plating making it a botched removal but Hetritch would fix it later.

The white mist continued to flow out the wound, Hetritch feeling evermore drained but he would fight through it for now.

Turning back towards his new aggressor Hetritch, placed his chisel back into its holster while grabbing a tiny obsidian statue from his pouch. He grinned and took a few ginger steps towards the lady with twin daggers now in her hands. Flawed being, if you wish to be fixed first there are simpler ways to get my attention.

Alas, Hetritch too was a flawed creation. He knew this all too well but it was ever-apparent here. The moth creature had taken advantage of his old-forgetful mind and Hetritch only noticed when an all-encompassing heat enwrapped him.

Hetritch closed his one good eye as his body was seared from the back. His hide-like skin and plates did nothing to stop the burning. Hetritch didn’t know how long it lasted as he bellowed in pain. This pain was different, it wasn’t soul-draining like the open wound but it stuck to his skin. Captured it in an overwhelming heat that refused to let up even for a second. He had felt the heat before. The punishing canyon sun never gave him pity but this felt as if the sun descended onto him. He barely noticed when the beam had stopped and almost slumped over.

Nearly fell but kept himself standing. Opening his eye he stumbled into a turn to see the moth on the side of the pillar, holding their lantern in front of them.

Rage enveloped his mind. Flawed on this inside and out these two, FACE ME FROM THE FRONT!

“These chicken-hearted poltroons! Face this old-craftsman HEAD ON!” Hetritch threw the statue he was palming on the floor and crushed it with his boot.
Post #: 14
8/3/2023 20:11:25   
DaiTigris
How We Roll Winner
June14


 Then through the air came sailing a sharp blade tied to a rope. It seemed aimed for the head of the crude rock man, but he turned just in time to see it. Yet he was not fast enough to escape it as it cut into its back.A white mist sprayed into the air. The moment he turned back fully to her, Mooth knew was the moment to scurry away.

She hopped across the arena to the base of the pillar. Then fluttered up to a respectable perch a few feet off the ground and looked out at the battlefield. The attack had been launched by the fire haired one, yet it wasn’t fairing well for her. The rock man brute had tried yanking the rope and the lady along with it. She let go and rolled out of the path, yet the rock man was none the wiser.

Now was the perfect moment to strike. Mooth raised her lantern in line with it and began focusing. The spark in the lantern grew in intensity, causing the rays of light to refract off the colored glass in a dazzling display. As she did this it ripped the blade from its back. Then it put back its chisel and pulled out an obsidian statue. She released the concentrated energy into a single beam of light.

It raced across the field, closing the distance between them. Not even taking a few steps forward would save him. It seared into his back and it let out a wounded bay. She let out a gleeful chortle as the stone man turned to face her, its face etched with anger.

“These chicken-hearted poltroons! Face this old-craftsman HEAD ON!” it bellowed in rage as it crushed the statue underfoot like it was a frail insect.

“Chicken-hearted? Me have mothman heart.” She chirruped in confusion.
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 15
8/5/2023 6:33:22   
nield
Creative!


 Having been yanked clean off my feet by one almighty pull, one singular thought is going through my head: Whuh?

And then I hit the ground. Nothing like a jarring impact to snap you out of a daze! I drop the metal ring and rope of my kyoketsu-shoge; with the blade not budging from Old Man Stinky, I see no point staying in a tug-of-war with him, especially not since he’s stronger than I am.

To keep my momentum going, I turn this absolute floundering belly flop into a roll, my hands sneaking into hidden places so that when I come up in a crouch, I have a dagger in each hand. Wasn’t hoping to resort to these so soon but…

Oh. He’s pulled out the blade… No blood, but there is a mist rising out of the wound… Well, I find myself unsurprised that he turns out to not be human.

But I find my attention drawn elsewhere, to Mothly, but more particularly their lantern. Oh, the lightshow is nice and all, but what has my attention is the buildup of heat within.

Old Man Stinky’s attention is squarely on me. Poor old boy’s mind must be going to forget Mothly so easily. He never saw the beam of light coming.

But that heat… If I’d been closer I would probably have been caught up in it… So, Mothly, that’s how we want to play it?

Well then, let’s play.

Old Man Stinky’s turning back to Mothly, forgetting me this time… perfect. I toss one of my daggers into the air and snake a hand through my dress to grab a thermal grenade… but I’m not planning on using its function, not just yet… I also grab a coin, which I stick to the grenade.

“These chicken-hearted poltroons! Face this old-craftsman HEAD ON!”

Rude people don’t get to complain about being stabbed in the back. Oh? He’s throwing something on the ground… and stepping on- woah!

Now there’s a slab of… is that obsidian? Big ol’ slab of obsidian between Old Man Stinky and Mothly. I lob the grenade up to Mothly, calling out ”Here!” and then catching my dagger as it comes back down. But I’m not holding onto it long as I throw both daggers at the old boy.

“Hey, you’re not done with me just yet!”

He turns to look at me, a swipe of his hammer deflecting both blades, anger suffusing his features. I stalk closer, my eyes trained squarely on Old Man Stinky… but really? Not worried about him just now… Just need to get closer…

Oh. Doesn’t matter. Watching the grenade lazily fly through the air towards them, Mothly… shuffles over a few spikes and lets it drop to the ground. Ah well, more than one way to skin a cat, as they say. I’ll get you yet, Mothly…
AQ DF MQ AQW Epic  Post #: 16
8/5/2023 21:02:09   
roseleaf320
Creative!
Watchful eyes,


Eruth’s eyes flicked between her shadowed watcher and her opponent’s weapon. He held onto a tightly drawn bow that glistened with light, a mix of the same red and blue that fueled his armor. She tilted her head slightly to get a better look at the bow, but flinched back quickly as one of her dark braids caught on her wound. It flickered briefly into Eruth’s view, pulling Eruth’s attention and quieting the voices for a moment. She wanted to staunch the blood, to feel at what might be left. But she had seen enough battles from her lost to know there was never enough time to assess. She flicked her head gently, and the braid brushed back over her shoulder, voices whispering once more as Eruth pushed the wound from her mind.

Ear for an ear--


Her opponent ducked down, the shadow flying harmlessly over his head and dissipating. At his side floated two scarlet clouds, almost… not lost ones, but… somehow similar. The lost scrambled over her, each new stimuli triggering another tale, another pang of mourning.

Crimson eyes, crimson tears,


Stop it! The lost weren’t helping. She was about to be shot at; Eruth was not nimble enough to dodge an arrow to the chest. The Keeper’s fingers tore a yellowed page from her tome as she dug through the piles of the lost for an answer. Disasters, battles, heroic deeds, no, she just needed a--

Well-placed shield
‘gainst weapon,
word,
or glance,
serves its charge better than any sword.

Skin burned as paper dissolved to ash, and shadows rushed to form a makeshift handle in the Keeper’s grip. Darkness flooded in front of her, solidifying into a simple, rounded shield. Arrows once, twice, thrice, slammed into the shadow in quick succession, sending lightning bolts down Eruth’s forearm. But none pierced flesh. A strange triumph burst in Eruth’s chest. The lost always grabbed at her, clambered to be heard, their grip overwhelming. But… this was different. This time, Eruth had her own grip.

Her opponent charged towards her, hands brought together, and in a flash of light, twin swords again replaced the bow. Eruth let the shield drop from her hand. One more attack- if she could get one more attack on him before he came within range, it might make him stumble, might give her the advantage once he was upon her. A verse rang out above all the others, and Eruth grabbed at it, beckoning their voices to swell forth. Among all the death and warnings, these voices— hill-dwelling elves— chimed with a saying of hope. Eruth seized onto its encouraging tune. Silent at first, the Keeper’s voice soon rose up to meet the lost, speaking aloud the second verse of their forgotten prose.

If ever you are up against
an impossible foe,
remember:
“even the mighty hawk
is chased away
by a persistent crow.”

Embers ate at the tome’s page, and the Keeper planted a sandaled foot behind her into the hard stone. Shadows surged into the vague oval of a bird that formed over her opponent’s head and shot towards him in an angled dive. As the dark bird flashed across Eruth’s eyes, a moment of memory followed its path. The flicker of a crow’s feather, falling as the corvid cawed and took to the sky. Not a vision of the lost, but… a memory of Eruth’s own. She… yes. Eruth had always loved watching birds. She had forgotten.
Post #: 17
8/7/2023 20:10:21   
TripleChaos
Member

Ezkeraz had been distracted by the shadow hurtling towards him, and he doesn’t notice the shield forming in the mage’s hand until three hard thunks reach his ears; all of his arrows blocked. She lets the shield fall to the ground, its form becoming less rigid as it joins the shadows in the cracked earth. He continues running towards her, even as she begins casting another spell.

Though her stance changes slightly, the mage stands her ground. If these dark missiles don’t do him any harm besides confusing him, then he can take another hit and use the opportunity to surprise his opponent. Another page burns, more ashes fall. Ezkeraz readies himself to see another shape appear from thin air again. He tightens his grip on his swords; an attempt to strengthen his grip on reality.

None of the air in front of him is warped by magic, even as his steps bring him closer. He almost thinks to guess that her spell failed; only until he feels a dull strike on the back of his head. His mind lurches at the sudden sensations that illusion forces upon him.

His eyes and ears feel vague this time, but Ezkeraz can tell, he can feel it, he’s experiencing the same instant as before in that dark, confined room. He can’t clearly see the human figure in front of him nor hear the words they speak, but he can feel a rush of emotions. He feels confusion. Shock. Anger. Sadness...

... He feels betrayed. His thoughts race in the instant that the illusion lasts. Betrayal explains how he had gotten imprisoned, but leaves more questions than he started with. Where is this place, and why was it there he was betrayed? Who betrayed him? How was he trapped so thoroughly? Who betrayed him? Why would they betray him? Who betrayed him?

Ezkeraz keeps rolling that last question of ‘who?’ over and over in his thoughts. It feels important, but his memory of who he was with escapes him, like threads he can feel but not grasp. Left to guess, he could think of many kinds of people who would prefer not to have him around, yet wouldn’t want him dead. But who could be capable of trapping–all of me?–more than just himself?

His senses return just like before, this time his foot landing firm as he continues to dash toward the mage that struck him. His head aches in a uniquely unpleasant manner, but he can still think despite that draining feeling briefly spreading across his scalp. His thoughts feel as if they have to wade through water, but he still knows that he can’t waste time thinking. He can worry about his betrayer when he gets his boon and leaves this city.

Only a few steps away, Ezkeraz slows before bursting forward in a lunge. His left sword is aimed at her heart, but the mage diverts his stab with a polearm the color of a cloudy night sky. The mage barring his left hand, he jumps backward out of his lunge and raises his other sword a moment before bringing it down across the book in her other hand.

His opponent raises her hand so that the tome she uses to cast spells is unharmed, but Ezkeraz’s sword still manages to slice into her bracer. His steel cuts through a thread of the viny twine tangled around it and digs into her forearm. Nowhere near lopping it off, it’s still a deep wound that dyes crimson the white fabrics of her robe’s arm.

Ekzeraz’s eyes are fixed on the tome he failed to slash. He holds his breath for a moment, awaiting–next they’ll cast another–the next spell the mage is going to cast. After all, the shadows she has been forming have disappeared after they strike or are struck.

No such spell comes. He doesn’t have time to move when he realizes the polearm that had been in her grip was in fact still within her grip as it falls forcefully upon his head. His leather cap helps very little to stop his vision from flashing at the impact. Urgh, I–Urgh, I–really am having trouble thinking straight if that caught me off guard. Ezkeraz blinks hard and raises his swords again, matching the resolve of his opponent who does not turn away even as their blood begins to quench the dry dirt’s thirst.
Post #: 18
8/7/2023 23:38:22   
markthematey
Member

A boot smashed into the ground and the carefully crafted statue now crushed under it. The energy within the stomp would have cracked any other stone but the arena’s floor remained unmarked.

“Chicken-hearted? Me have mothman heart,” the Moth called out in a confused tone.

Even the way the person spoke stroked Hetritch’s evergrowing flame in his chest. He used that rage and directed it toward the ground beneath him.

A surge of energy welled within Hetritch. The force of stomp breathed new life into him briefly until it flowed sharply through his leg and down into the rubble of a once beautiful oval sculpture. He had crafted it out of obsidian as a trophy to himself. It was a spiral mimicking the heart of a typhoon. Each ripple was made so delicately, as if the wind itself guided his hands when he crafted it. Of course, it too was hopelessly flawed under his scrutiny but it showed a glimmer of hope for the old craftsman skill.

Now it laid in thousands of tiny pieces beneath the leather tomb of his boot. From the destruction of one came the rising of another. The energy that left Hetritch swelled within the statue and a large obsidian slab grew between Hetritch and the moth-like person.

Hetritch didn’t forget the flame-dressed woman off to the side, and was unstartled when he heard her call.

“Hey, you’re not done with me just yet!” and two blades flew from her hands directly toward him.

CLANG~ Swinging his arm in a well-timed motion, both blades were smacked away by Hetritch’s hammer. At least she had the decency to call out this time Hetritch muttered to himself, still rotten but at least she can learn.

Noticing the slight progress in this one's attitude, Hetritch turned back to the pitch-black stone in front of him. The stone looked like an abyss of black glass; too dark to see through yet beautiful nonetheless. He saw the wings of the shadow-cloaked moth a distance away but still behind the slab of pure-black crystal.

Hetritch took two steps forwards in a near trot as he winded back his hammer. He pulled it back further than should have been possible, his spine twisting slightly with it. His face contorted into an ugly sneer as he let out a battle cry.

“RAAAGH”

In a wicked motion of strength and speed, the hammer arced in a wild and powerful horizontal swipe. The face of the hammer connected flat with the obsidian slab and a sickening CRACK echoed as the obsidian shattered.

In a wide blast, near-thousands of tiny shards exploded outwards blanketing the air towards the moth. Many would surely miss, but Heitritch hoped more would find their marks.

The moth-like person flew back, raising their lantern. Light quickly shot out to intercept the swarm of obsidian but could not stop all of them.

Hetritch’s momentum didn’t stop as his arm continued, taking him forward. Right before he would have fallen his front leg planted down, nearly touching his chest. The muscles contorted as Hetritch pushed off, sending him into a sprint toward his target.
Post #: 19
8/8/2023 18:41:29   
DaiTigris
How We Roll Winner
June14


 Then from the ground shot up a slab of smooth black glassy rock, obscuring any chance for another quick shot at her targets. Suddenly there was a shout from the flame haired lady which drew here attention:
“Here!”

From that direction also came a crude metallic looking rock hurtling towards her. Mooth may have not known what it was but in all her time of getting into scraps having anything thrown at you typically wasn’t good news. She scuttled off, hopping across the spikes to get out of the way as the rock clanged against the pillar and fell to its base. Then there was a thunderous crack.

Mooth realizing quickly what had once been a slab was now a thousand shards coming straight at her. She needed to move, but knew it wouldn’t be fast enough. As she took off She conjured up balls of light and shot them off in front of her flight path. Most of them easily obliterated the smaller shards, but it wasn’t enough to stop everything.

She let out a loud screech as a few shards clipped her body. She felt a rage at the rockman, all this talk about fighting head on and here he was fighting from a distance. Then she had a wicked idea, if the stone man wanted a head on encounter he was about to get exactly what he wanted. She sharply inclined her flight path high into the air. If rock man wanted a head on encounter, he was going to get exactly that.

“Fight with head, get over here!”

Then she pulled her wings in and dives towards him.
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 20
8/9/2023 21:43:14   
roseleaf320
Creative!


 Shadowed corvid burst into sunlit air against the man colored with Sun and Moon. He startled-- just for a moment. Eruth watched his eyes shut, his head flinch. He must be seeing something; Eruth faintly wondered what its contents might be, but it wasn’t something worth truly considering. The lost would not stall him long-- his eyes already refocused on her, on the dark braids and shining trinkets that Eruth wore. Eruth tipped her chin up slightly, proudly displaying the intricacy she had worked so long on. Her opponent began his charge once more, swords gripped tightly. Eruth’s fresh burns stung as her hand brushed against the tome’s page. Eruth needed a weapon.

She remembered… a staff. Yes, that was right-- she’d trained with a staff in her youth. It was more difficult to kill with a staff; so Eruth’s tribe preferred those when weapons were needed. Keepers were not to kill. She had trained with a few weapons before the Championships, but the staff first in her thoughts. Tales of swords, atlatls, all sorts of weapons and tools flashed through her mind before she found a staff-like shape and latched onto it.

Grandmother’s Blade
cannot match Evil’s speed,
til Mother’s Branch sweeps out
and brings Fiend to its knees.


Embers stung at the Keeper’s injured palm as the paper dissolved. From it, butterflies rushed forward and formed a quarterstaff to echo the poem’s sweeping branch. Eruth thrust the staff out as her opponent’s sword swung out towards her chest. Muscle memory controlled her angle; sword hit staff and slid easily down it, keeping Eruth untouched. Moon’s cerulean filled her vision, leaving only the flash of scarlet in warning as her opponent abruptly twisted. The blade’s twin-- Reflective eyes went wide, and Eruth tried to move her arm away as the second blade came slicing down--

My arm--
a simple slice sufficed,

Agony--
blood, their paint;

I can’t--
Keeper, please,


STOP!

Eruth hissed as agony thrashed through her left arm and the lost overwhelmed her. There was more than this. Eruth would be stronger than this. She had enough control of her unscathed arm to reach out and slam the quarterstaff against her opponent’s head, a crack confirming she had hit. ”Shut up,” she hissed. You flood me now and we all die. Eruth turned her focus to the arm that pulsed with agony, taking in as much detail as she could. There was blood, of course. Her eyes traced the outline of the crimson painted across her gold and white cloths. The lost began to quiet. Crimson stemmed from a gash through her forearm’s leather gauntlet. A single strand of twine was cut, stuck to her gauntlet with blood. Some of it was still intact-- she would have to save rethreading it for later. The voices were almost silent, now. It would be more of a relief if Eruth’s mind wasn’t focused on the agony in her arm and the strong feeling bubbling in her chest.

Quarterstaff slipped and disintegrated from her fingers. A Keeper’s duty was to comfort the unremembered dead; not add to their ranks. But Eruth no longer cared about her duty; right now, her duty was to herself. If Eruth did not win here, the lost would absorb her into their ranks before long. She remembered the bloodlust that had surged through her at the beginning of this brawl. How timid she had been; letting the lost bury her like they were a second skin. No longer. Keeper’s hand leaped to her tome, eyes flaring with a fire that did not come from its pages. The paper was still tearing, still crumpling in her hands, as she called upon the words she’d once shrunk from.

A limb,
A head,
It matters not
Which first will whet
The Traitor’s axe.


Like flame from the page, darkness erupted from the Keeper’s palm to form an unassuming battleaxe. It bore only one forward-facing blade, hooked menacingly at the end of the handle Eruth held. She barely felt the burn, and could not tell whether she still held ash in her palm or whether it had already fallen. Eruth’s shadow behind her flickered like air in a heatwave. She heard the roar of the crowds above, those that watched her every move. Eruth opened her mouth and roared with them. Bright cloths whipped around her arm as she raised the axe above her head and brought it swinging forward in a wide arc to slash her opponent’s collarbone. When the crowds watched her now, they would not see a coward.

Post #: 21
8/9/2023 22:37:46   
nield
Creative!


 You know, there’s really only so much a girl can take. First, Mothly scooted away from my grenade. Yeah okay fine that was the right choice for them to make, but still! And THEN, Old Man Stinky just… turns away like I’m not something to be bothered with. They have been ignoring me every step of the way and the brief moment where I get attention on me? BAM it’s drawn back to the other immediately.

What, do they think I’m just here for a lark? Okay fine, I only entered because Azkel dared me to, a dumb little dare that has been made by teenagers in Bren for ages, not that anyone is stupid enough to go through with it most of the time. But I’m here and I sure as heck plan to give this my all.

Which I can’t do if they keep ignoring me! So fine! I’ll make the pair of you pay attention to me…

Whoops, got caught up in my head there… That’s not smart to do on a battlefield. Old Man Stinky is charging forth and Mothly is diving at him… The pair will collide soon enough. I can work with that.

I pull out my other thermal grenade and give it a quick and savage twist, the metal quickly becoming warm in my hands. Gonna be a lot more than just warm soon, so I throw it with all I can at these two.

The pair collide, each staggering away from the impact. The grenade hits Old Man Stinky and he bellows in pain as the sphere sears his flesh. Heh, that’s what you deserve… I roll to the left, grabbing the rope of my Kyoketsu-shoge, which I whirl up and swing at Mothly, intending to slice across them, but they stagger a bit forward and the blade sinks into their side.

Well, mission accomplished, I have their attention now. Both glare balefully at me, so come on then! Come at me, the pair of you and let me tear you apart!
AQ DF MQ AQW Epic  Post #: 22
8/11/2023 20:06:10   
TripleChaos
Member

The shadowy staff falls from the mage’s hand as she rips a page from her book and burns it in her clenched fist. An axe with that same dark texture appears in its place. It has a plain shape, with a head that broadens sharply as it reaches its edge, making it resemble a hook. Ezkeraz doesn’t have time to appreciate it more as she cries out and brings it down toward his chest.

Ezkeraz raises his arm in time to block its descent. Instead of digging into his collarbone, it bounces off his metal bracer, sparks shining turquoise from the cracks running across it. Far from a pleasant feeling, but it at least left a bruise rather than a deep gash.

With his grip on his swords still firm, he lunges forward once more. He slashes at her book again, but she bats his sword away with the side of her axe. He follows with a stab at her chest forcing her to dodge to the side. As she raises her axe and swings it at his side he catches it with the blade of his sword stuck in the space between the head and the handle.

Surprise does not cross the mage’s face for long, as she lets her weapon go when he pulls his sword back and rips it from her grasp. As it flies into the air separating them, its shape distorts until only a shimmer is left in the air, before that too fades away, leaving nothing to obscure their faces as they stare each other down. She takes another step back and burns another page of her book. Another spell; by now he can guess it isn’t a weapon, since she isn’t holding the page. He still can’t know where it’ll come from, so making distance between them would give him the space to dodge. These thoughts cross his mind as he jumps back and feels a familiar pain in his shoulder, moving directly onto the very spell he was trying to avoid.

His sight leaves him and the aches from where he’s been struck by her shadows grow numb. He can only hear a voice, a voice that he remembers with a staggering suddenty.

Betrayal–Why?–was the feeling stuck in his mind, but it had felt muted. He should have felt–Why?–more, even if it was someone he hardly trusted. If he–Why is it you?–hardly knew the person, he should have felt more clearly his own lack of surprise. But–But why?–his feelings were vague, lacking texture, lacking depth. Until he remembered that voice.

Tazarik. Tazarik–my mentor–since Ezkeraz was a child. Hearing his voice had–always been so reassuring–Both–his kind praise–and his stern chiding. He taught–me for years–about fighting with these two swords–about fighting with this bow–and about fighting to–protect–instead of destroy.

It was this person that he heard, this person that meant so much to him. It was his voice Ezkeraz heard explaining why he was bound with incandescent chains. It was his voice that described the manner of hell he was condemning Ezkeraz to. It was Tazarik’s voice he heard laughing at the sight of despair welling up within his dear apprentice.

WHY? Why would he do this? Didn’t he give me everything I am? EVERY ONE of me? Why? When did he plan this? How long DID HE PLAN THIS? What made his smile twist into a sinister grin? WHY? He taught me EVERYTHING, yet he would THROW IT ALL AWAY? Why? What did those ideals MEAN to him then? What did ever I MEAN to him? Was I always just a MEANS TO AN END? Why? Why? WHY?

Ezkeraz’s mind floods with thoughts spoken in his own voice, like the incessant noise from a swarm of bees. His thoughts were a mess but he could still feel. He could feel a breadth of anger that surpassed a single man. Even when the illusion ended and this arena’s metallic stench was distinct again, he couldn’t tell the voice that came from him was his own.

“WHY?”

His rage does not leave him as he remembers where he is, what he was doing. He glares at his opponent with a fury meant for another, sheathing his left sword. He tears open the pouch on his thigh and rips out one of the glass marbles inside. The shard of amethyst within glitters more vibrantly than any of the metal spikes laid around the ground of the arena. Ezkeraz does not look to see its brilliant colors as he tosses it into the air and shatters it open with the flat of his blade.

The shining cracks on his armor flare as a purple beam of light shoots out at the mage like an arrow, striking her in the chest. The beam’s light grows brighter as it hits, hanging in the air like a rope held taught. Ezkeraz charges after it, aiming to strike the mage down with a tether making it harder for them to avoid his attack.

Just before he could reach her with his blade, she takes a sharp step to the side. The tether that was near his head lurches toward him to follow her movement. Caught off guard, Ezkeraz ducks to avoid getting struck by it. In that moment, she takes another quick step forward. Closing in on his flank, she reveals a dagger from beneath her flowing robes and aims to drive it into a gap in his armor.
Post #: 23
8/11/2023 22:41:43   
markthematey
Member

Decrepit legs carried the haggled man forward at a speed that shouldn’t have been possible by someone of his stature. The wind whipped past Hetritch with each step, leaving a trail of white mist still leaking out of his wound.

The landscape in front of him was peppered with tiny obsidian shards. Hetritch paid enough attention not to step on them, though the smallest of shards couldn’t even manage to cut through his skin.

Hetritch’s mind was filled with thoughts that served only to distract him from the fight he was in. The soul-draining pain from his shoulder, the roar of the crowd in the distance, and even the spiked arena around him cluttered his consciousness. His craftsmen’s eye was too aware of all the flaws around him.

Humbug! Focus you mutt! Hetritch yelled at himself. His single eye locked on the one he was running towards; the Moth creature.

It flew up slightly, rearing for an attack.

“Fight with head, get over here!” it yelled and began to dive.

Hetritch’s eye was transfixed on the creature. He saw it. A flaw.

The flight was aimed directly at him, but he was ready for it. It was fast and the attack was sure to be powerful but he was stronger, he knew it.

Skidding to a stop, Hetritch placed his hammer and chisel back into its holster in a single motion. He widened his stance slightly and tensed his body in preparation. Opening his arms the Moth-like being crashed into his chest.

Despite being prepared, Hetritch himself was flawed as well. The air forced itself out of his lungs and spittle flew from his mouth. The open wound gushed out more white ichor mist.

He nearly stumbled but his arms collapsed on the attacker right after they collided with his chest. As he lost balance from the strike, his plan to “catch” it was no longer possible. He instead threw it with all he could manage, sending it in an off direction.

Hetritch fell with a THUD but quickly forced himself up. His ribs felt raw, the form clearly had a hairline fracture going down the center. Breathing felt difficult and the drain on his soul only got stronger as time went on.

Hetritch’s eye glanced to the side, noticing some motion; A small orb bounced and flew towards him. Hetritch was confused as he watched the odd form.

As it got closer, an all-consuming heat encompassed his entire right side. As it struck him, Hetritch bellowed in pain. His skin deformed, turning into a clay-like mush as it was all so long ago. The orb landed next to him still with an intense aura. The excruciating pain lasted a few seconds before Hetritch took action. Hetritch swung his right arm smacking it away, the back of his hand becoming scorched.

His right side looked like it was smoothed of all detail. Small patches of liquid clay puddled on the ground beside him. If Hetritch could see himself he would despise it. He had been in the form he was in for his entire life. Never once did he consider changing it and now he would need to reconstruct himself. All the precious detail washed away into a clay slop on the floor.

Hetritch’s hand looked bare. The multitude of creases and pores were gone from his skin. His hand looked like a wooden figure doll. It had no detail, only the vague form of an arm.

Hetrtich didn’t notice the scuffle happening in front of him between the flame-bringer and the Moth. Only after did his one good eye lock onto the bringer of his pain.

An eye full of malice.
Post #: 24
8/12/2023 17:24:20   
DaiTigris
How We Roll Winner
June14


 The downward descent was moving fast, too fast to change course or direction. WHAM!. She collided straight into the things chest. For a second she felt its arms try to grab her, but the impact was strong enough they were already skidding backwards, then with a fluid motion she was flung away, the dizzying cartwheel combined with the impact left her completely confused on where she had ended up.

She staggered to her feet in a lopsided manner. Then to her left there was a warm searing heat. In a panic she moved blindly forward to get away from the danger, just barely getting a read on her surroundings where the flame haired Lady was. Then she heard the whoosh and felt a stabbing pain. She then realized the blade rope was sinking right into her side. A burning rage welled up in her as she glared at the lady, Mooth was getting tired of these interjecting attacks. She let out a loud screech and charged forward in a fury to retaliate.
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 25
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