RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (Full Version)

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Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/21/2007 20:07:24)

There was a rush of elemental energy that reverberated mightily within the cold blue metals that formed the deadly expanse of Spike Arena. Displeasure resonated from these energies as a wave of tidal forces surrounded Anton in cool hues of aqua, blue, and gree. Within the blink of an eye, Anton was irrevocably liquified within the haunting pattern of swirling color, his personage instantaneously transported miles away from the Arena complex and the burgeoning township of Bren, leaving him slightly soaked in the act.

The waters flowed quickly down and away, wicked cleanly from sight by the grooves within the Arena floor meant for more sinister purposes. Not a trace of Anton remained afterwards, his forced departure clear to all who may have cared.

This message was quite clear, lose all favor of the Lords and your presence would be removed from this competition of skill and ability.



RATIONALPARANOIA -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/21/2007 21:01:34)

Xeriful watched as the creature flew into the air, flying away from the shuriken. Someone had spoken to her- What the person had said, or for the matter, who the person was, were not Xeriful's current concerns. His concern at the moment, was finding a way to battle the creature when she returned- he was sure that the shuriken would not kill her- They weren't even supposed to kill a normal soldier, let alone a monster like this. But they would wound, cause pain- Precisely what Xeriful wanted.

But Xeriful would kill this creature- It was now his prey, and his prey never escaped. It might be a challenge, but Xeriful didn't mind- In fact, he loved the prospect of a challenge. He hadn't had a good fight in almost 30 years, and after all the kills he had after it, he wanted one. Needed one.

But now- Now was a time for preparation. As the energy ran through him, a pattern of ice formed on the ground, shifting into the appearance of a religious symbol commonly used in the worship of the Ice Lord. On both sides of the circle, he plunged in frozen knives, covered with his own dried blood. For a second, the ice glowed bright blue- Then, the color vanished, and it returned to normal. As the ice glowed blue, Xeriful felt the snow around him begin to harden.

His preparations were broken by the sound of a shriek coming from the dark upper reaches of the arena. As he heard this, Xeriful began to smile- It seemed that his blades had finally hit the creature, and she was experiencing all the pain Xeriful had wanted her to feel. The shriek continued on for several seconds, and each moment that it did, Xeriful felt his joy increase.

Suddenly, he noticed a bright flash descending from the heights of the arena- She was coming. Flames raced in front of her, and she was clearly coming towards him- And she clearly intended to kill him. He was not afraid. Many tongues had cursed his name, many men sworn his death- And yet, here he stood.

Focusing himself up towards the sky, he realized what he would do. Drawing from both his strength and the strength of the blizzard, he focused on the air above the creature. Hail poured down around the creature, onto her flames- the snow evaporated immediately, and the flames were at least partially smothered- Enough for Xeriful's concern.

He quickly refocused his energy on the symbol, ending the snow storm. He needed to do this quickly, and effectively. Around him, the snow began to crackle as blades of ice began to form, and then, the attack began. The blades flew towards the creature, who was now surrounded in the mist caused by the evaporating snow- he wasn't sure this would kill her, but at the very least, it would distract her. And besides, he wasn't even close to his main tricks - he was merely getting started.



Mars Phoenix -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/22/2007 3:37:36)

Mars paid almost no attention to anyone who was fighting. He just stood defensively, waiting to see a sign of who may have called the storm... then he saw Xeriful... already in battle with some fire being.

Xeriful had called a seperate snowstorm on the winged creature. Without a thought that there might be another Ice-user, Mars ran straight towards Xeriful with his sword-axe in hand. He grinned as he ran, excited to finally begin fighting. The snow was starting to pile up and make it more difficult to run, but his heavy armor held him down pretty well.



Zylo -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/22/2007 6:23:42)

He watched passively as things continued to change.

There was a scream, one that made him want to cover his ears, but he made no movement. Instead, Water plugged his ears for him. Yes, he was showy with his power, but he looked like a Fire-user and seemed like a Fire-user, so it didn't really matter until people realized he wasn't. And besides... he didn't want to hear some blasted scream.

One of these changes struck him as quite odd, the appearance of... a little girl. In an Arena like this.. This was no place for a girl. He would keep an eye on her, make sure she didn't get in over her head. After all, she was a little girl. ...And, despite the odd fact that it got darker as she came... well, what could a little girl really do?

The other thing was the disappearance of one of the competitors, through some unexplained force as they brought Water to take him from the Arena. Kiyemanu understood that concept, but he was unaware of the reason, and as such, missed the entire concept of the lesson, though it likely wouldn't have made much difference to him.

He also, however, noted the constant freezing of the surrounding area. Someone had lowered the temperature considerably in here, it seemed, but without actually lowering the temperature for the people... He had no explanation for that. It was Ice Magic, he'd be damned if he knew a thing about it. But, whatever it was, he knew how to take advantage of it.

He concentrated, opening his mind to his surroundings, and he felt all the things around that had Water within them. The combatants, the snow, the mist, the air itself... Yes. He took the water from the air, pulled it outwards from as many spots as he could, creating what would have been like a forced rain, except that he held it in place. The waters formed together, creating liquid spears that seemed unlikely to do any good whatsoever.

But, they shot out anyways, at least fifteen liquid spears and several drops of water. As every bit of water passed through that blizzard, they froze, some becoming little icicles and pieces of hail while those fifteen spears became suddenly very dangerous.

While people were attacking one another and being attacked by one another, he was attacking everyone at the same time and so far was being attacked by no one. It did bring a smile to his lips. He was passive. He would wait for someone to attack him before attacking them directly, unless he grew bored, but he could only stand by and watch for so long before he had the urge to cause trouble, possibly quite deadly trouble.

Over his own head, the sight of light water shimmered as hail rained down and was stopped by a small, concentrated Absorption Shield, one that sucked the Water from anything it came in contact with, steadily growing larger as more and more rained down.

...Oh, he hoped not to get too bored too quickly with this all.



Ralor -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/22/2007 9:35:08)

Frost grinned as the chain hit the elf in the back of the knees causing him to fall to his knees. What happened next caught frost off guard. The elf began to transform, his body parts deforming until the final result was a large light dragon. How is this possible ? Frost thought in disbelief as the roared and leap into the air it’s pale body lost in the swirling blizzard. All Frost’s senses told him the dragon was real, even his keen sense of smell registered the familiar sense of dragon though it was slightly different from the smell of an ice dragon. Under everything he registered the faint smell of the elf ,probably a left over smell from before the transformation.. The dragon returned from the swirling sky landing on the tower. Rearing upward it let forth a bright light breath attack at Frost .

Not a second too soon Frost leap to his right ,his hand darting to his shoulder strap to remove a throwing dagger from it. He hit the ground rolling coming up from the roll he threw the throwing dagger at the eye of the great beast. The blade made of Frozen steel flew true, it’s blades magical effect froze the location it cut and about three inches around it. Frost could only hope that it would be enough



Guardian of Nekops -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/22/2007 20:08:18)

A few hours after Lightning split the skies over Stonerule, a heavy metal anvil flew through the great door of the Spike Arena, appearing as if from nowhere. A man followed soon after it crashed to the metal floor and rested his weight upon it, his breathing labored and his face, which was of a dark grey complexion, paler than it might have been.

"Gone," John muttered, rubbing at the place over his heart. He had thought he grasped the sacrifice he was making when he piled his treasures, both physical and spiritual, into the Thunder Crate, but by all the Lords! No more light, no more fire, and worst of all no Orb of Restoration to help him bear his counless years... he was drained beyond belief! And where was the power he had been promised in return, anyway?

With a cackling laugh, Lightning filled the empty spaces in the Guardian of Nekops with its strength, replacing the gentle support of the Orb with its fierce determination. That worthy straightened up to his full height and grinned as silver energy played across his black suit of Static Cloth, the strange mass of magic and machinery on his left arm, and the blade of his broken sword. In absolute terms he was no stronger than he had been before the Thunder Crate, but now all his scraps of power had been converted into lightning magic, which he could use in this one last chance to win everthing back. It was all or nothing, now, but at least he could bring all his strength to bear to flip that coin his way.

Gathering a ball of silver lightning in his left hand, he slapped the wires and rods that completed Dragonslayer's blade, noting how well they kept the charge he had just given them. He frowned a little bit at this; they were not working as well as he had hoped. All those hours he had spent welding them on... but no matter. This was it. He touched the silver bracelet, burried in its shell of technology and magic. He touched his ceremonial rope. His power and his office, he would reclaim them both this day.

"But first," he mused, his eyes darting sharply around the arena, "to find a suitable opponent..."



Art of Blade -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/23/2007 6:33:35)

The first thing Arikard noticed was the mist. It was a dungeon-like area, so of course there would be mist; it fitted the mood nicely. Also you can't drive a cart in either of them, so it's absolutely perfect. The second thing he noticed was the smell. He hadn't expect something so revolting, but he understood why it was there; blood baths took place here at least once a year. He didn't know anything about the place's history, of course, being a street boy until recently, but he heard rumors of ancient religions using this place for gruesome sacrifices that involved the killing of thousands of people for the sake of a sunrise. Apparently they did this every morning. It seemed terribly inconvenient to Arikard, if only because he couldn't see how someone could kill a thousand people before the sun rose and proved the whole shebang false. Besides, you probably needed a cart to get that big of a crowd in here.

The third thing Arikard noticed was the snow. He wasn't expecting that. He was expecting unbreakable steel on the ground, the kind you find padded around the asylum rooms because the people who ran them were afraid that crazy people can punch through walls. That was why his arm, hidden under the long sleeve of his shirt, was all covered with tough, hardened earth and stones that he smuggled in from outside, in case he couldn't gain any access to it here. That was Boss Ginesh's suggestion, of course; he'd be damned if he took credit for an idea of Boss Genish's, especially on how to use an arm he gave him himself, especially on how to use it for more than just pulling a stalagmite out of your rear with a slight wave of a finger. But still... snow. It's just so damned nuts... no, not nuts, unusual. No Genish would say a slang word such as 'nuts' when they mean 'unusual'.

Damn you, brain, focus! If you can't have a sophisticated vocabulary in the crevices of your own mind, then you damn well won't be able to use them when speaking to a member of the Genish family. Next you'll forget to say "sir" or "ma'am", or something stupid- something elementary- like that.

Speaking of elements... Arikard suddenly looked up at the contestants in front of him. It was slightly difficult to see through the mist, but he could make out the shapes of a few individuals, such as someone made out of fire. Others seemed to be preoccupied with the- admittedly fun looking- activity of throwing great big spikes at each other. They were all very, very loud.

A lot of fighting have already taken place. Arikard knew he was late. His only concern on his way over, however, was that his arrival might inconvenience someone somehow (what if he distracts someone giving a killing blow?). Now that he was actually there, he was afraid that they might inconvenience him, perhaps by chopping his legs off or eating his head. Merely bumping his head gave him a headache, but having it eaten would probably bring about worse things than that. He ducked and fell face-first into the ground as an icy spike flew over his head, and- standing up with the confused caution of a surprised fighter- ducked again, more elegantly, putting his right arm in front of his forehead in a blocking position. Chunks of hail bounced off the fake arm.

When it stopped, he stood up and looked around again. He breathed, causing a small cloud of steam to float in front of him. He was shivering in surprise, not wanting to think about the power needed for what just happened and about the people hiding in the mist. But also shivered because he felt cold. Oh, he was used to it, of course. He should have been born in a desert, people told him, but he was born in a winter city instead, which meant very little to him, since almost everybody he knew lived in that winter city of Roclan. His right arm, heavy with the earth that magically stuck to it, clicked as he swung it lazily, clicked as the tiny wheels turned around and made other small wheels spin. He rubbed his upper arm, feeling metal under his skin. For emergencies only, the small voice in his brain said. It would be silly to use it at any other time.

Of course it would.

As he stepped into the arena proper, his bare feet greeting the snow with slight reluctance, he saw a dark figure, his suit cackling with energy. He blinked as he realized that it was lightening. He knew about lightening. He knew how it acted around earth. He grinned slightly, brushing back his long, unnaturally-coloured hair with his proper hand. He wondered if he should do something hasty, or if he should stop and think about-

He charged at him, his feet slapping soundlessly against the snow, like a charging leopard. As he got near him, he leaped in to the air, and made a swinging movement with his legs, as though he were about to make a spin kick, the sort that made the martial artist look like he was being attached by wires like a puppet and the victim knock back even though he was never touched. All of a sudden, Arikard dropped to the ground like a stone. And indeed he did; he made the earth on his arm move at the last second to his feet. Landing on the ground and hoping his opponent was the sort to be surprised, his feet still covered with dirt and stone, he rolled back on his shoulders, got his hands on the floor, and pushed up, aiming a kick with his earth-crusted feet in the same way a jack would pop out of his box.

Boss Ginesh, he thought, I'll prove myself to be an awesome- a worthy servant, just watch!



Guardian of Nekops -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/23/2007 12:49:39)

The arena was in chaos, John noted. His first clue, aside from the clashing and the flurried movements of combat that he could make out through the mist, was the pair of ice spears that hurtled past him as they fell. Fortunately, both were a good foot above his head and thus not a threat to him, but there would likely be others to watch out for.

Behind him, the first ice crystal shattered on the arena's unbreakable metal, both the clang of the floor and the cracking of the ice clearly and distinctly heard. The second one broke on... something else. Rock, maybe? Curious, the Nekops turned to look, then whipped his head back to the front as an icicle slammed into the anvil he had brought with him. Shards flew up from the impact, striking his face and threatening his eyes. Annoyed, he sent an arc of silver lightning from his hand up to the wires on Dragonslayer's blade, causing them to hum with power. He would deal with the ice mage responsible first, he decided.

Before he could carry out his vengance on the ice-slinger, however-- before, in fact, he could even identify him-- John heard the loud clunk of stone on metal behind him and sprung into action. Often, in his experience, the attack from the rear could only be seen or countered; there was rarely time for both. Therefore, instead of looking behind him to see what had made the noise, he vaulted one-handed over the anvil and fell to one knee behind it. Hopefully the two hundred pounds of cold steel it represented would be enough to save him from whatever had managed to sneak up behind him like that.

An object struck the other side of the anvil, causing it to ring dully and bringing a smile to the Guardian's face. His metal barrier had moved a bit from the blow, but had been more than adequate to stop it. "I'm sorry," he said, readying Dragonslayer as he got to his feet and leaned against the steel, "I don't believe we've been properly introduced." The thrumming wires of his blade sprang to life as he poured more power into them, creating a silver blade of cackling energy that he thrust down on the far side of the anvil, snarling, "The name's Death!"



Randall Flagg -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/24/2007 0:49:56)

How could he possibly be late on a day like this? What was his problem, the most important day of his life and he had too oversleep? "I can't be eleminated already can I?" He spoke aloud as he ran not even making it too the competition would be a total disgrace for his village and more importantly his family, no they had to let him in right? He was on the roster the gates hadn't closed yet he would just have to fight a bit harder than everyone else too impress his god that was all!

He grinned his black hair twisting as the wind moved it around slightly as he marched up too the arena his hands already reaching into his backpack. Pulling out a small looking flask he twisted it a few times in his hand upon inspection you would notice that the bottle contained some black powder and other small metallic things that looked like nails. It was really just filled with anything that he found on the ground, and now he began to spin the bottle in his hand and check that everything was in order. He had his backpack, and his belt with random pouches, his quiver, and bow (the quiver was full of arrows naturally.) And his sword and his leather amour for mobility. He was about ready to step into the iorn gates.


Walking in he came to the realization that he was late carnage and battle was already taking place. There wasn't a chance of him being noticed if he didn't act now. Someone stood a good distance away from him obviously a woman her tanned skin shone he would make sure to find out if she bled too for the shine of her skin to him make her stick out as a prim target to test out his little toys on, and as a stepping stone for his first victim on his march towards glory for his village.

His black hair flipped back and forth as he surveyed the arena making sure that he wasn't open to any surprise attack himself. Having the gut feeling that he wasn't he snapped his fingers a spark arose before small flame began to dance between his palm. He smirked watching her cast her spell. This would obviously heat things up for her. He thought with a soft chuckle as he passed his hand over the top of his bottle a small wick igniting into flame.

Pulling back his arm He hurled the flask towards the shrouded woman it was flipping through the air like a throwing knife would unlike the knife though this wouldn't matter in which direction it landed it wouldn't hit her sadly he wasn't that good of a shot. Being a fair sport he found the need to shout out he liked it when his opponents had an equal shot at retaliating to his actions. "Heads up!" He shouted a fire showing in his eyes. With that said he began to unsheath his sword and walk slowly in the direction of the object that he threw, upon impact it would burst into a small explosive but what was worse was the small Fragments of nails and metal inside of it. With a devious grin and his sword drawn he was finally ready to take part in the tournament and step out the victor.



Art of Blade -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/24/2007 7:01:05)

Arikard hissed in pain. It wasn't pain, per se; it stung, yes, but his feet was covered in earthly armor. But he had hit an anvil. Out of all the things in the universe he could have hit, it had to be an anvil. He looked up at his opponent, who was already smiling quite... well... from where Arikard was sitting, he looked quite evil. It must have had to do with the way his his sword lit up with energy and the way the light shone some parts of his face but not others, like children around a campfire telling a spooky story involving demonic underwear. Only this particular campfire was going to try to kill him, and was currently coming down on where his feet were. With a sound of surprise that was somewhere between a gasp and a choke, Arikard somersaulted away, spinning backwards. He landed softly on the snow, creating a little distance between him and his new foe. He was breathing heavily, the shock of what almost happened sending a shot of adrenaline to his chest.

"Death?" he said, repeating the man's last word. "Well, if you're Death, meet War!" And here he brought out one fist. "Famine!" And he brought the other. "Pestilence!" And here he raised a foot, balancing perfectly on the other. "And... er..." He glanced down on the foot he was standing on. "Well, erm... you already took Death, so, um... I don't know, let me get back to you on that one. In the afterlife!" he added hastily, feeling that he might as well throw in a death threat at this point.

Okay, Arikard thought, so attacking him hastily and without a thought might be considered stupid. Maybe. He has a great big friggin'- great large accursed sword! With silver lightening and sh- excrement. He could probably chop a man to pieces with that thing or, even worse, shoot out lightening storms. Fancy trying to dodge a storm. What's a man to do?

Arikard rubbed his fake arm again, feeling the eight lines that went down it. He made sure not to touch anything on the upper arm in fear of what would happen. He thought about the other things his arm can do. Right, so the arm can sort of dissolve through earth, but not here, since it's just unbreakable steel here. He could control earth. In this case, he can control a pile of dirt. And since it's a fake arm, he'd feel no pain. He didn't, however, know what would happen if a current of electricity went through it. It would probably shock him anyway, considering the clockwork inside it. He rubbed his upper arm again. That would be perfect to use if a current of electricity tried to kill him, but... he didn't want to think about having to use that. Instead, he stared straight at the sword, with its silver light shining through the mist.

Well, excrement on an implement, what should he do?

An idea popped to mind, the mind where the street fighter in him lived. He stooped down and gathered a handful of snow, which he made into a snowball. He hummed as he packed it into its proper, spheric shape. As he did so, he slipped in a chunk of dirt into it, ever so sneakily, with the sort of stealth one has when they live their childhood on the streets and fooling people to lighten themselves of their possessions. He threw it, aiming it at the hands that held the sword, controlling the little dirt within to nudge it in the right direction. He stopped concentrating on it and started following it, pulling up the right sleeve. His arm was once again covered with earth; this time, it was jagged, like a spiky club, and the dirt covering his knuckles were sharpened, serving as brass knuckles that weren't brass but made of something tougher. He hoped that the dirt in the snowball would hit the man's hands and harden, thus melding the two hands together into a handcuffed discomfort, but even if it didn't it would serve as a distraction. And distractions were important when you're about to jump up at your opponent and swing a sharp punch to their necks.



Guardian of Nekops -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/24/2007 13:27:50)

Despite his opponent's freakish garb-- really, had no one taught the man how to dress himself? In this day and age? -- John was impressed. The man's control of his element was at least competent, perhaps better, his agility superior, and the strength demonstrated by his acrobatics was more than enough to be a threat. As for his rhetoric... well, he'd heard worse. A little bit of an awkward pause, there, but at least the man was thinking now... this should be a good fight.

Then the little Earthling had to ruin it by bending down and starting to make a snowball. Humming to himself as he worked, no less, as if he were not dancing upon the edge between life and death. Well, thought the Guardian, if he's going to start slinging snow around, perhaps I should throw something back at him. The anvil was already prepared for Current Magic, quite by accident-- how else could he have moved it though the tower to the Eye Gate?-- so all he had to do was hit it with some power. Leaving his hands up on Dragonslayer's hilt and in plain view, he gathered the required energy in his left palm and started thinking about trajectories.

After the snowball was nice and firm, the crazed competitor for Earth flung it at him, and... was that a little magical control he saw? Who would break the cardinal rule of the Elemental Championship to control a snowball, of all things? Nekops raised his blade to block the slushy projectile, shaking his head in an almost bored fashion as the heat from the energy turned the snow into harmless vapor. "A piece of advice, boy," he said with disdain, lowering his left hand behind the anvil, watching his opponent's ill-advised charge and biding his time, "stick to your own element. You just might last a little longer that way."

Then a strange thing happened; the power in Dragonslayer's blade began to spark and flicker, requiring vast amounts of John's silver lightning just to sustain that much. Cutting off the supply of energy, he glared at his weapon in disbelief. A clump of earth had fastened itself to the wiring, blocking a place where the lightning had to arc from one rod to another. He could bypass it with enough power, but that would take more magic than it was worth...

Movement caught John's eye, and he snapped his attention back to the charging Arikard. Far too close. In a rare moment of panic, the Guardian slammed his power into the anvil, activating the Current Magic within. The great mass of metal turned to power, which joined the silver bolt of lightning as it sped across the arena floor... in the wrong direction.

Missing his foe by a foot that might as well have been a mile, the energy collided with the floor, dispersing the original bolt's potential across the blue-gray metal and returning what had been the anvil to its original form, albiet bounding and clanking across the grooved surface at a great speed. Noisily and with even more numerous dents, the two hundred pound juggernaut careened towards the arena's gate as if making its way to freedom. Sadly, this valiant effort was foiled by a particularly deep groove, a particularly high bounce, and a particularly messy landing on the body of one the Championship records listed as Dwight Knitterson, competitor for Darkness.

All this, however, had no bearing on the fate of he whom the records called John Guardian Flamebearer, so he ignored it to focus on the figure of Arikard, coming dangerously near him with his right arm sheathed in dangerous-looking rock. Raising his unpowered blade of sturdy starsilver and fragile wiring in a blocking guesture, he prepared to meet the Earth warrior's attack.



DaesDymentia -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/25/2007 4:40:23)

A flicker of light disturbed her shadow, and in sensing the threat to the side of her, an almost reptilian-like head formed from the blackness, the girl and the parasite itself, turning to look at the boy. In the moment, she pulled his name, eyes narrowing as the parasite projected the female’s voice into his mind. You dare? The flaming object was thrown through the air and immediately the Shadow stretched out like a third arm moving to catch the round object in its grip. For a moment it did nothing, enveloped in the creature’s hold. Viola looked back at Erik and tensed, the black arm raising back and hurling the explosive right back at him towards the ground. You would attack me with toys!

With the explosive released, the second skin she wore began to harden like a natural light armor, growing long dagger-sharp claws to form over her hands. Your blood will be mine, and when your body is an empty carcass I’ll tear out your soul for my safekeeping.

She smiled as the bomb hit the metal ground with a crack and shattered. Nails burst out from the object, clanking and whacking against the metal flooring. Viola hardly suspected it would due him much damage, the leather would protect him so. The parasite began to draw on her powers as she began to approach him, speeding quickly through the darkness she had created within the arena. Around her wrists, a violet wave of energy began to pulse, and as it did so she raised her hand slowly as though she were pulling something from the ground… She could not summon the dead here. The metal floors prevented it so. What a shame. Still, she would manage.

At her command, black shadows began to swirl around Eric’s feet, slowly materializing into a black tar to bind him in place as another shadow began to envelope his body. It would blind him momentarily if he did not break free, either way, she would savor this one, first taste, first blood. She whirled around him, being aware of his blade as she stepped behind him and placed the single needle-sharp tip of her claw against the back of his neck teasingly, well aware of how dangerously close she was to his body and keeping part of her focus on the blade he held.

Regardless of thr risk, she wanted to play with this new toy. Regardless of what happened, the end would be glorious. She chuckled. “Now what delusions can I prick from your mind?” With the claw against his skin, a black stain began to appear on his flesh and grew, branching out like a dark poisoned vein.



Art of Blade -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/26/2007 16:37:15)

There's a flying spike at the end of this post.

---


Meanwhile, in the (more or less) present, Arikard's fist fell upon the raised sword, like the apocalyptic blow of an angry god. Unfortunately, this would be the God of Ants, and the apocalyptic blow would be the size of a rock. When compared to the jut of metal that stuck out of the hilt- so close to the more fragile rods and wires merely an inch away- it was absolutely nothing, and that's exactly what it did. Except perhaps make it vibrate softly.

Arikard, alongside his fist, bounced off, sending him head over heels (or, more accurately, heels over his head) backwards. He managed to avoid making a total fool of himself by landing on his real hand and twirling himself right-side up. Arikard wondered how stylish that looked before realizing that he was still in the middle of a life-or-death situation. Style was important in life-or-death situations, of course, but something in Arikard's mind told him that dying stylishly was still, in the end, dying. That something in his mind was what he liked to call Common Sense; sadly, it wasn't a frequent visitor. When it did come knocking on his door, however, it always brought him metaphorical cookies full of tasty good ideas, and such cookies stay in a man's throat and stomach for a long time.

Arikard almost choked on one such cookie when he realized that his clump of earth was still stuck in the sword's wiring. With a flick of a finger, the clump grew thinner, growing an edge and then sharpening it with a gleam. A second later, it tore down the blade's center, tripping apart the wirings and the rods in the center like a comet crashing down the middle of a ladder and leaving behind the frame. Of course, one would disregard the complete damage done when the comet actually hits the ground (and kills a hundred innocent bystanders) and find that the dirt, when it reached the final wire, simply stopped when it slammed into the blunt end of the sword which the rods had attempted to restore. With a wave of the arm, the earth flew back towards Arikard and joined the rest of the earth that formed up in his hand. When he got most of his dirt back, Arikard grinned. Almost instantly, the earth, as one, shifted into a long shape, like a club, or a giant diamond (that was actually a rock) on a stick.

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There's a flying spike at the end of this post.
It had been soaring through the arena for a little while, or at least it felt like a while, ever since Tal the Water contender punched it into the air. If spikes were more sentient, this one wouldn't be a very happy one. It had, after all, a point to make, one that would most likely hurt other people's feelings. If they stepped in front of it in just exactly the right place, the unfortunate recipient might even have a broken heart.

---


The club-like shape, which only Arikard would seriously call a weapon, waved in his hand. It had a slight curl on the end he held it with. There was also a slight whistling sound and the sound of chains rattling against the ground, although that one was coming from somewhere else. Breaking his attention for only a second to see what it is, Arikard turned his head towards the source and saw an approaching shadow in the mist, which became bigger... and bigger... and turned out to be the flying spike. It's not the one at the end of this post, though.

"Oh crap!" was Arikard's response, as he raised his weapon towards it. The point of the spike dug into the weapon. An interesting fact of placement, here, was that the spike met the exact center of the weapon's end. Arikard found it surprisingly light, hanging off the end of his dirt like that, and waved it over him for a moment before remembering, once more, that he was in a life-or-death situation, and that waving a spike over his head in the same way a child would wave a small dog which grabbed hold of a stick a bit too enthusiastically was even worse than looking dramatic. He turned back to his foe, the jacket wrapped around his waist flapping for no reason, and aimed the weapon with its new attachment at the electric sword-wielder.

"I'm gonna show you a trick I usually keep- or reserve, whatever- for when I get up close, only 'cause I think it's a bit more... wot's the word... interestin'. A curious experimentation, if you know what I mean, you know?" He didn't waste any actions with his words, pointing the spike's chain-tailed end at his opponent and sliding his hand into the thick part of the earth. With a shout, the shape flew open in all directions, much like an umbrella (or, rather, exactly like an umbrella; the curve at Arikard's end might be a stylish handle), pushing the spike away from it and towards the one who called himself Death despite his lack of impressively white scythes.

This was the flying spike at the end of this post. Finally.



Guardian of Nekops -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/26/2007 19:59:06)

When the Earthling's blow struck the rods of Dragonslayer, John was pleased to see that they held firm even when he used them to propel his enemy back the way he had come in yet another display of acrobatics. He looked upon the weapon with admiration, suddenly glad that he had used only highest quality iron, only the best bonding materials, and that he had poured over every connection for hours on end, undoing his work wherever it was shoddy so that only the best remained. Yes sir, a quality piece of work like the reforged Dragonslayer-- perhaps he should rename it, at that-- did not break easily.

While he still gazed upon it, though, the little bit of earth that had blocked the current flow earlier changed shape, glistened, and tore the wiring apart. To his dismay, the Guardian saw that only a few rods still remained in any sort of working order, and to charge the weapon now would only be slightly easier than summoning a raw bolt of energy into his hand. Snarling at it's ruined wiring, he cast the faithful blade aside as worthless and stared down his foe, silver sparking between the fingers of his empty hands.

John saw the spike before Arikard did, and as recently as six hours ago he would have called out a warning to his opponent. As it was, though, he simply grinned wickedly at it, looking forward to seeing it piece the body of his foe. Whether it was that grin or the sounds behind him that alerted the Earth Competitor to his danger John would never know, but Arikard whirled to meet the projectile and somehow caught it on the rock-shape he was holding. Probably to the surprise of both, the spike stuck firmly in the rock at a more or less perfect angle. After a moment of playing with the new toy this created, Arikard seemed to remember himself and turn to face the Nekopsian once more.

"I'm gonna show you a trick I usually keep- or reserve, whatever- for when I get up close, only 'cause I think it's a bit more... wot's the word... interestin'. A curious experimentation, if you know what I mean, you know?" Suspicious, John thought. Expecting another charge, the Guardian lifted his hands and filled them with power, holding them spread in the image of the Guardian Rune's central triangle. Then he saw the metal spike, chain-end first, pop forward at him from the Earth Compeitor's opening umbrella.

Without thinking, John poured power at the projectile in a steady stream, a little at first, and then much more as the heavy chain yanked the spike back around to face him with its point. The silver lightning parted and then reformed around the metal, becoming a single bolt once more on the far side: a bolt that sped directly for his opponent. The energy did nothing to stop the mass of metal, however, and the Guardian began to wish that he had researched some sort of force field. Too late now, of course.

The spike struck his open hands, the point thankfully falling within the triangle of open space between them, and pushed his arms back. Straining against it with all his might so that most of the force slid him back across the snow-covered floor rather than bringing the deadly thing closer to his face, John screamed, "Get... away... from me!"

And with that, the spike vanished, following the stream of silver lightning the Guardian had never stopped spewing from his hands. The Current Magic did not affect the chain, which clunked noisily to the floor at his feet. Relieved, he cut the power and sank to his knees, surprised at how much of a beating his mental channels had taken. They felt raw and blackened, hardly ready to blast anything else in the near future, but at least they were intact and he was alive. Within a few moments, the Orb of Restoration would have most of the damage repaired, and...

"Blast it all to Thunder Mountain!" he cried, ripping his hatchet free of the holster at his side. The Orb of Restoration was gone, locked away in the Thunder Crate, and the miraculous healing on which he had come to rely would not save him this time. Testing what remained of his reserves, he winced. Not much.

Forcing himself to his feet despite his fatigue, John tried to blink away the bright images left by the lightning and looked about half-blind for his foe.



Art of Blade -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/27/2007 18:10:30)

One thing Arikard expected was for the spike to impale his opponent's face, and then for him to run at it and give the spike a little help by kicking it in even further. And then he'd land in a small puddle of blood and do a happy dance and forget that he killed someone until a day later, where he would be faced with complex philosophical issues easily solved with a bottle of beer.

That, Arikard saw when he closed the umbrella a little, didn't happen. What did happen was that his opponent shot a bolt of lightening. With a scream of shock that came from looking directly at a bolt of electricity coming right at you, Arikard opened up his umbrella and, hoping hope against hope that he wasn't too slow, jumped away. Regardless of every hope he thought and, well, hoped, the bolt struck at the shield formed by the umbrella's wide end, leaving behind a black blast mark at its face. It also left behind something else, unseen to the eye.

There's one thing that should be understood. Earth is a very good insulator of electricity. In fact, people rely on the ground every day to take their heavenly hits for them. However, while it's insulation is top-notch, it doesn't make it invulnerable. Especially when the earth isn't part of the ground. Especially not when magical energy is involved. And especially not in a mist.

Arikard would not know the reason why it happened, but when the bolt struck at the umbrella while he was in mid-air, in his attempt to gracefully jump out of its way, he felt a sudden shock course through his fingers, a shock that made him drop his umbrella, leaving it to fall unceremoniously into the snow. His right hand, which would have required a slightly more direct shock to surpass its magically earth-empowered protection and was thankfully able to absorb some of it, held his left, which was not quite so blessed. It was a weak shock, but only in comparison to what could have happened if it weren't for the umbrella. There were blisters all over his fingers, and they felt... immobile. Arikard gaped at it. They wouldn't move; they, his fingers which have been with him all his life, fingers that have worked perfectly and surpassed those that lived with two arms, won't move when he told them to.

Oh hell no. Oh goddamn hell no.

Arikard stumbled to his knees, only to fall down again. He calmed himself before trying to push himself up to his feet again, only to find that the entirety of his left arm had stopped all operations, and all feelings in it have abandoned ship. His left arm, the ever vigilant companion of his one-armed childhood, the arm which he had used to beat up an entire gang of muggers once, the arm which impressed Boss Ginesh and who, in return, made a miracle of the stump on his right shoulder, was now... oh damn. He stopped a wail from leaving his throat at this realization and hastily used his right hand, pushing away all thoughts of having to replace his left arm and the panic that followed them.

My left arm ain't dead, no, no it ain't, they probably have healers here or sumfin', oh, goddamn... not my left arm, of all things...

Shaking with shock of both kinds, Arikard stood up, blinking away spots that have seared themselves into his retinas. The umbrella restored itself back to his fake hand, and he gripped on it tightly. He saw his opponent, apparently tired after that magical spell, after casting the spell that killed- no, temporarily inconvenienced his arm. He felt that wail in his throat come back, twanging on his vocal cords, insistent that he let it out. He did.

"Friggin'-hammer-and-nails!" he shouted, adding a well known insult to an obscure one, both meaning almost the same thing either way. "Friggin' hammers beating on friggin' nails! My left arm, you bastard, my left arm!" He waved his umbrella around violently, almost toppling over from the dead weight that was his left arm. "I'm not even gonna bother sayin' nothing intelligent, I'm, oh my god!" He slammed his umbrella against the ground, and at that moment the tip of the umbrella became make sharper and much more dangerous. "You're dead!"

You're dead. Everyone say it. Few follow through on it. But there are certain circumstances where, when you hear that sentence, you could tell that you should take it seriously, and that there's only a few things you can do. Run, or call the police. And if you are the police, well, hammer and nails to that.

With a roar, Arikard charged at his opponent, his arm slamming against his side like a useless sack, not bothering this time to hope hope against hope that his opponent will stay fatigued by the time he got there, weaponless and unable to defend himself. All he thought about was getting near to his opponent and, when he gets close enough, jump up into the air. He had been jumping up every time he got near, of course, that was his stragety. But it was one that worked, because, for some reason, whether it be involved with gravity or the very simple rule that people don't expect other people to fight in midair, it always manages to hurt more like this. This time, he would jump up, like he always does, and strike him with a very simple down-thrust.

Maybe he can take out the other man's arm in the process. Make him feel what it's like to use one hand for everything.

That would show him. Oh god damn, would that show him.



Aquapyre -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/27/2007 20:51:15)

As Jalrae passed through the thickening storm he kept his senses tuned for anything that might want to cause him trouble. A sudden darkness descended upon the arena, Jalrae gave pause at the change and decided that he would be better served by seeing through the infrared spectrum. The change happened swiftly, one second his eyes were their usual shade of blue and the next they were an evil looking crimson red.

Jalrae had began to circle left when he saw a large shape (brightly outlined to anyone with heat vision) sprinting toward some unknown destination. The fierce glow immediately told Jalrae that this was a servant of the Fire Lord, quite possibly (judging from the size) the person he had seen running across the arena when he had entered. Jalrae decided to take a chance and try to enlist this fire user in his fight with the lizard. Swift silent steps took Jalrae's black form far enough in front of the armored character so he would have time to move if the pyromancer refused to stop his charge. Positioned to his satisfaction Jalrae activated the minor magic of his katanas and began to weave them in an blurring pattern designed to dazzle with glittering steel. Combined with the light enchantment on the swords this dance created an almost hypotonic effect on the viewer.

Jalrae spoke "Trying to stay warm?" he asked in a sarcastic tone that disguised his relief at the knight's halt. "Why don't you just kill the stupid ice user who made this storm and be done with it? And if that's what you're on your way to do then you're going the wrong way. Our friend the ice lizard is behind the big pillar with a dragon that I left to play with him." Jalrae had seen a spark in the eyes of the knight when he had spoken of the blizzard's creator, maybe he would come after all. Continuing, Jalrae said "If you want you can come and have your share of the fun. It would make this snow go away so much faster. My name is Jalrae Banrae by the way, what's yours?"

~~~~~~~~

The dagger sped towards the dragon's eye and connected, or was supposed to. In reality the dagger never hit anything, but kept sailing on through the air. From a view such as the one Frost had the dagger just seemed to disappear. The dragon let loose with another blasting breath attack, another, and yet one more. Bring the total of super focused light beams to 3. And all of them were headed at Frost at slightly different headings, leaving no escape.



Mars Phoenix -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/28/2007 16:36:56)

Mars grinned widely. The blizzard was extremely inconvenient. "Yeah... I like that idea. I'm Mars. Mars Fenor. But just Mars is good." He looked down at the gravel like substance he adhered to his boots. "Let's go get 'em." He shot down a small stream of fire and the gravel ignited, lighting his boots on fire so the snow would melt when he came close to it. Then, in the same predictable stance he charged the lizard.



Aquapyre -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/29/2007 20:35:10)

Jalrae had opened his mouth to speak his pleasure at Mars's acceptance of the offer but Mars was already begining preparations. First he ignited his boots on fire and then he tore off toward the pillar as if his pants were on fire! Jalrae shut his mouth with an oath. He had had a plan but it seemed that Mars Fenor made his own way in the world. No wonder he was the contestant for fire!

Jalrae deactivated the light enchantment on the blades and sheathed them with a sigh. Then he too raced away, hoping to catch up to Mars before he destroyed their chance of a surprise attack. And if the lizard was already aware of their approach then Jalrae would happily join in the insane charge.



Guardian of Nekops -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/31/2007 0:16:24)

As John gazed upon the pain brought about by his actions-- the pitiful gaping and wailing of a man bereft of what he held, perhaps, most dear in all of Lore-- his heart was thrown into revolution. The golden glow of it flowed through his body, causing slight changes to his stance; his feet shifted from being firmly planted to bring the more nimble toes into play, the torso began to sway back and forth, the arms came up, wielding the hatchet with more finesse than power. His eyesight was still diffuse and bright from the afterimages of the lightning, but it should be sufficient to let him dodge the lad's next attack, get in a good position to make the boy submit before harming him any further...

In a final rally, the handful of Power remaining to John surged through his veins, crashing down upon the rebels in merciless bolts wherever it found them. Redemption resisted the onslaught, but at its current strength it was hard pressed to retain control.

Yelling. Screaming. Unimportant. The fiercest battle in all of Spike was that within the Guardian of Nekops.

Feet planted. Body braced. The hatchet fell, and the empty hand came up.

Feeling itself lose ground, Mercy cried, "Watch out, lad!" The uplifted hand cackled with silver lightning, the last of John's reserves.

Then the Arikard was airborne, and a sneer marked Pity's end as the Energy mage cast his magic to the wind. The silver bolts of lightning took the form of a shield-shaped symbol in the air-- the Guardian Rune-- right in the path of Arikard's leaping attack. The letter's substance would not stop an attack; such was not its purpose. Any spell, any object, any person could pass through it completely unhindered, but would be forced to endure the lancing darts of thunder while doing so. It was only a few inches thick and would only last a few seconds, but it would be enough.

The sharp spike wielded by the warrior for Earth stabbed down through the silver field of the Guardian Rune and into John's left hand, which was still raised from his cast. Before he knew it, the Guardian was on the snow-covered ground, his vision filled with stars from the impact of his head on the hard metal floor beneath. Fighting to hold on to consciousness, John swung his right arm and the hatchet it wielded up towards where he judged his opponent's neck would be. Assuming he had fallen to his knees after he passed through the lightning. Assuming he hadn't changed orientation in his flight. Assuming lots of things he had no business assuming, since what John actually knew was quite limited at the moment.

He knew his hand was impaled, red blood gushing out in pulses around Arikard's earthen weapon. He knew that he was out of magic, and out of leverage save the hatchet that may or may not be speeding towards his opponent's neck. He knew that this would be his one best chance to kill the warrior for Earth, and after this he would have no guarantees.

The Guardian stayed his hand.

For he knew other things, more important than the others. John knew he was himself again, and that he would not kill the lad unless he had no other option.



Art of Blade -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (8/31/2007 15:51:16)

Time slowed time for Arikard. It was extremely awkward, and equally uncomfortable. He felt he knew everything that was going to happen a second before it did, and when it did it was much more painful and much more real than he had expected. One by one, everything happened. One thing Arikard saw was the weapon striking at the hand, penetrating it, drawing blood. And then he saw, instantly, a strange symbol of some sort, growing larger and larger and engulfing him. He saw nothing after that. Instead, his other senses took charge. He felt the charges of electricity go in and out and through and around his body. He felt his dead arm, which was already moving quite wildly in his charge, swing in the middle of his fall. He felt his fake arm, passing through the letter and struck with energy much stronger than the last bolt, rattle. He heard the clockwork inside it spin, some faster than others, and caused the arm to bend impossibly, sending him- with help from the weight of the left arm- flying over the Guardian's body as he lost his grip on his weapon. And, finally, he heard the echoes of the Guardian's last words: "Watch out, lad!" as he crashed to the ground and rolled and spun and bruised himself across the unbreakable metal floor.

"Watch out, lad!"

He heard only the echoes. The original sounds had died on its way to his ears, which were filled with the internal screaming Arikard thought he made, but wasn't even sure if he had ever opened his mouth to make such sounds in the first place.

Seconds passed. Perhaps minutes. Arikard wasn't sure. He rested on the cold floor, his sight flickering on and off. He was waiting for his senses to come back. When they did, the first one he felt was that of smell, and it was that first sense he wished stayed 'til last; bits of his hair and clothing were burnt. It didn't need to be set on fire to be burned, of course. Unfortunately, that meant that it didn't need to be set on fire for it to smell bad. In the end, Arikard dismissed it. Smells like that were everywhere back in Roclan.

Not at the Ginesh's, though.

Then his hearing returned, like church bells. Or, more accurately, like an out of control arm banging on steel. Cogs and wheels spun around sporadically, disturbed only by what sounded like a fist crashing into metal, and then the swish through the air, the second hand of the clock moving bit by bit, until the minute hand moved once more and slammed into the ground again. But that's okay, of course. Sounds like that were everywhere in Roclan; can't expect primitive factories and crowds and giant clocks to be silent, can you?

It was silent at the Ginesh's, though. Those people treated sounds like their money; with a sense of economy.

Taste and feel returned without much applause. Only the expected: the taste of blood in his mouth and the feeling of hard, cold ground. His feet were alright, though; he was able to move his big toe without staring at it for an hour, which was good. It probably didn't enter the letter; he had moved out of it so abruptly when his fake arm bended. His left arm was still dead. He couldn't feel his right arm, of course, but that's because it's not really his arm at all.

He felt and tasted better at the Ginesh's, of course, but he already knew that.

He also saw better things at the Ginesh's. Everything about the Ginesh's was better. It would take an idiot to conclude that life with the rich crime family was any worse than out in the streets with a single arm. It would take an idiot not to see that he was blessed, that he was indebted to the Boss to even consider taking him in. It probably wasn't pity that made him adopt him, sort of, an almost adoption really, and it probably wasn't a sense of responsibility either. But what happened happenend, and what happened is that Boss Ginesh created a miracle out of his right shoulder, and gave him a nice place to stay, and sure maybe it was all so he could be a nameless soldier in the Boss's personal army, but...

But...

Hold that thought. Sight just came back. As expected, it came slowly, and his view of the spiky wall was blurry to say the least. He was looking away from his opponent, he knew that much. Those tiny spots of blood that specked across the snow and occasional tiling was probably bad news for him, of course. He saw the fist of his right arm land on the ground, and watched as it disappeared and hit a part of the ground he couldn't possibly see without moving. He shuffled his legs, bringing himself up to a knee and then falling over as the gears in his right arm shifted when he moved, causing the arm to change direction and knock him across the chest. When he hit the floor again, he rolled on his shoulders and pulled his legs back, blocking his own arm from punching him in the chest again and kicking it back, sending it arching to the ground. There was the pathetic little sound of cogs going out of place, and the arm stopped moving. Arikard tried breathing deeply. It hurt, of course, after all that happened, but at least he could breath, and at least he was alive. He wasn't well, like he was at the Ginesh's, hell no he wasn't well, but at least he was alive, like he was in the streets. At least he was alive.

He rolled around. He made a little circle in the snow. Finally, he managed to twist himself around enough to get to his knees again, and then get to his feet. He stood up. He did so slowly, because if he did it any quicker he was afraid he might pull something. He lost both arms, he knew that. His eyes moved towards the bulge in his right shoulder. He would have stroked it, like he did when he came in, and felt the metal in between his fingers and the covering he called his skin. In case of emergencies. It wasn't a god in a box. It was just that; a mechanic in his arm, protected from all damages, just in case of emergencies. The emergency, here, meant a bad right arm.

He ripped himself away from it and looked at his opponent, his knees buckling as he did so, because it took that much effort just to stay standing. His weapon, made from a pile of earth, returned back to its original form. He probably won't be impaling any more hands with that, haha. His opponent was very still, though, with a hatchet in his hand. Probably tried to hit him. That's a haha moment as well. Arikard can't move either arms, but that's probably haha as well, haha.

Probably time to do something about one of them. Haha.

With a thought, a single, voluntary, solitary gear in his right shoulder turned. It was the first time it did so, because emergencies only happen so many times. What happened next happened very quickly: the metallic bulge tore itself out of his upper arm, revealed itself to be a knife, and moved up to the base of his shoulder. There, it turned in place, and then spun a complete circle, slicing his fake arm right off his body. It fell with a clank when both the arm and the knife became separate entities with nothing to do. Arikard's shoulder was, once again, a stump, only this time it wasn't a bloody stump or a fleshy stump but a stump made of torn metal and blocked by a big gear connected to a couple of smaller gears, which turned with a sense of futility.

He took a step forward. After blocking his own arm with his legs and then losing the pointless weight of said arm, he thought walking would be easy. But blocking his own arm simply involved leverage, and losing his right arm only meant that the left arm feels heavier than before. But he did this before, didn't he? He lived all his childhood with one arm. Sure, it was a working arm, now it's just lying there... for now, of course, it'll be better someday, but still... he took another step, his monkey-like toes grabbing hold of the knife that laid in his arm. He tried balancing himself and one foot, holding the knife like a ridiculous weapon. He grinned. He could probably hop to his opponent right now and put the knife in his face. Haha.

He lost his balance and fell on his back. He was laughing very loudly. It was painful with each gasp of air he took, as if someone was kicking him in the chest, but he couldn't stop himself. It was ridiculous. All this. All this pain, all this causing of pain, stabbing people in their hand and then stabbing them with a knife carried by your foot... it was stupider than life on the street, and all so he can live with the Ginesh as their bodyguard, no less. They were the good life, but how much did he want it? A lot, he answered himself, quite frankly I want it a whole damn lot. Good food, good job, a powerful boss... more than any street kid can ask for. But before he can get there, he needs to go through hell.

He laid, spreadeagled on the ground. With another laugh, he tossed the knife away with his foot, laughing at how silly it was him using his feet like hands, so incredibly silly, haha. Haha.

He needs to get through hell... he only hoped hell had to decency not to keep him hanging with nowhere to go. He closed his eyes and started to rest. If he's lucky, maybe he and his opponent can sleep on the ground for a while and regain their energy. He knew he was a very good rester. Heck, right now he could probably roll if he wanted to. He'd need to do more than roll if he wants to impress Boss Ginesh, so maybe if he stays still enough nobody will notice him until he could move properly, and maybe at that time his opponent will be refreshed as well. Then they could finish their fight!

Haha.



Guardian of Nekops -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (9/1/2007 3:24:55)

John's sight returned, revealing to him the happy fact that he was not about to die. The earthen spike was free in his hand, with its tip ground to dust where it met the floor, and as he watched the rest of the weapon crumbled as well, showing him the full extent of the damage to his hand. With the calm scrutiny of a man who had had dozens such injuries and had them all healed for him, he noted the broken bones as well as the hole in the hand and whistled softly. The Orb of Restoration would have been hard pressed to give him function back within a day, and without it or some other miracle he would never heal properly. Also, all that dirt that was in there would have to be cleaned out before an infection set in, no matter how it was healed.

With a groan, John sat up and shook the ringing from his head. Fortunately for both him and the other warrior, there was nobody else nearby to take an interest in their disabled states. Arikard had separated his right arm--- a fake, John noted, run by clockwork-- and was trying to pick up a knife with his toes and hop over to John. Unsurprisingly, he fell before he got far and started laughing at himself as he threw the knife away. "Well," the Guardian muttered as he levered himself to his feet, foolishly using his bad hand in his first attempt, "I'm not so badly off as all that."

Finally on his feet again, John stumbled over towards Arikard, silver hatchet in hand. By all the Lords, his head hurt. When he got to where the knife lay, he gave it a careful kick that sent it spinning off to the left, well out of his opponent's reach. After a little thought, he booted the fake arm as well, sending it flying the other way. After that, he positioned himself so that the warrior could see him and began, "It's over, lad. I don't beat you by much, true, but a hatchet and the strength to stand trumps anything you can offer."

Although he did not understand why, the Guardian had guessed that his control problems had something to do with trading the Orb of Restoration for more power. When he felt a slight tingle as the first portion of his magic returned to him, he squandered it on sparks on the hatchet's head. The last thing he needed now was to go berserk again when he was trying to offer a truce.

"I'm sorry I hurt you so badly;" he continued, real remorse in his voice, "a single bolt to that arm would have done as well, and saved us both much pain. I know it's no excuse, but... I haven't been myself today."

Raising the hatchet high, ready to use it should the warrior for Earth try anything rash, he reasoned, "However, the most important thing to remember is that you have lost nothing this day you cannot regain. Clockwork arms can be rebuilt. Your body can recover full function, if you surrender now. If, however, you try something stupid, like fighting me with no arms, you just might force me to cause permanent damage. So I suggest that you remain where you are until you feel strong enough to leave peaceably. Your part in this drama has come to an end."



Art of Blade -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (9/1/2007 4:59:58)

Just keep laughing, just keep laughing, hahaha, hahaha, just keep laughing...

Arikard continued closing his eyes, continued to breath softly, continued to sleep. Tick, tock, went the gears in his shoulders, the gears that do nothing, tick, tock, tickity tock. He felt one of his legs shake uncontrollably, like it always did when he's trying to sleep. Like a dog, really. Tick. The sounds of footsteps. Tock. Those feet kicking something away. Sounds like his arm. Tick. Then something else being kicked away, this one spinning around very quickly, like his knife. Tock. More footsteps, and the clockwork spun more quickly, tick, tock, tickity tock.

He opened his eyes. The face of his opponent blocked his view of the ceiling. He recovered quickly, it seemed. Arikard wasn't sure if he recovered at all. He felt a shiver run down his other leg. If this was hell, was that the face of the devil who took away his arm? The arm that, before, was only merely shocked, but by now was probably irreparable, for all he knew?

Tick. Tock. Haha.

He heard words. Words like 'over' and 'beat' and 'trumps'. Did this mean he lost? That would be funny, coming all this way just to lose, just because of a bad arm. That arm probably would have healed if he'd done what he was doing now, just waiting, just resting, but instead he just rushed battle again with the fury of a berserker. That was foolish. No, not foolish- dumb. Stupid. Smart as an ass-hole but smells twice as bad. That's what he was. But now he was resting, leg shaking like a little three-legged puppy dog.

More words. Haha. Tock.

Sight and sound blurred together, but only for a moment. It felt like a dream, which would make sense, since he was resting. Of course it would. Except dogs can't dream. And that's why he's here, isn't it? Because he's a dog. He's Boss Ginesh's dog, a loyal dog, just doing his best to impress his god. No, not the Earth Lord. The Lord was his Boss's god, and the Boss was Arikard's god. He saw sparks, as though his god was crying yellow tears for him, but it turned out to be energy working off a hatchet. Haha, that was ironic, wasn't it, haha. If those sparks belonged to his god, than that would mean his god was trying to kill him.

But that's okay, isn't it, because that would be his god's judgment. This was a gamble. If he could go through the trials of hell alive, he'd arrive in heaven. But if he didn't, he died. It was simple. And the only reason he's going to die is because he failed the trials his god so clearly set out for him. But he didn't want to fail. The last thing Arikard wanted to do was fail. And to run away from his god was failing, in the end, failing his trials, failing his god, failing himself, even.

Heaven was so close. He can't stop now.

"I'm sorry I hurt you so badly," he heard. An apologetic voice. He didn't know if it was true, or if that tone was merely a cold calculation done by the devil himself, but he listened. He said his excuse, and said it wasn't an excuse, which confused Arikard greatly before realizing it was just the way people said things.

Tick, tock, tickity bark.

And then, finally, the offer. The offer to surrender. The offer to give up. It was as if the devil was lending him a helping hand, and that hand was on fire, its black smoke blocking the light at the end of the tunnel, the light leading to heaven.

Somewhere in Arikard's mind, the clock stopped ticking. Somewhere else, where his actions were being controlled, he laughed. He laughed loudly, he laughed madly, and he laughed like a man who's a smart as an ass-hole and smells twice as bad, coughing up some blood in the process that dropped back on his own face. "Hey," he said, rasping, "lemme think about that, eh? All this pressure can kill a man, haha." He gave himself space by rolling away from his opponent and his own weapons, laughing all the while. Then he paused. He chuckled and wiggled his two big toes. He giggled and wiggled all his other toes. In unison, both legs bended at the knees and, with the same roll on his shoulders as before, pushed himself off the ground, landing on his feet. His left arm swung wildly, and he managed to catch it with his teeth before it could slap him across the face. With a certain amount of concentration, he shifted his shoulder and teeth and dropped the hand and lower arm into his pocket. He can't bite it off, and he wouldn't even if he could, but this was the best way to keep it out of the way for now. He turned back to his opponent, teeth bared.

He barked.

"Me part in the drama's over?" he said, forgetting the voice he used in front of the Ginesh and instead reverting to the crude speaking that always finds its way in his words. "Well, good sir, I dun' know 'bout you, but I've got me a part here 'cause me god, me very own god, sent me here to kick arse and I'll be damned, I'll be goddamn damned, if you wash me over with your pity, if you be tryin' to wash me over with the kind o' pity only me god can give me! So this is what I say to you, master!" And here he spit on the ground in front of him, where a disgusting combination of bubbles and blood found its way on the pure white snow. "Don't get me wrong, I 'preciate your generosity jus' now, lettin' me rest an' all, but I ain't here to give up. Hope you'll, haha, forgive me if I dun' walk away peacefully."

And here he charged at the Guardian, his breath loud and cracked, his feet slamming into the ground and spreading the snow behind him with each messy step. When he got close enough that the Guardian was near, but not quite so much that the hatchet would reach, Arikard slipped and spun in the air, falling into the snow at just the right angle, letting it spray upwards like a wave of water. He rolled away again, this time much more quickly, with a lot more direction, moving to the Guardian's side, using the lack of right arm to his advantage by leaning towards it and turning around, where his feet swung out, like a violent snake or a vicious dog, and made its way towards the back of the Guardian's knees.

For Arikard, this move was a simple combination of falling down in just the right places, rolling at just the right time, and using the leverage built up from all that to bring his feet up. It shouldn't feel so strained and desperate. But it did, and he couldn't do anything about that, in very much the same way he can't stop a madman laughing, in the same way he can't stop the clockwork spinning, and the same way that he could never stop a dog from trying its best to defend its master.

If he's going to hell, he's going to make sure he deserves it, and that's by fighting until the devil takes his soul.



DaesDymentia -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (9/1/2007 15:39:45)

He had shielded himself from the explosion, brushing away the nails that stuck to his leather armor. The boy whirled away from her at her touch, but it was too late, the poison immediately attacked his blood and spread throughout his body, making him sick. Her eyes narrowed as he began to cough out black blood.

Viola tilted her head, watching him with amusement. “You poor thing.” The parasite snarled, its neck stretching to take a good look at its prey, revealing a row of hideously long needle-sharp teeth. As it pulled, the shadow began to move away from her body, revealing her form. Her voice changed, darker, deeper… no longer her own. “Do not worry, it will end soon.”

While he was distracted, she circled him carefully; the black ‘tar’ at his feet was climbing up his calves, clinging and latching onto him to slow his movements. Slowly it would eat through his armor, and as it continued up his body it enveloped him in its black substance. He began to struggle, trying to move, trying frantically to get the thing off him. No, there were three elements that could save him, and he did not harness them. It began to eat through his clothing, and as it touched his bear skin, it began to burn.

It fed off his living flesh, rotting his skin. He screamed as the thing climbed over his head, and as he did so, it attacked his open mouth, muffling any heightened cries. His flesh would rot and be eaten, then it would go deeper, feeding off muscle tissue and blood alike, and when it was done, he’d be nothing more than a staggering, living ‘corpse’… and much pain he’d endure to stay alive.

Perhaps, fortunately for him, Viola did not intend to leave him that way.

Darkness began to swirl about her feet like black flames, and the boy continued to struggle frantically, now covered in the black tar, gurgling and choking on the thing that was feeding off his skin... stifled shrieks so high-pitched that it near hurt her eyes to hear the wails.

It had been too easy, too brief. Still, the Shade would get what it wanted.

The girl remained still as a large black claw extended slowly, the burst into the boy’s chest with a loud Crack, making him convulse against the parasite’s intrusion. Just as quickly, the thing withdrew, holding his heart. It was tossed lightly, and the parasite immediately snapped it within it’s jaws, slurping the organ down it’s gullet. Both the girl and the parasite seemed to smile at once. “Delicious.”

The boy now remained unmoving, hunched over though still standing. An open cavity in the center of his rib cage.

The parasite dispelled the black fluid on the boy’s body, and quickly it fell the to ground then dissipated- leaving a raw, rotted form of flesh and sinew that clung to the bone, with its blood beginning to leak and pool around its feet. The parasite reached out with its large claw and clenched down onto the boy’s arm and shoulder, nails cutting easily into the muscle to grip the bone lest the arm dislodge.

Rearing back, the boy was lifted, then slammed into the arena wall, impaling the corpse’s body with a splatter.



Guardian of Nekops -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (9/3/2007 0:35:34)

The poor warrior for Earth didn't stop laughing all throughout John's offer. The clockwork still attached to his stump was still working futilely, gears grinding and clicking away at nothing, and the man was actually swinging his head back and forth to the sound as he chuckled and guffawed. There was no doubt in the Guardian's mind that his foe had been broken, tortured beyond what any man should endure by pain and by the loss of function in his limbs. Why, why did I use such a horrible attack on the boy? he lamented, glad at least that the insanity was over now. His foe would give up, they would survive the rest of the initial fight somehow-- although with the body splattering against the nearby spikes and the shadow-engulfed girl now without an opponent, that was hardly a certainty-- and then he would take the boy in, find him a good mechanic and a better doctor-- more twitching, this time in the leg-- and possibly a psychiatrist, and he would pay them all and they would fix it and everything would be alright. Yes, everything would work out just fine as long as he kept the madness at bay. Just to be safe, he purged the small bit of Power recharging within him in another harmless shower of sparks.

Unfortunately, Arikard's mind was not broken. It was merely bent very sharply to the left, then even harder to the right, and twisted into a curlicue on the end for good measure. Instead of being depressed and downtrodden, the Earthling was certifiably insane. He demonstrate this by all the classic signs: maniacal laughter while coughing up blood, making extremely bad jokes and laughing at them on the verge of death, and rolling merrily away from any possible attack with a speed that just might have allowed him to outrun a snail. Then he slammed his shoulders into the ground to gain his feet, put his hand in his pocket using his teeth, and... barked at John, whose only thought was, What have I done?!

"Me part in the drama's over?" the competitor for Earth echoed, all his attempts at refined speech from before gone now. He then began to rant about how his god, by which John could only assume he meant the Lord of Earth, had sent him here to fight, and spat at the Guardian's offer of mercy. The wild look in his eyes made it quite clear that Arikard would not be surrendering this day.

The hand that bore the hatchet came up behind his head, and John knew he should throw it now, should put the boy down like he would a horse with a broken back, but that sort of killing had always been the hardest for the Guardian to do. Now, being himself the source of this injury that would never let Arikard be healthy again, John could not strike the final blow.

Apparently, that moment of hesitation was all the crazed warrior needed. Charging towards John and closing with great speed the distance that would have made a hatchet throw feasible, he skid across the ground as he drew near, sending the snow spraying up towards the Guardian's eyes. Ready for this, John brought a hand up to block, but the pain as the cold hit his impaled hand was just as much of a distraction as the intended effect.

In the Guardian's mind, an insistent voice, weaker than he but with a strength he did not possess, cried, Get out of the way, weakling, before we lose to the cripple! Knowing that exactly that might happen, the real John panicked and surrendered control.

With a neat sidestep to the left and a pivot back towards his foe, the Nekops avoided the kick aimed at the back of his legs. He slammed his foot down on the pathetic Earthling's chest, holding him down with it as he sneered, "I shall send you to be at peace with your god, then, since you obviously cannot do it here."

With that, he hurled the silver hatchet down at Arikard's head. He could miss, true, but at this range it would be the first time.



Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =Elemental Championships= Spike Arena (9/3/2007 20:58:54)

Suddenly, out of the blue, or whatever the dominant colour was at the time, multi-coloured sprites appear, hovering down at rapid speeds to choice contestants - they then wiggle into their heads through their ears, making the fighters emit a glow most spectacular from their eyes, ears, mouths, and even noses...

Their bodies growing transparent, and thusly the strange lights taking over everything, making them impossible to see, the light (the contestants?) rise up slowly, finally exploding into a gazillion of little marvelous pieces.

The Lords had made their pick, their chosen champions would proceed to fight the Final battle of the Tournament...



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