=EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (Full Version)

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superjars -> =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (6/22/2012 21:56:49)

It had been a long year since the last Elemental Championship, but the Championship Arena Complex did not show signs of age, rather the contrary - it grew, and along with it – just a hill, a spring and a stone bridge away – grew the city of Bren. The proximity of the Arena had done it much good: apart from the great crowds, and thus business, it brought in during the Championship itself, just the presence of such a complex carried the city’s name far over the lands. There came adventurers of many sorts, and the burgeoning six inns of Bren were never short of business. There came priests of the Elemental Lords, building shrines and churches and granting it divine protection not from one, but from all the Lords. And there came many, many artisans to maintain the four offshoot Arenas around the First Arena now used exclusively for Finals, and craft the minor alterations that seemed necessary from year to year.

New this year, a special group of artisans struggle to create a new Arena to add to the complex; one shrouded in mystery to be revealed at the next year’s tournament. For now, this space has been rendered off-limits, disallowing any wandering eyes from giving away its secrets.

The would-be combatants, either just arriving, or having taken a night's rest either at an inn or at the small camp of tents at the base of the Arena hill, would get to see the normal artisans' handiwork soon enough, right after the priests and mages within them finish their last checks on the protective barriers and image transportation enchantments for the gathered crowds.


It always took the enchanters quite a bit of time to get out of the Cellar Arena, since it was quite a ways down into the ground. One could see the granite walls of the main part of the Arena Complex right above the now-open, heavy, metal gate leading down into the Cellar - the underground arena placed right under the original, First Arena!

One of the now leaving spell-weavers conjured up an opened scroll above the entrance, which would levitate there until the end of the match. Those who would care to read it would have found out that the place they are about to enter had more than just regular protective shield enchantments - rather, the ordinary enough looking mirror walls the fighters would find inside were of magical nature, and not only act as a protective barrier for the spectators behind it, but also make any projectile flung at it - magic or not - simply bounce off, much like a simple ray of light would from a regular mirror. On a more disturbing note, the scroll also stated that no wound would ever heal whilst its owner remained in the Cellar, not even by ways of magic. If the group of healers and doctors standing around just outside the entrance were of any consolation, the shovels lined up against the wall and the priests near them were most definitely not.

As daunting as that may have been, most of those gathered here had never feared death - lest they would not be there at all - so they began descending the spiral stairway, leaving the shrieks and anxieties of a bloodthirsty crowd behind them - or rather, over them.

The upper gate closed with a loud, ominous clang.

The fight was about to begin, but first a quick glance would reveal the interior of the room - it was square in shape, with the mirror walls they knew to expect there, giant eight foot by four foot mirrors, spaced evenly across each wall, ten of them spread out on each of the four surfaces. Four huge, round pillars of plain grey stone, as wide as a man with his arms spread out, stand in the middle of the room, forming a square shape similar to the room itself. The floors, ceiling, and pillars had all been restored to a pristine – almost unnatural – smoothness, without a chink or crack to be seen in the stone. The customary torches on the pillars were gone, however, and it took a moment to discern just where the pervasive soft lighting of the Arena came from. The answer was in patches of bioluminescent moss that grew in irregular patches around and on the pillars, as well as along the edges of the mirrors. With the mirrors' reflection of the light, the Cellar is far from the dark, damp place one would imagine a room of such name to be.

It was actually very dry – uncomfortably dry – and there was something very unnatural to that dryness.

Could that have been the enchantment of never-ceasing wounds they sensed?

Perhaps.

But for now, it was time to forget such thoughts, and cause some wounds instead.



Mirai -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (6/23/2012 17:46:03)

The Dreadnight lurched forward in motion, black armoured legs rapidly traversing distance with their long, slightly-shambling strides. The land did not quite shudder as the leviathan clomped onward, though to the massed ranks of onlookers around and about, it might have seemed like the dusty stones quietly groaned at the monstrosity’s gargantuan weight. Massive broadsword slung over one shoulder, tucked behind its shield, the giant behemoth gave little attention to its audience: bloodthirsty observers of the Elemental Championships jostling for position to witness the undead fighter’s march upon the arena, gauging its worth for a bet.

The cobbled road was crowded, alive with raucous laughter and garrulous talk, scented with sizzling sausages being served to momentarily slake the horde’s hunger. Traders cried out their wares to the people of Bren, from refreshing barley brews, to children’s silken banners. Tokens of support for people’s champions fluttered in the air, reds and blues mingling in the throng. Up above, bold gulls screeched and cawed, eager to snatch up any scraps of food discarded upon the thoroughfare. Nervous tension and excited anticipation also hung over the street, building up to a stormy crescendo, peaking toward the moment that the annual slaughterhouse opened its doors for carnage once again.

Breathless snatches of conversation drifted amongst the busy throng, analysis of the competitors’ strengths and weaknesses being debated over long draughts of honey slaked ale, and cool, frothy beer. With the Dreadnight’s master loathed throughout the Severed Valleys for his resurrection of undead hordes, and reviled for the destruction his abominations had wreaked upon the townsfolk of Caeryfyn, Heinrich von Carsten’s latest creation received little support.

“… may be big, but it’ll be slow and clumsy, mark my words.”
“… agents of dark never triumph…”
“… Dajaal last year. That demon’d chew it up… use its bones as toothpicks.”
“… stupid brute…”
“… coward if you ask me, to send this brute in his place…”

Another warrior might have felt anger at these insults, might have clenched their jaw, or given some witty response to their audience’s taunts. Or perhaps they might have feared that grains of truth lay in such mutterings, might have questioned whether they were worth of the enormity of the challenge before them, or if they were not being utilised as their master’s sacrificial pawn.

… we fight for those we love, for those who cannot fight themselves… let us make them proud this day…

The Dreadnight ignored the insane mutterings of its skull, giving them no more creed than the irrelevant crowds around it, microscopic flies flittering before a vast narwhal surfacing from the ocean’s murky depths. Instead, the void-like visage of the construct was focussed solely upon delivering its master’s instructions: namely to travel to the championships, and win them in Heinrich’s name. To tarry with the mob would be to impinge upon the purity of its purpose. Indeed, it paid no more heed to its naysayers than to the warm sun overhead, whose glittering rays shone down upon the colossal titan’s razor-edged circular shield. Notably, no sparkles greeted the solar orb’s nimble light: rather the pitch–black metal of the rounded disc seemed to greedily consume the optic gleams as it lay atop the giant’s sword.

… let the light shine upon us, let us carry it into blackest night…

For unlike most servants of darkness, the Dreadnight cared not for the sun. No joy, but equally no hate or fear. Just like the crowd, the magnificent yellow flecked globe was nothing to it. Instead, stride by mechanical stride, short-swords strapped to its waist, the undead champion marched relentlessly toward completing the first phase of its mission. Had it been charged with the destruction of holy relics, commanded to bring death upon cities, instructed to murder innocent children… it would have carried out is orders with the same efficient dispassion.

Upon entering the stadium, the Dreadnight paused for a split-second, to review the implementation of its first objective, and review the scroll floating before the entrance of its selected arena. Phase one had been completed with minimal consequence, a largely uneventful passage from the ruins of Caeryfyn, to the town of Bren.

Then, guided as much by its creator’s pre-programmed instructions as by the monks and wizards that maintained the gladiatorial area, the Dreadnight journeyed through heavy, metal gate leading down into the dry depths of the Cellar arena, and began descending its spiral stairway.

Now’s our chance… to me! Warriors of Bremen, take heart, advance upon these green skinned scum! Gods… the pain in my side… splinters from the wretched gate... But I have to go on… have to take down their leader before we’re overwhelmed…

Dedicated to its master’s goals, the Dreadnight ignored the gibberings of its skeletal core, distant remnants of the life force extinguished from its mainstay. Instead it focussed upon the challenges ahead: for the undead knight would not underestimate its foes. The memories of its skeletal mainstay did not include direct experience of the Elemental Championships, but the Bremen lord had observed them some eight years past, shortly before his own demise. Some fighters would be skilful, powerful and swift, while others would have eldritch sorcery running down their veins.

Aliena, my child… keep young Telemach safe ‘til his grandfather is done here. Gods, I wish I had another hour with him, another chance to bounce him upon my knee. Still, darkness shall never fall on Bremen… not while there’s breath in my body…

But ultimately, all must be crushed beneath the construct’s armour-clad boots. For while flesh decayed and putrefied, bones endured, bones stayed true, eschewing fancies and illusions. There was no ephemeral beauty in them, only certainty of the grave to come. It was death, and it would bring death.

The Dreadnight reached the foot of the spiral stairs… and paused, hearing the upper gate above it close with a loud, ominous clang. For a moment, it glanced around the moss-lit chamber, noting the four stone pillars and anticipated mirror walls, briefly considering whether the room’s sorcerous wards would interfere with its normal capacity to heal damage to its exterior shell. More importantly, it registered that its opponents had apparently yet to enter the room.

Then with a lightness of touch that belied its vast size, the undead warrior stepped two steps to its left, drew its sword and shield… and stood motionless, still as the grave.

Other warriors might initially offer greetings upon their arrival, beguiled by pride into trading names and reputations. But the Dreadnight lacked both the vocal chords and emotions for such. Instead, it prepared to welcome the next entrant to the arena with a savage, horizontal cut of its blade, intended to cleave an average sized opponent in twain.

Fight for our homes, for our families, for our honour. For if we are without honour, when we are remembered, what will be left of us but shadows?



TormentedDragon -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (6/23/2012 22:16:04)

He was putting on a show.

Not quite your normal show, either. Oh, certainly, there were performers of the magical stripe a plenty; illusionists, flamedancers, windsingers, ice sculptors, and the list went on and on. For every form of magic, readily available or not, there was someone, somewhere, who'd turned it to entertainment. There were even other metal-shapers out there.

Wintin was fairly certain none of them had ever juggled a cauldron like the boys did their kickballs.

He grinned at the wide eyes of the crowd, catching the cast-iron pot inches from the ground with his outstretched foot. Their eyes were riveted to the thing, waiting for the next movement. He flipped it up again, and brought his knee up to meet it as it came back down, sending it flying back into the air with an audible clang. He had to suppress the urge to laugh with every audience member's wince. This, see, was how he knew no one had put on a show like his before. Most other performers weren't willing to risk the injury.

"And this," he yelled out, letting the cauldron come to a sudden stop atop his bald, tattooed head, "ain't nuttin' but child's play!" With a flick of his finger, he popped the cauldron's top, and sent three large, rather nasty looking meathooks flying out of its open mouth. A twist of his hands, and he had them in his grasp, his grin turning predatory. "Don ya worry none, now. I know what I'se doin'."


"And it doesn't weaken the metal?"

"Not a whit," he said, making the horseshoe stretch and thin, the metal slowly coiling around his arm in a snake-like fashion. "Smiths use heat and hammer, y'see, poundin' the metal into shape and cooking it so it stays like 'at. Cook it too many times, starts to break down." He proffered his metal-wrapped arm for the knight to inspect. "I ain't got to worry about that, since the metal just do what I tell it to. Go ahead, then, give 'er a slice."

The knight gave him a doubtful look, but drew his knife. "Make sure you be hacking at the metal now, and not skin." The man nodded, and took a slice, looking a touch surprised when the knife had no effect. "See? Like clay in my hands, right, but tough as it ought."

The knight looked at him, clearly impressed. "And why have you not set up shop already?"

Wintin chuckled, twisting the metal off his arm and back into the horseshoe shape. "Well the smiths much like me, see. Normally I wouldn't care much but seein' as I'm here for another reason, seemed good business not to get run out o' town just yet."

"The Championship?" He snorted, and nodded his assent. As if there could be any other reason. "Hm. A risky undertaking. What do you hope to gain?"

"Well, it's only the biggest shindig in Lore, what with the Lords themselves puttin' their eyes and ears all in one spot and squabblin' over oo's got the strongest Champ an' all." He chuckled again, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Kinda 'minds me o' little boys arguin' over oo's dad can beat up oo, am I right?" The knight frowned. Right then, 'member who you're talkin' to. "Eh, but oo am I to poke fun at 'em? Probably best to keep me mouth shut, given I'm looking to catch ol' Father's eye."

His companion raised an eyebrow. "Father?"

Wintin blinked. "Ol' Father Earth. What, they don't call 'im that in these parts?"

The knight shook his head. "I believe that is the first time I've heard the Earth Lord referred to in such a manner."

Wintin leaned back, scratching his head. "Well ain't that something. All this time in travelin' and I ain't heard it any other way. Eh, but then I guess I never really asked. Anyways, basic reasoning is a boon is a good thing, and what with all the people watching, might drum up some new business. Kinda like with that show you watched."

"It is a dangerous gamble. Your survival is hardly a sure thing."

He shrugged. "Every day is a gamble, m'lud. If'n I wake up in the mornin', it's 'cause I didn't die in mah sleep. Goin' in there is just kinda like taking a walk through, oh, say, Darkovia, except all thrown at you in the space of a candlemark." He blinked, and frowned. "Huh. Put that way, makes me sound like a right fool."

"It does, at that."

He laughed. "That's alright. I've always been a fool!"


Down, down, down into the deep and the darkness. He'd heard stories of the Cellar; how the smallest wound was a death sentence, how the walls would reflect anything, in the same way a mirror would reflect a sunbeam, how in some ways, it was perhaps the bloodiest arena.

All of which was absolutely excellent. He barely bothered to read the scroll before heading down the stairs, preceded only by a great hulking brute in what looked to be pure black metal. Which could either mean a very easy fight, or a rather hard one, depending on things. Others with him? A fairly typical looking fighter type, some strange dude in what looked to be armor made out of bone, a great pile of animated rocks, some furry little thing, and blonde ponce in blue silk. No telling what would happen down here, no telling at all. All he knew? It was going to be a blast.

The doors clanged shut, and he twitched. The cauldron top popped into the air, hooks and horseshoes flying to his hands and wrists, and came clattering back down, secure once more. Right. Right. Just the doors closing. Battle hadn't stated quite ye- where'd the brute gone?

He met the swing of the broadsword with his horseshoes, sending the two sturdy pieces out to meet it mid-swing. Instincts born of surviving countless sneak attacks prompted him to take a quick step back, the sword stopping barely an inch away from his skin. He knew better than to stop there, though; he was a right good target for the guys right behind him. "Jackrabbit," he whispered, and slipped under the sword, running hell for the leather for the other side of the arena.

"Hell of a way to start this party."



Ryu Viranesh -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (6/24/2012 12:23:24)

Ryu awakened before the sun had even chosen to grace the day with its light, breaking his fast and dressing himself under the gaze of the stars; he’d hoped that an early start would allow him to bypass the crowds and enter the city before the masses began to clamor at its gates.

Mine and everyone else’s idea apparently, he thought impatiently as he inched forward another couple of steps, baby steps really. Instead of finding the way into Bren clear, as he’d expected, there was already a river of people standing in line waiting for the city watch to open the main gate. People had even camped in line overnight, some eager to savor the sights and sounds of the fabled city before retiring to their seats to watch the carnage to come, some still hoping to get such seats from one of the many scalpers strewn across Bren’s more reputable alehouses and alleyways. Ryu just wanted to get into the damned place. The cool morning became a hot afternoon before he got his wish, finally arriving at the front of the line. A guard to his right gave him a brief look over, his indigo colored hair and magma colored eyes attracting little attention, the man’s eyes instead lingering on the weapons belted to Ryu’s side, particularly his oversized sword. Ryu formed his lips into the best grin that he could muster, hoping that it would somehow placate the guard, foolish as that possibility was. Though what he really hoped was that the guard didn’t notice the nervous quiver at the corner of his lips. After a few more tense moments a smile broke out on the guard’s face as well, a rough belly-laugh escaping his dry, chapped lips before the soldier clapped him on the back.

“Don’t think that you’re the first competitor in the Elemental Championships to pass this way, boy. A couple of them have come before you, men that looked tough as nails. You have a different look about you, though; less like to cause trouble in the bars after the Tourney’s over, probably. Good luck and enjoy your stay in Bren!” The man shoved him forward, scarcely leaving time for Ryu to mumble a “Thank You” before he was past the checkpoint and in the city proper. Finally free of the living river, he let out a sigh of relief; he hadn’t liked large crowds before his debut in the Elemental Championships five years ago, even less after his shameful display. There were still many groups of people wandering along Bren’s paved streets, but they had better things to pay attention to then a lone man dressed in warrior’s garb. There were probably plenty of others like him in the city today. Abruptly remembering that he had somewhere to be, Ryu quickly strode forward onto Bren’s main street, taking brief glances at the buildings that lined the avenue as he travelled.

The city really has changed in five years. It’s so much bigger than I remember it. There were a few more houses as would be expected, but the real surprise was how many businesses, particularly large businesses that had chosen to spread their roots at Bren. Ryu even recognized a few of the names from his travels over the years. And if the city was big to him now, then the festivities held for the Elemental Championships were massive: stalls dotting the side of every street, plays and farces being performed in every plaza, vendors standing in the middle of it all yelling their wares to the passing traffic. There was “Simon’s Sizzling Sausages”, “Bartho’s Burgeoning Balloons”, “Fiona’s Fantastic Fudge”, and even “Derek’s Divine Daggers: Sure to smite the demons inside and outside of the Arena”.

Bren wasn’t the only thing that had changed though; what Ryu would have given for his travels this year to be as easy as they’d been the first time he’d made the journey. He had been much closer to the city in those days, and a body of water hadn’t stood in the way of him reaching his destination. He’d acquired passage on a ship travelling South, but once they’d set sail they’d run into no end of trouble. Storms, pirates, they’d even almost run aground on an island hidden in the morning mist. When they finally put into port it was a miracle that the ship was still in one piece; the captain had demanded double the original fee for his crew’s (in actuality his) pain and suffering, leaving Ryu to take a job guarding a merchant caravan that was headed to Bren. Even with all of these setbacks, he managed to arrive at the city three days before the Tournament began, paying one of the other guards who he’d travelled with to enter him; after seeing him in action, some of the merchants even planned to wager some money on him. Lost in his thoughts, before he knew it Ryu had reached his chosen Arena, the same Arena that had been chosen for him five years ago.

It had to be this place again; this must be the Lord of Fire playing some cruel joke on me.

“I’ve more important things to worry about than old Smokey, though.” He muttered, several of the people in the crowd around him turning to stare. His right hand nervously fingered the hilt of the sword at his hip, Ryu suddenly very aware of the attention being directed at him. His feet quickly moved him away from this confrontation, stopping in front of the scroll that hung outside the entrance to the Arena. He only gave the piece of paper a cursory examination to see if it had anything new to say, its original contents forever burned into his mind. His thoughts were elsewhere.

It’s fine, they don’t know me. Not yet anyway. It’s all right, it doesn’t matter. None of it does. The only thing that matters is ending the butchery and racism back in the mountains. To do that I need to perform well here and spread word of the atrocities taking place. My terrible reputation be damned, I have a job to do and I won’t let it get in my way.

His resolve steeled, his face set, and the scroll read there was nothing to stop him from passing through the gateway to the Cellar, and so he did. The stairway down to the Arena was long and grew darker with every step; Ryu had to rely more and more on his ears as his eyes became next to useless in the gloom. However, his eyes had done him an invaluable service before he’d descended: granted him a look at his competition. Before him went a titan made of jet black metal and a shorter man with a dark tan carrying what looked to be a … cauldron? Still to come when he entered the darkness were a warrior clad in armor made of some type of bones, a mage-ish looking creature in blue silk robes, a small furry creature wearing a more normal brand of protection, and some type of construct. What was it that they called them? Golems? Whatever it was, it was going to be in the Arena with him. Quite the variety of opponents this year, though he assumed it was probably the same every year. All that was left to him was to choose one of these oddities to fight.

As Ryu approached the foot of the stairs his sight came back to him, courtesy of a dim light that suffused the entirety of the Cellar. Just like he remembered. What he didn’t remember was the small, tan man blocking the black colossus’ broadsword with a pair of horseshoes.

“Only at the Elemental Championships,” he chuckled as he took hold of his buckler with his left hand, his right now tightly clutching the hilt of his sword. He took a deep breath and charged down the remaining steps, just as the steel juggernaut began to lift his blade once more. Ryu raised his shield and dropped his head, continuing to charge forward until the last instant, relying on his momentum to slide his body under the executioner’s blade. As soon as he was in the clear Ryu dashed forward once more, abruptly spinning around to face the titan after he’d put some distance between them. The breaths that he let out were heavy, but the expression on his face was one of pure ecstasy. He might have a problem dealing with attention, but he had no such issue with combat; in battle, he was just like everyone else in the Arena: fierce, dangerous, and motivated. Ryu pulled his sword out of its scabbard, the familiar weight settling comfortably into his palm as he awaited the arrival of the rest of the competitors; assuming they survived the colossus’ brutal welcome.



Mirai -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (6/24/2012 14:06:41)

The Dreadnight registered the ringing clash of its sorcery-formed broadsword against honest steel, as its brutal backhanded
slash smashed against a bald headed opponents’ protective parry of… a pair of horseshoes. The sheer power of the right-handed blow knocked the lucky crescents backwards, though not far enough to nick the wiry warrior’s skin.

Remarkably, the horseshoes did not go flying from the broadsword… but rather stuck to it, like odd magnets gripped to the length of jet-black metal.

Though it had been endowed with limited emotional capacity, the gargantuan construct nevertheless registered faint uncertainty at the form of the orange clothed man’s unusual method of defense, a technique it had neither encountered in its short undead existence, nor previously in its skeletal core’s lifetime of battle. For a split-second, it paused, reviewing its memory banks, uncertain of how to combat this horseshoe shield.

… shock can kill a warrior sure as steel…

Taking advantage of the metal monster’s momentary surprise, the sandal clad tinsmith slipped beneath the Dreadnight’s huge broadsword, and bolted past the undead fighter.

Determining to just ignore the horseshoes for the time being, the armoured kight was tempted to pursue its erstwhile foe, to give chase and maintain the attack, or otherwise to hurl some missile at his retreating back. But that would have put five potential combatants to the midnight-armoured knight’s own rear. Giving up the brown eyed warrior for the time being, the undead champion began wrenching its sword back, bringing the hilt rising up toward its left shoulder. The horseshoes rose with the blade, tenaciously gripped to its length like limpets on a rocking ship of war.

Unfortunately for the gargantuan fighter, its next foe had no intention of waiting until its blade was poised to strike once more. Instead, a pale skinned warrior darted forward, sliding as the Dreadnight belatedly brought its sword slamming diagonally down in response to his arrival. Shield raised protectively over himself, the red eyed man skidded rapidly past the violent behemoth, avoiding the sorcerous sword by mere inches as it cleaved down viciously upon the smooth chamber floor. Sparks flew as the heavy metal smashed against the arena’s smooth surface, though the horseshoes remained unshaken by the brutal impact.

Like the first warrior the violet haired second fighter seemed keen to put a little distance between himself and the undead construct. Nevertheless, the monster’s skeletal core warned that it would soon have to turn to face the pair, in the likely event that they intended retaliation for its brutal attacks.

Indeed, the watching audience might have expected the colossus to have been discouraged by failing to strike not just one, but two of its foes. Yet the black armoured behemoth was nothing if not relentless. Not attempting to check the ricocheting momentum of its sword’s path, the Dreadnight allowed its sword arm to rise up and to its right, rotating upon its left foot, its weight shifting backward as its right leg arced with surprising grace behind it. Simultaneously the mithril titan brought its razor-edged shield whipping across from left to right, a vertical barrier primed to smash into the side of whatever foe was brave enough to next depart the spiral stairs.

… and a shield can be more deadly than a sword….



.Discipline -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (6/24/2012 15:04:36)

Two days ago...

An odd sort of confidence filled the air as the wind whistled through extensive locks of dirty red hair and a betraying smirk crossed the thin lips of the wiry warrior. N'aschi Leventera was on his way to Bren, his slender frame wrapped tightly in a suit of off-white bone which had been painstakingly hewn from the corpses of an entire brood of wyvern, those who had failed the Wind Lord, by N'aschi's mind. He would just as soon carve up anybody who stood in his path today, for this was the day he could finally prove his worth to his master.

His face may have shown some semblance of emotion had it not been half-covered with an ornately etched mask, of the same bone in which he was clad, but as it obscured his eyes entirely, one could only imagine the thoughts which were rushing through the assassin's fractured mind like a hurricane buffeting stone.

Perfect. The wind is messing up my damned hair he thought to himself, holding out both of his bladed arms to call the breeze to a halt, as his hair flopped down to the bottom of his back. That's better. He speedily jumped from trunk to trunk through a clearing on an old forest floor, stepping lightly and with little sound as he had been trained. Focusing for a second, he made out the shapes a pair of wolves that had taken an interest in him, sensing the hot breath rising from their mouthes as they closed in from behind. Elegantly unsheathing his twin back-mounted scimitars, he let them slip out of his grip as they fell for a split second before being picked up by a strong and unyielding squall which flung them both toward each respective beast.

Two sharp whimpers, then silence.

N'aschi beckoned to his blades as again they sailed on the air and back into his grip as blood dripped a trail across the forest floor. Swiftly he resheathed his weapons, scoffing to himself.

No longer a challenge. The Championships had better have something more to offer.

He continued speeding toward his destination in hopes of finding out.



Present

Moving into the fray in a series of intricate flips and precise movements, N'aschi Leventera took a bow before running and armored finger slowly along each of the freshly sharpened blades on his arms and legs. Although he did not have his vision due to his strange facial ornamentation, N'aschi looked through the air, feeling each slight movement, the direction and curvature of the stale air, turning his head to map out the dimension of the arena and what lay inside it. He knew this was the Cellar Arena, the fabled underground battle-pit which had claimed many a life with the brutal enchantments put into place.

Good. he spoke to himself. There is no escape.

Stroking across the daggers strapped to his hips, he found one which felt perfect for the occassion, slightly curved, sharp as a malgru tooth. He could even feel the air parting around the blade as he clutched it between his fingers.

So what do I have to play with? he asked himself, wetting his thin lips with his tongue as he concentrated and looked around. Wind speed was slow, fair enough, he expected that much of a dank tomb. He could make out three competitors straight away.

One; Big, made of something impermeable. Slightly hollow, however. Sharp blade, not as sharp as mine. Avoid melee combat.
Two; Fairly average size, bald head, baggy clothing. Robes... a wizard? Things orbiting. Kinesis? No. Magnetics, likely. Certainly not manipulating air.
Three; A warrior? And... oh, they're all fighting now? Skipping introductions, are we? How rude. No matter.

N'aschi let the sharp bone dagger slip from his thin fingers as he waited for a moment when one would be off guard.

The bald one. He runs. he thought to himself as he began to visibly grin.

Lifting it up with a vicious wind, he willed it to sail on the air, hopefully directly into the back of the mage's domed skull. Holding his concetration, he also attempted to reduce the natural whistling sound, hoping to take his first target entirely unaware as he stood, arms raised, sharp blades pointed outward in case anybody hoped to do the same to him.



Micosil -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (6/26/2012 14:00:56)

Model O-65 walked heavily down the stairs, analyzing the fighters in front of him as he moved. One was quickly identified as a knight - full plate armor coupled with the classical sword-and-board pointed at it, at least. The next one defied the classification tree built into the golem - for starters, the cauldron. There was no entry that mentioned the use of cauldrons as weapons, though there was a mention of them in the information about witches. And the flasks could be potions, which might fit, even though his analysis routines returned a lower than 20% probability of correct identification. With the mental equivalent to a shrug, the golem noted it down as a witch nonetheless - better than noting it down as unknown, which had a 100% correct identification rate but a no-useful-information rating. Finally, behind the witch was a man with a small shield, a curved sword and only a chainmail shirt as armor - possibly an agile fighter, but once again the golem lacked information to make a final decision. Realizing that he was unlikely to have enough information to identify any of his foes properly, he moved on to the final stage of his combat preparations.

Verifying integrity.
Loading modules...
B.Transmission loaded.
B.Shield loaded.
E.Wall loaded.
L.Whip loaded.
Shockwave loaded.
All modules functional. Combat status: operational.


Sparks run though the golem's outer shell as he readied the modules, simply testing that the loading system worked properly, and a single crack coming from the transmission system let him know that the connection was established. Unknown to 65, everything that happened to or around him would be transmitted to his maker's laboratory, where it would go through analysis in order to improve the next golem generation.

The golem saw nothing of what was going on at the stairs' exit thanks to both his own size and the fact that they were spiral, but he could hear the clanging of metal - which given the current situation meant that he could easily just walk out of the door and into a fireball. He paused for a brief moment, going through the diverse defensive options at his disposal and ,deciding that his best course of action would be something capable of handling both magical and physical attacks, the golem activated the Energy Wall. Slowly, far more slowly than he actually could deploy it if needed, the energy shield extended vertically from the golem's left arm. As soon as it had stopped growing, 65 put it in front of him and moved out of the stairs.

He was greeted by something smashing into his side, a blow that would've probably have sent a normal person flying, but barely managed to move 65's immense weight. With an almost immediate retaliation, the electric whip appeared and launched itself forward, aimed towards the knight's sword arm as the golem itself pushed into the knight's body, attempting to bring him even further out of balance and, unknowingly, clearing the way for the next fighter to enter the arena.



Meanwhile, back at the lab.

"Stop it there, Jones." He leans over the image, poking it with a finger that goes right through the magical weave. "You see that, right there? On his sword? What in the name of the Lords is that?"

"Not sure, sir. Lemme see if I can..." The young wizard drifts off as the magic zooms into the hazy object and, a second later, clears up. "It looks like a... horseshoe."

The flickering image reveals the maker's raised eyebrow. "Any other time I'd say you're wrong but... Dark take me if that's not a horseshoe indeed."




Starstruck -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (6/26/2012 19:02:23)

Tiure paid sullenly for his ridiculously expensive room, wishing for the eleventh time that morning that he had not let slip that this was the only open room for six miles when checking in. At least it had been a fairly good room; Tiure had been camping in the woods for the previous week whilst travelling to Bren, and a soft bed with magical climate control was precisely the thing he needed for the hot summer nights. The plumbing was a welcome luxury, as well.

As the tall violinist walked through the streets, he saw a bald man kicking his cauldron of metal items high into the air. He's strong, thought Tiure apprehensively. I am willing to bet he'll be in the championships, and I am also definitively certain that I don't want to meet him. After surveying the others gathered in the plaza and guaranteeing that none of the others appeared to be joining the competition, Tiure made his way over to the entrance to his arena, the Cellar. He felt nervous as he descended the stairs; the scroll above the entrance was in some indecipherable language unknown to the violinist, and surely it contained vital information. He'd just have to wing it, he supposed.

As he walked down the stairs, Tiure calmed himself by playing a song. A series of short staccato notes in a rising crescendo led up to a massive burst of energetic fiddling. Tiure closed his eyes and let his fingers dance up and down the neck of the instrument in a dance that they knew well. Perfectly, in fact. As Tiure played, a curious thing happened; four small, differently shaped clouds took their positions at his sides. One was fluffy and white, whereas another buzzed angrily. Two of the four clouds, though, seemed cold and brittle, as if prone to breaking at the slightest touch. When he had finished, he tensely surveyed the arena, taking a tentative step into the underground room.

Immediately before him a pair of collosal titans were locked in battle. The first was huge by a normal measure, an abnormally tall black armoured knight with broad, thick set shoulders, and a massive three foot wide shield. But against the second fighter he appeared overshadowed, dwarfed by a gigantic, energy-lined walking fortress of a golem. Oddly, there was something faintly familiar about the black knight’s sword arm, though Tiure could not put a metaphorical finger on the issue. Seeing the midnight coloured champion smash its shield ineffectively against the golem’s side, Tiure decided to discreetly slip past the pair, unwilling to risk grievous bodily harm. As he walked over nonchalantly to one of the pillars, a speedy dagger zipped by his head. Yelling hoarsely, the young hydromancer (okay, almost a hydromancer) dove behind the protective stone surface, shaking visibly.

To steady himself, Tiure stood and launched into a different song. This one seemed to have no effect other than to calm the shaking teenager, which it did admirably, and was a slow, meandering song that lingered over each note as though it were the sweetest ever played. It was a bit of a long song, and Tiure was markedly wary of each sound of steel on steel in hopes to avoid the sounds that meant a quick and untimely death. As such, the song went by for an eternity longer than it should have, but Tiure played it with his customary accuracy.



demonhunter -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (6/26/2012 23:02:02)

One day ago...

"Jonathan Longhair?"

The official looked down at the small furry being and frowned.

"This is your third time here, is it not?" He inquired.

"Yeah. Didn't do so well the last couple times. Figured I'd try again," was Jonathan's reply, accompanied by a nonchalant shrug.

"Hmmm..." The official mused for a minute or so, before finally sighing. "Very well, I'll allow it. But this is the last time, Longhair. The Lords don't take kindly to repeated failures."

Jonathan scowled. This was unexpected.

"Last chance, eh? Best make it count, then."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


He was an odd sight in Bren's busy streets. Three feet tall, covered in the tan fur of his summer coat, clad in black with unusual white runes adorning his garments. Not to mention the two foot tail. Jakkai rarely came this far from their villages... But then, Jonathan was no ordinary Jakkai. While most were content to stay at home and live their lives, Jonathan suffered from itchy feet, the urge to travel. Wanderlust, some called it. Whatever it was, it drove him to explore the world.

And for the past three years, it had brought him here, to Lore's biggest tournament. Not as a spectator, as one might expect from his diminutive frame, but as a competitor, testing the skills he had honed in the hunt.

As he made his way towards the Arena, jeers and encouragements alike reached his ears. Those who remembered his first appearance were looking forward to seeing him in action once more. Those who witnessed last years... Hoped to see him actually do something. The Sky arena had been a poor match for his skills, the rain and slippery conditions restricting him to the point of inaction.

Such was not the case this year. He approached the entrance to the Cellar arena, and smiled. Familiar territory. Here, he could fight unrestricted. Speed. Maneuverability. Lightning. These were what he relied upon in battle, and in this Arena, they would not be hampered.

He made his way down the stairs with care. The entrance was a prime place for an ambush, and judging by the fight that seemed to have broken out just inside the entrance, he wasn't the only one to think so. Two collosal... golems? Were duking it out. Jonathan took one look at them and wisely decided to stay well clear. His size against those things? Speed or no, lightning or no, all they'd really have to do would be step on him and he was dead.

He crouched down on all fours and sprang forwards, attempting to zip past the two titans without drawing their attention. Once he felt he was safely past them, he flipped forward, over his hands onto his feet, drew his knife in a backhanded grip, and eyed the rest of the competition warily. Last time he'd been here, he'd been attacked without warning. He had no desire to be caught off guard like that again.



Ryu Viranesh -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (6/27/2012 13:08:49)

It didn’t take long for complete and utter chaos to descend on the Cellar, though that was par for the course in this Tournament. Before Ryu could blink the bone-covered warrior had somersaulted his way into the room, narrowly managing to pass over the black titan’s shield, which instead struck the contestant next in line to enter the Arena: the golem. The unusual attack didn’t seem to have any effect on the construct, at least not any audible effect, but Ryu wasn’t totally sure; his eyes and attention were fixated on the flashy jumper. Now “safely” inside the Cellar, the man had wasted no time in selecting a target, hurling something, a knife perhaps, at the tanned cauldron-wielder so fast that it blurred when Ryu tried to look at it. Along the way, the weapon almost managed to clip another competitor, the blue-clothed mage that he’d seen aboveground, who had wandered into its path.

When did he get in here? I didn’t even see him enter. Urgh, nevermind, that’s not important. I need to pick an opponent, and pick quickly. Last time I waited in the shadows to ambush someone, and look how that turned out for me. No, this time I’m going to jump right into the fray.

After a vigorous head-shaking, Ryu scanned the Arena once more, his eyes eventually returning to the battle that would probably capture the attention of everyone present, perhaps even the Elemental Lords: the confrontation between the big black juggernaut and the even bigger golem that he had antagonized. Both of them were bigger than Ryu was, the massive golem dwarfing him in both height and girth, yet the Lords rewarded no one who didn’t take risks. At least, he was pretty sure that the Lord of Fire didn’t.

I might be crazy. I must be crazy, but I didn’t come back here to stand on the sidelines and watch everyone else fight. I came to … I came to help them, but none of these creatures will listen to me unless I knock loud enough. Ryu tilted his sword-hand upwards, the blade rising with his arm. I wonder if this is a big enough knocker. I suppose that I’ll find out soon enough, but I might need a bit more of an edge if I want to get involved with those monsters.

Ryu stood perfectly still for a moment, as though he was a statue made out of the same stones that looked to comprise the golem. Slowly and quite perceptibly, at least to him, his skin started to tingle, starting from his fingers and then rapidly spreading to the rest of his body. After a few moments of this torture, he gave in and raised his left hand, shield in tow, to scratch as his neck. Useful as his Heat Aura might be, releasing it always made his skin itch like there were thousands of spiders crawling all over him. Not exactly the most pleasant experience. Though it would take some time for the aura to extend to its full range, he could already feel the temperature around him starting to rise.

Don’t have time to wait for that, though. So here goes nothing. The warrior of fire took a deep breath and charged the twin titans, directing his shield forward and holding his sword back defensively, should he need to retaliate. As Ryu built up momentum, heat flowed from his left hand into the shield, causing the metal that made up its plating to grow hotter and hotter as he ran. When he was no more than a few feet away, he thrust his feet against the ground and leapt into the air, aiming to send his red-hot shield right into the golem’s vulnerable back. If he was lucky the thing might even fall forward and crush the other giant, and at the least, the force of his own blow should shove him back a little bit so that he wasn’t breathing down the construct’s neck when it realized that it had been struck.



Mirai -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (6/27/2012 15:43:20)

The Dreadnight registered yet another competitor evade its assault, as a bone masked blade wielder emerged from the spiral staircase, and somersaulted straight over the armoured titan’s helm. Unable to address the momentum of its attacks, the undead champion glared balefully at the scarred-fighter’s speed and grace, the green eyed warrior’s long hair whispering in the air as he soared above the midnight-armoured avenger.

But moments later the dark knight’s multitude of savage strikes finally found a target, with its razored shield brutally slamming against the latest foe to emerge from the spiral stairs. It was a clout delivered with magical might, capable of not just smashing through ribs, but of rupturing stout links of dwarf-forged steel. Any other competitor would surely have been sent flying by the attack, a blow sufficient to fell the heaviest shaggy minotaur or scaled troll. High above the arena, blood-thirsty fans screamed in delight, expecting to see a horrifically butchered corpse tumble from the spiral staircase’s shadow.

Yet the Dreadnight’s latest opponent barely moved an inch, as the sorcery-formed shield rebounded away from a protective layer of sandy looking stone. Tiny motes of sandy dust drifted away with the impact of the shield, though otherwise it appeared unscratched.

… ware giants… amongst the horde, taken the bridge…

Mindlessly loyal to its master’s goals, the undead fighter did not know fear. But even it could sense the monstrous threat posed by the giant golem that glowered down at it, standing at almost 10 feet, and almost as wide as the Dreadnight itself stood tall. Electrical energy blazed around the walking fortress, coursing about its arms and legs.

… move fast, crush kneecaps… get behind them, cut a hamstring…

Unfortunately for the skeletal construct, it had no time to develop a determine an effective defence from its core’s memory banks, as the golem lashed out with its lightning charged whip, apparently intending to wrap the flail around the undead champion’s sword arm. The Dreadnight lurched its arm out the way, though for a brief moment contact was made. In a space between time, a surge of eldritch energy sizzled into the deathly warrior’s gauntlet of blackened iron and copper.

Flash

The agony in his side was horrific, wooden splinters from the broken gates buried deep within his flesh. He looked out at the bloodshed around him even as sweat trickled down his brow, irritating his blue eyes. The brutal battle raged back and forth across the stone lined plaza, orc hordes relentless in their numbers, ten green ichored warriors seemingly springing up for every one the Bremen lord and his men cut down.

The veteran leader's warriors looked desperate, uncertain that hopes of victory remained. They had fought the horde at the town’s eastern rivers, met them with hit and run cavalry charges. Greenskinned warriors had fallen like flies as they fought along the settlement’s stone walls, arrows filling the air with whispered death. Even when the one-armed second in command of the orcs led a crack team of troops to infiltrate the Bremen lord’s own citadel, his troops had repelled the assault.

But now the Western gate had fallen, its massive oak timbers ruptured from an explosion of burning pressurised oil, brought close to the entrance’s frame through numerous orcs’ bloody sacrifice. Now he could see stark panic beginning to creep into his troops’ eyes.

Perhaps this was how the young monk from Narlich had felt, before he was sent fleeing to Bremen, warnings on his lips, jaws of doom snapping at his heels. The nobleman glanced for a second at his gauntlet, recalling how he’d given its twin to the green eyed stripling, before sending him and his companions off on a seemingly suicidal mission, to find a power that the could overcome the horde’s sorcerous master.

At least that dark lord had not appeared in this latest battle, he mused. Perhaps maybe, just maybe, the monk had been successful in his foolhardy quest for vengeance.

The thought gave him strength.

Realisation struck him suddenly- if he could lead one final, desperate counter-attack, into the heart of the horde, eliminate the one-armed second in command... there was a glimmer of a chance that the tide could yet be turned.

Dispensing with healing energies that had previously poured from the gauntlet, keeping the splinters from piercing through his lungs, the nobleman drew upon all the shades of magic at his command, mustering the very threads of his lifeforce for a final spell, sending mystic energy coursing through his veins, swelling his bones and muscles, expanding his armour.

His men would need a figurehead for this last charge, a titan to follow and believe in. The fact that he was using his very life force as the price of such sorcery… well, what was one man’s life against a town?

Moments before he’d felt like he barely had strength to lift his sword once more, that the blade was heavy as an iron bar. But now the weapon felt light in his hands. With a roar he bellowed out to his men, voice ringingly clear in the morning sun:

"Warriors of Bremen, to me! Follow my sword, as we cut a path to salvation!"

Flash

The Dreadnight staggered away, circulating slightly to the Golem’s left, as it attempted to put some distance between itself and the electric lash. The metal armoured monster had no idea what had just happened, no comprehension as to why the touch of energy had suddenly inflamed the gibbering insanity of its skull, engulfed it in the torrential flow of its skeletal core’s memories. Lacking a heart to stop, or muscles to spasm, it sensed no significant physical damage to its infrastructure from the whip’s contact, beyond some limited heat wear upon sections of its external armour when the energy discharged to the arena's surface. Even so, the dark behemoth had little desire to experience the lightning's bite once more.

Instead, dutifully loyal to its master’s instructions, it ceased backpedalling with uncanny immediacy, and suddenly surged forward once more, deciding to continue its attack on the Golem’s left hand side. The massive broadsword swept up in its right hand, rising in a backhanded diagonal strike from left to right, which the undead champion hoped would either be too fast for the golem to block with its semi transparent shield, or would blast through the energy barrier itself.

With awesome force, the jet-black blade swept around in its doomful arc, even as the Dreadnight’s sorcerous senses belatedly registered a surge of sudden heat nearby…



TormentedDragon -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (6/27/2012 19:53:52)

"Jackrabbit, jackrabbit." The skin on the back of his neck began to crawl. Six enemies behind him. "Jackrabbit." Straight lines are stupid. Zig-zag. Jackrabbit.

He dodged right, ear twitching as his horseshoes impacted hard-packed earth. Not a peep from the big guy's sword. Not metal then. Okay. His fist clenched, hard, and so did the shoes, their open ends slamming together with a sharp, screeching protest. Sorry, sorry, no time for finesse. Jackrabbit.

He dodged left, spinning as he did so to face the melee, and just about lost an ear as a knife sailed past his head. He blinked, and, in a spot of inspiration, ducked, just in time for the knife to sail over his head, and, unbeknownst to him, straight for the now clashing titans. "Great bloody heaping mounds of troll dung!" he exclaimed, popping the lid off his cauldron and slipping it in front of him. "That was close!"

The sounds of melee had gotten very, very loud. Which was because the two largest things were fighting each other. Not shabby. Touch disappointing, but oh well, someone had thrown a knife at him, and that would not stand. And it was probably that guy in the bone armor with all the knives strapped to his legs.

He took off to his right, frowning as the chains snaked out from the open mouth of his cauldron and wound themselves down his arms. Music? Who the devil was playing music in here? And such an inappropriate tune, too. Now that had to stop.

He cocked his head. It was coming from the general direction of the doorway, but not an instrument in sight. Obviously behind a pillar. And Mr. Bone-de-bone had just thrown a knife at same pillar. He barely gave it a thought before a flick of his left hand sent that meathook flying towards the mirror, all set to rebound off and hopefully hit the source of the music.

"As for Mr. Bone-de-bone," he muttered, coming to a halt behind the other pillar, "let's see if he's willing to come after me." The chains rattled a bit, as they continued to snake down, the end links just barely off of the arena floor.

"Antlion."



.Discipline -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (6/27/2012 20:39:10)

No! Not good enough! The sound of his sensei's voice and pain of his flog upon N'aschi's tender back resonated through his mind. You must be perfect. Embody perfection. Every little mistake is one that could cost you your life and bring shame to this entire monastery! Do you understand!?

'Yes, Sensei.'



N'aschi looked on in bitter discontent as the knife sailed less than an inch away from the mage's domed head. Taking a deep breath and regaining his composure he decided to go for another stab at a fresh kill.

Well. he thought to himself, biting down on his lip. Not what I was looking for, but I guess I shall have to take a more direct approach.

Trying to pick a new target all he could hear was blasted music coming from behind one of the four pillars and the clashing sounds of two gigantic beasts smashing into one another behind him. All options quickly considered, it didn't take a stroke of genius for him to conclude it would be better to stay away from the duelling behemoths and focus on that dreadful racket. As much as N'aschi enjoyed skillful fiddle playing, this was neither the time nor the place for such merriment.

Unsheathing yet another of the bone daggers from the holsters on his legs, he picked out the location on the wall from which the dagger would rebound perfectly and sent it flying with a strong gust, intending it to strike into the back of his obnoxiously loud quarry.

'Show time.' he whispered to himself with a grin on his face, before sprinting toward the pillar with the wind at his back, grabbing onto it and spinning around the outside, flinging himself to the source of the music.

Remember. Perfection. Martial grace and pinpoint accuracy. Devastate the opponent, waste not a single moment. His Sensei's words rang through his head as he prepared to engage another opponent.

He pointed all of his mounted blades forward as he flung himself at the silly fiddler as he put into motion his flamboyant strategy, creating a funnel of wind which span him sharply around as he focused on flipping his body so the blades would contact chosen points on his target: The neck, the stomach, the centre of the fiddle and the knees.

Strangely enough, the torrent of air grabbed something unexpected, a sharp metal hook, as it joined the bladed assassin spinning in a maelstorm of sharpened bone whilst he catapulted at the nonchalant bard in a slice n' dice wake up call that would hopefully leave the competitor bleeding, or if not, fearing for his life.



Micosil -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (6/29/2012 19:42:18)

Testing theory: target vulnerable to electrical damage.

The golem's attention was fully focused on his enemy when the whip entered in contact. Even though he didn't manage to latch onto the knight as was his original intention, the simple touch of the directed lightning would be enough to let him know whether his standard, energy-based tactics would be effective here or he'd have to switch things up.

Reaction classified as staggering, retreat. High probability of electrical vulnerability. Expected outcome adjustments report a 30% improvement. Proceeding with combat plan.

The golem's transmitted logs made it sound like a certainty, but continuing with the mentioned combat plan wouldn't be as easy as it sounded. For one, they weren't the only fighters in the arena. It was true that most of the other combatants had decided, perhaps wisely, to not get between the fighting behemoths, but that didn't mean they were safe from stray spells. Running a quick, rough analysis, 65 reached the conclusion that he'd be hit at least once during this stage of the fights by an attack that wasn't intended for him, simply due to his size and the reflective nature of the walls.

Before he could go through the numbers again, however, the knight was demanding most of his attention again, unexpectedly breaking his retreat charging at the golem's left side. Catching the golem off guard, with the shield to the front, there was no doubt that the blow would hit and, as 65 made a mental note to keep his shield to the enemy even when they were retreating, he started crouching to reduce the efficiency of the blade's impact angle on him - for once, his weight was on his side.

The blade hit him on the upper side of the knee, sliding up to the waist with a screeching noise, where it bounced off the rock plating, causing no more damage than a few pebbles dropping. The golem's attention was elsewhere now, however, as he felt another impact - feeble, as always, against something his weight - on his upper back.

Without any hesitation, 65 turned his head backwards, rotating it without the usual limitations creatures with organic necks have and managing to catch both the knight and the man who'd jumped on his back - one that he'd seen before, going down the stairs. Responding to the identified threat, he activated the Shockwave module, deep humming coming from his legs as lightning coursed through them, arcing up and down in a chaotic tangle that seemed to struggle against invisible bonds for its freedom. At the same time, the golem's whip had sprung to life once more, rising over 65's head to make a downward strike behind its back; his left arm doing a sweep of its own to the left - probably too slow to catch the knight, but enough to force it to move away once again. Before he could continue, however, a warning from one of the core's stability routines forced him to change his plans for the next few seconds radically.

Energy levels at 90%. Venting imminent.

Quickly going over his options, the golem began switching his torso module, loading up the Neural overload - not only did it provide a great offensive option against the knight - and possibly the purple-haired human - but it would also be extremely useful to defend himself during the venting phase.



Starstruck -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (6/30/2012 21:57:05)

Tiure's ear twitched as he played his song. A sharp whistling noise and a low thud cut under the sound of his music and the battles of the two titans, which worried him.Moving quickly and n ot skipping a beat, the young hydromancer swung his body to place his violin between himself and whatever had just collided with the wall. He misjudged, though, and the knife skittered across the surface of the violin instead of being completely blocked and embedded itself into his bag.

As Tiure finished the song, he became suddenly aware of a shrieking wind that almost, but not quite, masked several clicking sounds and a low whistling as the wind passed over sharp edges and through narrow openings in something. Not even seeing his assailant, Tiure swung his body around the pillar away from the noise, taking a quick glance to take stock of the situation. One sidelong peek told him all he needed to know; another competitor with lots of sharp things was headed his way. Surprisingly, the strange man wore a mask of some type of bone and appeared to be surrounded by a howling wind. Circling the assassin was a large metal hook, but Tiure could not fathom from where it originated; it seemed almost comically out of place.

The magical violinist knew just the thing to do. He quickly drew his bow across the lowest string, emitting a low noise that triggered the small, angrily buzzing cloud that had been circling Tiure. It immediately quivered and fired a high-powered blast of water that was aimed directly at the attacker! For such a small cloud, there seemed to be a great deal of water being shot out. Tiure didn't stop there; with a quick motion, he grabbed something out of his pack and tossed it into the air. It began to hover and rotate, and as Tiure began to play his next song, it unfolded into a disproportionately large scythe with a slim, attractive handle and a formidable blade. The entire scythe was fashioned into a complex array of musical symbols. As it unfolded, it took a place between Tiure and the masked assassin, as if warning the man not to come any closer.

As Tiure played his song, which was very similar to the one he had played on the staircase leading into the arena, four more clouds began to condense around the bard. Acute observers might have noticed that two of them were angrily buzzing, one was merely white and fluffy, and the last one was cold-looking and brittle, but they were indistinct and fuzzy.



Mirai -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (7/1/2012 7:03:45)

The Dreadnight noted limited damage resulting from its latest attack, the savage strike of its broadsword screeching from the Golem’s knee to jar against its side, but resulting in only pebble-sized chunks cracking away from the energised leviathan. The dark warrior made a quick approximation of the effects of such attacks over time… and estimated that at this rate, spectators around the arena would be dying from old age before it penetrated its opponent’s stony surface.

At this moment the black armoured behemoth’s analysis was interrupted by a clout to the back of its midnight mithril helm. Unbeknownst to the skeletal construct, Na’aschi’s dagger had flown past its original target, carried upon the masked fighter’s sorcerous wind currents. Fortunately for the brutal titan, the vicious weapon did not penetrate its metallic exoskeleton. Instead, the bone blade ricocheted away from the Dreadnight with an odd sounding hollow ‘clunk,’ leaving it unscarred, but cautious of further assault from its rear from threats unknown.

… in the face of danger unseen, a rapid show of force can sometimes be more potent than waiting to identify the true threat…

Heeding the memories of its skeletal core, the monster instinctively brought its razor-edged shield to bear, whipping the disc around in a backhanded arc of awesome force. With uncanny accuracy, it released the circular screen from its left hand, sending the black metal shearing through the air… though ironically not at the wind wielder. Instead, the Dreadnight’s target was the summer furred Jonathan, one of the few contestants in the arena that the giant knight had not yet attacked.

The metal clad monster had no time to assess the effectiveness of its impulsive attack, however, being suddenly pressed to avoid a defensive sweep of the golem’s huge left hand. Ducking hastily low to the ground, its sword pressed down upon the arena’s smooth surface, the Dreadnight barely avoided the rock-formed limb as it swept overhead with slow but thunderously power. Air rippled in the wake of the hand’s passing, swaying like choppy waves following a galleon’s movement.

The behemoth’s sudden stoop had aided it in avoiding being swiped aside like an annoying insect, but only made it vulnerable to the walking fortress’ next attack: a shockwave of electric energy radiating out from its massive legs. Eldritch energy sizzled through the air, coursing into the Dreadnight once more. Blue forked lightning licked over its armour, conducting down the sorcerous formed metal into the ground below.

The metal titan sensed decrepit memory cells buried within the fibre of its bones sparking into life once more. Furiously, it tried to cling to its master’s commands, to ignore the insane sense of ‘self’ that fought for freedom once again, but…

Flash

“Orc slayer! Orc Slayer!”

The chant rang out, echoing over the blood splattered carnage of the battle field. A band of approximately fifty of the Bremen warriors had formed a flying wedge, cutting deep through the lines green skinned horde with all the force of desperate men, fighting not for their own lives, but for everything they cared about.

For they knew the stories of the horde, of cities left in ruins, raped and pillaged, women and children taken slaves for fates worse than death. The monastery of Narlich had once been a proud monument with grey lined, century old-home to its warrior monks: but now it was a burned-out derelict husk. The Bremen fighters fought not with hope for their own lives, but with a furious determination that their sacrifice would not be in vain.

The Bremen lord fought at the tip of the formation, his giant broadsword glittering in the sun as he cut and thrust, hacking aside those foolish enough to stand before his charge, skewering those who turned to flee. With his magically augmented size and strength, even the ogres and giants of the warband sought to give him a wide birth as he led his men away from the town’s battered walls, searching for his one-armed quarry.

An orc rose to his left with a spiked mace, riding a giant boar, only to be chopped down with a brutal hacking slash. A goblin hurled a crude spear at his chest, but he caught the shaft with his left hand, snapping its wooden length in half, before crushing the poor creature with a plated boot to the gullet. Through the horror and blood, the pain in his side burned on, the savage splinters unrelenting in the agonies they visited.

He drew power from the right handed gauntlet, letting its sorceries flow over his aching body. Somewhere, its twin would be draining magics, syphoning enchantments from the wielder’s local area, sending the stolen mana through a worm hole in the fabric of reality to emerge as energy from the nobleman’s own metal bound fist. But he knew his men had no such aid, knew there was only so long their courage and skill could carry them onward

And then he saw him at last, tight within a phalanx of its dark skinned brethren, each armed with a brutal, double-handed axe: the one armed orc.

Flash

Determined to escape the torrent of its core’s worthless memories, the Dreadnight’s mighty strength sent it suddenly leaping up from the lightning soaked ground, up towards the golem’s grim visage. Gasps could be faintly heard from the watching audience at this show of power from the armour clad undead fighter, for it was self-evidently a colossus in weight by any normal measure.

Rising up to the golem’s chest, the Dreadnight sent its mighty broadsword sweeping around once more- but not to strike this time. Though the jet-black warrior did not learn particularly swiftly, it was becoming self-evident that simply striking the golem, even with the black knight’s awesome strength, was having limited effect.

Instead, the undead construct hooked its weapon around the other side of the golem’s rotating face, seized the tip of the sorcery forged blade with its left hand, and planted its armoured boots high upon the leviathan’s chest. For a split second the giant hung limpet like upon its foe’s chest, knees tucked tight between its arms, sword slung across what might be described as its foe’s ‘neck.’ For a moment between time it registered lingering heat emanating from its foe’s back. Then the Dreadnight yanked with all its supernatural might, striving to extend its plated legs, and rip the golem’s head clean off in the process.

It was, of course, an extremely exposed position, but the undead warrior cared not for that. Relentlessly determined to establish whether the golem’s inner mechanics were more vulnerable than its stony outer layer, it calculated that this action bore the greatest probability for completing its master’s purpose. Slavishly loyal, trusting its armour to minimise any self-inflicted damage, the Dreadnight heaved at its sword, summoning every aspect of its unnatural power for the desperate assault.



Ryu Viranesh -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (7/1/2012 21:34:32)

The force of the impact brought Ryu’s charge to a sudden halt, as though he’d slammed into a brick wall. A golem-sized brick wall. He let out a gasp as he pushed away from the gigantic titan and stumbled backwards, sliding to a stop a few feet away from it.

Stupid! I should have realized that that monster was too durable for such a weak attack to affect it; I mean, the black executioner over there couldn’t scratch him with his shield and he has to be MUCH stronger than I am. I can’t let this turn out like last time. I have to try something else, something-

Ryu’s thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the crackle of lightning, a wicked arc streaking forth from the golem’s arm; it was about this time that Ryu realized that he wasn’t out of range of the construct’s counterattack. He attempted the backpedal further, his limbs tripping over each other but managing to respond to his commands. However, it seemed he wasn’t quick enough; some invisible force barreled into him, sending sparks dancing along his shield. Thanks to the sudden surge of momentum the bolt didn’t strike him head-on, only brushing against the side of his arm, yet pain still tore through the limb as he was thrown to the ground several feet away; the fall was sure to leave bruises. Ryu’s teeth clamped together so hard that they produced an audible “clank”, continuing to grit as he struggled to cope with the agony. Then just as suddenly as it had started it was gone, his arm as numb to the pain as it was to the rest of the world. Luckily, it seemed that the electric whip had missed his shield, but his upper arm was totally numb and the rest of the limb was still twitching with the memory of what it had endured. He rose unsteadily to his feet and just stared at his spasming hand for a moment before a shiver went through him.

That’s that last time I think of spiders crawling on my skin. Lords that hurt, but I can’t be done yet; I’ve only just gotten started. I think I can still block with this hand if need be, but any chance of precise movement just flew out the window. Attacking that titan though? That’s another story.

Now that he had his bearings, Ryu raised his gaze to the pair of giants that fought before him, not for the first time wondering if this had been the wisest fight to pick. It looked like the two had resumed trying to assault each other physically, the jet-black knight latched onto the larger golem, his sword wedged behind the construct’s neck. Was it actually trying to behead the colossus? Maybe its strength would finally succeed, but Ryu wouldn’t have bet any money on it, though some of the spectators in the audience certainly did. However the knight’s foolishness had given him an idea, one that just might be able to crack the golem’s outer defenses. It would take some time to ready though, so he resolved to let the two beat eachother up some more; besides, maybe the black brute and his supporters would get lucky. Ryu dropped his left hand to his side, replacing his shield for one of his hooks.

That hand can’t swing the thing, but it should damn well be able to hold it. Now I’ve just gotta wait for the right moment. Patience, Ryu, patience...

He started to slowly edge toward the behemoth, raising his sword into an offensive position; he’d have to pick where and how he struck very carefully, so it was best to leave his options open. All the while, the word echoed through a head like a canyon, an endless refrain of “patience”.

But I can’t be too patient; I didn’t come here to be patient, I came here to help all of the Vartai from Deiron. Warlike dragon-men that most townsfolk are terrified of and yet they’re the ones being oppressed. That’s rich. They’re dying and I have to be patient.



demonhunter -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (7/2/2012 22:53:40)

The behaviour of the competitors in this Arena was vastly different from the last time he was down here.

Two years ago, contestants had paired off, seeking their own opponents and, for the most part, sticking to them. This year's crowd, on the other hand, seemed to be striking every which way, regardless of the other's actions.

So it was that Jonathan found himself the target of an unprovoked assualt from one of the behemoths he'd chosen to avoid. The black metal one had thrown its shield at him. Why on Lore had it done that? He didn't know. What he did know was that he needed to get out of the way, pronto!

He dove to his left, cursing furiously as he hit the ground and sprang forward again. The shield missed him by centimetres as it impacted the ground where he had stood but a moment before. His tail twitched. Avoiding battle with the constructs may not be so simple after all. And if he couldn't avoid engaging them, there was only one other option: Tear 'em down.

Knife stowed in its sheathe, Jonathan flexed his fingers as electricity gathered in his palms. A familiar feeling, almost pleasant for him. He'd always enjoyed being able to throw around what many considered the wrath of the heavens.

A wary eye on the other competitors, concerned that he might find a knife in his back if he wasn't careful, he brought the charge in his hands to its full level. Crackling, surging energy surrounded his handsas he lifted them, arms spread wide, before bringing them together in front of him in an oustretched clapping motion, releasing a stream of raw, indiscriminate lightning towards the black giant.



TormentedDragon -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (7/2/2012 23:44:45)

"Hmph." It threatened a massive headache, but it was possible to keep an eye on what all was happening with the mirrors. And Mr. Bone-de-bone had not, in fact, decided to come for him. The piker had gone off for the other pillar. The one from which the music was coming. "Well, fine then. If antlion doesn't work," he muttered, "I'll Kerzzek instead."

So saying, he focused his attention on his craft, floating about half the stuff he had with him out of the cauldron and arranging it in front of him. "Gonna need punching power. That means a point. Fine, and hard." A tilt of his head, and a cleaver twisted and deformed, the metal flowing into point that he envisioned - tremendously narrow and wickedly sharp. The other pieces, a few rods, a couple horseshoes, and a hammer's head, slammed together, and began to meld.

"Bunch of armor that ain't metal. Like they saw me coming," he muttered, pausing in the formation of his new weapon to send a couple horseshoes down to his feet. "Think I can't do something. Hmph. Let's see bone stand up to Kerzzek. Or stone. Or that freaky black stuff." With another burst of concentration, the horseshoes formed themselves to his sandals, penetrating the thick leather soles and anchoring within. "Be sorry they leave me, alone, hmph."



.Discipline -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (7/3/2012 16:54:47)

N'aschi scoffed as the cloud emptied water directly at him and rolled to one side, forcing the water into the swirling winds that blew in a circle around his body, giving him an aura of swirling water and turning him into some sort of funnel cloud. Water flew away from him in every direction, creating a fine mist of spray which served to obscure his next movement. Noticing that his opponent appeared to be controlling the clouds with water, he had to be wary of any sort of further magical assault.

Perhaps sound is the key. He thought to himself, focusing on the bard as some kind of thin scythe unfolded in front of him. This magic cannot be allowed to continue.

'Silence!' he spoke, in an irrate tone which appeared to drown out everything around the bard. A barrier of paralyzed air particles held tight around him, rendering sound unable to pass in either direction. A smirk cross N'aschi's face as the last of the water sprayed away while the winds around him died down and he parted his long red locks to pull out his sharp curved sword, one of two scimitars he had grown accustomed to using. He ran his armored finger across the blade to check the sharpness of it, as he had several times with each blade he carried before pointing it forward in an offensive fencing stance.

'It is time for you to face the music!' he spoke, before gritting his teeth together, trying to pull mana to his bone-carved blade. It sprang from his hands and made a quick show of slicing through the air in a variety of vertical and horizontal movements, as if an invisible fight as skilled as N'aschi himself were wielding it. 'A symphony of slices. Let us play.' A smirk crossed his lips as he brought the blade closer and closer to Tiure, as if daring him to fight with his all.

Of course, all of this was for the crowd and his Lord. N'aschi loved to put on a show, to display his perfection, to demoralise and humilate his opponents. N'aschi thought it was almost a shame that his foe wouldn't hear his taunting. That scythe looked intimidating, sure, but the bone clad warrior would try to make the bard's defeat utterly crushing, the perfect victory.

The Lords demand nothing less than perfection from me. And I refuse to disappoint!

He sprang the blade forward toward Tiure with amazing control. If his opponent truly needed his music to defend himself, this would be a messy end indeed.



Starstruck -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (7/4/2012 11:36:44)

"Hm?!" Tiure watched as his would-be killer sprang out of the way of his little geyser, even going so far as to absorb it into his personal tornado of collected objects. Before Tiure could react to this new development, though, the water sprayed into a fine mist that made the floor wet and slick and the winds calmed themselves. Fortunately for him, which was probably one of the only things keeping him from a messy end at the skillful hands of this blademaster, his scythe had unnerved the poor man just enough that he seemed unwilling to come any closer. It was lucky that no serious harm had been attempted, or he surely would have perished.

Suddenly, Tiure was struck by a realization that affected him every bit as powerfully as if a knife had found its winding way to the young bard's skull. His mind instantly flew back to the Challenge that he had taken what felt like an eternity ago...and its aftermath. He had not interacted much with the green-eyed monk who had eventually saw the events in the Dungeon to completion, (Entrapment was usually not conducive to intelligent conversation, after all) but every time, he had been aware of a keen note of loss and loneliness. The greatest clue of all, though, came from his memories of Kalen's attire; the gauntlet that the black colossus near the entrance wore was the mirror image of the one that Kalen had worn. Somehow, the two were connected by the strings of fate, singing a duet across vast reaches of land. They were two halves of a whole.

Shaking himself from his reverie of half a second, Tiure focused intently on survival. If, not when, we both find the leisure to escape our respective opponents for a bit, I might go and see if that titan knows, or doesn't know, something about Kalen. Perhaps it will even lead to an extremely favorable alliance, which the Lords know I desperately need right now. With a flourishing movement, Tiure finished up the song of the clouds just as his opponent apparently began to prepare something nasty for him. A knife seemed to have floated up to midair and began to threaten the young bard, death and excruciating pain written in the curving path of the blade.

Suddenly, Tiure realized that he could hear nothing from the assassin. Nothing. Not from anywhere. There was utter silence all around him. For a bard whose best gift was that of a discerning ear, the effect was extremely disconcerting and disruptive; it took precious moments for the bard-mage to adjust. Tiure's eyes widened in sheer terror as the knife stopped spinning; Tiure had no time to prepare for its deadly intentions before it zoomed straight for him!

Panicking, Tiure pulled the bow across two of the strings on his violin, causing two of the clouds to fire jets of water at the knife. Unfortunately, the knife seemed to be powered by a strong gust of wind, which powered through the redirecting jets and stabbed him right in the side. Surely it was off from the original site of impact, but that didn't mean it wouldn't hurt for quite a while. Grinning savagely, Tiure played a single note and, though no sound was apparent to anyone else in the arena, sprang into a noiseless but evidently lively fiddling tune. He appeared to be touching his massive scythe with the end of the violin while he played, but the significance of such an unusual action to any observers would probably be far outpaced by the speed and rapacity of the silent song. As he played his tune, a vortex of water formed around him and began to whirl, faster and faster as he played a speedy song faster than he had ever played before.

He indulged himself in a little dance and, overcome with savage joy, let out peals of wild, crazy laughter, audible only to himself.



Mirai -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (7/6/2012 18:30:23)

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles from Bren, the Dreadnight’s creator sat forward.

Arching his narrow fingers together, Heinrich von Carsten narrowed his brown eyes, eager to ascertain his construct’s power. As the Dreadnight exerted its strength against the golem, its master nodded sagely. Observing the bloodbath in a glimmering crystal sphere, the necromancer was the only living being in his surprisingly well lit chamber.

This did not mean the mage was alone however.

Skeleton slaves held aloft a vision globe, their bones gleaming in the light of a grand chandelier as they stood upon a blood stained purple carpet. Puppets to Heinrich’s will, the undead abominations stood unnaturally still, frozen in their stance. Behind them, ancient paintings daubed the room’s walls, images of exotic red scaled dragons intertwining with yellow streaked serpents in fields of azure blue. Perfumed incense scented the air, yellow candles flickering around the hall, which- apart from the sounds of the arena transmitted through the viewing sphere- was otherwise cloaked in silence

The necromancer drummed his filed finger nails together, noting the surge of power emanating from the fur-haired, amethyst-eyed oddity that his minion had antagonised but moments before. His servant’s aggression was impressive, though its sense of self-preservation could do with some improvement. By Heinrich’s calculations there was only one other fighter in the arena that his metal titan hadn’t already tried to attack.

All was proceeding well, baring a couple of odd moments when the dark armoured destroyer had been struck by the Golem’s lightning blasts. Curiously, in those moments his connection to the soulless behemoth had faltered, as if interrupted by a a surge of… something alien. Not life, not magic, not anything he had encountered before.

Odd.

Dismissing his brief concern, the necromancer snapped his fingers together, calling upon his latest minion. The zombie staggered across, a goblet of dark red wine grasped in its pale white hands, the ruby liquid's aroma sensuous to the nose. Until recently the dark haired young man had been the lord of this manor, his father having bequeathed the rich dwelling to him several months ago. The young noble had hoped to use the estate as a place of learning, an opportunity for the finest minds in Lore to consult together and develop academic literature. His dreams had been crushed, however, when Heinrich’s skeletal horde ransacked the mansion.

The black wizard drank deeply from the proffered chalice, and waved away the deceased slave. Whatever, he cared no more for the Dreadnight itself than for any of his other crumbling crypt corpses. As long as the abomination kept fighting on his behalf, he was satisfied with its efforts.

He smiled, and settled himself in the lordling’s soft armchair, a thin smile hovering over his lips. Heinrich licked his teeth, hoping to see some real bloodshed from the cellar soon.



Micosil -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (7/6/2012 20:59:14)

Whatever the golem expected after landing a shockwave straight on a human, it definitely wasn't for that person to jump up to his face and try to behead him. It was, truth be told, a worrying turn of events - even if the black knight couldn't cut through his armor right now, as soon as the Golem vented his armor would split up, letting his adversary's sword attack the inner circuitry. This could not be allowed to happen - but the golem still needed a couple of seconds before he could trigger the Neural Overload and deliver the finishing blow.

Following Directive 7 "Win, you damn piece of junk" with priority 0: Neutralize Knight-class target. Use of lethal force disauthorized following Directive 1 "You will protect organics." with priority 1. Crushing target not compliant with action restrictions.

Still, he raised his arms towards the armored fighter, huge stony hands grabbing the knight's shoulders - but instead of crushing, he slowly increased his pressure, fighting with the black knight's own monstruous strength, until he finally managed to draw him closer towards the golem's chest; keeping him from using his legs' strength to push against the golem's armor. A brief instant of that static struggle was all it took before the Neural Overload was ready, and the Golem triggered its activation. Instantly a flood of information coming from the control routines surged to his processing core:

Alert, system exceeding safety parameters by 5%. Core stability endangered. Magnetic barriers degrading. Activating emergency protocol S-001 priority level 0.

Venting core... now.

For a brief instant the golem stood completely still, purple lines descending from the edges of his "helmet" down the borders of his plates of armor, the hissing sound of the airtight seals hidden by the growing crackling of the lightning contained in him. Almost instantly, as if pushed out by an inner force, came the purple smog, sparkling in the air by itself, sparks jumping from one particle to another, even taking power from the golem's inside, lightning coursing freely over the armored plates, dissipating harmlessly into the air. The dreadknight's blade passed through the gap, catching part of the current - but the golem's hands coordinated with the outward pressure from the plates and quickly pulled the knight away from his torso, keeping the warrior from sticking his sword inside any delicate circuitry.

The gaps stabilized at a width of four inches, smog hiding what they held behind - but the increasingly loud crackling of lightning foretold nothing good. A small, white circle appeared on the plate in front of the black-armored fighter.

Whatever its target reaction was going to be, it was too late. Lightning came, bursting out from the marked spot, running along the edges of the gap straight from the planar core, surging from the entirety of the golem's torso and enveloping the Dreadknight in a nimbus of dancing white electricity. As if that wasn't enough, another lightning bolt, come from Lords know where hit the black armor.

Seized by the electric current, the Dreadnight convulsed, forked lightning arcing across its mithril plating. Memories blazed uncontrollably, burning into the Dreadnight’s psyche.

Flash

The pain had all but gone, replaced with a dull coldness that seemed to have spread from the splinters throughout most of his body. Perhaps it was a lack of oxygen to his brain, but he felt as if his wife Catelyn was nearby, sensed her presence close at hand. He’d missed her deeply over the past decade, ached for her touch once more.

“General!”

The nobleman opened his eyes, seeing the page boy kneeling down before him. Involuntarily, his gaze looked past the lad, up into the bright blue skies, wisps of cloud drifting in the winds high above, tendrils of water vapour gliding serenely over the crude earth below. The Bremen lord wondered if little Telemach was looking up at the clouds too, if his daughter Aliena was allowing the five year old, dark haired boy to play with his red striped kite. Perhaps even now they were in the water gardens of distant Thren, letting the wind dancer dart about in the blustering breeze, flashing hither and thither. It was a pleasant thought.

He coughed suddenly, convulsing as blood choked up his throat. Prostrate upon the ground, the scarlet fluid would possibly have drowned him, had the lad not quickly helped him to rise his head a little. “Take my helm off would you boy?” he rasped, when the fit had ended, “I could do with some air.”

The lad struggled briefly with the metal clasps, before removing the ichor stained helms. He looked no more than twelve, scared but dutifully trying to fulfil his responsibilities in the midst of blood slaked carnage. “Can I get you some water my lord?”

At the same time, he thought his wife clasp his hand, and whisper in his ear: “Just a few moments my love, and we’ll be together once more. They’re coming for you.”

The nobleman smiled softly. “No, I fear it’d rush out my innards as swift as we poured it in. Tell me, did we win?”

Despite the horror around him, the boy smiled. “Yes my lord. The horde is routing as we speak. When your troops smashed their centre phalanx they began to waver, then begin to crumble after you slew their leader.” The lad paused briefly for breath, before carrying on. “For a few minutes they rallied when the dark wizard appeared atop the Tower of Bremen, but then he disappeared again. They’re saying an odd band of adventurers confronted him up there, slaying him when he seemed poised for victory.”

The nobleman smiled once more, feeling as if giant beings of pure energy surrounded him and the lad. Fortunately, he sensed no harm from the creatures, only peace. “Ah, good: glad to hear it. You’ve given me great comfort lad, you’ve done well.” He coughed once more, violently shaking as lifeblood flooded his mouth. “In fact, you couldn’t have done any better. Tell my daughter I’m sorry that I couldn’t visit her and Telemach again. Tell her that I love them all, but that I’m going to see her mother again. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

As his soul departed the land of life, the nobleman heard the boy gasp in shock. “My lord?” he whispered, then louder: “Lord Gallaphile?”

And then he died.

Flash

Energy surged uncontrolled, spontaneous, around the Dreadnight’s metal armoured body, savaging and mutating the necromancer’s wards and charms in the process. The black titan convulsed once more in the energy’s wake, and then went suddenly still, its loyal mind, so dedicated to its master’s goals, now destroyed by the flood of energy-sparked memories coursing through its skeletal core.

The massive broadsword dropped from its grasp, and fell with a clatter upon the arena floor. A moment afterwards the golem knelt, carefully putting the knight down as if he were sleeping. As he stood up, he turned to face his remaining opponent.




Mirai -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (7/7/2012 13:31:40)

Heinrich snarled, anger seething across his veins, rage boiling across his forehead. As he rose to his feet, the crystal wine glass fell from the black wizard’s grasp, tumbling though the air to smash into tiny pieces against the lavender carpet. Glimmering shards glinted in the chandelier’s light, sparkling like summer snow.

The necromancer felt his teeth ache, suddenly aware that he had been grinding his molars together, as if to destroy the innocent ivories. “Idiot!” he roared, whimsically shattering two of his minions with a baleful glare. “Get up! Get up you brimstone-smoking, shadow-spawned, pathetic waste of mana!”

But the Dreadnight’s body lay still, save for a few crackling arcs of energy that still sizzled ominously about its body, blue veined lightning seeming to gather around its black visage. Worse, Heinrich could no longer sense his sorcerous connection to the mindless monstrosity, surely indicating it was indeed defeated.

Cretin.

Heinrich shook his head, shaking with fury. The magics he had used to create his champion had been perfect, focussed wizardry spawning a soulless killing machine, and to have been let down so badly by his creation… it defied comprehension. Worse, the Dreadnight had been created with no organs to fluctuate in lightning’s grasp, no heart to malfunction in the energy’s grip. It should not have been so vulnerable to such attacks, so savaged by their assault.

Imbecilic fool.

Shaking his head, Heinrich breathed deeply, trying to shake the clouds of red mist that gripped his mind. Frustrating as this set-back was, in the grand scheme of things, the Dreadnight was nothing, even the gauntlet upon its arm only a helpful boon. And that could always be recovered when his minion crumbled into dust.

Calming himself, the dark haired mage waited for the unravelling of the sorceries that bound his construct together.

And waited.



Ryu Viranesh -> RE: =EC= 2012 Cellar Arena (7/7/2012 23:44:50)

Yet sometimes those who were patient were rewarded; this just so happened to be one of those cases. As Ryu stood by and watched, the golem took the black knight in its massive hands and started to squeeze, apparently aiming to crack open the man’s shell and see what lay inside.

Something that I’m sure I don’t want to see, thought Ryu, yet he continued to watch the situation play out, his eyes glued to the construct’s fingers as they drew his prey closer and closer. The black executioner looked nowhere near as formidable as it had only moments prior, appearing to be a child in the grasp of a monster many times his size. The knight was soon trapped against the construct’s barrel-like chest, its struggles to break free useless against the strength of the arms that held it. Ryu gripped his sword more tightly as the tension mounted, the air growing heavier; this act was reaching its climax, and he had a feeling that it was going to end with something big. As if something involving a golem of such girth could be anything but. Then it happened: the golem stilled for just a moment, the knight’s struggles still failing to budge its thick arms, and then it started to glow, an eerie purple light spilling out from between its armor plates for a few moments before it discharged an equally eerie gas of the same color. Whatever it was, the smog sparked multiple times a second and that was more than enough information for Ryu to steer clear of it.

Even with his attention still focused on the scene unfolding before him, Ryu’s mind was apparently not totally distracted. Before he knew it, his sword and hook had swapped hands and the latter weapon was twirling through the air as his thin fingers bid it. As he looked from the weapon back to the now fog enshrouded golem a more coherent idea entered his head, his lips riding up as he grit his teeth once more.

That might work, but if I get electrocuted ... I might as well just use my sword since it’ll deal more damage. Even if the wire doesn’t conduct anything. He grit his teeth even harder, his mouth starting to tighten up. I ha-

Regardless of his protestations, Ryu’s body apparently had other plans, slowly advancing toward the construct while taking care not to touch the purple clouds surrounding it. As he helplessly looked on, the dark knight was besieged by arc upon arc of lightning, causing him for just an instant to resemble a white knight instead of the black executioner that he was. Then it was over, the man’s sword clattering to the floor with his armored body soon to follow, the massive golem kneeling to set him down. An odd gesture of chivalry from a mindless construct to be certain, but Ryu didn’t have time to dwell on it; his body had decided that it was time to act.

For a couple of seconds, all was a blur. Ryu remembered snapping the hook back into his right hand, heat flowing from the limb into the metal. He remembered the unnaturally slow rise of the golem from its crouch; he was sure that it must be happening faster than what he was seeing. Then as the automaton turned to face him he spun the hook around one final time, readying it to strike.

-ve people to protect. This is too risky. I don’t even know if that thing’s lightning works like it should!

Ryu snapped the weapon forward, the heated metal curve sailing right towards one of the gaps in the golem’s chest plating. A low growl escaped his throat once the hook left his hand, the involuntary emission shocking even Ryu with its ferocity, something that he never even remembered himself possessing.



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