RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena

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Schizo -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/3/2013 20:32:29)
The ringing in Phoebus' ears would halt in less than a minute, though it still bothered him at the moment. The sensation didn't matter to the Chosen of Fire, as he had performed this trick a couple of times previously and had been caught in explosions where this move wasn't a factor. The Anorian rose unsteadily, his body aglow with burning power as what flesh was lost from the infernal surprise would return to him a short while. The heat and the fire from the explosion did no harm to one who held the sun in his palm, but the kinetic power of the blast was enough to shear flesh from his body. From the feel of it, Phoebus had lost two and a half fingers on his that held the sword. For the most part, the right half of his body was worse off than the left. Okay, whatever. That'll probably grow back in a second anyway. He thought with a grimace as he felt pain course through his body once again. Stumbling on the first two small steps toward his rival on one and a half feet, Phoebus found himself standing at a mostly erect and proud stance. He soon felt his right toes again through the haze, walking the next pair of steps proudly as a survivor of many battles and wounds, though his body was still glowing with injuries that grieved him. His right arm would likely be slower than his left for another minute, provided that nothing worse happened to it. Looking at his opponent, Phoebus almost felt pity at the massive warrior's injuries in comparison to his own. It was a bloodied sight that the Anorian didn't envy; he was glad to be blessed with a healing factor from the sun. Looks like I did too much damage to his hands. Phoebus guessed. How am I supposed to get a good fight out of him now? The alchemist stopped wondering about this when the Ice-user's gaze flickered over to his prized axe (Well, what was left of it.) and replaced his right hand with a spiked fist-shaped construct with the intent to make the Chosen of Fire look even worse than what was left of the weapon. Well, looks like he really liked his axe. Phoebus forced his arms below the elbow to begin glowing orange with conducting heat, ready for another clash between Fire and Ice. This should be interesting.

Micosil -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/4/2013 17:05:33)
First sweep, dodged, but that wasn't a problem at all as Scylla's motions flowed from one blow to the next, into an upward, brutal kick that connected with something hard, but sent it flying backward, the impact forcing her to interrupt her offensive motions to regain her balance, as she felt her magic boost her even further, flipping backwards with the rebounded impulse. A glint of steel caught her eye as she descended, moving towards her, slower than it might've without her magic giving her extra speed, but still she was nowhere near fast enough to move her whole body out of its way when she landed, not that she would land before the dart hit. She knew this out of training, more than actual thought, and her body moved in an instinctive defensive reaction, pushing her speed, magical or not, to the very limit. For a brief instant, she felt as if time had stopped, as she saw her open hand, the metal spike rugged, small indentations from the imperfect forging, the firing process as it rested immobile on her palms, her feet floating off the ground, her robes whirling just the tiny bit that their bindings allowed them, pushing the dart oh so very slightly... And then time resumed suddenly, feet on the ground, hand's motion a blur as it pushed the dart aside, the sharp metalic glint, and then a stab of pain to her side, blooming red on her torn robe, on the sand, but she didn't have time to look at the wound, since another set of projectiles was heading her way, coming from the woman... but these were propelled by human hand, not by a spring-loaded system, and their speed was hardly the same. She dodged them with relative ease by jumping to the side since they were focused on one spot rather than fanning out, which would've made the motion that much harder, ignoring the burning pain on her side. One final knife flew her way... and Scylla was fed up with this, she really was. Time to make a statement, she decided, as she braced herself, perfectly still for a brief instant... and then her good arm, the right one, shot out forward, grabbing the knife by the blade with three fingers, flashing Gabriel a shark-like grin before returning it to sender deftly, feeling yet another surge of speed... and then she was charging towards the flying human again, not even bothering to check the status of her wound. If it didn't hurt enough to stop her, it couldn't be that serious.

Necro-Knight -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/4/2013 23:51:15)
Two incoming attacks, too close to make any real counter move. Rowan had only moments to make a decision to keep him in this Tournament before… No… No, by the Avatars themselves, what was his Lord doing? In the last few seconds, Rowan both saw and felt his Lord make his decision. For a moment, his world crumbled. The Arena, his enemies and their attacks, the crowd roaring for their favorite, whoever it was. Nothing mattered besides the fact that he’d been chosen as unworthy to continue fighting. But that didn’t mean he had to die here, to drop to his knees and accept his face, no! He was a Moonstone, a fighter, and a Necro-Knight! As the attacks raced his way, a kick and a spear, Rowan roared and tapped into his mana pool more deeply than he ever had during this Championship. He no longer needed to reserve his energy, so in order to retreat with his life, he was going to use everything he had. Darkness again swirled around the man in a larger cloud then it had before, and with a violet flash, once again disappeared from view. He only needed to do one thing before he made his way out of the Elemental Championships for this year. He reappears only a few yards away, starting into a sprint for the Shadow Gate at the other end of the Arena. As he goes, he bends his knee and snatches up the Archers’ sword from sand, and resumes his sprint. Once reaching the Gate, the roar of the crown disappears and darkness again consumes him. As he had before, he closes his eyes, letting the adrenaline fade from his blood and the ringing from his ears. He’d fought his hardest, tried his best, and in the end, he wasn’t ready for this. If that was the reason that his Lord had brought him here, then so be it. When the man opens his eyes, he’s been placed in the entrance to Arena itself, safe from the blood-shed inside. He’d lost his chance, for now, but he’d return next year to make his mark and win it all for his Lord. As he made his way to the outer exits, he notices a lone figure standing near a shadowed corner, black cloak pulled tightly around its figure. The man’s eyes widen, almost in disbelief. She’d actually come… After everything that had happened between them, the battles and dark history, she’d accepted his offer to watch him compete. He walks up to the figure, and gently reached up, putting a finger under her chin to tilt her gaze up to his. Her violet/black form shimmered softly beneath the cloak, and where skin should be, Soul-strands and darkness wove a woman of human appearance. She was far from human though, and her violet eyes blinked rapidly, surprised to see the man standing before her and not in the Arena! “Did...you win?” “No, Mritha, I did not. Lord VoidStar did not see me fit to continue, but I was given the chance to leave with my life. I have too much to do before next year’s tournament to die here in the sand. Too much to fix…” “Yes…you have much to fix, Rowan Moonstone, but you can return next year. Your parents will never abandon you, and they will watch over you as you fight to make them proud.” Rowan smiled softly at the compliment from his Soul Ally friend, and his eyes well with tears for a moment at how close he’d come to returning his family to the living world. Not wanting to show weakness in front of Mritha, he swallows the lump and blinks away the tears, quickly. “Your cloak kept the sun off you then?” “Aye, it did. Is that sword from a competitor?” He grins then, softly, lifting up the Archers sword. He didn’t understand how the man had formed it from thin air, but it was a heck of a trophy. “Yes, I did. A little something I took from the beginning rounds, and something to remember this Championship with.” She nods and smiles back, and he looks back one more time before he walks away from the Elemental Championships, Mritha following him. He’d be back next year to win it all.

jerenda -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/5/2013 3:29:40)
Her own weapon returned to her? That was more of a convenience than an attack - after all, the primary purpose of her shield was to catch sharp things aimed towards her. A little readjustment and she had her knife back, ready for easy retrieval. However, the implications were disturbing. She had no plan, she had no backup abilities, and apparently this woman could catch her knives in midair, so there was no point in throwing more at her. Against a melee specialist like Scylla, one answer presented itself to her. The Earth Champion turned around and high-tailed it toward the Dark pillar as fast as she could go. The Water Champion was still moving faster, based off past speed and initial velocity calculations. Gabriel would need her powers to get away. Catching sight of a metallic gleam up ahead, Gabriel found a smile returning to her. Her Lord was watching out for her today. Maybe she did have a plan after all. I don’t want to escape fully. I just want to give her a chase. Calculating quickly, Gabriel cut her weight to three-quarters. That should put her just slightly faster than Scylla. Her Lord was smiling on her, right? Her math should be solid... right? Tharala’s cast-off net lay just ahead, midway between the Light and Dark pillars. The Angelborn’s sprint transformed spontaneously into a dance as she attempted to avoid getting her feet caught in the cords or sliced up on the barbs sticking up out of the sand. She was marginally successful, in that she was able to keep running, but less successful in that she was bleeding clear blood from the arch of her right foot when she was done. Great. Now I have a limp. This is the worst plan ever. She ignored it as best as she could, glancing over her shoulder when she had halved the distance between the net and the Dark pillar. Has that pillar changed position? Here’s hoping it doesn’t come alive and eat me. Gabriel stopped running and spun around, going into a defensive position. “There, now we have some space,” she smiled, glancing about until she found the woman. If, as she hoped, Scylla had followed her, she had an oval prepared in her mind’s eye, sketched out around the top of the net. It would collect some sand, she couldn’t avoid that, but the important thing was that it would latch onto a third of the net and draw it toward Scylla. Once it hit the woman and fell a little bit further she’d let go. Since Scylla was stronger than gravity, it would ideally get partially caught on her legs while the ends were dragged forward, wrapping around her nicely. If Scylla didn’t follow closely, or if she followed at a curve, she had enough space to be able to readjust. She could get Scylla in position and then work something out. If, as usual, Scylla refused to be a fixed variable, she might have to go into melee with the woman. In melee against Scylla, Gabriel had no illusions about her chances, but she might not die. She was pretty good at not dying. Worst. Plan. Ever.

Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/5/2013 21:59:36)
His heel descended with bone-crushing force...and then kept moving straight until impacting upon the sandy floor of the arena while Kieran was subjected to a violet flash of light. His eyes watered as it stung, but its colour and vibrance were not enough to blind him. What perplexed him was the reason why Rowan would have sunk so much energy into a flashy disappearing act, but some corner of his mind knew the reason. It wouldn't be to regroup, it would be to escape. Another Chosen down so fast? The idle thought came and went as reality played its favorite card - that of a stark reminder. Through blurry eyes he saw the spear from his flanking partner whipping through the cloud’s remnants straight at him. Had it been shorter, it would have passed harmlessly, but as it was he had the briefest second to brace himself for the impact. In holding his arms up defensively, the impact took him on an armoured forearm, yet still it staggered him back a few paces to regain his balance. Oh how it stung to not lash back out reflexively, but as he blinked his eyes clear of moisture his chala’s voice seemed to echo in his head. Kieran restrained his instincts and reflexes with a grimace of frustration. Taking a moment to breathe easy, he scanned back over the arena while he debated his next words very carefully. Her apology had washed over him unacknowledged, the risks of combat made such incidents far too common, and though his forearm would bruise there had been no injury worth noting. Naïveté and innocence. No different than Snjór, in entering this competition under-prepared. He resumed a defensive posture before gesturing to Tharala, not willing to leave himself open just because he had chosen to converse instead. “I owed you for befriending my chala before I became...bonded with her. That debt is paid. Now tell me this - Does. She. Live?”

Kellehendros -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/5/2013 22:16:57)
Tharala’s spear swept through the air, headed for an off-balancing strike against Rowan, when the man let loose a startling roar. She flinched and checked slightly, a foolish mistake that would have gotten her killed, had the shadow knight not vanished in a swirl of violet darkness. As it was, she lurched forward a moment later, trying to make up for the momentary loss of momentum, only to swing through the cloud. There was a solid thunk, and Tharala blinked in shock as the vibration of the hit shivered up her arms. She hadn’t expected to hit anything, and the only thing on the other side of the cloud was... Kieran! “Oh Lord and Lady, sorry!” The man hardly acknowledged her, staring around the Arena in silence. She should be paying attention herself. The skyfisher shifted, turning slightly to one side to look over her shoulder in case the man thought to have another try at her wings. He did not though. In fact, Tharala spotted the man running for his life, slowing only momentarily to scoop up the sword he had tried to use against her before practically hurling himself through a portal before the now kneeling figure representing the Dark. She exhaled slowly, a soft sound of relief as the portal sealed behind him. Tharala would have killed him. She would kill any of those remained, excepting Kieran. Killing him was out of the question. Snjor would be devastated, and Tharala could not do that to her friend. The skyfisher did not want to kill anyone else; the death of the wolf-man in the Fountain Arena would weigh heavily on her later, but it had been necessary to save herself, and she might have to kill again. The eyes came unbidden to her mind, furious and glaring, filled with hate. Yes, she might have to kill again, this was what she had to do, the price she had to pay for the mad chance offered. She looked to Kieran, uncertain, the last of her sand cloud slowly sifting to the ground. He had helped her, and he was tied to Snjor in some way. It was a very important way, that much Tharala understood. What he would do now was uncertain, almost as uncertain as what she herself would do. Perhaps they could continue to help one another, but that was a weak thermal over a deep trench, as her mother was wont to say. Any alliance was temporary at best, and subject to the availability of other targets. Tharala did not hold much hope in her ability to defeat Kieran in a straight up fight. The man was obviously a soldier, or if not, he was much more one than she was. Perhaps she could disable him somehow, wait for the right time and strike. Tharala shifted her spear back into her hands in front of her, slanting it slightly between herself and Kieran and taking a half step backwards. The intensity of the expression on Kieran’s face, and the tone of his voice scared her. “W-When last I saw her, yes...”

Geddesmck -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/6/2013 15:04:17)
Frozen faces stared towards the centre of the icy field; towards their chieftain. Kovvi felt more of his body heat seep from his body as he finished his final sculpture. A frozen throne for the last of the Rathyd, surrounded by the icy statues of his long dead kin, each crafted with his gift. He sat and stared out at them. The faces of those who had banished him to exile. He found no anger when he recalled that fact. Only a sense of weary regret. For Kovvi knew that had he been with them, had he been their leader, things would have been different. An army of Rathyd raiders, united like never before, led by their mightiest warrior, the Iceblessed, would have sailed to the greenlands. With steel and frost they would have stained the greenlands red and brought an age of terror that would be remember always. Instead they had been wiped out by the southern weaklings and their own stupidity. “Very well. I shall lead your shades, my kin, out of the north. I shall find a way to bring my vision of glorious desolation to the world, and earn for you the glory you so foolishly threw away when you sent me into the cold alone.” Kovvi rose again and continued his journey southwards, into the greenlands and the nightmares of a world. With his left hand, the one that retained some use, he drew Ingrid from her sheath. A coating of frost covered her blade as he marched slowly towards his foe. Anger raged inside him, but he had already given that emotion too much reign in his previous battle. Fury had its uses, but it served best on the leash of reason. The glowing man, his arms now burning brightly in what Kovvi could only presume was preparation for combat, made no move forward. He was letting Kovvi make the first move this time. A mistake, for the Rathyd would not waste the opportunity. He continued his slow march, but even as he did, he extended his awareness and powers to their limit. A few feet behind the Chosen of Fire the air cooled rapidly as a sculpture began to take shape. A massive amount of heat, more than he had absorbed in the fight so far, rushed from Kovvi to fuel the distant creation. It was painful for a moment, but the loss of heat was so great that numbness quickly settled into his extremities. No matter, he would replenish it soon enough. The moment the sculpture was complete, Kovvi charged at his foe, swinging ice encased arm and blade in descending arcs for the fiery foe. If either hit, they would be devastating. But that was not the main intention of the attacks, their main purpose was to force the Chosen of Fire to take but two steps backwards, where spikes of ice, angled fourty five degrees upwards were waiting to pierce his legs and pin him in position. Kovvi’s roar of anger was genunine, real emotion serving to sell the image of a raging, unthinking berserker and disguise the trap the Chosen of Ice had laid.

Schizo -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/6/2013 20:05:39)
Phoebus watched warily as Kovvi drew his sword and marched toward the Chosen of Fire. The alchemist's fists glowed with hot energy, waiting for the inevitable strike from the berserker before him. He could feel the Ice-user's cold coming towards him from the front....and behind him? The Anorian ill-timed turning his head back with the Rathyd's roaring charge. He saw the spikes laid behind him for only a split second to deduce their purpose before his focus returned to the warrior charging at him. Trapped between icy skewers and a bloodthirsty champion of Ice and with no time to move to the side, the Anorian chose to stand his ground. Planting his feet into the ground and willing them to glow with power that slowly transformed the red sand below into glass. As the Chosen of Ice got closer to him, Phoebus raised up his burning arms to catch both of Kovvi's arms. In unison with his arms, jets of fire burned into the sand from his feet to propel Phoebus forward against the Ice user's greater mass and prevent himself from falling back onto the spikes pointed at his legs. Phoebus hoped to find an opening in the Rathyd's charge, disarm him more permanently, then have the fistfight and brawl that he wanted out of Kovvi. Until then, he would just have to hold back the Ice champion until the heat from his streams melted the spikes close behind him. When Fire is trapped between Ice and Ice, the only thing it can do is burn until it fades away or melts through the arch-enemy. Red sand burned and melted into crude glass below the Anorian's feet as the battle raged on above in the Finals Arena.

Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/6/2013 21:21:06)
The news that Snjór still lived was like a jolt of energy through his system, spreading momentary relief that cut evidently through the tension of his stance. Yet she had been denied advancement in favor of Kovvi, and that let a darker feeling rekindle deep within his heart. The tension returned, taking on an ever keener edge of intensity than even his concern for his chala had burdened him with. Indeed, his voice veritably dripped with deep-rooted malevolence, while being clear that it wasn’t directed at the avian. “In honor of your friendship with her, I shall not raise my hands against you. Help thin the field if you wish to work with me, or merely stay out of my way. The usurper of her privilege shall fall.” The tingle of the magic he had held at the ready sang in his blood, threatening to turn into an acrid burn for lack of outlet. It jarred him to silence, but the idea of how to use it became as clear as the vibrancy of yet more runes flaring to life. They vanished clear to his shoulders as he gathered the vyrdin, the power, into his hands and began to bind it towards his true attack spell. He grinned, a decidedly dark and feral sight, and began to stalk away from Tharala and towards the passionate duel between the Chosen of Ice and Fire. Not a dozen paces away, he paused and turned back to regard Tharala once more. “Know this, however, Tharala of winged graces. I fight to return the lives of those lost in their innocence. Though my chala will be wroth if I cause you harm...raise your spear against me, and your life becomes forfeit.” Kieran moved away once more, leaving the kingfisher to digest the only warning he would grant her on that count. True, she might strike at his back, but she would be doing so at her eternal peril. He focused instead on the magic binding into his hands, leaving his sight on the duelists and his hearing to warn him of a threat from behind or from the other dueling pair of Scylla and Gabriel. Though his gait remained steeped in a predatory grace borne of training and malice, he began to twist and turn with each step. The band of runes half-covered by the ersatz sash became consumed, as he funnelled yet more power into the spellwork. He had time, for the moment, and would not need to call out warning to spoil his assault. Unlike Cellar, the amount of pure power he drew upon had well exceeded the controlling bindings of somatic ritual aids. He instead used his motions to change its properties to suit his desires. But he checked himself, as he crossed past the center of the sands, from unleashing quite yet. The ‘Great Bear’ had shifty tactics in the work, erecting a mass of deadly icicles behind the flame wielding alchemist warrior, and looked to force him back into his own unsuspecting doom. Yet the Chosen of Fire had apparently decided to burn both Kovvi and his tactical monument through pure expressions of force and Will. Their struggle would be immense, and Kieran...relished the thought at how they would fatigue themselves so thoroughly, matching brute force to brute force. All to the better, spread yourselves thinner. I can hold your death on the whispers of the breeze for a few moments yet, and sour your triumph.

Kellehendros -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/6/2013 21:32:11)
Tharala swallowed, gulping down the momentary sigh of relief that had been about to slip from her lips as Kieran relaxed. The increasing tension spreading across his face was fearsome, scarier than the look that he had but moments ago given her. His intensity was terrifying, and for just a moment she thought that, his words to the contrary, Kieran might try and kill her. The spell was broken as the man turned and began to walk away, only to pause some paces later and turn back to her. She watched him, unable to repress a slight shiver as he spoke, his voice sounding heavy and dead in her ears. Somehow, she managed to maintain eye contact until he turned and began to walk again, a slow, steady march towards the Chosen of Fire and Ice. There was something there, a blackness and fury that reminded her of the eyes. A new and shocking thought crossed Tharala’s mind. It occurred to her, quite suddenly, that the world was a dark and terrible place. A place where innocent lives were snuffed out without remorse, where fledglings toppled from heights before they were strong enough to fly, where daughters were cast out unwanted because they did not conform to the wishes of their fathers, and where a skyfisher who only wanted to find a way to save her village could be pitted against her friend’s love. Standing alone as the others moved about her in seeming slow motion, the skyfisher’s heart quailed. Was this, was this really what the world was? What about the light, the music, the joy? What about all the good that was out there? No, a small voice whispered to her from some dark corner of her mind, this is the world, suffering and pain. Why else would there be a tournament like this? It drew in the sick, the hopeless, the mad, those who burned for something that was out of reach, or thirsted for what was lost. And only one could win. That was the horror of it. So much pain, and hurt, and only one person, one of all those who entered, would find some measure of peace or help or ease of pain. Were not the Lords and Ladies better than that? Were they not generous and loving? They were, but people were not. Perhaps that was the answer. Perhaps. Tharala watched Kieran walk, and whispered her answer. “Know this, Kieran: You fight for those you love, and so do I. I may not be as strong as you, or as experienced as you, and Snjor may hate me for it, but if I am forced to chose, I will kill you. I will bury you in this sand if that is what it takes to avenge my father.” She would not follow him, she would make her own choice. Tharala turned, and began to walk towards the place where Gabriel fought the Chosen of Water, one hand leaving her spear and dropping to the belt circling her waist. She flipped the catch of a ringer, and drew it forth as a bitter thought came to her. Perhaps the world was dark, but this would make it, at least part of it, very bright.

jerenda -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/8/2013 2:57:33)
With an exasperated grunt, Scylla gave the fleeing Gabriel one look - to her newly wounded foot, then to the net. "Really." She didn't move, holding her defensive stance. "That's the best you've got." Disappointment was clear in her voice. "You people can't even stick to a fight for more than two seconds, and now you've even managed to injure yourself on the decoration. Alright." A portal opened right next to the dragon, as he took a resting position. The Water contestant's next sentence wasn't all that clear, but it apparently contained a profuse amount of swearwords and several rather cowardly sea creatures, as she walked towards the teleportation gate and, right before crossing it, flipped off everyone in the arena, not even looking back. Gabriel watched in silent confusion. That wasn’t how it worked. The Water competitor was the superior fighter; she should have followed the Angelborn and defeated her. Gabriel should be the one exiting through a portal right now. It didn’t make any sense. Had she forfeit? Could you do that? Had the Lords really deemed her unworthy? “I never doubted you, child. Why do you doubt yourself?” Her Lord’s words rang in her head, as clear as the moment he had spoken them. Gabriel looked to the Earth pillar, standing tall and fierce across the sands. Her Lord was still with her, a second skin, a heartbeat, the knowledge of hope. There was only one thing to do. Mindful of the spikes on her knuckles, Gabriel made a fist with her right hand and covered it with her left palm. She bowed deeply to the Water pillar, dropping her guard as she honored her opponent. “I’m sorry.” That was all the time she could give. Improvement came through struggle. (Rule number nine: “Anata wa, ikinokoru tame ni zenshin shinakereba narimasen” to the perfectionists.) Gabriel searched the rest of the Arena, allowing half-glimpsed sensory data to return to the fore. Kieran had moved from the Light pillar to head toward the other elemental showdown. That battle continued unabated, Fire and Ice struggling fruitlessly for dominance. Strangely enough, the normally calm Wind champion seemed a little... murderous. Perhaps a lot, it was hard to tell from this angle. Light’s Chosen was still in the game, however, and without an opponent to face. Gabriel looked up as the winged woman stalked towards her, and for a moment was caught by the bleak expression on her face. It might have been useful to overhear whatever conversation they’d had that left them both radiating such darkness. Given Gabriel’s injury, she wouldn’t be able to get a better position before the woman made her move. Instead the Angelborn devoted her precious seconds to slipping her shield off her left arm and moving it to her right. Maybe her Lord had returned the spike she’d shot at KJ back in the Cellar and maybe he hadn’t, but it was better to be safe than sorry. The left chamber still had all three, and she was nearly as adept at throwing with her left as with her right. She flashed a cocky grin at the Light champion, taking up a defensive stance. She would fight better this time. She would not bring such shame to herself again. Perhaps she would die, but at the moment, death seemed preferable.

Kellehendros -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/8/2013 21:06:02)
Tharala saw that the woman was smiling. She was pretty enough, Tharala supposed, but the skyfisher was more than aware that a pretty face hid fangs as well as an ugly one. Golden eyes flicked back and forth as she made her awkward way across the sand towards Gabriel, limping and dragging her feet. The pain in her legs and shins was dim but present, faded next to the slow throb of the wound on her hip. Tharala’s wings flexed slowly as she noted her net folded over on itself, rather than open as it had landed when she had thrown it. Something had happened to it. She slid to one side as she advanced, putting more space between herself and the net. Leather and metal armor, likely better protection than her own light leathers. A shield, possibly a problem. Knives, lots of knives. The acrobat would want to hold her off, keep her at a distance and hurl knives, no doubt. Well, Tharala could throw things too. Her hand lifted, closing around the ringer and squeezing tightly, as though the metallic sphere were some small creature she meant to crush to death. The back of Tharala’s hand went to her forehead, as though she was giving Gabriel some odd manner of salute, fingers closed about the sphere and hiding it from sight. In normal circumstances, Tharala would have spoken to the woman, would have asked her name even. Even in the previous round, entering the Fountain Arena, Tharala had been unfailingly polite. It had all seemed exciting and new, despite the seriousness of what she sought to do. There was almost a sense of camaraderie with the other entrants, but that had been before. Kieran had opened her eyes. Perhaps he had not meant to. Perhaps her friend’s lover had only meant to scare her, or to make her stay away from him. No matter his desire, he had effected a change in Tharala, catalyzed the end of a process that had begun when she had first agreed to compete. Now there would be no talk, no smiles. Now there was only a steely resolve to show Kieran, to show all of them, that she was not a scared little girl, not a fool to be exploited or brushed aside. The skyfisher’s hand dropped, knocking down the tinted lenses of her light helmet. She spun, wings flashing open as she turned a single, fast circle. The ringer whistled from her fingers, sailing over the sand towards Gabriel, with Tharala in hot pursuit, the former lagging awkwardness vanished. Her run was far from graceful, but it had none of the rolling limp previously displayed. The ringer would not hit Gabriel, it was not intended to reach her. Rather, it would detonate even before it could impact the sand a few feet in front of her, hopefully rendering the acrobat blinded and deafened. Tharala followed, slitting her eyes in preparation for the coming glare, even behind her protective lenses. The sound she would have to deal with as best she could. Once she was in range she would take advantage of the greater reach offered by her spear, lunging and impaling the stunned acrobat, and if Gabriel dropped her shield and managed to block out some of the bright flash? Well, that would just make thrusting the spear through her chest that much easier.

Geddesmck -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/9/2013 15:12:15)
Winter descended on the greenlands, heralding the arrival of the Rathyd's spirit of vengeance. Blizzards made the world an empty, white expanse, traversable by few. When the snow visited a village, so did the Winter Bear with the reaper at his heels. Winter gave way to Spring, but the Bear cared not. He gorged himself on murder and found his appetite insatiable. Something alerted the glowing man to Kovvi's strategy, for instead of taking a step backwards into his doom, he stood his ground. It was an odd method of defence, and one that spread a grin across the Chosen of Ice's burnt face. Burning hands intercepted Kovvi's own attack, trying to grab his arms. The giant Rathyd allowed the foolish manoeuvre. It was, after all, what he wanted. The very fire that was supposed to be turned against Kovvi refilled his depleted reserves of body heat, stolen from his foe's supernatural hot skin. True, it left burns on Kovvi's arms that stung and wept, but it was but a minor price to pay. The heat the glowing man so generously gifted was tapped into immediately to sculpt ice around Kovvi's feet, to stop the jets of flame from his enemies feet pushing him back. A second sculpting began almost simultaneously. Kovvi's hand were trapped, but that wasn't the only way he could attack. A spike of ice began to form with alarming speed, sprouting from the Iceblessed's chest, it's point destined to find the throat of the now doomed Fire Chosen. Kovvi's roar of triumph broke the air even before his attack was complete.

Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/9/2013 21:20:12)
He had wanted to wait, even as steam rose pregnant with the stench of burning flesh to hang heavy above the heads of the dueling pair. Oh how he had wanted to delay until both Kovvi and Phoebus had laid themselves open so thoroughly that he wouldn’t just be stealing the victor’s triumph but both of their lives. Kovvi had stolen the honor that should have been his chala’s, and as far as he was concerned Phoebus represented her kill by rights. It would have been justice! Kieran could recognize, however, when he was letting dangerous emotions mingle with the acidic poison of murderous magicks. Cleansing himself was out of the question, but he could attempt to channel that anger towards a useful end rather than a mutually destructive one. With the blessings of the wind magic he harnessed, he burned yet more runes to regain control and steady out the pulsating power held within his hands. The runes themselves ignited into brilliance along a serpentine path, eating up the layers of runes along his abs and exposing the scarred edges of his ribs. Kovvi’s sudden roar split the air of the arena, piercing through even the various cheers and jeers of the intense crowd at this year’s Finals. To Kieran, it was as if a signal flare had gone up, and he knew that now was the time to cast. Forgive me, chala, for this is not the ideal time to wipe these stains of your honor from existence, but rather the time at which I must or warp my mind and body under the strain of spell and power. He thrust his hands forward, and from relative stillness was air conjured into motion at the behest of Wind. For Kieran the effort was maintained similarly to his casting of it in Cellar, perhaps a heartbeat or two longer than two seconds’ worth of sand through an hourglass. The spray of pressure blade forms and vacuum effects approached Phoebus and Kovvi, however, acted much differently than it had in Cellar at Is’ira and Meoden. Air had a natural tendency to move, to circulate, and forced the controlled ‘spray’ into a much larger shape were it clearly defined. Indeed, after it would reach the pair it would even be visible here, in the Grand Arena, thanks to the sands at its edge and the steam through which it must move. But while those cues would undoubtedly draw sounds of enthusiasm and dismay from the crowd, they would also, sadly, be too late for the competitors to notice as the spell’s vast area enveloped them. What would never be clear to the crowd, nor to anyone save Kieran, was where the massive difference in runic power had gone compared to his casting of Scything Exhalation within Cellar. The range may seem slightly longer, but that would solely be a trick of visibility thanks to the sand and vapor in that would kick into the air. Someone who had seen both might assume the impacts stronger, but the spiked trap Kovvi had set would later prove to weather the storm of conflicting pressures fairly well, save where fire had melted and weakened it. No, the extra power had gone only into accounting for the two major differences. The first was the need to control vyrdin with yet more vyrdin to be able to delay it even as shortly as he did. The other was in handling the influences of circulating air, countering the havoc and chaos with the briefest of extensions of effect. With more than half the contestants still present within the arena, the price of power almost made him feel vulnerable for the extended battle still to come. Burying that worry was a must, as was capitalizing on the impact as the last vestiges of the spray shifted into the barest hints of a breeze. There could be no delay, Kieran decided, and so the Chosen of Wind charged once more into the fray.

Schizo -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/9/2013 23:29:14)
Phoebus had no time to contemplate cause of the loss of heat between himself and Kovvi when his opponent's assault came right at his neck. An icy skewer met the alchemist's neck, which drew a pathetic choking and sputtering sound as the Anorian's throat was pierced through by the deadly sculpture. Through the mounting pain, Phoebus' arms staggered slightly but kept the Ice-user's arms from striking the Chosen of Fire's head, though barely. He realized that at any second the Rathyd's offense would push through and finish the fight for him, and most certainly not in the alchemist's favor. As the hot blood flowed out of his neck and around the spike, which quickened the fiery healing of such a grievous wound and the melting of the obstruction to his breathing, Phoebus noticed a detail in the Arena when his eyes went wild at the pain and instinctively searched for an escape. The pillar is out. I've been eliminated by the Lord of Fire. He realized, the disappointment with his skill of his element cutting to his core. With no more reason to remain in the Finals Arena, where a true elemental champion should fight, the Anorian made one last move to surrender and flee from his more-than-worthy opponent and return to the Championships another year to continue the battle that they had started here. Firing two new jets from his elbows, Phoebus shoved the Rathyd's strong arms away from his head. With his own arms raised over his head, the retreating fighter brought them down to cut through any excess ice protruding from his neck, leaving whatever remained within his neck or sticking through the back to melt off as the wound began to heal. The jets fired from his feet now propelled the alchemist upward into the air by a yard, briefly stopping as he twisted his body into the air to orient towards the pillar of Fire, and then reactivated to fire the Anorian towards the tall elemental symbol. He needed to get away from his foe quickly, and the portal behind the pillar would be his way out. That is, if Phoebus' body weren't suddenly assaulted by invisible blades that had been flying at himself and Kovvi for a few seconds already. The Anorian crashed into the ground, red sand mixing with new bloody gashes to stain the Arena with a new shade of red. Same as his neck, the laceration wounds began glowing with healing energy which cauterized the cuts and turned some of the sand into glass as the alchemist reflexively tried a method of traveling to the Pillar without being so big of a target. The ex-Chosen of Fire lay on his chest as blood seeped from his neck down past his armor and onto his chest. He grunted and grimaced as he pointed his palms outwards at the ground and positioned his head towards the wall where a portal would be waiting for him. Releasing blazing jets of orange fire from both his feet and his palms, the aspirant rocketed towards the Pillar again while floating inches above the ground. The portal opened for the failed aspirant alone, and Phoebus tumbled through the tunnel once he crossed the portal's threshold. He would be back another year, he swore to himself. One day, unless they managed to meet outside the Championship Arenas, the Anorian and the Rathyd would clash again. And next time, there would only be a worthy victor and a defeated corpse. Phoebus couldn't wait for that day to come. The Chosen of Fire for this year slowly got up once more, spitting blood and sand from his mouth in crimson globs as the power of the Anorian Potion slowly stitched his body back together; though his currently battle-torn pants would need some actual stitching. The red sand of the Finals Arena, as if sensing the warrior's defeat and his renewed ambition, fell off his enhanced body and his enchanted armor. Wounded and inspired to train once more, the wildfire alchemist began limping, then walking, then running out of the Arena, back into the vast training ground that was the world of Lore. Phoebus ignored the pain that still lanced through his body and the cough that seemed to be the Rathyd's mark upon his body as the sun greeted his presence once more, reinvigorating his power. He had a fight to finish, and he would have to work all year to come out on top.

jerenda -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/11/2013 3:40:35)
Tharala raised her hand, touching the back of her fist to her forehead. Gabriel raised an eyebrow. The avian looked like someone had just killed her pet fish, not like someone paying respect to a foe. Something was up… and as Tharala whirled, throwing the concealed object in her hand, Gabriel nodded to herself and made a few more guesses. One of them immediately proved itself. (That, or the woman’s aim really was that awful, and Gabriel preferred to err on the side of caution.) The metallic sphere didn’t seemed to be aimed at her, but at the sand in front of her, and if Gabriel stood there much longer she would be the pet fish who’d died. The Angelborn went with her natural response: she leaped up, keeping the shield as a defense between herself and Tharala. The explosion took her by surprise. A circular shadow hit her face, white light flooding her peripheral vision, followed quickly by the soundwave. The roar of the crowd, the wind rushing past, Tharala’s dragging footsteps all vanished in a burst of sound, leaving only a faint ringing. Stars flashed across Gabriel’s vision, and every time she blinked the world seemed to fade into white. Thankfully her shield appeared to have blocked the majority of the light, or she’d be completely blinded. Yup. Definitely a clever one. Gabriel landed on the sand, staggering slightly as she tried to compensate for the loss of balance in her inner ear. The sand was just a blur, identified more by Gabriel’s gravity-sense than her vision. Multicolored lights strobed through the edges of sight, and she just barely caught herself from looking to see if anything was there. I’ve gotta move - didn’t she have a spear? Gabriel dove to the side just as the weapon hit her shield. She released the straps, allowing the shield to tear free from her arm. My shield! The dodge turned into a roll, tumbling to end up on Tharala’s side. That, at least, didn’t rely on being able to see the ground, although she did almost fall into another roll before she caught herself. Half-blind, entirely deaf, balance shot... There was no way she could make a precision shot but she went for it anyway, flicking her left hand at the winged woman. A spike shot out, aimed for the center of the dark mass that was Tharala. Gabriel hesitated, then shrugged and flicked her right hand at the woman as well. If Chikyū-dono had refilled her spikes, then she’d have a second spring-loaded weapon incoming. If not, Gabriel wasn’t able to see the loss anyway. My shield! She cost me my shield!

Kellehendros -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/11/2013 16:41:28)
The ringer detonated with a flare of argent light, and a high sharp ringing like the peal of some massive, high-pitched bell a few paces away. Tharala, much closer to this detonation than to those that had come previously in the Fountain Arena, was instantly deafened. The detached part of her noted, and not for the first time, that she really needed to come up with some manner of hearing protection to add to her light helm. Her hearing was replaced with little more than a surf-roar of white noise and ringing. While the treated lenses and slitted eyelids gave some protection to her eyes, stars and multicolored motes still whirled across her vision, blocking bits and pieces of the Arena before her. Gabriel had leapt as the ringer exploded, lowering her shield, perhaps enough to block the majority of the light. The acrobat landed poorly, wavering slightly, and Tharala knew that Gabriel had taken at least some negative effects from the light and sound. She corrected the thrust more on instinct than on an ability to see and judge where the acrobat’s defense was, Gabriel’s stumble had put her in a hole in the skyfisher’s vision, leaving the woman mostly blotted out by a patch of blue-black overexposure. Still, Tharala had used the ringers often, and she was not overly disconcerted by the patchy vision and impaired hearing, it was something she had dealt with before in her work. Sometimes you had to hit yourself with some of the blast in order to take down your prey quickly. Her thrust met something, and the shock of impact vibrated down the length of ashwood and up her arms. Tharala grunted, moving with the thrust and cursing as she felt the head of the weapon scrape along the wood of Gabriel’s shield with the screeeeep of metal rasping over wood. Her spear tore a long gouge across the surface of the shield, leaving a furrow of paler wood revealed where the polished and weathered surface of the shield was ripped away in a curling thread. The resistance behind the shield faltered, and for a moment Tharala felt a surge of triumph, until the shield spun into sight, dropping to the ground with nothing behind it to hold it up. Panic surged through the skyfisher, and she twisted. Gabriel must have rolled to one side, hidden by the patches of darkness to which Tharala had subjected herself. As if in confirmation, she felt a hot line of fire drawn across her ribs. The acrobat must have thrown one of her knives, scoring a hit as the projectile sliced across Tharala’s side, parting leather and kissing her skin in passing, leaving behind a line of blood and torn feathers. She replied with a shrill hawk scream of challenge that Gabriel probably could not hear anyways, and kept turning to face the woman, choking up on the spear’s shaft so she could get the seven-foot length into a better position. There was a malignant buzzing whine, and Tharala felt the passage of another projectile within inches of her wings. This, this, witch, was trying to cripple her wings! Well, if Gabriel wanted a wing, she could have one. The skyfisher surged forward again. She had to keep in close to the acrobat, prevent her from throwing any more knives. Tharala thrust with the spear again, aiming down this time, trying to pin Gabriel down with a strike through the foot or ankle. At the same time, her right wing flared and arced forward, curling around as if beating at the air to help her take off. Tharala aimed to strike the acrobat in the head with her wing, possibly stunning her. She hoped it would work. From what she knew, most groundwalkers were more concerned with focusing on a weapon in an opponent’s hand, so she might take the acrobat by surprise. That was the key here: keep Gabriel off-balance, reacting rather than acting, so that her no-doubt more extensive combat experience would not be a factor.

Geddesmck -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/11/2013 18:12:21)
Many of those he killed tried to bargain with him, but there was something about the woman that made him stop and pay attention. Perhaps her lack of fear. She did not cry and beg for her life, she instead smiled as if she knew some grand secret. Kovvi had already massacred most of the people in the Inn, but through it all, she had simply watched. “Spare me, Chieftain of a dead people, and I can give you what you want.” “I want only revenge. I want the blood of the greenlanders to turn the seas red and their bones to lay upon their fields like crops,” Kovvi snarled, lifting the massive axe he had recently plundered from a blacksmiths forge, “you can offer me nothing, woman.” “I can offer you godhood.” Kovvi listened. His premonition of victory proved accurate. A spike of ice in his throat and only gasping breaths and blood in his throat assured the imminent death of the Chosen of Fire. For perhaps the first time since the Championship’s beginning, the glowing man showed sense. With a desperate speed and power, born of a primal instinct for survival, he fled. The ferocity of the retreat was such that, as he flung Kovvi’s arms away, the fire combatant threw the large man off balance and backwards into the sand. Prone, Kovvi was unsure he could rise again. The pain of his wounds, so distant when his mind had been occupied, now surged to the fore of his awareness. Each injury jostled for pride of place as the most painful and caused a cacophony of agony. Yet, he had won, despite all his wound. Victory was always the greatest painkiller and it was only because of his triumph that the Rathyd chieftain held onto consciousness in those few heartbeats of respite. The exaltation of victory was interrupted by an exhalation of razor wind. The sensation Kovvi experienced was not much like being cut, it was more like his flesh was pulled apart by some immense pressure. The effect was little different though. Crimson poured from new wounds upon the Rathyd’s form, soaking the sands with northern blood. Had be been standing, he did not know how bad his wounds would have been. As it was, the fact he was so low to the ground and that only his right side was really exposed provided some small protection. Had he still had his right ear, he would have lost it there. As it was, he added another large future-scar to the collection on the right side of his head. It counted among a half dozen other gaping wound on the right side of his body. A thin layer of ice coated the new wounds, body heat being less precious than blood to Kovvi’s immediate survival. The makeshift bandages did little to staunch the bleeding, but were better than nothing. Pain once again took a backseat in the Rathyd’s mind. Survival came first, he would have time to die later. He rolled to his feet to face his new foe that approached through sand, steam and mist to meet Ingrid’s steel.

Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/11/2013 21:08:49)
The main speed of Kieran’s charge was checked at the brilliant flares coming off of Phoebus’ arms, the rocketing manner at which he escaped death at Kovvi’s hands. The heat was truly intense, washing over the distance in a wave of distorting air. Only the smallest victory was to be had, as even the wounds of ruptured flesh from Kieran’s spell healed over so incredibly swiftly, but Phoebus was done. And so another Chosen’s fate has been determined to be...lackluster. Not knowing that Scylla, too, had been so dismissed led Kieran to believe there would be more to worry about. With his sight so focused on Kovvi, it was a wronged assumption that would not be corrected for some time. The Great Bear was an incredible brute, to be sure. Despite having been knocked down, and despite wounds of a horrific intensity, he had nearly slaughtered Phoebus upon projections of ice...which indicated a nigh-inhuman level of endurance. Even before the brunt of Kieran’s spell broke upon him, the Rathyd had both forearms blistering furiously from second-degree burns at the least. A hand encased in spiked ice that had certainly suffered far worse damage, though that wound likely had gone nerve-dead already. Lighter burns of varying degrees had scorched so many swathes of exposed skin that it was a patchwork quilt of angry red against the man’s natural coloring, not to mention the stretches of pale manifestations of the Great Bear’s element. After his spell had broken upon the man like a storm venting its fury on a hillock? It was like adding streaks of scarlet to a decorative canvas. The man had cut and bled from several new wounds that quickly took on a dull sheen. Flash-frozen blood. What was worse to Kieran was that there was depressingly few new cuts across such a vast expanse of flesh. Kovvi had proven lucky twice over, first in being knocked to the protection of the ground, and again with how the circulation of the air itself had prevented much of the spell’s potential from working him over. For all of that, the Rathyd picked himself up and looked as dangerous as ever, as if the pain merely filled some vast reservoir fueling his strength. Kieran knew already that his only chance in an extended combat was to further wear out Kovvi’s will, rather than his body, until the pain of the wounds inflicted would work against his strength and erode away the advantages of reach and size. He took a few steps to the side to place the hazardous remains of the icy spike-trap firmly upon his left as he resumed closing in upon the Rathyd, then darted forward the last few critical paces. There was a pressing need to get inside the larger man’s reach, to take away the advantage of the blade. Sparks flew as metal grated upon metal, his right forearm’s guard saving him from being spit upon Kovvi’s sword thrust...and then he was in. Then he was standing, as much as tempestuous motion not inches from Kovvi could count as standing, as both men began to exchange blows at a speed beyond thought. Where Kovvi’s blows fell like massive tree limbs, battering Kieran from side to side with each blocked and parried impact, Kieran’s own were light and precise...and nearly as ineffectual. He felt bruises blossoming beneath the protective buckhide and metal, but it was nothing he could not push past for the moment. His eyes slowly relaxed and became unfocused as he sped his actions by necessity to trained reactions. A rational part of his mind, buried deep and observing almost with amusement, began commenting with each full-body block of Kovvi’s swordarm and every parry of the spiked fist. Wolf’s Fangs. Phantom Knifehand to Seven Rivers Parting. Immortal’s Gambit? Counter by breaking his base with a strike at the ankle with Lizard’s Sweeping Tail. Thunder’s Fall to Bending Reeds. Torras’ Bend. Butterfly’s Wings. Hekatonkheire’s Hidden Fist?! Kin’s Defiance. The seconds stretched to hours as the fighters grew more savage. Blows whipped out with the pounding of each heartbeat, at the speed of a muscle’s twitch. Despite being battered by the larger man’s blows, the occasional sting of a spike grazing his cheek or across his chest, Kieran began to feel his confidence grow. Kovvi was no Scylla; the Great Bear was incapable of speeding his blows further and further until Kieran exhausted himself both magically and physically just to keep pace. Nor did he feel himself growing overwarm, thinking wrongly that it was due to the presence of so much ice nearby cooling the ambient temperatures. Even with the punishment he was receiving, this style of fast-paced combat felt ever so natural to Kieran. Soon it would be the wounded Kovvi who would tire, and all Kieran had to do was remain comfortable and outlast the larger man, before taking him down without mercy. Kovvi feinted a hard thrust with Ingrid, not for the first time in their swift exchange, and Kieran responded with a single forearm block at Kovvi’s wrist. Supported by planted feet, it would knock the thrust wide at the price of slightly more bruising, but the sand beneath his back foot slid beneath him unnaturally. Kieran’s confidence vanished with the crackle of thin ice crunching beneath his own boot heel, and he spared half a glance downwards as his attempted defense began to falter. Frost!? A layer of the stuff, hardly enough to bind more than the surface layer of sand, had been extended by Kovvi all the way from the dangerous remains of the death trap laid for Phoebus not minutes ago. As focused as he had been on the blows themselves, Kieran had neither noticed nor expected this viciously subtle tactic from Kovvi. There was no such faltering by Kovvi, who had been expecting and awaiting such an opening to arise. The larger man flicked his wrist, and the simple thrust suddenly changed into a savage cut rising upwards into Kieran’s right arm. Though the metal held with a shriek of tortured steel, the upper arm had no such protection and found itself flayed beneath Ingrid’s blade. Flesh...muscle...even the glint of bone was ever so briefly visible before being obscured by the flow of scarlet lifeblood. Kieran’s eyes watered as he gasped at the sudden pain from the deep wound. It hadn’t quite cut the full length of the bicep, leaving him some motion if he could fight past the pain, but in a fight such as this the near thing was more than enough.

jerenda -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/13/2013 19:14:57)
Gabriel leaped to her feet as Tharala surged forward, palming a pair of knives. Her balance was returning—she had always been good at adapting quickly—but a shock of pain lanced through her and she fell anyway. She bit back a cry. Stupid! Her foot was still injured, she had to be careful. Tharala seized the opportunity, driving downward with her spear. It’s a good thing she’s still using that, Gabriel mused, shoving herself to her feet and twisting to the side at the price of a smallish gash through the side of her already-injured foot. It’s long enough to not hide within a blind spot. Less easy to predict was the enormous white thing that came out of nowhere. Gabriel’s arms shot up in an X above her head before her mind had fully processed what was happening. Feathers met metal with a crash that rang, soundless, through Gabriel’s body. She went with the motion, reaching behind her to pull on the far wall of the Arena. With the help of her powers, she was able to gain a few yards of distance. She landed immediately, aware that she couldn’t land a protracted flight right now. As it was, her foot seemed to be trying to commit suicide, and take her down with it. Ugh. With a shake of her head, she pushed the pain away and focused. She had heard of creatures called swans whose wings could snap the neck of a grown man, and based off the force of that last blow, she had no doubt Tharala could do the same. She was lucky her armor had held up to it. From what little she could see, however, the wings seemed to be one of the lightest-armored places on her body. Looks like I’ve got to cripple those wings, or at least make her think twice about hitting me with them again. Gabriel drew back her arm and threw, launching both of her daggers in quick succession. One for each wing. She would have aimed for where the wing connected to the body, but a red firework was currently going off right there, so instead she aimed at what appeared to be the main joint, midway down the wing. Then, ignoring the stabbing bolts of agony that seemed to extend to her knee by now, Gabriel charged at the woman. Do I dare? I think I might. She did, after all, cost me my shield. It was a terrible, terrible risk, as it would teach Tharala about her powers far too quickly, but she reached out and released Tharala’s hold on gravity, most likely sending her into a free-fall towards the charging Angelborn. Moments before she came within range, her left hand drew another knife. The plan was a swift uppercut to the jaw and then a dagger to the chest, but if Tharala managed to swing her spear around, she would have to abandon the plan and focus on keeping the thing from skewering her.

Geddesmck -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/13/2013 19:35:43)
Bren lay before him, and within the town was his destiny. Godhood or death. Ruling above the world or sleeping eternally in its embrace. Kovvi made his way towards the Elemental Championship to meet his doom. Ingrid’s steel bit into flesh and muscle. It was the first significant victory of the exchange, and possibly the turning point. The smaller man; Wind’s Chosen judging by his earlier attack, was quick and resilient, but outmatched vastly by the strength and sheer weight of the Rathyd warrior. It was clear he was taking advantage of Kovvi’s wounds to try and wear him down. Kovvi smiled as he watched scarlet drip from the man’s arm, he had underestimated Kovvi’s cunning, as so many had before. And now he would pay for his mistake. The advantage was with the Ice Chosen and he would not let it go to waste. Pain and fatigue fought a war against his consciousness. Only the exhilaration of the fight and the stubbornness of his Rathyd blood kept his mind from the sweet oblivion exhaustion promised. Yet even so, he was slowing. Thoughts took longer to turn to action, and it was that brief delay that his pain bought that gave his opponent an opportunity. Rather than take his chance to finish the fight, Kovvi took a moment to take a breath he had missed. The injured man took the small respite to gain some distance and Kovvi’s instincts sent panic through him. The only reason he would need distance was to launch another of his devastating cutting wind spells. The heat he had stolen left his body to sculpt a wall of thick ice between him and his foe. It took all his mental effort to keep it strong. Almost all the body heat he had stored flowed from him as the price for his hastily erected defence, which stood as tall as he was and just as wide. Its thickness was such that it blocked even vision; no blades of wind would penetrate it. It was, perhaps as a result of his exhaustion, a less than solid creation, held together only by his will. Yet his will was stronger than steel; and certainly a match for wind. Yet his concentration was broken by his enemy’s unexpected maneuver. When the Chosen of Wind’s form appeared vaulting over the icy structure, Kovvi’s tired mind raced to catch up with the events and the wall’s integrity was compromised. Kovvi span to face his the airborne man, so as not to leave his back exposed. Too late he realised that he himself had made a fatal error of judgement. He was not the one who had been underestimated. A foot made contact with Kovvi’s shoulder mid-turn with enough force to send the weary mountain of man stumbling into his own creation. A bloody shoulder met a brittle wall of ice which shattered beneath his weight and the sound of breaking ice mingled with a sharp ringing sound that reverberated around the arena. Shards as long as Freya’s blade and just as sharp impaled the Chosen of Ice and brought death to the Rathyd. Blood flowed from countless wounds. Pain numbed and thoughts slowed. Darkness took his vision and silence his hearing. The last Rathyd met his death on the red sands of the Elemental Championship’s finals arena, and with him died the memory of a people and their promise of vengeance upon the world. Sands and mist swirled around the scene, obscuring for the moment the fate of Ice’s Champion. His mighty form upon the remains of his own magical construction, that now lay as a thick line of icy blades thrust into the red sands; shards scattered around its ruin. Kovvi’s corpse had not hit the ground, the blades that had taken his life suspended him so that only his knees met sand. Kovvi Iceblessed, the Winter Bear, bled out and left but three contenders for the Elemental Championship.

Kellehendros -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/13/2013 21:32:23)
Tharala felt the spear grate across armor, biting through and into flesh, but only briefly. Gabriel’s arms crossed, blocking the skyfisher’s wing strike. She felt the vibration of the hit up through her wing, and cursed as the acrobat eluded by... flying? Her golden eyes tracked Gabriel’s movement with a flare of incredulity. That, that’s not fair! The woman had to be flying, there was no other way she could move such a distance over the sands without a leap, and the acrobat had most certainly not jumped. But how could she do it? Flying was against the rules! Tharala herself had been told that she would not be allowed to fly, and Gabriel had just done so. The Lords and Ladies seemed in no hurry to strike the woman down, however, and doubt flowed through Tharala. Maybe it was not flight then? Consideration and debate would have to wait. The woman was drawing back her arm, and letting fly another pair of daggers. A lifetime in the air had made the skyfisher a good judge of speeds and angles, and as soon as Gabriel threw the daggers Tharala surmised they were aimed at her wings. The witch was determined to cripple her. The daggers would be easy enough to avoid. Tharala hunched slightly, letting her wings droop and fold behind her as she choked back down on the spear. She had the advantage of reach if she could keep the acrobat at bay. The problem was that Gabriel had the advantage both at range and in hand-to-hand combat. Tharala had to stay close enough that Gabriel could not throw her knives, but distant enough that she could not exploit her greater experience with close quarters fighting. Steel tumbled and whistled past to either side of the skyfisher’s head, cleaving empty air rather than her wings, which were now hidden at her back. Gabriel charged, and Tharala began to fall. Behind the tinted lenses, her eyes went wide as she began to skid forward. It was... It was as if the ground had moved, shifted somehow, so that Tharala was falling towards the oncoming acrobat. The woman’s hand moved, and a dagger appeared, and Tharala continued to accelerate, tipping towards Gabriel in what was about to become a fall. “Every fall is a dive that has yet to be born.” Tharala smiled fiercely. The words were her father’s, and she could almost feel him watching. The witch had some trick, some strange magic she was using to pull Tharala towards her. “Falling is only flying, without control.” When you were falling out of control, you could make corrections to take back control. The skyfisher pushed up off the ground just before the pull became undeniable, giving her height to work with. She forced herself to accept the new perspective she was subjected to. Gabriel was down, Gabriel was ground, Gabriel was her landing spot. She laughed, wings manipulating the air minutely as she gathered speed, twisting her body with a lifetime of practiced control, orienting her legs towards her foe. It may only have been a psuedo-flight, a cheap imitation, but this was Tharala’s element, and she knew precisely what she was doing. Gabriel would no doubt be surprised as they closed, and Tharala reached out with her taloned feet, intending to rake the acrobat across the face and chest.

Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/14/2013 1:40:44)
The pain seared white-hot across his arm, and Kieran gripped at the gash reflexively with his left hand. The pressure brought further pain, sharper still for its rawness, and his blood seeped through clenched fingers with alarming freedom. Like filling spurting out of an oven-fresh pastry, and just as thickly. Kieran began to seethe within in anger, burning bright like embers blown upon them, but then he noticed something about Kovvi that felt like a slap across the face. The Rathyd had the gall to smile. “Ji’kar Savrashi...” Even as he spat the epithet, his anger broke into an ocean’s sudden calm winds. It was perhaps fitting for one aligned to Ice to wind up tossing the mental equivalent of ice-water onto Kieran’s temperamental mind. Standing there, clutching his wound, would serve him no good. Nor would allowing Kovvi another opportunity to strike him, with or without that same subtle cleverness. As the bigger man drew back, as if to catch his breath, Kieran danced backwards a few steps. He had wanted to give the Great Bear a chance by playing on a level where they were matched relatively equally, that physical assault style where the handicap of injury was more than made up for by mass and muscle. Yet if Kovvi wanted to play tricks and feel ever so confident in them? Well then... With a measured breath, Kieran took hold of the runes still wrapped around his chest and back and forced them alight as an expression of power. However, he did not actively draw from them. Instead he allowed the flaring light to look as if he intended to cast and began mouthing old mantras to reinforce the image. Yet Kovvi seemed to react almost purely to the distance, as if the smaller details hadn’t mattered. Perhaps he is more addled than he seemed. The air between them chilled intensely, and Kovvi seemed to merely will ice to form from nothingness. A construction talent such as that could be terrifying, in a different setting. The ice swiftly grew thick at the sands and climbed towards the sky. Kieran’s realization that it would be a defensive barrier came faster still. In a snap decision, Kieran simply moved, once more drawing on the runes for an active purpose rather than flash and dazzle. The lowest band vanished as feet tore up the sand with rapid pumps of his legs, bringing him to the wall with a grunt of pain. He let go of the gash as he vaulted high, good hand reaching out to support his cresting of the frigid barricade as he twisted his feet around. The Wind he had called into his limbs with this particular Gusting had not been intended for feat of speed, nor for lightness of body to make the vault. Some edge of that power shed towards those purposes, true, but the rest flowed around his right heel as it arced over the wall. The vyrdin of over a dozen runes imparted to that limb something far more precious, the weight of sheer momentum, to rival a much greater physical power than Kieran could naturally deliver. He watched with calculating eyes as Kovvi turned beneath him, trying to follow the Wind-borne fighter’s surprise leap overhead. A jarring shift of his shoulders accounted for that, and his heel slammed into the Great Bear’s shoulder with incredible impact. Kovvi stumbled beneath the blow, his shoulder still too resilient to crack under the pressure of such a strike, but Kieran had placed it well. The Rathyd was spun back into his own icy creation, and a great reverberating boom strangely proceeded the deadly crescendo of shattering ice as the wall gave way. Having to land safely amidst flying shards of ice with a razor’s edge and the remnant foggy bits of mist took all of his attention. Even so, Kieran landed with a wobbling ankle and sported several fresh if superficial cuts across his torso before he could spare a glance at the full result of his handiwork. The sight of Kovvi on his knees, breathing his last breaths while being impaled upon the ice of his own creating, served both to relieve and sadden Kieran. Death comes swift, but your story was unheard. In honor of the man’s will, if nothing else, Kieran stood there and watched Death overcome his opponent at the last. Then, with a breath and a glance that the last combatants were neither nearby nor focused upon him, he took a step back to clear the worst of the ice before unceremoniously falling onto his arse.

jerenda -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/15/2013 22:22:56)
A number of things fell into place. It wasn’t so much an ah-hah moment as a reorganization of information that had already been present before. The loss of the knives was no matter - a weapon was a weapon, and distance was no barrier. The important thing here - the really crucial fact - was the fact that Tharala was not a flightless bird. Why the woman insisted on remaining earthbound when she was so much more graceful in flight - indeed, when the synergy and effortless elegance of her wings and muscles twisting as she took command of her freefall drove Gabriel nearer to awe than she had ever come - the Angelborn couldn’t begin to guess. The important thing was, Gabriel understood her now. Precious seconds of revelation almost cost Gabriel her life. Tharala turned in midair, her talons reaching for the Angelborn. Well that’s no good. Can’t punch a talon, can I? Gabriel dropped the gravity pull and let her right knee buckle under her as it was so desperately screaming to do, falling to the right. Tharala’s talons still caught her left shoulder before she managed to get clear, digging into the leather covering the joint. For a moment the grasping claws started to close, gained purchase on the metal covering her upper arm, and Gabriel panicked. She tore a swath through her upper arm as she pulled away, blood spraying from ruptured veins, decorating her and Tharala equally with the thick, colorless liquid. The jarring momentum from yanking free turned her sideways roll into more of a backwards one, but Gabriel had escaped. There was no time for pain, no time for anything but reacting. Totally ignoring her left arm, she started tossing knives, sending a trio Tharala’s direction. One aimed for the knee, one for the heart, and one for the head. She didn’t manage to get them off in quick succession like usual without the help of her left arm, and she sighed. Here I am again. Heavy injuries, bloodloss rapidly approaching critical, and bandages nowhere to be seen. Why do I never have bandages? The image that rose to her mind then wasn’t of herself. It was a broad-shouldered man, scars crisscrossing his bare torso, who had fallen to the floor, gasping in air as if each breath might be his last. A single metal spike was driven through his heart, electricity crackling around it. She smiled slightly at the memory, despite the circumstances. There had been bandages found, that time. She had been able to help. This time, there would be no help coming. The fight had gone on for long enough that if Kieran still lived - and he would live, he would not have fallen to the Winter Bear - he was no longer her ally. Possibly not Tharala’s, either. That was the way of things. This fight had to end soon, with or without her. She was not so eager to walk the shadows that she would fight for a doomed cause. Even if the doomed cause was her own. Next battlefield, I’m bringing bandages.

Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (8/15/2013 23:57:58)
Sitting on the scarlet stained sands was not something Kieran had wanted to do, but it provided him the support he needed. His left hand clawed at the sash around his waist, causing the remnants of his tunic to tear further, yet remained one long piece of fabric. Then he grit his teeth before pulling his hand into his lap. The groan of pain was more akin to a growl, but the fingers of his right hand had already begun to tingle from the loss of a not-insignificant portion blood flow thanks to the cut. His fingers still worked, and within his lap he created what some might recognize as a hangman’s collar, but with fewer coils of fabric ‘rope’. Slipping his hand through the loop and sliding it up his arm took several repetitive motions. Breathe deep, move the fabric and unavoidably jar the arm, and hiss out the fresh waves of pain. The time it took for him to settle the fabric over the cut had taken him out of the fight, and even the sounds of the crowd had dulled to the throbbing wash of blood through his ears. Once into place, he pulled the remaining tassle of fabric hard, crying out softly in renewed pain. No matter how many wounds one bore in their lives, there was no shame in venting the pain. Kieran stood, blinking fresh tears from his eyes while wrapping the remaining cloth around the swiftly soaking ersatz bandage. It helped beyond just attending to the blood loss, as the pressure supported the partially ruptured bicep and let him move his arm a bit more easily. Not painlessly, Kieran would have to fight through that, but at least it would not be as sluggish as swimming through molasses. The crowd was worried. Or had been, as several supporters in the stands erupted into renewed cheering and jeering as the Chosen of Wind returned to his feet. Kieran had dispelled their fears that he was done, and now they wrapped the spectre of death around their perception of him. Such a small fighter had done the impossible, had felled the gargantuan man known as Kovvi, the Winter Bear! It was those members of the crowd who tried to jostle their neighbors to lean in and see what Kieran was doing as he returned to the cooling corpse’s side. Kieran leaned down, his hands tugging at the fingers of Kovvi’s left hand. Rigor mortis had yet to set in, and wouldn't for minutes yet, but the frigid nature of his death had already cooled the corpse significantly. They, those vaunted few in the stands who could see, were ecstatic at the idea of the tricky warrior adding to his arsenal! For Kieran, however, he saw the blade Ingrid in an entirely different light. Slipping the short sword under the upper section of his double-belt onto his right hip, he gingerly wrapped the hand of his injured arm on the pommel. Sure, in a pinch, he could draw it with his dominant and uninjured left hand if Tharala or Gabriel forced the issue, but at the same time it would be a mistake against Scylla. Instead, it served as a crutch, his nearly white-knuckled grip helping to keep him from jarring his injury at an inopportune moment. Once more he crouched down by Kovvi, glancing up as he did so to keep tabs on the rest. What he saw was only slightly baffling. Tharala seemed to be sending a flying kick while moving with her back to the ground right at Gabriel. Had he not already known how Gabriel did tricky things with...with...’gravity’ as she claimed, then he would never have figured out how it was working out by the laws of reality. As it was, he blinked his eyes before realizing that she was actually falling towards an impact with Gabriel. Scylla, however, was nowhere to be seen. Neither as a fighter, nor as a corpse. She had been eliminated as well? Then that makes...just...oh, by the Divine Arts. Just three. He only paid the smallest bit of attention towards his selection as he chose a few small bits of blunt ice chunks by feel alone. The aerial ballet of Tharala was a wonder to watch as her talons outstretched and tore into Gabriel’s shoulder. It looked like a rather ragged wound, though the lack of scarlet made it seem bizarre to see hints of the muscle beneath the flesh. To Gabriel’s credit, she had tried to evade the blow, and responded in kind with more of her signature knives. Slipping the bits of ice between layers of bloodied cloth, he sympathized with Gabriel, for she too might want to patch her wounds and enjoy the blessed numbness of directly applied cold at some point. Not that she would have the time. Kieran rose and slowly strode towards the actively dueling pair. By rights, they represented yet another ideal target for his wicked spell casting to hit. To date, it had not really worked as planned, being sporadically random in a display more akin to bad luck than bad tactics. It would also take up almost every remaining rune, which decorated his chest and back like a cuirass several sizes too small. Maybe, however, if he garnered their attentions, they might realize that he could have and chose mercy. Maybe, just maybe, they might keep from forcing him to assault them, to turn against both a former alliance and an important bond through his chala. It would be preferable were they to cede victory and spare the lot of them further bloodshed and death. Right. That will happen. About the same time the Lords and Ladies decide to prance about and attend Market Day together in Bren’s town square. Still, wasn’t it at least worth a try? He took a deep breath, steadying himself in a ready pose, and yelled forth to them both. “ENOUGH!”

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