=EC 2019= Spike Arena (Full Version)

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Starflame13 -> =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/14/2019 0:01:00)

With preparations complete, the city welcomed the horde of travelers that descended into its midst. From strangers to old friends, from visiting dignitaries to lowly cutpurses, from lone fighters to entire families, hundreds answered the arena’s siren call. The crowds swelled, the magic in the air catching at emotions and drawing forth excitement and anticipation. Children ran about underfoot while city guards attempted to maintain some semblance of order. Coins clinked merrily as people pointed out potential competitors, debating this one's skill or that one's survival.

Then the sun climbed high enough to illuminate the doors of the complex itself - the rays creating a dazzling radiance that caught the eyes of all mingling below - and people surged forward.

Through the twisted streets of shops and inns. Past the delicate courtyards and grimy alleyways tucked between the houses. Up and over the final bridge, across the cobblestones of Supplicant’s Way, feet treading upon the same path that thousands of others had before them. Between the grand doors set at the gateway into the complex - a single entrance for spectators and hopefuls alike.

But the entrants never remained with the crowds for long. Even those watching closely could not spot the exact moment when the chosen combatants vanished, as if by magic, led into darkened hallways towards their fate. Most knew better than to attempt to follow. All knew better than to question the strength, the sorcery, the power that hummed in the stones at their feet and caused sparkles to dance in the corners of their eyes. No one who entered the tournament - no one who passed through the gates at all - did so without accepting its authority.

The Arena welcomed all, chose few, and spared none.



Polished stone floors gave way to dry earth, puffs of dust rising with each footfall. Torches winked out one by one, leaving the hall in shadow, save for a single patch of light at the far end. The crowd’s roar echoed unusually loud as the light grew closer - screaming for blood and carnage. Only a thin metal grate separated the contenders from the aura of the arena beyond.

Malice. Hunger. Ambition. Terror. Kill or be killed is the law of Spike.


The grates rose upward swiftly, announcing the arrival of the competitors with a clatter and bathing them in a harsh metallic scent of rust and decay. They stood now in a deep pit, sunlight pouring through to bake the dry earth below. It danced among the thousands of metal spikes driven haphazardly into the walls of the arena. Some rusted, others polished to a brilliant shine. All sharpened to deadly points, ready to spill blood on the parched earth below.

Above each entryway rose a thick, tall obelisk. Eight in total, each formed of a metal as black as night. While once the Martyrs had wept rivulets of blood, their tears had now dried. Their foreboding points had stretched and curved until they met at the center of the arena - forming a cage that offered scant protection from the shrieks of the spectators above.

From where they met hung a spiked orb of the same darkest metal - suspended from above with a thick, glossy chain. Despite the dead air, it swayed slightly as if in a breeze. Its spikes were as long as a man’s arm and nearly as thick at the base - tapering to a deadly point. It spun slowly, as if wanting to observe all the entrants. Watching. Waiting.

A single voice, loud and commanding, cried out from the stands above to herald the competitors below.
“And so begins the Trial of Menace. Fight with honor, or else die with glory!”






TitanDragonLord -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/15/2019 18:57:08)

"Well then, I wish you good fortune in the tournament," were the last words Aidan Shieldforged had said to his sister, Nadia, before her departure to enter into the Elemental Championship’s as their clan’s champion. Both of them knew that he wasn't being genuine when he had spoke. From a rocky perch on the mountainside of his ancestral home, he watched as his family bid farewell to her, and continued to watch as her form became nought more than a dot on the horizon before disappearing from view entirely. It should have been him out there, standing alongside her as they had done so often before, fighting to bring honour and glory to the family name. He knew he had just as much potential as his older sibling, and yet the Slumbering Elder had chosen her and only her to represent them.

At first he had been resentful, trying his hardest to be happy for his sister but finding only jealousy within himself at every attempt. Now the time had come and she had left, she who had been joined at his hip ever since his birth, That envy had now made way for a boiling anger rarely seen in the man. Not at her, no she had every right to pursue her destiny, but at he who had kept Aidan from his own.

Racing through Hearthforge's corridors and passageways, through the arches and doors of his clan's home, Aidan soon found himself deep in the heart of Mount Arborridge. Before him stood a beautiful life-sized stonework of a dragon's head, maw wide to reveal an entrance to an enormous yet unlit chamber. With a deep breath, Aidan stormed within, lifting a burning torch from the wall and waving it into the vast darkness.

"Dragon!" he bellowed, his voice echoing about the cavern before all fell eerily silent. He called again, with more ferocity this time, and was met with the low rumble of the entire cave seeming to shift beneath his feet. Soon enough, the source of this small quake revealed itself to the young man with a roar (which in actual fact was simply a wide yawn), and a brief torrent of orange flame illuminating the gargantuan grey form of a dragon more ancient than the mountain itself. Careening its body back as its flaming breath began to fade, a coating of dust could be seen falling from the titan's neck, a testament to the fact that this was a being that had been around for a very, very long time. Having stretched out the aches of its slumber, it brought its head down to hover a few feet away from Aidan's own, with short breath from its nostrils powerful enough blowing past the man, whipping the hair on the dragonkin's head back like he were stood in the briefest of hurricanes.

"You would do well to watch your tone when speaking to your elders, small one," the dragon growled, the torchlight only able to light a fraction of the scales around the beast's jaw and leaving the rest of its body shrouded in darkness. "What is it you seek in this place, blood of my own?"

"I want to know why," Aidan called, unphased by the Slumbering Elder's dramatic appearance. One got used to such sights after 27 years. "Why did you send Nadia and not me to represent our clan? You could've sent the both of us and you know you could! Why?!"

"Because," the Elder grumbled, narrowing its eyes at the petulant creature before it, "you have a different role to play. You must protect these lands, and your people, lest Nadia bring glory to a clan that no longer exists."Aiden wasn't satisfied with that for an answer, letting out a frustrated grunt as he paced back and forth. It took a few moments of racing thought, but soon the man came to a stop, resolute in what he decided he had to do.

"Nadia and I have always been inseparable. We’ve played together, trained together, fought together. I won't have her go out there now take the glory for herself," he called, the dragon only tilting its head ever so slightly as it studied him. "I'm going, and the Shieldforged won't be known for being home to the Paragon of Earth. The Earth contestant is only going to be coming second, and we will be known the world over as the clan who bore the Paragon of Energy."

The Slumbering Elder remained quiet for an unsettlingly long time, simply observing the feisty dragonkin before him, and for a moment Aidan thought he had crossed a line. It was then, just when Aidan had convinced himself that he was about to be reduced to ash, that the dragon simply let out a deep, rumbling chuckle that shook the walls of the cave once more. For a moment, Aidan could've sworn he saw the great dragon's lips curl slightly at the corner, before the creature retreated into the darkness to silently return to its slumber.

"Well he didn't say I couldn't go," the warrior muttered under his breath, before running to gather his things.




The hustle and bustle of the crowds surging towards arena was quite unlike anything Aidan had ever experienced before. He hadn’t spent long in Bren, having only arrived the day prior on account of having taken several detours during his travels. With just a glance, he could see more faces than he had across the entirety of his lifetime, although as the giant of a man pushed his way through the crowds towards the entrance for hopeful participants, one of these faces was one he knew only too well. A face much like his own, just a touch more... Female.

"Nadia!" he called, although even his booming voice struggled to be heard over the incessant chatter of those in the crowd. "Nadia!" he called again, louder this time, freeing an arm to wave towards his sister, whose expression was first that of denial, before morphing into one of shock, and finally settling on anger.

It was a good thing that the crowd was so loud, for the profanities that left Nadia's lips spewed forth with much vigour, and abandon. One lady looked as if she were going to strike the source of such vulgarity, but upon viewing Nadia's six foot frame, clad in silk, gold and scales, she seemed to think better of it. After a few moments of shoving and shouting, the elder sibling finally made it to her much taller brother.

"What in the name of the Elder are you doing here?!"

"I'm here in the name of the Elder!" he yelled back, trying his best to push his way through the crowd but making little headway at getting any closer to his sibling. Whilst individually each member of the crowd could rather easily be shoved aside, as a unit it was far too dense for him to move forwards. Briefly he tried to explain over the volume of the arena what had happened when he'd confronted the dragon, but realised rather quickly it was a fool's errand. Especially when he finally put some effort into lip reading to see what she was saying.

It was then, at that very moment, as Aidan's lips parted to hurl his own insults towards his sister that he felt an enormous push at his upper back. He fell forwards, yet as he hit the floor he found himself suddenly upright, and no longer surrounded by that suffocating mass of people. Rather, he was totally alone, stood in a long and dusty hallway that was lit with torches as far as the dragonkin could see. Taking a second to adjust to his strange new surroundings, he slowly unhooked his bound chakram from his belt, lifting it into the air and letting go at chest height. Held aloft by an invisible force, Aidan carefully nudged the item sideways ever so slightly, putting it into a slow orbit around the warrior. Next he drew his twin poi, lifting each towards a torch on the wall to set them alight, before dropping them to let each chain hang loosely by his side. No doubt, if his suspicions were correct, he would be needing them soon.

He hadn't travelled far before each of the torches on the wall were snuffed out by some invisible force, although now he could see a bright glow filter through a grate of some sort at the furthest point of the hall. As he reached the end, his suspicions were all but confirmed, a familiar crowd letting out an unfamiliar cheer as each contestant came into view at their respective entrances. Beyond the grate sat the arena he was to fight in, a caged pit of some sort, with deadly spikes protruding from the walls. On top of that, in the centre of the arena hung a spiked ball, gently swaying from side to side, a sight Aidan took no pleasure in drinking in. Still, he had come this far now, and possibly defied his clan in the process, this was no time for second guessing.

The grate rose sharply, and Aidan emerged from the darkness and stepped into the light, with a powerful voice filling the walls of the arena over the screams and cries of the crowd. They were ready to see battle. They were ready to see blood.

“And so begins the Trial of Menace. Fight with honour, or else die with glory!”

Aidan wasted no time in making himself known, hurling his chakram a short distance away and using the invisible tether between it and him to slingshot himself closer to the middle of the arena. Snatching the chakram from mid-air and throwing it back into orbit about himself, Aidan quickly began to whirl his poi in a deadly spin to his left and right as he landed, firing a challenging glare at the other contestants. None of them seemed to be Nadia, which was just fine for him. It meant he didn’t have to worry about who he was hitting so much.

“Come on! I’ve got a sister to beat down and you’re all in my way!”




nield -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/17/2019 10:11:30)

Once upon a time, there was an egg. In one respect that’s not exactly odd, after all there were no fewer than thirty other eggs too. But this egg was… different. Exceptional. In so many ways. To begin with, it was more than twice the size of any of the other eggs, which was entirely unheard of. But it was also very blue, a handful gathering of hues of blue dotted the egg. Turquoise, cobalt, ultramarine and aquamarine, with azure rounding them out. Blues were not exactly an uncommon hue among the aquatic Aofeyfetarl; indeed, blues would only be found under the sea, not above it. But it was a great rarity for an egg to have a predominant leaning towards any colour, not to mention having so sparse a total as five different hues.

As one might have expected, such an odd egg was met with a mixture of curiosity and unease, younglings crowding around and gawking, the elders convening and discussing, those in-between simply keeping a distance. Time passed and though the other eggs of the same laying had all hatched on the same day, the odd egg had not hatched with them. After a week had passed, the elders breathed a sigh of relief behind closed doors and muttered that it was probably best the egg never hatched. Then, a full fortnight after the rest of the clutch had hatched, as they were discussing how to dispose of it, the strange egg finally hatched.

The Aofeyfetarl that hatched was as odd as his egg, but the single oddest detail about him was that his body was covered in fur; a trait that was not shared by either his aquatic peers, or tree-dwelling ancestors. A large crowd gathered near the new hatchling, pointing and whispering among themselves, the elders looking on with barely disguised dismay. But no-one made a move towards the youngling, even as he started to creel with hunger. The Aofeyfetarl who had laid the clutch, Starla— a stunning sight with no fewer than 200 distinct hues adorning her body— had a lump in her throat, but knew she could show this youngling no favour as she had not shown any of the others who had hatched.

Then suddenly a voice rang above the crowd. “What under the sea are you all doing? Why is NO-ONE helping that youngling?” A striking Aofeyfetarl swam towards the crowd, particularly towards the elders. This Aofeyfetarl was, in his own way as visually limited as the strange Aofeyfetarl, having only 7 hues upon him— it was a peculiarity for an Aofeyfetarl to have any less than 20, indeed, the strange Aofeyfetarl was the only member of his clutch with less than 40— but while his numbers were limited, the variety therein was not: He was all the colours of the rainbow; Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Cyan, Blue, Violet. This decoration of colours was everywhere; his hair, his fins, even his eyes were beautiful prismatic orbs and it was from this colouration that he had received his name: Prisma.

The Eldest of elders- an Aofeyfetarl with a chaotic arrangement of 67 hues- regarded Prisma. This elder, named Velastra, spoke; “No-one is helping the youngling, and no-one WILL help the youngling… because it is clear to all. That thing is not one of us. It is an
abomination.” Starla could not suppress a gasp at that. Prisma, for his part and to his great credit was not cowed by Velastra’s decree. He was not yet old enough to be considered an elder, but at 350 cycles of the Moon, he was both willing enough and brave enough to stand up to the elders if he thought it was necessary. “So, he’s a little… okay, a lot different from us. That does not make him an abomination. Or give him any less right to life than any of us. Besides, who is to say that the Lords have not sent him to us: because we will have need of him?”

Velastra’s face transformed into a malignant sneer. “The Lords! Don’t utter such twaddle! Such entities do not and CANNOT exist! As for that THING, it has no right to life if I say it does not!” Such a declaration was unheard of and the entire crowd could not help but gasp audibly and descend into panicked muttering. Distantly there came the sound of a great roaring and the seafloor shook. Prisma’s beautiful eyes grew cold and harsh as he regarded Velastra. “No-one has the authority to claim that any being has no right to life: even the Ocean herself roils at such transgressive heresy.”

Velastra for his part was entirely unapologetic, if a bit shaken at the immediate response from the very sea at his words. “F-fine… if you think that thing has a right to life Prisma, you take care of it. But you will keep it outside of our civilisation. We will not see it; we will not hear it.” Prisma gritted his teeth, looking around at the crowd. Shocked as they all had been by Velastra’s words, it was clear that none of them were going to speak; indeed, every one whose eyes Prisma met, quickly slid them away. “Very well. I can see that HE would not be made to feel comfortable among you all. But first, he needs a name.” “Very well, you can call it-“ Prisma interrupted Velastra, at this point yelling; “Only the layer can name him, Velastra and you should know that better than anyone! For shame. ALL of you for shame.” The last two parts he muttered to himself.

All eyes fell upon Starla, who had a hand over her face so none could see the tears that had begun to stream from her eyes at Velastra’s words. One would not have thought that tears would be visible in the Ocean environment, but Aofeyfetarl eyes could discern the difference. Since a layer would not herself look after any of her offspring, it was expected that she would be entirely impartial towards all and an obviously distressed layer would send ripples of panic throughout the entire community. Once she had managed to quell her tears, she moved her hand, her face a stony mask. She seemed to be giving the matter a lot of thought but in reality, she had thought of the perfect name right away.

Her mouth opened and she spoke. Velastra roared with laughter and the whole crowd sniggered to themselves. “Well there you have it Prisma! Right from the layer’s mouth! An utterly perfect name for it!” The name Starla had bestowed on the strange Aofeyfetarl was a word, which in the aquatic Aofeyfetarl tongue meant ‘The Strange One’. Prisma’s eyebrows were arched in surprise, as he carefully examined Starla’s studied expression, but she gave nothing away. “I will need the help of a carer.” Prisma said after a short while, in response to The Strange One’s renewed piteous creeling.

Velastra opened his mouth to protest, but a renewed shaking of the seafloor shut his mouth quickly. But also, no carers came forth. “If no carer will come forth to take care of the youngling, I shall take it upon myself.” Starla proclaimed. Mutterings once more among the crowd at this, but no movement. Starla bowed her head. “Then I take it upon myself.” She said, swimming over to The Strange One and offering him his first meal, his creeling instantly abating as he fed. Starla nodded to Prisma and the two swam away from the crowd.

Once they had left the crowd and civilisation behind, Starla spoke up; “Prisma-“ “You don’t need to say anything Starla. That old fool heard what he wanted to and the rest of them haven’t the breadth of knowledge required to understand. Frankly, I’m surprised that you knew it.” “[The Strange One]… that word once held different meaning, in the ancient times when we still lived among the trees. In those days, in that tongue, it meant ‘Hope for the future’.” A short silence, as Prisma looked into Starla’s many-hued eyes. “You really do care about your offspring don’t you? It’s not what one expects of a layer.” She looked away from him. “You say that but… it is I who cannot comprehend not caring for the life that springs forth from oneself.” They spoke no more, as she cradled the young life to her.




[Hope for the future] opened the outer, opaque lids of his eyes and stared up at the river’s surface through the inner, translucent lids, his eyes glinting. It had taken him a while, but now he was here: The city of Bren. He got up from the makeshift bed of reeds he had slept in the previous night and swam about a bit as he tried to calm his nerves. This would be his first time above water and he wasn’t quite sure if he had the whole breathe-through-your-lungs thing down-pat, as it was sort of hard to test out underwater without his body screaming at him that he was drowning.

Another part of his nerves were all the sounds. They were weird, which Prisma had taught him to expect; sounds changing between above water and below water was something evolution had taught the Aofeyfetarl. But there were so many of them, which [Hope for the future] was not ready for. The sounds of a great myriad many people going about their lives, spectacularly noisily.

He decided to try a little technique he had thought of to prepare himself for being above water; he took the water in his fur and hair, as well as the water clinging to his naked flesh and turned it all hard. Then, he slowly pushed it all outwards, turning more water hard to stop it cascading in and splashing on him. Soon he was standing in a little cubic void and he could feel he was no longer getting oxygen through his gills. Standing on hard water was weird, no matter how many times he did it. His brain always expected the water to still feel wet under his feet, but no. It felt dry. Tentatively he opened his mouth to take in a big breath of air and…

Nothing. Confused, he tried breathing in harder, but all that did was stress his body and start it up with screaming that What was he doing, there was no air here, get to it causing him to realise his mistake. Sure, he had pushed the water away but that didn’t mean that any air had magically materialised in its place. He released the water around him from its enforced solidity and it crashed back against him, restoring his normal pattern of oxygen-intake.

Eventually he sighed. “I cannot hide down here forever, sooner or later I have to actually go up there. May as well get it over with.” He gritted his teeth and swam up, breaking the surface. The vast wealth of sounds seemed even louder up here, though [Hope for the future] knew that was ridiculous. Once more he opened his mouth wide, and breathed in deep towards his lungs, the air rushed in, tasting sweet in his mouth. So, this is what it’s like to breathe the air… He turned the water about his body hard and slid it all off him and back into the river. He climbed up the small bank and began to appreciate the architecture around him. Everything is so MASSIVE here! I know that humans are far larger than we are, but it’s still so much!

He turned around and gasped. The regular human buildings seemed so gargantuan to him, that he was not prepared for the sheer scale of the Arena complex, even from this distance. “Gracious goodness, but that is a BIG building. And that, I suppose, is my goal.” So he set off, his little webbed feet pattering on the ground as he ran. No-one even seemed to notice him as he darted through and around legs. Eventually he came to a stand with a bored-looking man sitting behind it. The sign at the top read ‘Registrations’ so [Hope for the future] bent down a little and hopped right up.

The man didn’t even bat an eyelid. The creature before him was small and strange alright, but in his time with the Championships, working or watching, it was neither the smallest, nor the strangest thing he had ever seen. “You here to compete?” Was all he said. [Hope for the future] nodded. “Name and element?” Name? Oh no, my name doesn’t work above water… I’ll just have to make something up, I guess. “Uh… Gah… Ree.” “Gary? Alright then. Element?” “Water.” The man nodded, jotting down the information on the page in front of him then spun it around and pushed it to the newly christened Gary.

“Sign at the bottom please.” At this Gary tilted his head. Sign? A sign is something with information on it, right? But the space here is blank? The man correctly read why the creature in front of him was not doing anything but staring dumbfounded: “You need to write out your name. Or put a print of your thumb, whatever, just so we have something what says you know what you’re getting into. You DO know what you’re getting into right?” “Oh… Yes, I know what I’m doing here… so just… write my name there? The one I gave you?” “Yessum.” Gary had to think for a second, then carefully wrote out the four letters. “Alright, you’re entered. Competition is in three days, don’t be late.”

In those three days, Gary darted about the city, looking at this and that, but the more he looked around, the more he began to worry. Back home he had been more than twice the size of literally everyone he had ever met, but here he was tiny: the only people remotely close to his size were all younglings and he doubted he’d meet any of them in the championships, though Prisma had cautioned him to expect the unexpected. But he couldn’t back down: He’d come here to win.

Each night he returned to the river bed to sleep, and on the morning of the Championships excitement pulsed through his body like a wildfire; not that he knew what a wildfire was like. Gary swam up to the surface, but this time he did not shed all the water from his form, instead making the water trapped in his fur hard as well as having a hardened sphere of water in his hands, connected to his fur by a thin rivulet across the back of his right hand.

Gary pattered down the street up to the complex again, but this time, his progress was not unnoticed, people pointed and whispered to each other excitedly. The spectators had heard the gossip and knew that this small creature running through their midst was a competitor, coin changed hands as bets were placed and many eyes followed him expectantly. But Gary was unaware of any of this and he came to the complex itself and found what he wanted: A post of the assignments. He carefully looked until he found it: ‘Sole Water Competitor Gary- Spike’

I don’t like the sound of sole competitor… he thought to himself but he shook it off and ran off towards the Arena he had been assigned. He entered and soon found himself in a hallway, which is where he heard it. Coming from the light at the end of the tunnel, the sounds of a great many people, baying for blood, screaming for carnage. It was enough to make Gary stagger at the raw intense bloodlust, but he stood firm and walked down the passageway, turning the orb of water he held into the shape of a halberd, his particular go-to choice.

He stood before the doorway, looking at the grate, listening to the roars of the spectators as they awaited the start of the battle. Soon enough the grate ascended and Gary stepped out into the arena proper, a harsh looking place with a wicked spiked ball in the centre. The unintelligible blood baying of the spectators turned to coherent speech; “Yeah! KILL EACH OTHER!” “Oi, look at that tiny guy! Someone squash him!” “Crush him!” “Pin him up on the walls!” Th-This atmosphere… It’s so sickening… I guess I wasn’t quite prepared for THIS… and then one voice raised above all the others: “And so begins the Trial of Menace. Fight with honor, or else die with glory!”

Menace? You got that right, but most of it’s coming from the people here to WATCH us… He looked around at the other competitors, but did not immediately know who he wanted to engage, even as the competitor furthest from him moved towards the centre of the Arena, shouting; “Come on! I’ve got a sister to beat down and you’re all in my way!” Humans are such a weird people… I don’t understand them at all.




ergotth -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/17/2019 23:59:18)

"Tell me again, Grant, why are you going to this silly tournament?" Asked Vernian, the master archivist of a small town in Tkaanie.
"It is not my decision, master Vernian, I was bornt with this curse and I intend to see the end of it!" Said Granthese. hastily packing clothes, books (a lot of them), potions and even objects he wasn't paying attention to, fitting inside his large book like it was a bottomless suitcase. The Chronomicon, as he called, the book of time with all his spells and experiments regarding the complicate matters of time.
"Grant, my boy, this is not a curse. You have a gift. Time magic, that is IMMENSELY rare, only the most powerful casters dream of controlling time at such young age! I owe my life to you!" He said while walking around Granthese. At first glance, the master archivist looked like a young man, with pristine rosy skin and never seemed to age, but upon closer inspection one could hear the sound of cogs and springs, betraying how well-constructed was his body. the soul, however, was human, and very, very old.
"Time... isn't cheap. Whatever I touch pays with their own seconds. I have to life my life avoiding the slight glance of my bare skin with another one... and don't bring the subject of gloves again, I swear I'll let you rust!" Said Granthese pointing a finger to Vernian so close he crossed his eyes at the fingertip, already feeling the cold grasp of time surrounding the pale skin. Even without a human body he remembered the feeling, and understood his pain.

Granthese was, foremost, a pacifist, he despised violent and whenever resorting to self-defense, prefered to leave the thread numbed and knocked down, so anyone with a better knack for bloodshed would do him a solid, and when you have the power to even turn a full grown man into a block of timeless ice, it was a hard choice to resist, and sometimes the temptation did fell strong. He secluded himself at libraries and bookshops all the time to confort his solitude in books. Reading about everything, from stories to magical theory, tingering with small gears and drawing complex schematics, just how Vernian found him in his library, and caught him using time magic to turn an old book brand new again. That moment he knew the boy had talent, and could be of great help in his archives. As Vernian grew old and could barely muster up enough ana to lift a book from the shelves out of his reach, Granthese proved to be quite a revolution. The dim-lit shop turned bright and lively, old books preserved in glass were sold to rich magi as if they were written yesterday, and spells though lost due the fading of the ink were brought back to life. And once the master Archivist was brought down by an incurable illness, Granthese did the unthinkable and transfered his time, his future, into a clockwork doll, extending his life indefinitely. But the boy was alwayssurrounded by an aura of sadness, as his time magic could, unwillingly, cause him to steal time from others. The slight touch was enough for a second or two gone, and he was always afraid if it would escalate or even affect objects and animals. When the Elemental Championship came to his knowledge, with the promise of a wish, Vernian noticed how his assistant was becoming more and more attracted to it, he warned him it was a bloodbath, a fight between brutes and assassins*, he was dismissed with Granthese determination. Soon, the shop felt as empty as it was decades ago. Even with granthese having left a large pile of renewed tomes to keep the shop's incoming for a long time, Vernian felt lonely, with only the sound of his own mechanisms as a reminder of his friend.

A few days later...

"... perhaps this spell would work.... hmm no, this one is too risky.... ok, this one is ridiculous, why did I write it here?... and this page have a smudge...OOF" Walking through the Arena's championship, Granthese was skimming through the pages of his Chronomicon, completely oblivious to his incoming path towards one of the supporting colums of the hallway.
"Groan, great, the tournament didn't even start and I already got injured... just my luck"

Arriving at teh city of Bren, Grant was impressed at the amount of people watching the tournament, he was never close to so many, and made sure to keep his hands for himself, the feeling of taking someone's time was painful for both him and the unlucky one who got in touch with him, and he forgot the accursed gloves. He even trying wrapping his body in bandages, but it felt ridiculous and unconfortable. No, he went to this tournament in his everyday clothes, something confortable and with slight enchantments to make the cloth a little more resilient. Not a full-armor, but at least it wouldn't tear with his first, of many, falls.

However, he never felt so constricted when walking the torche-lit hall towards the arena, and he saw it, he remembered why he added his spell of self-insertion. The whole place was horrifying. The metal spikes gleamed with mallice and the spiked ball in the center felt cold, even colder than his own magic, for a moment his foot went back, but his resolve put it back in place, as a booming voice announced:
“And so begins the Trial of Menace. Fight with honor, or else die with glory!”

He trembled from head to toe, but he knew he had to do it. He wasn't ready to kill, "but a bad case of hypothermia would be enough", he though, and he had no qualms about assisting someone's death by... external means, his mind wandered this though as he looked at the metal spikes. "perhaps one slip on frost would be perfect to keep my hands clean of blood..." Underneath the warm, serene exterior of Granthese, he was always afraid something dark and cold could come out, and only the Elemental Lords could help him with that. If this tournament wasn't going to be a solution, he couldn't afford it being a bigger problem.




Apocalypse -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/18/2019 19:47:55)

Dawn’s first light broke through the window, warming the half-elf’s face with its gentle rays. Arro furrowed her brow and murmured something inaudible into her bed as her slumber came to an end.

Time to rise.

And with her slumber’s end came the Whispers.

Daybreak, warrior’s wake.
It Is Far Too Early To Consider These Ramblings.
Ohgodsohgodstoday’sthedayohgods-
...wouldn’t mind an extra smidge of shut-eye myself…
...heh...

The Windsgraced turned over, squeezing her eyes shut as she hid from the sun’s first kiss of the day. All through the night, the Whispers were bottled up without an Arro to solicit. And each morning, they struck her head like a hurricane.

It will be fine.
It shall be challenging. She shall do well to listen.
It shall be GLORIOUS.
Oh? To You?
Youcannotpossiblyknowthat-
...now now, hold up right here…

The pounding in her head was unbearable. Arro groaned, pressing one hand to her temple while the other blindly reached for her waterskin on the nightstand. The Wind’s Whispers did not come without a cost, and this particular morning the price was high as the chatter continued unabated. A few swigs should settle her mind for the moment. Gods, did they have to be so incessant at the very crack of-

“Starting this early, huh?”

With a jolt Arro was on her feet, thin blanket draped like a dress across her form as the waterskin was flung halfway across the room from the sudden motion. The Windsgraced’s chest expanded and fell again in smooth fluctuations, her breath calm beyond measure despite the racing of her heart. For this brief moment of time the Whispers were silent, but Arro wished they would speak. Anything to fill in the void left by the familiar interloper. How could such a hushed breeze render the tempest of Whispers mute?

Another breath, two, three, four more before Arro relaxed her shoulders. The din inside began again, though this time they granted the courtesy of building up to the usual rabble. The half-elf sighed as she strode up to the waterskin, its contents soaking the woodwork red. Arro gave the container a shake; a disappointing amount of liquid sloshed inside. The Windgraced counted her blessings even as three different Whispers voiced their discontent, one in a particularly colorful fashion. She downed the two-and-some-odd mouthfuls and let the waterskin fall unceremoniously to the floor. The monk then dressed for the day, the biggest controversy stemming from the Whispers disputing the best way to wrap her wrist and ankle bandages. As always. Arro took one last glance around the room as she secured the bandana around her head. Empty waterskin, a small travel pouch with flint and steel, a handful of coins, a hunting knife…

...nothing that would help her in the arena. Nothing that she would need after today.

Against the Whispers’ wishes, Arro left it all behind as she exited the room. On this matter, she was unyielding.




She should have taken the waterskin.

The clamor continued well after the half-elf had vacated the inn, and with it came the headaches. Combined with the babel of the city of Bren, the Windsgraced thought her skull would split from the onslaught of words. At least with the waterskin and a few coins, Arro could have staved off the head pains for another short while. Winds knew there were enough opportunities in the streets to find exactly what one needed. Instead, the monk held her gaze low as she cut her way through the crowds and towards the complex housing the arenas. Despite the streets packed shoulder to shoulder with merchants, vendors, citizens, and spectators, the monk slipped through the rabble with ease. Treating it like a training exercise gave just enough distraction to make the Whispers tolerable for the journey forwards.

The stone passageways leading to the arena held no such reprieve. Here, there was no guide nor bustle of the crowd - only Arro, her thoughts, and the ever-present Whispers.

We’regonnadiewe’regonnadiewe’regonnadie-
We shall be fine. Arro is an accomplished fighter, the pride of the Ruinous Tempests
Fear a fate, and you embrace it
Give me the reigns - I will paint this battleground red.
You Are Honestly Almost As Bad.
...somehow I think that’s a bad idea…

The monk dug a palm into her temple until she could almost feel an indent in her skull. If they would only stop for a moment then she could spend that moment’s breath to prepare for whatever trial awaited her.

Arro shall fare without you.
And Arro shall fail without me.
We taught the Windsgraced how to fight.
And I, to kill.
We Could Certainly Use Those Talents, No Matter How Barbaric.
AreyouINSANE?
...insane, but perhaps needed…"

Why had the temple called them Whispers when they were always so loud?

The storm within subsided as Arro broke into the arena, a thousand deaths gazing down upon her from their perches all along the cage. And in the center of these sharp eyes lay judgment: less an ornament and more a weapon forged of onyx and malice made manifest. The unnatural sway in its movement sent Arro’s hairs on end as it hung lifeless in the heart of this cursed place. This was not a place to fight.

And so begins the Trial of Menace.

This was a place to die.

Fight with honor, or else die with glory!

Good.

Arro inhaled and held onto her breath as the Whispers flurried to life. The other contenders boasted strange and deadly appearances, no doubt hiding stranger and deadlier abilities.

Two left, three right. You’re in a bad spot in the middle - tread carefully.
A mage wielding a tome - close the distance and strike him down!
Howaboutthelittleonelittleone’sgoodohwaitthedoor’stillopenwecanleave-
Absolutely Gaudy Standing Out Like That. She Should Be The First To Go.
...reckon you’re right…
Kill the darkest, the deadliest - break the bone and shatter the skull."

The Whispers silenced for a breath as a man, no, a vartai hurled himself with inhuman speed towards the metallic judge oscillating in the still air. With a flourish, the scaled one cast the chakram in revolutions about himself even as he flourished the even rarer poi in concentric circles. Fire gleamed and sparked as it trailed the exotic weapon. “Come on! I’ve got a sister to beat down and you’re all in my way!”

Arro’s left eye gave the faintest of quivers as the Whispers spoke in unison. “That one.”

Without hesitation, the half-elf charged forwards. In comparison to the vartai, her sprint was almost laughable. But the Windsgraced was not here to win a race - she was here to be the last one standing. The Whispers alerted the monk to the actions of the others along her peripheral vision as she crossed the hardened earth. A bladed chakram was susceptible to the Breath of the Storm. A flaming poi, while more burdensome, could be rendered inert as well whether it was cord or flaming head that made contact with her. A feinting palm strike to draw off the vartai’s guard and obscure his vision. A straight cross to the abdomen to further disrupt her foe’s flow of motion.

"Breath.
Flutter.
Gale."

Quick. Efficient. Brutal.

Perfect.




Kooroo -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/18/2019 20:01:10)

As always, the elevator was far too slow. ‘Slow’ was pretty much the adjective that Theia associated with the damn things. She shouldn’t have been surprised, but that hadn’t stopped her from slapping the button as she’d raced through the foyer. To be fair, she’d given it a chance at exceeding mediocrity, however, the fact that the doors hadn’t sprung open instantly was completely unacceptable. This would have to be taken up with the building’s management again at some point, although they’d stopped replying to her emails after the first dozen or so on the topic. Slackers, all of them. No PR or communication, whatsoever.

Speed—or lack of, with regards to the lift—was the main reason that Theia usually opted to use the stairwell. The thing about the stairs, though, was that there was a distinct lack of music. This was possibly the one thing the elevator still had going for it. The management had gotten back to her on this one, though, replying that it was unnecessary to have a sound system in the emergency stairwell. A waste of funds, they called it. Unnecessary. Honestly, their lack of attention to detail was disappointing. The lot of them should’ve been given the sack a long time ago.

Still, that problem was easily solved. Theia considered herself exceptionally crafty, and paid no heed to the dissenters or naysayers who tried to call her out on that statement. Always had the right tool for the job, and the right music for nearly any scenario. If anyone was watching now, how could they say otherwise?

Taking the steps two at a time, The Astra reached the next landing and stopped. A large ‘4’ was painted in red next to the door; this was it. This was her floor. Or well, probably her floor. It was either this one, or another forty up, on level forty-Four. But there was a good chance this was it; she was pretty certain that she wasn’t getting apartments mixed up again.

For one thing, the management in the other building had eventually relented to her complaints, and had met her half-way. While they hadn’t managed to do anything about their equally dismal grav-lift, they had installed speakers on every landing in the stairwell, playing that sweet music often heard in lifts or department stores.

And for another thing, Theia knew for a fact that this building only had eight levels. This was probably the correct floor.

She strode up to the door, and checked it, making sure that it wasn’t locked or alarmed. Then she drew back her foot, and kicked it, flinging it wide open. The sharp BANG! of her boot striking the door must have startled the young man waiting outside her apartment door. Theia frowned, striding forward as he fumbled her package. She turned off her music—a jingle she had recorded from the elevator—and walked up to the poor lad, just as he dropped it. There was a loud shattering noise, as whatever was inside broke. The man cursed, but Theia just laughed.

“Sorry about that, sorry. Didn’t meant to scare you, not at all. Are you looking for me?” she asked, smiling.

“I, uh, um, yeah,” he stammered. Eloquent, this one. “Are you the resident of 404/404 Pa—” She laughed again, cutting him off.

“Yep! Theia Eris Fhenn d’Astra, at your service!” she beamed, bowing low. “And who might you be?” The courier started stammering something, but Theia cut him off, clapping him on the shoulder with her right hand. He winced at the weight of the prosthetic, but Theia ignored him. The poor guy was clearly shocked, though whether it was from the noise, or something else, The Astra wasn’t sure. Maybe it was her clothes. It was probably because of her clothes. She was (in her humble opinion) incredibly stylish, however, the reaction it elicited from the common folk varied. She was used to it by now, though, and generally just took it in her stride.

There was also a chance that it was actually because of her guns, though Theia sincerely doubted that. It was definitely because of her clothes.

The door clicked as Theia unlocked it. She held it opened for her guest, and gestured inside.
The man hesitated. “Uh, I’m sorry, miss. But company policy says that employees are not to—”

“Management won’t care if you step in for a drink, I guarantee it! I’m a delivery person myself, and I know as a fact that my boss doesn’t mind if I drop in for a quick snack when offered,” she said, cheerily. The man looked her over, taking in her guns and clothes.

“You’re a courier?” he asked, clearly uncertain.

Theia nodded, metal hand pointed towards her chest. “The best in the business, mhm. The Best. The Fastest.”

The courier hesitated again, clearly unsure of what to do. Again, with the delays. No wonder why people complained about the mail service all the time. With slow-witted, indecisive employees, it was a wonder that the postal service ever got anything done.

Dropping the smile, Theia sighed and hung her head. Then she looked up, locking eyes with the confused man. “Look,” she told him, ”I can guarantee you this, kid. Management won’t give a stuff if you drop in occasionally for a cup of tea or anything. They see it as good PR, or ‘public relations’, if anything. As long as you manage to deliver your quota, then why would they care. Seriously, I would know. I work for one of the biggest delivery businesses in the nation. Trust me when I say this; your boss—and their boss—won’t care at all.”

Still obviously unconvinced, the young delivery man frowned. “Which company do you work for?”

Theia grinned. “Oh, I’m self-employed.”

Without any further delay, The Astra put a hand on his back, and pushed him in. For his part, he didn’t protest particularly much, but Theia couldn’t let this one go. He was tall, he was, but not especially large. Unarmed and no visible robotics, always a plus. And quite thin, as people went. Very aerodynamic.

The inside of the apartment was lavishly decorated; a testament to Theia’s opulent wealth and sense of style. Her guest’s eyes bulged slightly when he saw it; a common reaction. Usually, they told her that the inside of the apartment seemed larger—impossibly so—than the outside, though Theia knew better. Sure, the living room was large, but size wasn’t everything. From the crystal chandelier, to the quartz coffee table, paired with the ornate cabinet against the wall, there was no chance he was anything but impressed by her taste.

“So, Mr. Courier, tell me about yourself. What do you do for a living?”
Theia darted around the apartment, looking and searching for whatever she had come to find. The man in the delivery uniform put down the box and talked, and talked, telling her about his daily happenings and life. For her part, Theia nodded, and made the occasional comment on a key detail or event to make it seem like she was listening. In reality, she cared very little for the man’s recollection.

Theia did love a good story; it was up there with one of her top Four most loved things. To be specific, she loved interesting stories. This man’s story was not interesting. Not in the slightest. He would never make it onto a talk show, nor would he ever write an autobiography. Or if he did, no one would watch that episode, or purchase a copy; even if it were signed. No, this delivery man had one thi—scratch that, two things going for him.

The first one was a two-parter; his name was David, and he was gullible. The former was linked to the latter, and the latter was backed up by his very presence in Theia’s living room. He’d been very easy to lead on, and rather simple to push forward. Simple to push in a literal, physical sense as well. Which led on to thing number two; as mentioned, he looked very aerodynamic.

“Excuse me?”

The Astra looked up to see her guest looking at her strangely. “Is there a problem?” she asked, smiling.

“Aerodynamic…?”

Theia paused, but kept smiling. Either she’d accidentally said it aloud, or David was a psychic. “Pardon?”

“Aerodynamic,” he said, perplexed. “You just said ‘aerodynamic’. What ar—”

“Planes. Planes, I was thinking about planes!” Theia laughed. A flawless cover; acting worthy of the highest accolades. “So, David—”

“My name is James.”

“That’s what I said. Would you like a drink?” she asked, striding over to the minibar and opening it. A thin, black wallet dropped out from among the many rows of cordial. Frowning, Theia picked up the leather case, sniffed, and pocketed it. Well, that was that sorted at least.

Straightening, she grabbed a glass, rinsed it, and then filled it to the brim with a newly opened bottle. Might be a bit strong for the lad, but he wouldn’t be around long enough to care anyway. What was he doing, anyway?

She looked up and smiled when she saw him gazing out of the window, flummoxed by the view. “Door’s unlocked if you want a better look.”

The young man slid the door open and walked out, growing paler by the second. Probably acrophobic, the poor guy. But that view must’ve been just too tempting to pass on. No one ever expected to see a view from Four hundred, and forty-Four feet from a Fourth floor apartment building, after all. But no one else in town had paid, nevermind thought about getting a sorcerer to enchant their own place. Honestly, magical interior expansion and unit quiddity distortion was pricey.

Leaving the cordial on the counter, she crept towards him and drew her gun from her belt. What was he babbling about? Was it about the view? Of course it was. Was he commenting about the impossibility of it? It was clearly, very possible. How could it be impossible if it was right there, before them? Kids these days just said the darn, stupidest things, honestly.

David still hadn’t turned. That was good. Very good. Maybe he could make it better. “Hey, maybe you can solve a dispute between me and one of my friends,” she said casually, slipping a foot outside. “Could you do me a good one, and count how many shield towers you can see from here?”

“I-I.. Okay, but then I, uh, have to go. I, uh, o-one...”
Put some gusto into it, Thiea thought. Thought. She made sure she only thought it this time. Although if he was a mind reader…

The Astra adjusted her hat, pulling it down slightly.

“Two…”

This was gonna so be good. Theia couldn’t wait to see how far he went. She hadn’t done this in a… well, ever. Actually, she’d never shot anyone off her balcony before, but there was a first for everything.

“Uh, three…”

Grinning, the gunwoman whipped Chiron around and centered it with a flourish. Her finger tightened on the trigger and then—

“Three.”

Theia frowned and blinked. That wasn’t right. Did… Did David not know how to count? “There’re what now?”

“Three towers. I can see three of the shield towers from here,” David stated, somewhat matter-of-factly. And then to further ruin things, he turned. There wasn’t any time to put Chiron away, so she was still flourishing the revolver at him when he turned. Immediately, his eyes boggled and his arms went shot straight up.

Theia rolled her eyes and sighed. This had gone badly. Only way from here was downhill. Slightly annoyed, but unwilling to show it, Theia sternly addressed the delivery man. “Damn it, David, you weren’t supposed to turn. Now you’ve gone and…”

She trailed off, and sighed again. This was horrible. What did she do now? Was it too cliche or worth the effort to explain her plan, and then ask him for his last words? Maybe a memoir? Eh, might as well. She probably wasn’t going to remember it, but it was the thought and gesture that counted. And she had thought of it, afterall.

Her free hand had floated up to her forehead, as it did in trying times. She took it off and gestured roughly towards him, explaining, “All you were meant to do was count the number of shield towers. That meant count all F—”

“Three?” David squeaked, voice unnaturally high.

“There are Four towers, David. Four. See, there’s one, two, three and FO—

Theia’s phone buzzed, and a moment later, the vocals from her ringtone blasted through the air, cutting her off.

“Ugh, what now?”

With nary a glance, Theia shot David and picked up the call, exasperated. “Yep, hello? Yep, yeah. On my way, yeah. Yeah. Yeahyeahyep. Bye.”

She hung up, holstered Chiron, and then sighed. Typical. Superb. Fabulous. Best. Brushing back a lock of hair, Theia turned to go, but then pivoted and squinted into the bloodshot horizon. There were one, two... three…

The Astra raised an eyebrow. “Huh… Well I’ll be.”


Energy crackled and spat from the rend in reality, the noise audible despite the hum and roar of the engines the airships overhead. The portal hadn’t chosen the most convenient spot to open, being smack bang in the middle of an airstrip. Annoying, but it wouldn’t be there for long, anyway. Hopefully.

The man with the white hair checked the time on his phone. Theia was late, as usual. He’d expected it, although this was time was especially aggravating. If he hadn’t the patience of a Buddhist monk, then he’d probably have gotten fed up by now. It was rather unlikely that she knew what a Buddhist monk was, though. The lady sure did travel a lot, but she may not have been to that world. Nor was she any good at paying attention to obscure details.

There was a loud crackle, and then the sound of a thunderbolt. A blur burst forward from the blue rift, and the portal promptly closed itself. The sound of electric guitar, accompanied by cymbals filled the air, growing louder as Theia sprinted towards him. There’d been one time prior where he’d made the mistake of standing next to the rift when she’d arrived, and almost gotten pancaked as a result. Not wanting to relive a similar experience—nor die from one—the white haired man had made a mental note to give her portals a very wide, kilometer-long berth. It was through sheer luck that there hadn’t been anything on the runway when this portal had popped. That could’ve been messy. Luckily, the next scheduled arrival wasn’t for another few hours, though there were plenty of ships around.

The man adjusted his glasses. There was a sudden gust of wind, and then Theia—in all her speedy, ‘stylish’ and incredibly, impressively, atypically late glory—was there, looping around and doffing her hat. She looked the same as ever; from the clothes, to the gun and the lateness. That was probably the first point to address.

“You’re late,” he said, showing her the home screen.

Theia bowed low, gesturing theatrically. She took off her hat in a possibly-insincere display of sincerity, though he couldn’t be sure. To be fair, it was hard to tell with the lady. “I am terribly sorry about that. Public Transport was especially bad, and I haven’t the slightest bit of influence with the Traffic Gods.”

“This is a new standard, Theia. I just want to be sure that even you know how late you are.” The man took his phone back and scrolled. He pulled up the calendar and showed her the schedule. “That’s when I had booked in.”

The gunwoman frowned, squinting at the entry. “And why the hell would you book it so early?”

“Because you said ‘four’. You said ‘Let’s just say four’; those were your exact words. I recorded them.”

“Well then, that’s your fault. Also, it’s not four, it’s Four.”

“Those are the exact same words. Listen,“ The man raised a hand to his forehead, clearly becoming exasperated, ”When you say four—”

“It’s Fo—”

Don’t interrupt me. When you said four in that context, I took it to mean four minutes. Minutes, Theia, minutes.”

Theia shrugged. “Okay, I’m a few hours late. So wha—”

Days. You’re a few days late. Four days late. Not minutes, not hours. Days. Four days.” He emphasised and drew out each set of ‘days’, hoping that she’d get the point. What a naive hope.

“Hey, there are hours within days. Multiple, even. It’s also not my fault that you decided to take it as minutes instead of days. You should have clarified if you weren’t sure.” She held up a black wallet, waving it around in front of him. “Besides, I had to get this. It has my ID.”

He stared at her, and spoke slowly. “And why would you need your ID?”

“You might want to check it.”

At this point, the man wanted to smash his phone but held back. He was pretty certain the warranty had run out a few months ago. Instead, he contented himself with trying to strangle the air. “I know who you are. We’ve met before; many times, as a matter of fact. Far too many. Why the hell would I want to check your ID?”

“You know, cross reference. Make sure I am who I say I am. Check my qualifications, online reviews… the usual,” she said, smiling broadly.

Screw it. He threw his phone on the ground, smashing it to pieces, and then stalked away, beckoning for her to follow with a gesture. Grinning from ear to ear, Theia followed him, an extra bounce in her step.

She caught up to him easily, though it took longer than expected. The man walked fast; much faster than most people. He seemed calmer now, more focused on the business at hand. You couldn’t tell, with most of his face being hidden by a scarf, but it was in his posture. His gait. It seemed more urgent now, rather than anything else.

Timing her pace to match with his, Theia waited Four seconds, coughed politely, and asked “So, where are we heading now, Vox?”

Vox shot her a quick glance. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds, and then spoke. “We have a problem that’s been cropping up over the past few years in one of the Neutral Realms. Home to a city, named Bren.”

“Fair enough. When do we leave?”

“After modification,” he replied simply, and Theia’s smile dipped slightly. Lightning streaked across the crimson red skies, and a dull thrum from a cruiser pulsed through her synthetics. It was as though the scene was set up to enhance the forebode she must have felt. Modification. Not Theia’s favourite words to hear, he reckoned.
“So, uh. About that pay. I’m going to need a down payment on that...” Vox didn’t say anything, so Theia continued. “A job in the Neutral Realms is fine, but it’s going to cost you extra, especially with ‘modification’. That’s on top of the price that you quoted me earl-”

“You’ll get paid, whatever you want,” Vox said, pulling out another phone, ”A fifty percent deposit, upfront.”

“Make it forty-Four.”

“Done.”

Theia grinned, worries instantly forgotten. Getting her around your finger was easy. You just needed to know what it was that she loved. There weren’t many of them, but money was one. Money was a big one.

They were at the end of the airstrip now, and were approaching a vast, stupendously huge cylindrical-shaped building. Lights glittered and smoke wafted from its many levels and landings above them, it’s countless levels stretching deep into the raging, bloody skies. There were similar structures dotted all over the surface of the planet. A few hundred of them, all dedicated to the construction, outfitting and armament of the Grand Army’s warships.

The shipyards had other functions as well, however. Many of which Theia was all too familiar with.

“So when do I get paid?” she asked, as they entered the complex. The corridors themselves were vast, illuminated every few meters by a pair of low power energy crystals.

“After modification,” Vox said, putting away his phone.

The Astra smiled; a brilliant, toothy smile. “When do we start?”


Modification sucked. That was the best way to put it. There were many other ways it was bad, but they were far too numerous to list down. Modifications were definitely nearer towards the top of the list, though. Just under taxes and a touch above traffic lights.

Unfortunately, modification in this instance had been necessary, since they were doing this one ‘by the book’. ‘By the book’ apparently meant that all unsecured magitech had to be adjusted to more befitting levels of the destination realm. Which was, by her book, incredibly irritating.

Top speed was down, weapon lethality was down. Down, down; everything was down. How she was supposed to get anything done, Theia had no idea. When she shot Four people, she expected Four corpses. She didn’t want *three* angry or incapacitated people, and another one bleeding out.

The two of them were sitting in a mostly abandoned inn on the far side of Bren. Whether far side referred to North, South, East or West, Theia hadn’t the foggiest. All she knew was that it was on the opposite side of the city from which they had entered from, and that there was virtually no one (worth knowing) in the district. So that made it the far side of town. No one ever lived in the far side of town; there wasn’t any point living there! Resale value was low, growth was low, life was (s)low, and the number of jobs on offer was low. Four horrible, low things. Rubbish. Trash. Garbage. Litter.

Speaking of Rubbish & co., the inn they were staying at was probably one of the shadiest pieces of fecal matter that Theia had ever stayed at. The rooms were claustrophobically small, and heinously musty; as small and musty as the sole bartender, who looked like he was growing mould in place of his hair. He stood behind the counter, cleaning a grimy glass with an even filthier rag, and occasionally shot them an equally dirty look. Whenever he glanced over, Theia gave him a cheery wave and he scowled.

Most people would think that the barkeep was merely annoyed that she had her feet up on the table. Others would guess that it was because the pair of them had sat down at a table without ordering anything. A few would guess that it was because Theia had made the stuffed bear next to the door wear her precious hat. Which,Theia would agree, was probably it.

Envy was a funny thing. Unlike the rest of the place, the horned bear had actually looked clean, if not a little… deceased. But with her hat on, it looked even better. Still a bit dead, but it was a stylish dead bear. With horns. The stout little innkeep probably wished that he could be that stylish, or at least had horns.

There was a snapping coming from the seat to her right; the sound of someone clicking their fingers. Theia looked over at Vox, who was snapping his fingers in front of her. She stared at him, perplexed. That man had no sense of rhythm or timing. There wasn’t even any music playing. “You alright?” she asked, a bit concerned.

“I’ve been trying to get your attention back for the past 5 minutes,” he said, lying back in his seat.

“Well you didn’t do a very good job!” she laughed. “How can I help?”

“So do you understand the gist of it?”

“The gist of what?”

“God damn it, Theia,” he groaned, leaning back in his chair.

Vox took a deep breath, composed himself, and sat up straight. He then pulled out two small crystals from his belt, and rolled them on to the desk. The gems lit up, projecting two magical images into the air. The first image showed a puzzled-looking man with ivory skin, in a shimmering, sapphire cloak. He was leaning against a gate, facing a tall, glowing lady. A black, unidentifiable blur a few feet above him.

The other image depicted what appeared to be a scene from a movie. A young man, lay on the ground, while a similar-looking woman in a coat stood over him. The woman was snarling, and twisting to the side, to avoid the lunge of a grinning, emerald-caped woman. Her skin was the same color as the man in the first image.

Theia leaned in and frowned. The gunwoman looked closely at the projections, staring intensely. Then she grinned and leaned back, pointing at the first image. “That one.”

“Excuse me?”

“That one. The lady in that one’s dressed better. That kid in the first one looks like his mother dressed him.”

Vox clicked his tongue, or whatever he had beneath that scarf. She wasn’t entirely sure that he had a mouth. It would certainly explain a lot. “Theia? I’m going to try and keep this one short. So if you shut up and listen, I’ll give you a bonus.”

Theia folded her legs and sat straight up in her seat. Her employer wasn’t any fun—staring at him for too long gave her a headache—but if she was getting paid for it, then she could listen. For a little while, at least.

The white-haired man inhaled again, and then started his explanation. “Over the past couple of years, an Army officer and an ex-Army veteran have encountered these two individuals here, in this city. They’re the ones with the fancy capes.”

“They look pretty nifty.”

“They are,” Vox admitted. “Both encounters ended in violent confrontations. The first was, admittedly, provoked. We did manage to, uh, acquire the individual for a period of time, but he seemed unusually opposed to any recompense that we offered.”

“Maybe you should’ve offered him your coat.” Theia suggested, but Vox ignored her.

“The second time was an unprovoked assault. Some associates of ours were attacked en route to our airship. We attempted to capture the woman, but she eluded our efforts.”

“Which is where you come in.” He powered off each of the crystals and put them away.

Theia frowned, and unfolded her legs. She was pretty sure she’d heard that phrase in half of the spy broadcasts she’d watched. Was she a spy now? She didn’t really want to be a spy. “You need me to be a spy?”

Vox snorted, then coughed. “Sure. If you want.”

“I do not. I absolutely do not want to be a spy.”

“Then you don’t need to be a spy.” Vox assured her. “Just run around and if you see someone that has a fancy cloak, then capture them.”

The Astra’s grin turned into a frown once again. Capture? Like a poacher, but with people? A people poacher? Well, so long as it paid and didn’t involve eggs, then Theia was game.

Or, well. Technically, those cloaked people were game.

“So then, do we have a deal?” Vox asked, steepling his fingers.

Theia looked at him, inquiringly. “Does it involve eggs?”

The man paused, and then shook his head. “No eggs.”

“Do I get to keep their cloaks?”

Vox nodded slowly. “Okay.”

The Astra shot him her brilliant, award-winning smile. “Then we have a deal.”

The two stood up and went their separate ways. Vox went to the back of the tavern, intrigued by the billiards table, whilst Theia went to earn her pay. She picked up her hat off the still-dead bear, shot a rude gesture to the innkeeper when he wasn’t looking, and then went about her way.

The city of Bren was large, and it certainly had a wide range of, well, everything. It wasn’t exactly a sprawling metropolis, which was what Theia was used to. Nor was there any reception here; not that it mattered.

Before they’d arrived, her phone had been confiscated by a few Army engineers. Apparently, the phone counted as ‘unsecured magitech’, but she was absolutely certain that Vox was just annoyed that he’d accidentally broken his first phone. Of course he was. That man really needed to relax, and destress a little.

So, to start off any worthwhile hunt, she needed to know about her prey. In all honesty, Theia really wished that Vox had given her some more details. A man or woman who was wearing a fancy cape, and who had a complexions reminiscent of her wallpaper. If that man had wanted her to do a good job, the least he could do was give her a proper briefing. That pitiful talk had been… what, three minutes? Under Four, that much was certain.

The Astra strode along the street, cutting seamlessly through the city crowds. She wandered on to a small footbridge, and stopped, looking at the large, unfamiliar structure on the other side. It was large, this one. Not as large as a shipyard, but still big. Bigger than her apartment, at least. It was possible.

Theia looked around, doing her best to figure out where she was. She hadn’t seen this building before, that was certain. Was she lost? No, that wasn’t possible. There was no way that she—Theia Eris Fhenn d’Astra—could simply get lost. No, Theia wasn’t lost. Theia was very lost.

Her hand went to her vest pocket, and came back with nothing but her wallet and realm watch. Without a phone, the best she could do was spend the rest of the day running around and hoping to find their dingy little inn again. That seemed like a waste of time, though.

She looked up again, at the large structure across the bridge. Maybe there was a map or something that she could buy in there. Hopefully they took card.


“Well, after I asked them for directions, they told me I was in the right spot and gave me a form to sign. I thought that they were just asking for billing details since they didn’t know what I meant by ‘card’, but in the end, they gave me the directions for free.” Theia explained, to a slightly nonplussed Vox.

Vox adjusted his spectacles. He grabbed a piece of scarf and wiped the lenses, without removing the glasses from his face. “Right. Okay. So what element did you sign up for?”

“Speed.”

“Speed isn’t an element, Theia.”

She sniffed. “If you’re going to be like that, it never will be. A lightning bolt.”

“Energy. That works, I guess.”

“Lightning is fast. I’m also pretty fast.” She held up her realm watch and wallet to him. “Hang on to these for me. I don’t want to get them dirty.”

Vox took the items and inspected them, squeezing the wallet a few times. Theia grinned. That was top-grade calfskin, that was.

He pocketed the items and nodded. “I’ll meet you here once you’re done. Have fun. I’ll be watching you from the stands.”

The gun-for-hire frowned. “Don’t you have a job to do?” she puzzled.

Vox shrugged. “Seeing as you’re going to be in there, I’d say this operation is in the dustbin. I didn’t bring a gun or a sword with me, so.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“The brass. I blame the brass, and their oodles of red tape. Enough to wrap an airship,” he said, stifling a yawn.

Theia smirked, imagining a gift wrapped airship. “I thought you were part of the brass?”

“A single branch in a forest of trees. Put on a good show, Theia.” He turned, and walked into the complex, a hand raised in farewell. Theia watched him go, then grinned to herself and walked into the building. This was going to be fun.

She’d expected to find an attendant or someone to lead her to the Arena. Maybe a steward, or a squire even. She was expecting a squire; maybe some poor, miscreant that would polish her boots. Instead, what she found was a very empty torchlit passageway.

The passageway was rather long, and it eventually ended with a door. Or that her, a gate. A grate. A very rusty, poorly maintained gate grate. Perhaps that was part of the aesthetic, but Theia didn’t do rust. It just wasn’t her look. Some people might have argued differently, and that was fine. Afterall, people were entitled to their opinions. So long as they were aware that incorrect opinions existed, then there wouldn’t be any problems.

As The Astra took her first steps into the Arena, her audio player burst into life, playing a heavy track filled with drums, and jarring amounts of bass. This definitely wasn’t one of hers. The tracks she listened to generally a very specific speed, pace, tempo or timing. It was all about the timing. Yes, she’d have to time this properly. Couldn’t mess this up like she had with David.

Theia thought hard about that time. It had been a few days since that time. How was David doing, she wondered.

There was a loud scream of unliked metal as the grate in front of her ascended. Theia let the track continue to play as she got into her position. She spun a Four times and then bowed, once in each cardinal direction for the audience. The Astra straightened up, and adjusted her clothes, starting with the cape on her arm. A dust of her vest, tilt of her hat, and lastly, a tug on her tie.

So, who had volunteered to die? How many were there…?

Four! There appeared to be Four other competitors in the Arena. Four challengers. Four opponents. Four targets.

Mmmmm... Perfection.

Who were they? Who?

A slightly-scaled giant of a man. Those scales would probably make for a great belt. Or a wallet. Hmm, reptilian. She didn’t have that much reptile goods.

A young man that appeared to have spilled liquid paper in his hair.

A monk. Theia didn’t have much to say about that. She and monks were like opposites, really. Poverty really didn’t do it for her.

The gate to Theia’s left was devoid of any competitor. It appeared that some had let their pet off its leash, though. Luckily, Theia only had three accounts of animal cruelty to her name.

The competitor directly to Theia’s right reminded her of an amusement park she’d been to before. A Mister Bones stood next to her, like an edgy, mobile coat stand.

The music had calmed to a near stop at this stage, barely audible over the din caused by the audience. Theia could still hear it though; a dull, but reverberating thrum in the background. As though building the anticipation for the start of the slaughter.

There was a soft click as Chiron left it’s holster. Theia flourished it through the air, as though for all to see. Her free hand lay on her belt, hovering just over her music player. She had the perfect music for this. One of her favourites.

An announcement sounded over head, it’s words instinctively almost making Theia forget to tap her audio player. Honour? Glory? Oh god, was she fighting in one of those games?
The sound cut off immediately as the next track loaded.

A wide grin on her face, The Astra quickly hopped to it. Or to be specific, Theia ran to it. A timed, run, slightly faster than a jog. Timed being the most important word.

One… two… three.
She counted the seconds as she ran, gunning straight for the center. It was barely a beat past three that she arrived at the orb, and the exact same moment the keyboard played.

Chiron in hand, finger on its trigger, Theia whipped it rapidly around, flourishing it at the orb in a declaration of combat.

... Four.

The revolver flashed, and the orb shot forth, directly at her opposite.

The Astra holstered her gun swiftly, and then moved, a brilliant grin on her face.




Starstruck -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/18/2019 21:36:07)

The bright sun did naught to warm the weary bones of the Lich. It had stopped its journey to rest a moment. Hollow eyes sunken into its grim skull waited and watched as a butterfly settled on a flower. Smoke flowed from the sockets and over its bleach-white jaw and fell like mist from a waterfall down into its robe. The butterfly finished her drink and took flight in search of another meal. The Lich lifted itself and continued, the memory of that gentle moment imprinted and recorded in its vast mind forever.

The journey to Bren proceeded in a similar fashion. Tired bones would rattle as the Lich caught sight of some memorable living creature. Insects and critters gave way to humans and livestock. As one thing comes to another, so the Lich was drifting through the main thoroughfare of Bren on its way to its Arena and its destiny. At last, it stood at the gate.

"Name, please?" A bored guard stood at the door. The Lich's piercing stare drank deep of his mind. He had seen many creatures pass in his years of service. Some undead. Some sorcerers. The Lich was not unusual among this crowd.

I am the Lich, it said, and pushed its bones into the tunnels leading to the Arena.

It was holding its orb, then. Small, delicate, precious. Obsidian glass. For once in its unlife, the Lich did not remember how such a thing had come to pass. Only now did the Lich truly understand what was at play here. To win - to kill - to seek unlife eternal - carried with it immense risk. For the very first time in its long unlife, the Lich felt a brief stab of emotion.

The grate rattled up as the Lich dragged its bones placidly towards the entrance to the Arena. Its legs rattled uselessly against themselves, and its weary arms clutched the obsidian orb tightly. Tortured echoes of memories long lost filled the arena. They fought and died here. To its left! An emotion. The girl had glanced its way, and in that brief second, the Lich had found her apprehension and excitement, and then she was gone, uninterested.

“And so begins the Trial of Menace. Fight with honor, or else die with glory!”

Before him, a dragonkin stepped forth. His whirling weaponry flashed in the bright sun, a display of strength and skill that offered a challenge as boastful as the one he issued with his words. Sure as rain falls, combatants rose to meet it. The Lich's senses roved about the arena, and it continued to drift forward. The smoke that wound about his bones gathered about him like a thunderhead on a sunny afternoon, preceding him as he advanced on the brewing conflict like driftwood on the tides.




TitanDragonLord -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/19/2019 18:53:39)

One might have thought Aidan had a death wish with his taunt. Indeed, his call had gotten some form of attention from almost all of the competitors who dotted the edges of the arena. Good, he hadn’t come to this place to stand idly by. He came here to fight. He came here to win.

And yet there was a pang deep inside the Shieldforged warrior as he saw his opponents make the first of their moves in this chaotic game of life and death. Rare were the times when Aidan would find himself alone a brawl such as this, in fact he could likely count them on one hand. It was strange to not have her with him, standing at his back and the pair of them fighting alongside each other. Time and time again he had come to his sister’s aide, and her his, be it defending their family home or facing some monster that had strayed too close to a nearby village. In that moment he realised that if he were to fall here his last conversation with her was one of anger and insult, and that hurt more than any blade, spear or arrow could.

‘Wish you were here sis,’ he thought to no one.

Now wasn’t the time to be distracted, and Aidan quickly shook such thoughts from his head. He had much more pressing issues to contend with. The first seemed to be some sort of elvish monk, her untamed hair billowing at her back as she raced at breakneck speeds to engage him. A wild grin played on his lips as he rooted himself into the floor with a stance, his talons cutting through the dirt below and gripping at the mud. His flaming poi whirled about his body in a deadly dance, slowly building a magical charge in the warrior’s body, and daring this woman to even try getting close to him.

And yet somehow she did it. Aidan’s grin turned into a growl as his weapon collided with her only to seemingly cause no damage at all, a rush of sobering air streaming out from her form immediately afterwards. He should have known there’d be more to this one than met the eye, the ones who didn’t carry weapons were always the tricky ones. Mages and monks and priests and such like. The elf wasted no time in taking advantage of her new position, having made her way onto the inside of Aidan’s seemingly impervious defence. With an open palm she struck at his face, and the metallic taste of blood began to trail into his mouth as the blow landed. It wasn’t the heaviest of blows, but for a heartbeat it caused a lapse in Aidan’s focus. His opponent struck once more in that moment, this time a more powerful blow towards his abdomen.

With blunt strikes like these all he had to do was hold his ground.

The scales that covered the lower half of Aidan’s body managed to significantly lessen the impact of the monk’s second blow, although that wasn’t to say that was walking away from the strike entirely unscathed. Unfortunately, this second attack connected just as the second of Aidan’s pressing issues made itself known, as a loud BANG erupted across the arena and the hanging spike ball began to swing towards the duo at a terrifying speed. His eyes snapped towards the imminent threat, the more polished of the points gleaming in the sunlight as they moved through the air.

The dragonkin knew he had no choice but to act fast. Whilst it would be a relatively simple matter to hurl his chakram out of the swinging ball’s path, he quickly realised he was staring at a golden opportunity to deal with both of his immediate problems in one fell swoop. Halting the whirl of his one remaining poi by having it collide with the dirt, soil and embers launching into the air on its impact with the ground, the warrior moved to grapple the elf who stood before him. His tail whipped around to reach for her leg, whilst the goliath’s great arms moved to put the woman before him in a chokehold, aiming to plant a palm on her upper back. Were he successful, with nought more than a thought, a current of energy would begin to flow through his intricately crafted armour of layered metal scales, planning to shock or even temporarily immobilise his opponent that he could easily push her between himself and the swinging ball of death.

Better her than him, he’d decided.




nield -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/21/2019 3:44:20)

From what he could tell, not a single one of them had even noticed he was there. The human directly to his left ran towards the first one to move, while the one to his direct right sprinted hell for leather towards the spike ball. The other one to the right sort of… slowly drifted forwards, compared to the speed of the others, a cloud spreading about him, leaving Gary and the last human as having not yet moved.

I hadn’t expected that they’d all be so fast… And I don’t exactly want to get into the middle of all of them… So he made his decision and began running at the slow mover off to the right as fast as he could, which, given his small size, was not particularly that fast.



Many cycles of the Moon passed. After twenty, the young [Hope for the Future] no longer needed the attentions of a carer and Starla returned to her normal duties as a layer. After forty, the young Aofeyfetarl was no longer considered a youngling and needed to begin contributing to the community. This was not made to be particularly easy when it had been decreed by the Eldest of Elders that he would not be seen or heard, so he lived on an opposite time scale to the rest of the Aofeyfetarl.

He would go out, when all was quiet and sleeping and hunt the rarer, more dangerous deep-sea fish, carefully incapacitating them so that they didn’t attract larger predators who would home in on the scent of blood if he were to kill them, not to mention that bodies would begin to decay, even in the span of several hours. The new Eldest (Velastra had died before the young Aofeyfetarl was even twenty Cycles old) had upheld Velastra’s edicts with regards to [Hope for the Future].

When the fish started simply showing up, but with no-one there to claim responsibility, everyone knew it was obvious who had delivered it, the new Eldest made to have the young Aofeyfetarl fully excommunicated, although Prisma stepped in, stating that he had personally observed the delivery of the fish. The new Eldest, named Stestarl tried to argue that that wasn’t good enough, that [Hope for the Future] needed to declare it himself, but Prisma reminded him that he was maintaining the ‘Not seen, not heard’ edict, so such was impossible.

Stestarl next accused Prisma of lying which, in fairness, he was, but also he was well aware that [Hope for the Future] had delivered the fish, as he had suggested the delivery of exotic fishes that most Aofeyfetarl considered too dangerous for his required tithe. But Prisma simply adopted a sly smile and asked Stestarl if he was aware what the repercussions were for accusing the Secret Elder of lying. Stestarl, he knew, was completely unaware that no repercussions existed, but the implied threat caused him to blanch and back down.

Prisma later told [Hope for the Future] what had happened and not to worry about excommunication as he would look after him. Prisma also taught the young Aofeyfetarl lots of things; Much of the history of their people, the ancient airborne language and double meaning of his name, how to effectively hunt using the Aofeyfetarl capability to harden water, as well as other, more esoteric things, like the Lords. And secret things. When he asked Prisma why he was teaching him these things, Prisma looked at him seriously. “Ever since you hatched, I have had an ominous feeling in my gut. It comes and goes, and I don’t know exactly what it pertains to, but it’s there. And although I cannot really explain it, I believe that you knowing everything I can teach you will be beneficial one day.”





ergotth -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/21/2019 22:08:11)

Granthese felt absolutely lost amidst the chaos, but steadied his breath and opened the chronomicon. The volume stood floating in front of him, pages flicking through the spell. Deciding to take a careful step, he aimed his Stasis blast at the spiked ball. It was already moving but one thing granthese understands is TIMING. He trusted his instincts and skill, and with a clanging burst, the chilling shot hit it dead-ahead. The effect was almost immediate, the blinding icy beam caught the attention of almost everyone as it hit the large sphere, causing it to sway violently to the opposite direction, giving him a safer distance before momentum throws is back, but Granthese achieved his goal, he got a moving deathtrap to work with in his predictable path, like the pendulum of a clock, he now had notion of where the ball was moving.




Apocalypse -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/22/2019 16:32:56)

Acrid plumes of smoke billowed behind the burning steel as it tore through the air. The uproar within only heightened with the rapid approach of the comet.

Breathe the steel, bear the burn.
And Get Hurt? Are You Daft?!
All will be well.
...I have a hard time believing that…
"

An arm raised to greet the flame.

Breathe The Cord You Clout!
...and avoid the flame…
whatifitburnsthebandagesandthenwecan’tgethemoffand-


Viridescent eyes flicked to the incoming blow. What if...what if she did target the cord? The poi may wrap around her arm, but with the right leverage she could disarm the enemy. One less weapon for the vartai to wreak havoc with. Her arm swayed forward-

BREATHE.”




With a resounding crack, Arro was thrown to the stone floor. The pain jolting through her shoulder barely registered as the half-elf heaved, one hand clutching at the palpitations within her chest. The pungent taste of salt coated her lips, a testament to the hours spent in the Howling Pit. The monk turned on her side and coughed up a wad of phlegm that landed with a sickening splat. Her wheezes echoed throughout the hollow chamber as she stared skywards at the ceiling dozens of feet above her. Etched into the mosaic pattern loomed a man stern and beautiful, long locks of ivory hair falling upon his shoulders. Elven ears protruded from the delicate strands as he scowled from his lofty throne. The Stormfather’s visage watched over the Howling Pits where the Temple conducted its most passionate and painful tutelage.

You did not Breathe before,” boomed a voice like a thunderbolt. Arro grimaced as she raised her head. Before the monk paced a man with all the grace and strength of a caged lion. Unlike Arro, not a single drop sullied his bald head. “And thus, you were punished by losing it after.” He pivoted, his alabaster robes unmarred by the dirt and dust of the fighting pit. The Zephyr locked eyes with Arro. She tried in vain to keep her gaze fixed on those icy pools, but the half-elf felt them wander to the ink etched in arcs across his brow and decorated his cheekbones. Undulating lines scarred across his face in gusts, seventeen in all. Seventeen storms he had endured. “Again,” spoke the Zephyr as he took his stance before the singular egress from the Howling Pits. The half-elf’s eyes flicked to the break gracing six of the gusts. And six times his hands had been bloodied by storm’s end.

Those were challenges against the Temple. This is training.

Arro breathed, the calming Whisper falling silent as she pushed herself to her feet. There was only one way out of the Howling Pits. The monk raised her tired arms and flexed her fingers until they hurt. There was only one who decided when she could retire. Her gaze leveled at the Zephyr, his arms hanging loose at his sides.

Just remember...

She charged.

BREATHE.”





The flaming poi fell lifeless to the hardened earth, its momentum not killed but stolen. A bright red burn blemished the flesh on her forearm from its encounter with the steel.

she’shurtshe’hurtohthisisnotgood-
What Is Wrong With You?

A warrior who seeks to avoid all pain shall receive it tenfold
...definitely didn’t seem like a smart plan…
Absolutely Confounding.
She is doing her best.
"

Arro grit her teeth as the Whispers babbled over one another. Having countered the vartai’s defenses, the half-elf swore she saw his eyes widen in disbelief. The monk surged forward with an open palm.

Now, flutter.

A loud crack accompanied the union of Arro’s palm and the vartai’s jaw.

Or not.
THATWASN’TTHEPLAN-
She had an opening.

She shows lack of restraint.

The monk drove her free fist into the abdomen of the scaled adversary.

She shows PASSION.

The Windsgraced pulled back even as the vartai recovered. His tail swept from the side in a counterattack. A mistake. Arro stomped down on the appendage, pinning it to the ground. The larger foe attempted to grapple the monk, but with one limb trapped his balance had yet to recover. She caught him by the elbows even as his hands closed around her upper arms. So large and strong was the vartai’s grip that he had no struggle in holding both his poi and her at once. Still, with the tail trapped monk held him at a disadvantage. The vartai growled in frustration. Arro answered by digging in her heel, drawing a gasp of surprise and pain from the draconic foe.

"Unyielding”.

A smirk crept across a corner of the Windsgraced’s lips.

Keeping An Eye On The Others Are We?
Thelittleoneyouthinkthelittlecolorfulonissneakingabout-

Ever vigilant, all seeing."

Thunder resounded throughout the arena just as the vartai gave a grunt. With inhuman strength, he lifted Arro off the ground and hurled her towards the center of the pit. She spiraled shoulder over shoulder as the Iron Judge hurtled in its journey to welcome the half-elf to the Trial of Menace. The Whispers roared within her head.

Look At What You Caused
thisisitthisitthisistheend-

In your greed, you lost all you had gained
...huh, wonder where that ice came from…
This is not over. Not yet.
howcanyoubesocalmhowcan-
Shall we paint this world red?"

And then one Whisper cut through the rest.

“Fight.”

The din quelled for but a heartbeat, but in battle a heartbeat’s a lifetime. Arro twisted her body midair to face the relentless Menace. The Windgraced braced her arms forward, palms open to greet the judge’s perforating embrace.

Barbs of stygian touched but did not pierce. Orb of onyx inbounded toward her yet ceased. For the briefest of moments, a heartbeat within a heartbeat, Menace was brought to a standstill. The eye of the storm descending upon the arena.

For the briefest of moments.

A heartbeat within a heartbeat.

And then the eye passed.

From one palm to the other, the power and fury of Menace harbored within was unleashed. A buffeting gale burst forth and strike the Iron Judge. It rocketed backwards in frozen fury. Ice fragments frosted the air at the sudden inverse of momentum. Arro tumbled to the ground, rolling across the clay before springing to her feet. The monk backpedaled out of the path of the spiked ball should it return. Her body ached from the Breath, though a bit of bone pain was a far superior option to being impaled. With the vast size of the formidable orb, the Windsgraced had not expected to Breathe through it at all. Yet somehow she had…

“Easier when the rest are quiet, right?”

The aloof Whisper went silent as the others returned, each honing in on an adversary as her eyes swept over them. Her gaze halted as they fell on the vartai once more. Extending one arm before her, palm facing upwards, Arro assumed a defensive stance within the eye of Menace. The voice that spoke was one of thunder, commanding and beckoning the scaled warrior to rise to the challenge.

Again!




Starstruck -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/22/2019 17:37:50)

Weapons flashed, and magic streaked through the air. The Lich stood alone, surrounded by a dark cloud that whispered of memories not unlike what was being experienced now by the Lich's eternal consciousness.

Its orb flickered, once, silently. The warmth and brightness of the arena was replaced by a suffocating blackness. Slowly, a vision came into view.

"Mommy! I'm scared."

"There is nothing to be fear, my love. It's just a storm."

A bright flash, windswept and stormy, followed by a peal of thunder that rattled the house. A young boy, charcoal-gray, burrowed his face in the ashen cloth of his mother's silvery dress. She stroked his hair.

"There is nothing to fear, my love. We are safe in here."


The storm builds, and we must seek cover. Thick, oily smoke gathered about its arms as it lifted them, palms up in a macabre gesture of peace. The menacing thunderhead behind its bones whispered with dark energy. Its heavy skull lolled to the left, jaw clattering open. And so it was, for a brief moment, absolute stillness and clarity.

"Harold? Harold!" Now she is standing at the door. Her face is indistinct from the slick wetness of the cold rain. Another thunderclap strikes, but she does not even flinch.

"Mommy? What are you doing?"

She turns. Her face is streaked with wet. Rain and fear. Palpable. Aromatic. "Oh, nothing. I'm just worried about your father." She turns once more to the door.


Its spine cracked backwards obscenely, skull rolling towards the floor as its arms flew upwards. The cloud roiled with swirling winds as phantom raindrops flew through the arena before the Lich. Eddies of dark smoke blew towards the dueling pair - the wind-monk and the dragonkin, fighting as danger whirled in the form of a spiked ball.

Her face changes. Grim lips purse and set. "Stay here. Stay under the covers, dear. I'm going to go get him." She kisses him gently on the forehead and departs into the storm, a vision of courage in the face of danger. He runs to the door to keep watch for her. Lightning illuminates the clearing beyond for a brief second, and the nightmare becomes clear: A tree has fallen, and Harold has been pinned under it. Though he knew her only as Mommy, he would soon know her as Lucy. The trunk is heavy, rain-slick, but their combined strength rolls it off of his mangled leg. Crack. A second thunderbolt in the howling storm. True horror is fast and slow at the same time - enough time to ponder your own mortality, but not enough time to protect it. The Lich had been at the funeral. He could not save his parents, but he could protect their memories.

Forever.


A tortured psychic scream rent the air as the storm built in ferocity. Spirals of smoke simulated the strong winds and lightning bolts, and thunder rumbled in crackling peals of sound and fury.

RUN.

The Lich threw its arms forward, skull nearly coming off, storm howling as the wind-monk ricocheted off of the spiked hazard as easily as rubber. They would know fear. They would face it. They would remember it. And then their fear, and the courage they displayed, would be remembered.

Forever.




Kooroo -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/22/2019 19:55:22)

There were, unfortunately, only two things going through the forefront of Theia’s mind as she turned from the spikey ball.

The first thought was regarding the Arena’s decor. She had no issues with the name. It was pretty apt. A circular chamber filled with spikes? Spike Arena; nice and forthright. Just like The Astra herself. She really did appreciate that, that forwardness and forthrightness. The name wasn’t something generic/edgy—such as ‘The Ring of Death plus Ball’—and thus, the place probably didn’t appeal to the kids that much. Nor did it have much of a ring to it. Good names, such as ‘Theia Fhenn Astra’, always need to have a good ring.

But that was probably fine. The contents of the death games were probably a titch over the normal family-friendly content ratings that advisory boards and whatnot were so proud to flaunt around. Plus, parents were boring, and most parents that she’d seen would sooner hire a lawyer instead of buying their beloved toddler a copy of… Medal of Duty, or whatever games kids played nowadays. Fourth Night? She was pretty sure that was one. That one sounded good.

The Arena probably didn’t need a super fancy name, either. Judging from the turnout—and yelling, and shouting, and cheering that she was really hoping her music would drown out—the death games probably didn’t need to worry too much about their marketing. Word of mouth was a really wonderful thing, or the prize was probably something grand and valuable. And boy, did Theia like value.

But that was probably a slight segue from the main problem that Theia had with their murder zone; the decor. The Astra was very much a ‘form over function’ person, to the surprise of most. She knew this, because it was one of the many topics she liked to bestow upon her targets/bounties/soon-to-be victims/cash deposits. Sometimes after broaching the topic, they even refused to look at her, preferring instead to stare or gawk at her gun. Theia couldn’t blame them; it was probably a real wake-up call to know your would-be murderer that you’d known for the better part of Four minutes was not who you thought she was.

The Arena, with its earthy floor, metal grates and…. Probably a dozen or two spikes, seemed very much to be the opposite. Sure, the spikes looked deadly, but what was the point if they didn’t look good? It was, in all honesty, a bit of a drab environment. The spikes weren’t even consistent. Some were shiny, some were still caked with month-old, maybe even year-old competitors. If they needed some renovation tips, they could come to her after the tourney. Theia knew some really good—though pricey—reno-mages. She also had a secret technique for getting dried and crusty person-juice out of fabrics and off of metals. If she made enough of a mess, then she’d probably play the gracious contestant and divulge the cleanly goods.

The second thought didn’t actually flit into through her mind until a few seconds after Chiron was back in its holster. But it was an important one, a concept for all the good little children that probably weren’t watching: the concept of sharing.

Theia was big on sharing. She wasn’t selfish, nor was she overly possessive. Didn’t have a possessive bone or ligament in her body! The Astra liked to tell this to her friends—which were few, if not non-existent—and her aforementioned pay cheques; of which there were plenty. The best time to tell the latter was, of course, during working hours; when she was tying them up, nice and tight. No, ‘sharing was caring', as they often said.

As long as it didn’t involve her money, guns or clothes, that is. Feh, charities. Always wanting ‘donations’ to help the ‘needy’. Needy was very subjective.

All of this occurred to her as the Arena’s massive, spiked orb flew towards the wrestling—or as Theia preferred to call it, wrasslin’—pair on the other side. After all, the orb was part of the Arena. She was simply sharing the Arena with her peers and fellow competitors, just like any other friendly psychopath would.

Not that Theia was a psychopath; not by a long shot.

So when a frigid burst of ice, frost, and other chilly sounding words blasted the orb away, Theia merely blinked. Well, that was okay. It wasn’t only her orb, after all. It was everyone’s orb. Their orb. The community’s orb. Sharing was caring, afterall.

There was a beat before The Astra shared a malapert gesture with the Whiteout King, and glanced towards the ball, which had shot off away from the now-estranged reptilian. The deadly little globe had reached the apex of its all-too-altered swing, and it was starting to loop back around in a wobbly, misshapen orbit. Anti-clockwise. So now they had a rebellious little comet to deal with. Not exactly what Theia had planned or wanted, but it could work. Someone could probably get pushed into that. Course correction wouldn’t be too troublesome, so long as she timed it right. Improvising was a word she was familiar with, afterall.

The monk—or priest, or whatever she was—had decided to take a dust bath. From what she’d learnt about robed people , the gunwoman expected that the lady wasn’t going to be much of a conversationist. People in robes never were; either they were stoic and in talkative, or they were far too religious. Not someone she’d want to get into a tussle with, mind you. Probably had some really painful, off-brand martial arts’n’crafts.

Theia continued forward, Indus dropping into her hand as she reached a steady jog. What had seemed like an age must have only been a few seconds, as the vocals for her music had only just started to kick in. Time sure didn’t fly when a comet did it for you.

There were two soft clicks, and her goggles materialized, amber lenses lit from within. The gunwoman grinned as she ran, starting to loop around her lonesome target. The robed lady had decided to stay at a distance and beckon the walking handbag. Although to be fair, her opponent had a slight weight, height, girth and—most importantly—financial advantage. That armor did not look cheap, whereas that robe? Definitely cheap. Theia was certain that she’d seen a street merchant selling it outside. It was worth… what, maybe Four fifths of a gold coin?

Well, to the victor, the spoils. That’s how it went, right?

Fine by her. As she’d mentioned, she could always use a few more reptile-skinned accessories.

The Fastest Blade beamed a smile at the big one as she ran. The music’s pace went up a notch, and her boots hammered into the dirt, keeping in time with the rhythm. Indus glowed softly as Theia spun it, as though heralding the pain to come.

It was a bit of a shame, really. Four shots, and probably only one corpse at best. Still, as a wiseman (probably) said at some point, “the best things are best enjoyed slowly”. Honestly, having said that, he was probably a rubbish driver. Seniors always were; at least 15 or so below the speed limit. Cheh, who enjoyed slow drives, anyway?

Timing it with the flow of the track, the Astra made her first shot. At the midway of her loop, and with a flourish of her hand, Indus roared.

One…




TitanDragonLord -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/23/2019 18:53:08)

Aidan’s counterattack had only been partially successful, and now he found himself in quite the perilous position. He’d managed to grab hold of the elf’s upper arms, but she was far wilier than he had expected. The monk was quickly able to catch him by the elbows, and as his tail whipped around from the right she was able to stomp down on the scaled appendage, pinning it down into the dirt and throwing the dragonkin off-balance for the time being. Despite physically dwarfing the smaller woman the warrior struggled to overpower her as they wrestled in the deadly path of the incoming spiked ball. He was rewarded for his redoubled effort to push against her only with a twist of the elf’s heel down into his tail, his grunt of determination morphing into a gasp of pain in the process.

This was all too reminiscent of when he had wrestled with his sister on the peak of their mountainous home. Time and again they had rushed at each other, and every time Aidan ended up flat on his back. “You have to think more vertically,” she had told him during one of those clashes, before lifting him over her head and driving him into the floor with a smirk and a laugh.

He could see Nadia’s smirking visage now, just as it had been back then. It had been like his opponent’s, her mouth curled up at the corner as victory seemed surely within her grasp.

It was a good thing he’d already learned this lesson.

“You have to think more vertically.”

Aidan roared as power surged through his body, lifting his opponent high into the air and flicking his tail away from the ground to the safety of his back, giving it a shake mid-flight to ease his pained muscles. Now it was his turn to smirk, although despite his best efforts it quickly transformed into a grin.

Elated by his success, he tossed the woman towards the spiked ball, her body spinning through the air as she hurtled towards her apparent death. For half of a second Aidan muttered a prayer for her soul. She had fought well, and he hoped that whatever it was that waited for her beyond would make for a pleasant afterlife. At that, he couldn’t quite decide whether he was infuriated or relieved when he saw the monk use what seemed to be a similar technique to that which had protected her earlier, using it to throw the deadly ball back in the direction it came and crashing into the dirt. A small cloud of dust erupted about where she landed, although she quickly steadied herself and threw herself back onto her feet. It was going to be difficult to put this one down, but then again he didn’t exactly think winning the championship was going to be easy.

“Again!” she boomed, her challenging command energising Aidan to the core. It turned out he was relieved after all.

“You fight well!” the warrior bellowed as he caught his floating chakram. He was aware of someone racing around to his right - moving at seemingly impossible speeds for someone on foot, - but as was unfortunately characteristic for Aidan, his concern was no longer for his own well-being. A lich, the horrifying picture of death (the kind oft used by parents to scare their children into eating their vegetables) had advanced on the monk’s back and was beginning to envelop her with some sort of magical smoke with an unholy screech. At least, Aidan assumed it was magical. How else would you explain the cloud’s unnatural thickness, or the short flashes of light that periodically erupted from the smokey plumes? That, paired with his general mistrust of all things undead, was good enough for Aidan.




“Damn it,” Aidan muttered, clutching at his arm. The bone had definitely shattered where the dark blast had struck, and blood was now falling as a waterfall to stain the grass below. “Not how I wanted this to go, not at all.”

His foe was silent, its gaze not on the injured warrior but on the fleeing mother and child, stumbling over first the grass and roots and then over each other. He would have to feed on them, their essence, later. For now there was a fool who didn’t know better than to stay out of its way. The monster, a powerful spirit that had taken residence in a large suit of black plate armour, raised a fist. As it had done so many times before, a red flow of energy began to stream from the weakened Aidan, who could do little but gasp and hurl various insults of gradually intensifying complexity the more he slipped away. He would have been particularly proud of yelling “You look like you were forged by my grandma out of twice-used steel” if either a) he wasn’t on the brink of blacking out, and b) his grandma wasn’t one of the most well-respected smiths his family had ever known.

He had all but accepted his fate, sweat dripping from his head to mix with the pool of blood below, when he heard a metallic clang reverberate through the air, the stream of energy suddenly vanishing as the monster stumbled back and a familiar clawed foot came into his view.

“You’re too soft, little brother. One day you’ll get yourself killed pulling stunts like that,” she said with a sympathetic smile. This was just so… Aidan. Throwing himself in the way of an attack just to buy some villagers too frail to protect themselves a few extra seconds. Still, it was strangely charming in a sense, and she wouldn’t have him any other way. “You want to get out of here? Leave the grown-ups to do some talking?”

“I still have one arm,” he growled, grabbing his poi from where it had fallen on the ground. His sister laughed. Just the answer she’d been hoping for, before she threw him at the monster.




“Damn it,” Aidan thought, adjusting the angle of his throw slightly and hurling his chakram towards the monster. As it flew he could feel the ever present tether between himself and his weapon flex and strain. That feeling was only intensified as he pumped some of his charged energy into the bond, a few small sparks flying from his form in electrical light. He almost hated himself for what he was about to do, lying to himself in saying that he was simply attacking the one who was interrupting his fun. He knew it was a lie, but it did still reassure him a little.

“You’re too soft, little brother. One day you’ll get yourself killed pulling stunts like that.”

Aidan roared as he tightened the tether, pulling himself towards the lich and elf as a righteous comet of strength and speed. If his attention had been on his own safety, he would have noticed the shot from the one who had been flanking him long before it collided with his left shoulder. He had no choice now but to clench his teeth and power through the pain, the bolt having erupted in a small blast of energy burning the flesh underneath his scales.

That was fine. He still had one arm.

Holding his injured arm close to his chest until he could assess the damage (and quietly hoping that the pain would be temporary), his right arm whirled his poi in a blazing spin aimed for the head of the undead creature. He was fast. He was strong. He was the Raging Bull of the Shieldforged clan, and they would all know his name before the day was through.




nield -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/24/2019 8:49:57)

Action erupted around the Arena as Gary continued running towards the human who had been his rightmost when combat began; The spike ball was being batted around like it had been caught in-between three warring currents. First, the human who had ran for the ball levelled something at it, there was a sound and then the ball was heading to the first human who had moved, who was now getting tangled with the human who had been immediately to Gary’s left. I really wish I knew what to make of these people… they all seem strange to me, but then, so has everyone else I’ve seen since coming above the water…

Next, something came from the human who still had yet to move, sending the spiked orb careening off to the north, towards Gary’s quarry, but then the first human threw the human he was tangled with in that same direction and then THAT human sent the ball flying off down towards the entrance they had started at. Gary struggled a bit to keep up with everything that was happening, when he saw dark clouds emanating from the human he had been running towards, dark clouds which enveloped the area around the human who had been on Gary’s left.

He saw what looked like how he had always imagined rain looked, but he could feel that there was no water over there, which was just plain weird to him. There were also some very LOUD sounds emanating from the dark clouds, which though they hurt Gary’s ears a little, weren’t any real problem. Then, he saw something which completely shocked him; the rightmost human’s entire SKULL was exposed and he realised that whatever it was, it wasn’t a human AT ALL. Or at least, not one that still lived. Prisma had told Gary tales of undead of course, among other things, but it had often been hard to discern fact from fiction and Gary had never really believed in dead things walking, but there was proof right over there and he had been running at it!

Well, now the human who had been thrown was closer and he wasn’t sure at all that he wanted to tangle with something unnatural, so he changed angles and ran at them instead, running into the dark clouds which seemed to bounce and jostle against him, but did not particularly slow him down at all and soon enough he had reached the human who was ACTUALLY human and thrust his halberd forth towards their legs.




ergotth -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/25/2019 14:05:29)

"Ok, I've been rooted here for far too long" Though Granthese, moving out of his entrance with shaky steps. Analyzing the situation he caught a glimpse of a fast running woman towards two combatants, one apparently undead, and a seemingly odd, watery creature fighting another half-elf, all the while overseeing the erratic spiked sphere.

Shooting a weak blast of ice, he created a frozen path and slid through it fast, clearing half the distance between his entrance and the center of the Arena, keeping a sharp eye at the spiked ball. A chronomancer wouldn’t be caught dead missing timing. With another blast he tried to hit the runner, but missed by a long shot,”well, I’m no sniper…”, and firing at the other two combatants felt cowardly, so he resorted to his next spell, the next chapter of the Chronomicon.

“Murder of Minutes” his voice echoed around him with an icy chill, while several pages of his book ripped apart and folded into over a dozen of paper crows, he sent the murder flying towards the lich and his half-dragon opponent, the crows instructed to swarm and create an icy wind.
“That should get their attention” said grant to himself.




Kooroo -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/26/2019 14:24:56)

Theia had reasoned that a few burns on the sala-man-der’s arm wouldn’t be too bad. There was plenty more hide on the scaley lug, after all. She could make a bag, a hat and still have leftover skin for additional accessories. But then again, the hired gun never actually used bags, of the hand kind, messenger kind, or even the supermarket kind. Nor did she need a new hat, since her current one was perfect; a splitting image of its wearer. Metaphorically, of course.

Well, as the generous, the benevolent and the tax avoiders in society liked to say, ‘the more the merrier’.

The Astra surged after her mark at a frightening speed, hot on her target’s tail. She didn’t think she’d ever seen reptilian leather move so swiftly before, even during sale season at department stores. But then again, she’d never really taken it on herself to wear reptile goods on the job; too delicate and not really her style. She also doubted that ace pilots, astronauts or bomb disposal technicians brought reptile hide accessories with them on their various adventures. But to be frank, those were situations probably more suited for lambskin wallets and the like.

It was difficult to think of a nice, concise, respectable and—most importantly—true title that gave a proper representation of her thoughts on the ferocious pair of soon-to-be-boots before her. However, as usual, the cogs in Theia’s head turned and the perfect label popped into her head. A savvy observer could practically see her goggles brighten several lumens, though in reality, the phenomenon hadn’t really occurred.

A blast of frost whizzed by, aimed vaguely in Theia’s general direction. Unfortunately for her assailant, their shot had been off.

Way off.

Embarrassingly off.

With nary a look, the gunwoman wasted no time in congratulating the attempt, firing off a snappy thumbs-up across her body. Kids these days; no respect for the wealthier and spiffier-looking members of society. It was like a palm tree, trying to show off next to a grand, old, oak. Not that Theia looked old, mind you. It was just similar, in that a coconut might look somewhat pretty and nice, even if it was planted next to a much more regal tree. But then the palm tree would probably drop its coconuts, and everyone would look away in embarrassment. Shameful. At least Correction Kid had finally uprooted himself. She’d honestly expected the indecisive little pleb to make like a tree and leaf, but planting himself closer to the action with any further encouragemint? Ferntastic.

Theia chuckled slightly. Comedy gold..

The giant lizardman swung its burning flail, clearly intent on claiming the head of Mister Bones. The Astra ground to a halt several meters behind and whirled, mouthing the song’s lyrics as she spun.

Night of Fire.

A sharp heel to the ground stopped her mid rotation, pointing her perfectly towards the duo. Honestly, together, they looked like a pair of gigantic, 12-year olds action figures. Extending her arm, she swished Indus up from the side towards the newly christened Salamander Ferragamo and fired, the gun bucking and roaring in approval.

With a few twists of her heels, and at breakneck speeds, Theia dashed back and forth along the bony and scaly dance partners. It was probably time to turn the other competitors into statistics, but if free shots were on sale? Hey, she wasn’t going to complain.

Unless they went on clearance the week after.




Apocalypse -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/26/2019 22:01:55)

Be wary, magic’s afoot.
Weather the storm, embrace the eye.
ohohohIdon’twantthisIdon’twanthis-
...rain indoors, huh? Never thought I’d see the day…
This Is Quite The Nuisance. Absolutely Drenched, And The Wind Is Horrid.
...right, I guess it is awful…
It’ll wash away the red. Shame.
"

Arro held her stance, arm stinging where the droplets struck her burn from the poi. She made neither grimace nor whimper, and even with the flurries blowing across her skin and causing the hairs to stand on end, the Windsgraced felt at home here. How often had the storms kissed her on top of the temple with relentless squalls and rolling thunder? The Zephyr had thought the half-elf’s communion with the Winds would have been strongest in the Skies’ Theater amid the tempests of the isle. In truth, the Whispers were nearly drowned out in the storms. Besides the drink, it was the closest Arro achieved to quelling the gale within.

"Idon’twantthisIdon’twantthisIdon’twant-
All will be well.
Quiet DOWN, You Are Having A Right Fit!
...hard to concentrate with all that noise…
"

The vartai bellowed a response, raising his chakram to retaliate. The monk loosened her shoulders in anticipation. If the draconian wanted to willingly disarm himself, then so be it; the Windsgraced would be more than happy to oblige.

But she never got the opportunity.

At the last instant the steel soared to her right, cutting through air and rain towards the shadowy mass enveloping an ivory skull. With inhuman speed, the vartai hurtled towards the shade. His flaming poi was not far behind, its fire unquenched by the storm billowing around it. Was she to be ignored? Arro’s hands curled into fists.

Punish those that would mock you.
One enemy disregards you. Are you making the same mistake?

WatchoutwatchoutIdon’twantthiswatchout-
Be steady, be strong.
"

A crackle of energy burst across the vartai’s scales, sending a scattering of sparks across the arena floor. The shower of stars died in the same breath it had been born. The monk snapped her gaze to the left, the incongruous caster on the move at a pace that rivaled - and may have even outmatched - the draconian’s. Yet she too chose to reject the monk as an adversary, instead bolting off towards the contest between shade and vartai.

Arro lowered her arms. Was...was this truly the famed Elemental Championships? The half-elf turned her head over her shoulder to view the battleground. Less a contest of wills than a brawl of whims. Behind her, the Iron Judge swung in its orbit, crashing back towards the congregation of fighters.

Danger from every direction.
So many ripe for the picking. Join the fray and rip one by one apart.

The storm is unyielding, but the storm is patient.

What Does That Even Mean?!
Can’tweleavewhyeveroneisbusyIdon’twantthis-
...say, that’s an odd lookin’ little fella right there…
"

Arro’s eyes flicked down to the ground where some aquamarine creature was dashing through the storm, its gait unaffected by the winds and rain. A misshapen animal somewhere between fish and feline standing not even two-feet tall and toting some sort of staff composed of pure water. With great determination, it thrust the oceanic weapon towards her legs.

Arro planted her left foot in front to take the blow, bracing herself to once more become a living conduit for the energy within all things in motion. One arm extended towards the feyling, open palm directed at its strange face. In the heartbeat of heartbeats where all stood still, a crushing thought permeated through the Whispers’ rabble.

Was this all?




A howling squall blew through the open battleground as the seeker lay sprawled across the ground. Gasping for air, he choked on his own wet coughs, half curled up on his side much like a child. Arro stood at the ready a few paces away, awaiting her foe’s next move. One moment passed. Then another. And another. And yet still the challenger lay a repulsive mess on the floor.

Was this all?

The monk relaxed her guard, stealing a quick glance at the Stormfather. Upon his throne over the Skies’ Theater, he was as pristine and foreboding as ever, his face a solemn mask. Even with the constant furors of winds, his robes remained untarnished. With the setting sun over the endless ocean behind him, the leader of the Ruinous Tempests appeared every bit the legend others spoke of in hushed tones. The Stormfather did not elect to share his gaze with that of Arro, instead staring straight ahead as if seeing both far less and far more than what was before him. The half-elf’s eyes ran across his pointed ears, and she fought the urge to touch her own.

Focus, the fight is not over,” spoke the calming Whisper within.

Focus, the enemy still draws breath,” answered the vexatious one.

Arro’s eye twitched as a hammering began within her head. She inhaled deep and scrutinized the challenger as he struggled to his feet. His sky-blue and snow-white robes marked him as an acolyte of the Way of the Rising Waters. Their simplicity betrayed his inexperience, though the few blows they traded had done the same. Unlike other seekers, this one bore no waves marking the trials he had endured and emerged triumphant. He had come wearing no laurels and boasting no talent to justify his presence in the Skies’ Theater.

He is ill, defeat him and be done.
He is ill, kill him and be done
.”

The Windsgraced bit her bottom lip to distract herself from the pounding headache. The taste of iron filled her mouth as the seeker from the Rising Waters stood at last. Taller than Arro, his limbs had a greater reach but were sickly thin. Even without using her Breath, she likely would have been able to take any punishment he could deliver and still be victorious.

They thought him unworthy, he seeks to prove himself.
He thought himself worthy, he seeks to die at the hands of greatness.


The sickened challenger was muttering to himself, but between the gales and Whispers Arro could not make out it what it was. This had gone on long enough. Head splitting from two voices too many, Arro charged forward. As the seeker threw his hands up, eyes shut in fear, she caught his last words.

Idon’twantthis-




The halberd halted mid-strike, the force within it harbored and unleashed in the same heartbeat. A bludgeoning gale tore through the air towards the feyling. Raindrops scattered as all the might of the weapon’s blow was returned to its deliverer.

Winged Fury.
Tranquil Thunder.
Tempered Hurricane.
"

Arro ignored the commands as her left leg swept in a crescent to knock the halberd’s pole to the side. The right would follow in a kick to send the little feyling flying into the air, giving it a rather unceremonious end in the malicious embrace of the Iron Judge.




Starstruck -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/26/2019 22:32:50)

Its bones rattled as the winds of its storm howled about the arena. It had carved its domain among the twisted metal that thirsted for mortal life. Some had been trapped in the lashing rain and whistling wind. Others had entered willingly. Its dancing hands reached, one up one down, and its spine bulged and twisted as the dance came to its climax. The battlefield had sprung into bloom, a tangled knot of chaos that sought to unravel in every direction. Warriors traded blows with cautious eye for the enormous hazard that dangled from the center of the arena. Enemies braved the Lich's mnemonic storm, blustered about by its winds, and sought to land powerful strikes upon each other. The Lich's psychic sight spread. Flashes only, emotions briefly sensed that slipped through its fingers like dust in an hourglass.

There! On its right. A weapon, flung, its appearance deceiving; the blade was not the true attack, but a vehicle for a physical assault. Near to the incoming dragonkin, a looming cloud of papercraft frenzied about a free-sliding mage, fighting through the harsh winds of the storm to seek their target. The monk sparred with an opponent in some feral shape.

Act?

For a second, it felt its concentration lapse. At once, all was lost. Searing, irrepressible pain stabbed through its bones, tracing out a perfect skeleton in its infinite mind. A tortured scream erupted from its flesh-stripped jaw, a physical, audible keening that scoured its surroundings as heavily as the storm once had. All at once, the rain, the thunder, the winds - gone, the dark clouds coalescing about its body. And all the while, the wailing, the pure pain starkly lit in relief against the background of the twisted metal

BAM. Something heavy collided with its physical body. The dragonkin's impact was devastating. Bones, held together by naught but will, lost their order and their shape, scattering from the impact. The warrior would feel little in the way of resistance; the Lich's ethereal cloud slipped over hard armor with no attempt to halt its incoming assault. Dark haze coalesced, bearing the orb and the Lich's skull towards a new destination. They rose in sync, borne aloft by the dark haze that held the Lich's bones together.

Papercraft swarmed, and the Lich offered no defense to the arcane assault. Fiery pain saw no numbness in the chill bluster; frost tipped its remains and tinged its cloud with icy flakes that fluttered to the arena floor. Its bones clacked uselessly about, its screech of pain and suffering never ceasing for an instant. As skull and orb rolled out of harm's way, robes dissolved into mist, bones leaving shaky etches across the packed earth as they followed, its mind reached backwards into infinity, and it remembered...




nield -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/28/2019 8:11:37)

The tip of the halberd rammed into the human’s leg and simply… stopped. Robbed of its inertia the water failed to cleave open flesh. At the same time a great buffet slammed into Gary’s face, flattening his nose which promptly began to bleed. He didn’t even notice when the first foot knocked his halberd aside. He did, however, notice when the second slammed into his chest with considerable force, knocking him back several feet.

Quite a hearty kick that… but they- he? She? I cannot tell with humans… they may well regret that. Or perhaps not? Maybe whatever they did to stop my halberd would allow them to kick an unyielding surface without repercussion? he gazed up at the human, his ears twitching. They were picking up on the disturbance the iron sphere made as it travelled through the air, but it was not close enough for Gary to do anything with it.

Well. They stopped an attack at one point with what seemed like negligible effort. But I wonder how they would fair if I were attacking from multiple points at once? As he thought, he shifted water from the fur in his back, running it over the fur on his arms as well as drawing back the water in his halberd to do the same. He ran forward toward the human a couple feet, then, about four feet from them and with little warning he stopped and lifted both arms and a spike of water shot out from each, one going for the leg the human had used to kick Gary, the other heading for their head.



Yet more cycles of the Moon passed and the young [Hope for the Future] kept to himself, delivering exotic fishes and learning everything Prisma taught him; general knowledge, stories and secrets, both new and old and whatever else came to mind. But although he kept away from the other Aofeyfetarl, they did not always keep away from him. He began to notice them every so often when he was around seventy cycles old; a group of five Aofeyfetarl younglings who, while they stayed at a distance where they thought he couldn’t see them, followed him around.

This was not particularly a concern to [Hope for the Future] as so far they had never followed him while he was out hunting, only when he was hanging around his abode. Then, as one might expect, one day they snuck out when they should have been sleeping and followed him out as he went to hunt. At one point as they rounded a rock, they were surprised as he seemed to have disappeared. “What exactly do you younglings think you’re doing?” he said, having doubled back and speaking from behind them.

The younglings whirled around and all began stammering. “Go home to your beds younglings. It’s not safe to be out here.” The youngling in front seemed to regather his composure and jerked out his head. “We’re not afraid of you, you freak!” He shouted. The others seemed able to gather themselves as well, muttering confirmations. [Hope for the Future] sighed. “I’m not what you have to be afraid of out he-” he broke off suddenly.

He threw out his arm, hardening water in front of him and sending it out in a lengthening spike. The younglings screamed, fully believing he was attacking them, but the spike went past them, embedding in the brain of a deep-sea lurker-hunter who had leaped out to make itself a meal. “Younglings, return to your homes, now! With blood in the water, the truly dangerous creatures will come out now!”

The younglings did not need telling again and swam off immediately, created spiked shells of hardened water around them for protection. [Hope for the Future] did not move. Hunter-lurkers were, as one may well have not guessed, pack creatures, so he knew there’d be a couple more around and he’d need to deal with them quickly before vacating the area himself.

Since he was waiting for them, recognising their approach was very easy. Since their lead had gotten itself summarily killed, the other three hunter-killers all jumped him at once from different directions. But like the younglings, he’d made a protective shell around himself. The hunter-lurkers all quite literally leapt to their deaths.

And then he was off, swimming for all he was worth. The truly dangerous creatures of the deep could bite through an Aofeyfetarls defensive measures, no matter how strong he tried to make them. Fortunately, no threats materialised and he was able to settle back into the throes of regular life soon enough.




TitanDragonLord -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/28/2019 18:54:12)


“What’s wrong with you then?” Nadia said, looking up from the makeshift bandage that she was wrapping around his mangled arm to meet Aidan’s eye. Even though they had won the battle and ought to have been celebrating another fight under their belt, her brother had been unsettlingly quiet ever since her arrival. It wasn’t the arm, at least she thought it wasn’t. She’d seen him walk away from a sparring match between the two of them that had gotten out of control with worse injuries than this with a grin on his face. No, this was different, and she wasn’t going to have him ruin a perfectly good victory meal with a sour face.

“I should be dead,” he said after a long silence, his gaze levelled at the splintered trees that surrounded the battlefield, glancing every now and then at the stained red grass where his blood had dried in the evening sun. “If you got here a few seconds later I’d be as dead as the rest of them. I’m supposed to be a warrior and… Sometimes it feels like I’m nothing without your help.”

After a beat, Nadia began to laugh, and when Aidan turned to scowl at her, she laughed more. She laughed for so long and so hard that she had to steady herself on his shoulder, reaching up to wipe a tear from her eye.

“I’m being serious,” he growled, his lip beginning to curl upwards at the corner before being forcibly returned back into a frown. “I’m supposed to be strong. I am strong. I can’t just rely on the bond and hope you can come running.”

Nadia laughed again, although was more successful in suppressing it quickly this time around. She shook her head before she considered her little brother for a few seconds. He was still young, not yet out of his teenage years. And yet despite having far less battle experience than her was already was showing an aptitude for battle that had only been seen in the Shieldforged clan once before, in herself. “Half a sword is still dagger enough to end a life,” she said after a moment of thought, lifting her hand in a reassuring grip on his shoulder. “We are best together, but we are still warriors in our own right. You earned that just as well as I. Don't let anyone tell you different. Now come on, we have a meal to get to."

Aidan mulled what she had to say for a few seconds, before quietly rising to his feet and brushing her hand from his shoulder. Perhaps she just didn’t understand, or maybe she was being patronising. Whatever it was, he had said his piece, and so the journey back too was quiet. They might be best together, but he wasn’t going to be satisfied at being half a dagger. No, he was a weapon in his own right, and one day he was going to prove it to all of them.





With almost no resistance the poi had cleaved through the lich’s bones and scattered them across the warrior’s landing zone, its unholy screech rivalled in volume only by Aidan’s own cry of war. As the dragonkin began to skid to a halt, his poi were already beginning to whirl through the air at his left and right. It had taken only the briefest of moments to check the damage to his shoulder, and the pain was quickly quelled by the adrenaline that coursed through Aidan’s being. He didn’t have long, however, and Aidan wasn’t so naive to think that he had defeated the undead sorcerer so easily. In his peripheral vision he could already see that the skeletal creature’s skull and an orb as dark as the magic it contained were lifted from the dirt to hang aloft, suspended by a lingering haze that curled and twisted around each object as eerie tendrils.

Aidan began to twist his body, but once again found his attention diverted away from his original target and towards an incoming threat. Such was the way in battles such as these, but he would take great satisfaction in confronting this next distraction. A woman, the one who had launched the swinging spiked ball at him earlier, the one who had then flanked him and shot him in the shoulder, the one who had been a thorn in his side from the get-go (admittedly at Aidan’s encouragement), had sped in close and taken the large window of opportunity Aidan had granted her by to fire another shot into his side whilst he was landing.

“At least,” Aidan thought surprisingly coherently a millisecond after the shot connected with his body, “this has taught us a valuable lesson about spreading yourself thin.” That wasn’t what Aidan said, however. What Aidan said was a string of curses so colourful that it would make even the most foul-mouthed dwarf blush. If being hit by one of those bolts had stung, being hit by two in quick succession hurt, and he wasn’t being made any more comfortable now that some other contestant had cast a spell that had released pages from his book like darts that now whipped around the warriors.

A few seconds. That’s all that he would have to return the favour. Any longer than that and he would find himself facing two opponents at the same time once the lich had reformed, and whilst he would relish the opportunity to prove himself against two foes at once this foe deserved a focused beating for as long as he could give it to her. All he would need was one good hit. One good hit had crushed skulls, crumpled breastplates, and ended the lives of those who stood against him. Aidan ramped up the speed of his poi’s deadly whirl before launching himself at his opponent, the burning hammers all but igniting the air around him in his lethal advance.

One good hit was all he needed to beat anyone.

Were it not for the swarm of paper birds that swirled around them, Aidan might have noticed the trembling of the bones that surrounded his feet, and if his internal clock was somewhat better he might have realised he’d quite drastically overestimated how long a few seconds was in his zealous efforts . Each bone soared through the air at terrifying speeds to become a sharp storm of solid white and hazy black, each one quickly finding its proper position and hearkening the return of the lich behind the dragonkin. If it had lungs, perhaps he would have felt its breath drifting down his neck, and if it had eyes he may have felt them boring into the back of his head.

What Aidan could feel instead was dread.




ergotth -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/28/2019 23:29:26)

“Alright, I don’t think they know what those birds can do, I’ll let them do their thing and continue my assault.” Though Granthese, shortening his distance with careful steps. He was already inside the circle of the spike ball, in the arena’s imaginary “inner circle”.

“Now… are Dragons cold-blooded or hot-blooded?” Wandered Granthese. If he wants to take advantage of his element, he must choose his targets. The Lich obviously wouldn’t get down to feelings of cold and the passage of time, and the runner was too fast for his slow effects, and the water creature… yes, the Water creature!

“how long can it withstand the cold of the timeless void?”

That though sparked curiosity in Grant. A mean, cold curiosity (no pun intended) and he had to remember he isn’t in this tournament for the blood, but the reward. If he can win without killing anyone, would be ideal, and this utopian thought clashed with his inner voice pushing him to the edge.

“No, I can’t fall in to this side of mine, this… other half, must be kept in an ice block, Time is too much power to let it become a tool of destruction.”

Deciding to take a second careful approach, Granthese concentrated for a few seconds and released a powerful Stasis Blast. The icy temporal energy came out much stronger than his first blasts, the air crackling with how fast it froze and the edge of his Chronomicon getting white from the cold, but Grant’s resolve was solid and he kept it going.

Towards the watery creature and his combatant, the freezing energy hit the ground a few meters before, some could think Granthese missed, but he was thinking ahead: The Stasis Blast kept firing on that spot, spreading a layer of ice that crept towards the combatants. One could even see a fly getting instantly frozen as if flew a few inches from it, a testament to the perils of those about to get a rising frost where they stepped.

“Closer… closer… a little closer…”




Kooroo -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/30/2019 10:44:12)

Sitting down and watching the local death games hadn’t been on Vox’s schedule for the week. That didn’t mean he was against going to them, oh no. He was all for witnessing a handful of competitors (plus one very fast idiot) beating the life out of each other, whilst the lovechild of a bowling ball and a cactus whizzed around them. And he certainly wasn’t going to complain when all that was expected of him was to sit comfortably among the audience, with a hot chocolate in hand. It was far better than doing any actual work, that was certain. Anything was better than actual work; hell, even the regular type was fine.

Sure, the entire operation may have been in shambles, but that was hardly new. It was something you eventually got used to. The commander was—thankfully—prohibited from doing any heavy lifting, by sheer virtue of the realm being a Neutral Realm. What had the Operations Act said again? No officer ranking above the position of Major may engage in combat, nor invoke magicks (with exception to those listed in Appendix Some Letter or Number) whilst within a Neutral Realm. There was another section about how no officer may have a direct hand in operations on Neutral Realms further down, but the term ‘direct hand’ was very subjective. The terminology was probably more specific and most likely didn’t actually use the words ‘direct hand’, but Vox figured that as long as he didn’t actually do anything, that it’d all be fine and dandy.

Although considering the disaster that had happened exactly two years ago in this city—involving a lady who’d drank luminous paint, a lightbulb, and a completely different level ‘idiot— they had needed to reword the Act slightly. Not that he had read the memo, never mind the act. Vox had much better things to read than officious and overly-technical documents, even though it was in the Operations Commander job description. So long as he didn’t fight anyone or (overtly) insult anyone, everything would hopefully be within the rules. His tactic worked so far; he hadn’t been court-martialed yet, afterall.

Still, regulations aside, there was still some ‘loose ends’ to be tied up in the realm. Which was where Eris came in.

No, not Eris. Theia. Her name was Theia now.

“Theia Fhenn d’Astra. Theia. Theia. Thay-a. Hmm.” Vox rolled the name around on his tongue for a bit, sounding it out. That moniker was hardly a new one, but he’d never really considered it much until now. He tried different pronunciations of each word, sounding each one out slowly. Weirded out by the strange, muttering man, the family of suffocatingly fuzzy marsupials sitting on his left glanced over, grabbed their children, and shuffled a few seats away. Unperturbed, he ignored them and took a sip of cocoa.

‘Theia’ did have a bit of a ring to it, he supposed. ‘The Astra’ wasn’t a bad title either. Eris hadn’t completely lost her skill at picking names, or her passable sense of style when she’d lost… well, her name, was the first thing that sprung to mind. Speaking of minds, sanity was another trait that hadn’t survived the trip.

While the Eris he’d known had died, the newly-born Theia had emerged, with a few obsessions in tow. Money, luxury and spectacle were grouped into a single, fairly obvious one. Speed and time were another; the woman wouldn’t shut up about timing and going fast whenever they’d been unfortunate enough to meet during the first couple of decades. The trend had died off slightly, but Theia had found plenty of ways to aggravate the hard-working Special Operations Commander of The Army. The all-too-recent ‘four days’ incident was the most recent one. Another one of—
Boop... Boop...

Speaking of aggravating.

A soft red light and a low, beeping started playing from under Vox’s jacket; specifically, his left shoulder. He raised a hand up to it to answer the call and noticed that the spectators on his right—a couple of lizard people—had started hurriedly pushing their way to the aisle.

“It’s just a message. Nothing to be worried about.” he explained to their backs, answering his shoulder.

“Yep?” Vox listened to the caller and stiffened in his seat, not liking what he heard. ”Oh please, no. I was just starting to enjoy myself.”



The Astra adjusted her hat as the Salamander cussed and swore, definitely raising the event’s content ratings. A snicker escaped her lips when a swarm of papercraft dove and swooped, pelting the walking stack of hide. Unfortunately, her foul-mouthed friend hadn’t noticed them all that much, which was a shame. Cranes weren’t the most original nor difficult type of origami, but getting them to fly around and follow directions? That took quality craftsmanship.

The giant accessory’s glare finally honed in on her. He may’ve been fairly fast in a literal sense, but mental skills? Probably the slow one in the family. Theia snapped off a Four-fingered salute with her left, whilst her right rested her gun jauntily at the crook of her hip.

She beamed at her family-unfriendly foe, who merely narrowed his eyes. There were two soft clicks as a sneering, gunmetal visage phased over Theia’s mouth and nose. Massive wheels of flame blazed into life as the lizardkin spun his flails, heralding the beginning of something. Maybe a fire dance? Theia wasn’t in the habit of giving cash to buskers, but she may have made an exception if Sir Ferragamo had a hat or cup for loose change in front of him.

That is, if she carried any change. Which she didn’t. The Astra wasn’t one for keeping coins, or much cash, really. Maybe one of the other competitors had some, but she was pretty sure that they—like most ordinary people—wouldn’t let her rifle through their wallets if they could help it. Theia knew this from experience; she’d tried many times before. Gotten in plenty of trouble as well, but they usually stopped short of pressing charges once she threw on that good ol’ charisma.

The hired gun had already pushed off her left foot as Salamander started his lunge. She’d wondered whether he was going to swallow one of the flails like a fire eater, or pounce at her like an oversized, scaly cat. Theia had guessed the latter, but only because fire eating—while a nifty trick—was probably asking for trouble in a free-for-all battle royale. The lizardarian looked sensible enough to refrain from any party tricks during a death battle; those should be left to qualified experts like Theia. Although at the same time, the same ‘sensible’ reptile had allowed her to get two ridiculously easy shots off on him.

Oh. Wait.

Three.

Three easy shots, actually.

As she whirled on to her right, and prepared to make with her element—namely Speed, not ‘lightning bolt’—the gunwoman popped Indus’ third shot at the angry billfold. The gun bucked violently, its recoil helping her twist into the spin. Her other foot struck the ground, and Theia straightened up, then took off.

Indus’s core glowed, casting a deep, reddish hue off on her surroundings. It was the exact same red that Theia had inked on to her business cards; exactly 100% red, precisely 26.7% green and assuredly 26.7% blue. Meaningless to most, but people tended to shirk details. Which was fine, but the important details mattered.

The revolver crackled angrily, the noise mostly muted by her music. It bounced in her raised left hand, rotating slowly, while Theia’s metal prosthetic sat on the small of her back. With her back straight, and gait considerably shorter, The Astra looked as though she was on a comically fast stroll.

She chuckled, the vocaliser’s interference distorting it into something unearthly. There were a few reasons why she was known as The Fastest Blade. Judging by the riffraff around her—Lord Ferragamo was the exception, as he had some intrinsic value—the title would hold up here, despite the Army’s modifications.

Although she wasn’t sure if the full title—The Fastest Blade in any Cardinal Direction—would work. Did this realm even have cardinal directions? If so, what were they called? Were they even same cardinal directions that she was used to? In other words (and in order); North, South, Left and Right? What did cardinal even mean over here? Did they even have cardinal priests? Was she overthinking this?

Probably.

Honestly, people, creatures, and microorganisms were so simple. They never really thought through things thoroughly (heh, put that on a language test). Compared to them, she might as well have named herself The Fast. Which was, frankly, a tempting prospect. Maybe it was time to update her business details.

But first, a demonstration! A demonstration? No, not just a demonstration. The demonstration.
One....
two....
three....




Apocalypse -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/31/2019 1:24:16)

The feyling tumbled across the arena floor. A solid blow, but far from a lethal one. Arro brought her foot back down, her ankle throbbing from the impact. The feline creature was far hardier and heavier than anticipated - an amateur could have easily broken their foot with that strike. The monk raised her arms in a defensive stance, favoring her left leg while the pain persisted. The winds and rain came to an abrupt halt, leaving no trace of the storm within the confines of the Trial of Menace. The feyling climbed to its feet, scarlet ichor trickling from its nostrils.

It bleeds. Now make it run red.
Stay steady, stay wary.
whatifithasclawswithvenomthatmakesyourskingreen-
Utterly Revolting.
...say, odd that we’re not soaked from the rain…


Arro ground her teeth. The Whispers were so loud. If only…

A parlor trick from a harebrained magician.
Gawdy Little Thing.
...an ugly sort of cute…
andinsteadofbloodpusoozesoutanditsmellsrancidand-
Arro! It’s charging!


The Windsgraced squeezed her eyes shut. How could she concentrate when it felt like a smith was using her skull as an anvil?!

Focus or perish!
whywhyWHYareyounotlookingNOW-
Open Your Eyes, Fool!
She needs peace to thrive.
...this sure don’t seem like the path to victory…
...you are all holding her back.


The half-elf opened her eyes. She could feelthe vein pulse in her head as the feyling closed the gap between the two. No halberd in sight, but barbs of water protruded from each arm.

whatisthatwhatisthatwhatisthat-
Channeling of water.
...ain’t seen that before…

Persevere.
Hold your tongues before I cut them out.


Oceanic prongs shimmered as the feyling came to a sudden halt.

Flutter. Breathe. Gale.
Retreat, gain some distance.
RUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRU-
...ain’t seen that before…
SILENCE.


Head hammering, the Windsgraced braced for the blow and prepared to counterattack. But instead of a melee assault, the spikes of water shot forth with all the ferocity of crossbow bolts.

You froze and shall now perish.
GETOUTOFTHEREWHATAREYOUDOING-
You can still breath, my child!
Save The Face! Don’t Let It Tarnish Your Face!
...your leg will be more useful…
Far too late.


Arro pushed the babble aside, gritting her teeth as she moved into action. The new Zephyr of the Four Winds focused on her breath to negate the spike targeting her bruised leg. In the same heartbeat of heartbeats, she jerked her head back to avoid the second missile. But the Whisper was right. With the strength of hardened steel, the thorn tore into her cheek. Red-hot pain spilled across her face as one Whisper drowned out the tempest composed of the others.

Are you ready to paint the world red?




A pool of bile stained crimson lay below the half-elf. Forceful gales tore at her gi and hair as she wiped the spittle from her mouth. Amid the darkened skies, a cruel laugh broke through the tempest.

You can survive. The Stormfather would not pit you against a foe you cannot defeat. Not so soon.

For the first time, the half-elf struggled to find reprieve in the words of the Whisper.

Arro raised her gaze. Before her stood a tall man, gaunt of face with a mane of black hair adorning his head. All across his neck and bared shoulder were lines upon lines of mountains tattooed in ink. Most of those peaks were marred with a break - each one a life taken by this seeker from the Way of the Ashened Earth. Onyx hair whipped to and fro over amber eyes in the winds of Skies’ Theater.

From next to the throne of the Stormfather boomed the Zephyr. “Arro, chosen keeper of the Ruinous Tempests. Do you yield in this storm?”

What would your brother think?

The half-elf gathered her breath. How could she look Gant in the eye if she lost her first trial? With a wince and a twinge of pain in her ribs, Arro rose to her feet.

He is prideful. Use his hubris against him.

With a sneer, the seeker of the Ashened Earth approached. Every step anchored him to the battleground, more a force of nature than a man. His mouth opened wide in a malicious smile.

Are you ready to paint the world red?





Pain welled up where the barb had struck true. Arro touched her cheek and felt something tough as bone. Teeth. She pulled her hand away, fingers now wet with blood. The flesh had been torn away on the right side, exposing the bridgework all along her jaw. Iron coated her tongue, and warm fluid dribbled from the wound. Yet, despite the damage and agony, the Windsgraced felt neither panic nor worry.

Simply relief.

I think I’ve had enough of all of you just now.

The voice was hers but the words were not. She tilted her head to glance at the aquamarine creature before her, looking ever so small amidst the cage. Behind it, the Iron Judge barreled forward in its path.

What are you doing?
IhatehatehateHATEwhenheisincharge-
...can’t say I am a fan of this…


Arro was already moving, circling to her left like a prowling jaguar. Maintaining the distance between her foe, the Unyielding Keeper ignored the throbbing in her ankle as she kept within the confines of the Iron Judge’s wrath.

Watch That Leg!
Much more of that, and the damage could be permanent.
whataboutthejudgewhatboutthejudge

What else to expect from a caged animal.

Artist, not animal,” Arro said as she planted her feet and faced the feyling. Behind the wretched little cretin, a blanket of ice began coating the arena. Good. More tools to paint the field red.

Watch out!
WHATISTHAT-

STEADY.

A blur of motion to the monk’s right, and out of instinct Arro held out one arm to intercept the incoming barrage. Her left extended towards the feyling, palm facing the center of its mass. Through her breath, the Windsgraced channeled the implosion of energy into a bludgeoning gale at the aquatic feline.

Tranquility within.

Tempest without.

And Arro found her face to face with the whirlwind of a competitor come to a standstill at last. “Pardon me.” Brow furrowed in confusion, the half-elf failed to react before the contender sped off as quick as she arrived. Another interruption in the creation of her masterpiece.

Now”, the Unyielding said as she turned her gaze back to the feyling. “Where were we?




Starstruck -> RE: =EC 2019= Spike Arena (7/31/2019 10:23:19)

The sun beat down. He was fragile. Pale. Slender. Weak. A nobody in a nothing town. Here he walks. Nobody will miss him when he is gone.

It was two hundred years ago, and the oasis had not yet been touched by the ravages of war that conquered the kingdoms to the north. It was not their problem, they told themselves. They had walls, and gates. They had food to eat. They had fine clothes and beautiful things. And they had absolutely nothing to worry about for many years. He alone served as the worrier, the doomsayer. The coward. And so, as time went on, he stopped talking.


The crude bludgeon carved its destructive arc through the contorted rib cage of the skeletal sorcerer, ripping vertebrae from their assigned sockets and slipping them right through its ethereal grasp.

They did not know of his experiments in the catacombs. Dark arts. Pure foolishness! If he was lucky, his head would be on a stake as a warning to all. But he was unlucky. Everyone was unlucky. He began to wear gloves as the profane energies rotted the flesh of his hands away from the inside. Black, necrotic flesh burned with constant pain. He was helpless to stop. His memories faded by the day. He could no more preserve their faces in his mind than he could preserve their corpses. And so the dark arts whispered sweet promises. That he could be made whole again. He could be reunited with them, in body if not in soul.

The dragonkin had turned his back. It took but an instant to collect its thoughts - and with them, its bones. Its beautiful, beautiful bones. Bleach-white and unblemished, eternally preserved in the haunting mimicry of life unending.

Their sights had set on the prosperous desert crossroads; the life-giving water that welled up presented a launching point from which to conquer and unite the disparate nomads. They had no idea the raging threat that lurked beneath the city walls. They would learn.

Each living thing carried magic within it, created it, brought it into being. And so, the hunger of the un-dead: the insatiable craving for life and vitality, for the ability to continue to sustain their miserable existence with mana from their surroundings and their victims. But where a pitiable creature with un-death inflicted upon it lurched and fought for each scrap of mana from a living thing, it lost the essence of its mind and became nothing more than a husk. And so he could not revive them. They were mindless wraiths with no memory of life and no desire but to feed. And still, he grieved.


The battle around it raged. Papercraft birds continued to flutter and freeze, sacrificing their sad lives as constructs to further their master's aims. It was an act the Lich knew well. No one could create a mind. No one could revive a mind. They were gone. Only their memories could remain.

The dragonkin whirled its weapons and lunged at his foe. The Lich's bones slid behind him on a rolling carpet of oily smoke, arms pulled up like the dangling limbs of a marionette.

He stood in inky blackness, now. Time stood still. Before him stood a small child, no older than six, curly-haired and doe-eyed. She looked innocently up at him.

"Why am I here?"

He could barely look at her.

"Well...you're dead."

"How did it happen?"

"I had to save us. They were going to hurt you."

She only looked at him. "Okay," she said, with the infinite wisdom of the young. "That's okay."

"Thank you," he said, as she dissolved into mist.


It could not see from its perspective what had happened with the gunslinger and the reptilian warrior, but it would know soon enough. As the fighters moved in their dance, the Lich took intricate steps of its own, borne silently with arms outstretched, hungry for its victim. As the dragonkin turned to face the dark presence that lurked behind him, the Lich seized his forehead with grasping fingers and forced its grinning skull into its target's field of view.

Peace, now. It is time to reminisce, brave one.

Dread. Terror. A nervous energy, like a caged tiger, coiled to strike.

One good hit. That was all he needed.

I will fight. I will win. I will be the Paragon.

Nadia.




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