=EC 2021= Factory Arena

=EC 2021= Factory Arena (Full Version)

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Starflame13 -> =EC 2021= Factory Arena (7/24/2021 22:00:43)
The sun burst over the horizon, waves of blue rolling out after it to subsume the pinks and yellows and oranges of the dawn. Its golden rays slid across gilded armor and threw sparkling motes of light from the edges of shining weapons, both marking the fighters that moved amidst the throngs filling the streets of Bren. Shouts and laughter rose to a fevered pitch, growing louder with each newcomer that filtered into the enlivened city. From strangers to old friends, visiting dignitaries to lowly cutpurses, lone travelers to entire families - all within were drawn by the Arena’s call. Under the excited babble hummed the siren song of power, drawing the crowd irresistibly onward. Onward, through the gleaming city gates, across twisted streets of shops and inns, past grimy alleyways and grand courtyards and the houses that stood between. Onward and over the final bridge, footsteps guided along the age-worn cobblestones of Supplicant’s Way. Onward, until the Complex itself stood before them: a looming gateway that swelled to fit the tide of hopefuls and spectators that surged towards it. Here, the horde parted. Many streamed toward the stands, shoving and jostling against each other in the hopes of achieving better seating. The hopefuls instead found themselves alone. Whether by seasoned officials, finely honed instincts, or by unseen magic itself, the Arena tugged them forward to their fate - a destiny written in bloodshed and carnage. A chance for one to stand victorious. A hope, however slim, of earning the Boon. All that stood in their path now was the arena itself - and the greatest fighters this world had to offer. Upon crossing the threshold into the halls leading toward this arena, the competitors found themselves thrust into total silence. No screams, no cheers, not even the harried voices of any officials reached them. The dull grey of cut and fitted stone was replaced by a gleaming bronze that reflected the harsh, yellow light cast by regularly placed bulbs. Their beams led to an iron door - smooth and unmarred. Smoke seeped out from beneath it, filling the air with the acrid stench of burning oil. A step closer, and the floor quaked violently - shattering the quiet with a shrill, ear-splitting shriek of metal upon stone. Clamor. Disruption. Tumult. Carnage. Stillness brings death within the walls of the Factory. Locks clicked, doors opened, and the fighters stepped into the arena. High above the gears hummed - vibrating in anticipation of the commotion to come. Murky light filtered through their teeth, catching at the motes of dust and reflecting off the polished copper floor. Sporadic clouds of steam burst out between the alternating bands of rough stone and glossy metal that formed the walls now encircling the entrants. With a reverberating boom the gears jolted to life - and the floor dropped from beneath the combatants. It screeched against the walls, echoes fleeing upwards as the plummeting platform left thick black scorch marks along stone and copper alike. Faster and faster it fell, speed increasing until those braced upon it could do nothing but panic - surely the arena was not trying to kill them all already? But the acceleration tapered and ceased after a few moments, the arena now descending steadily rather than hurtling towards an unseen doom. Thin strips of light appeared between the bands of copper and stone, bathing the arena in a harsh yellow glow as the hazy patch of sunlight grew further and further away. A harsh voice cackled from the stands above, calling out a final warning to those below. “And so begins the Trial of Descent. Fight or Die, adventurers, but let the Elemental Championships begin!”

Meepsie -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (7/28/2021 23:20:01)
Bren is a city that thrives on showmanship. With it’s wealthy populace and busy streets, it is a performer’s dream- someplace where glitz and glamor can be rewarded in spades. A talented individual could easily make a living there through street performance alone- and even those who weren’t talented could, too, if they were able to put on enough of a show. As such, knowing how to draw an audience became as important a skill as walking for many of the performers who inhabited the city. And it worked.…. Most of the time. Crowds traveling through Bren one sunny morning walked down it’s cobblestone paths, expecting to find the typical roster of parlor tricks and musicians. What they saw put every performer on the road to shame. A giant carriage, clad in jewels and pulled by six white horses, rumbled onto the street, crushing loose stones under its wheels. Trailing behind the carriage was an ensemble of musicians, acrobats, and trained animals, marching in lockstep to a triumphant fanfare. Even larger than the procession, however, was the crowd that had already arrived to see it. People from all walks of life in Bren gathered to witness this showy performance. While the oohs and aahs gained from the performers were plentiful, nothing compared to the cheers that rang out the moment the carriage’s passenger stepped out. “The rumors were true! It’s Mr. Auric!” “Auric is here! Hurry, get the baskets!” “Auric, sir! Won’t you come sample my wares?” The man known as Auric couldn’t help but smile. He always enjoyed this part of coming into towns. Best not to keep his fans waiting. In a flash, he leapt from the door onto the roof of the carriage, allowing himself to be seen by every member of the populace. Here, everyone was able to see exactly who had made such a grand entrance. The man was tall, and even though his skin was hidden inside his extravagant robes, it was easy to tell his body was muscular. Most striking of all, though, was the young man’s face. It was what most would call ‘stunning’- a confident grin, well-chiseled features, and most importantly, an intriguing and alluring gaze in his eye. Auric Au’Mydas stopped and looked at the fans there to greet him, a gigantic grin spread across his face. “Oh, my! You all came to welcome me? How generous! Of course, my dear watchers, generosity must be paid in generosity, yes? Let me show you my appreciation!” Reaching into the large sacks on the carriage’s roof, the man’s hands emerged bearing massive fistfulls of golden coins. With his hands raised, the young financier flung handful after handful of gold into the throng of people. The populace roared as coins fell into their hands and onto the streets, with everyone from peasants to nobles scrambling to pick up the precious metals. He proceeded to empty the contents of every bag atop the carriage, before once again addressing the crowd. “Enjoy, everyone! I’d love to stay, but I simply must get going…. I have an appointment to keep, after all! Ta-ta!” Naturally, not everyone there was happy about his presence. Through the cheers of praise shouted on his way down, he heard swears and curses being thrown upon him. In between the flowers and cards, he would see rocks and handfuls of dirt. Auric took them in stride- admittedly, his behavior would not make everyone adore him- but couldn’t help but notice that those jeering at him were often also the same ones diving and fighting for the coins he gifted his fans. With a knowing smirk on his face, he returned to the interior of the carriage, which then broke away from the procession to his destination- wherever that was. When he returned to the carriage’s comfort, Auric was met by the wizened face of the driver. “Not that I question your judgement, young master…. But must you make such a dynamic entrance every time we go somewhere new?” “First impressions are everything, Mauricio.” Chuckled the rich man. “I prefer to make good ones.” In the back of the crowd sat Kalka- a bandit from the slums- who could not help but express her disdain for the spectacle. It wasn’t the first celebratory entrance she had seen… but she hoped it would be the last. “Elemental Lords,” she thought to herself, “Another grand procession. Can’t someone just walk into town normally anymore?” Eager to forget the gaudy show, Kalka sighed as she returned to her workplace. Being a mercenary was fine and all, but ever since her last job stranded her in Bren, the thief needed to pay her way back home- and a city like this one didn’t lend itself to much underhanded work. Thankfully, she had arrived at a good time- people were needed to help set up the Elemental Championships, and the girl’s eye for talent and no-nonsense attitude quickly earned her a place helping sign up worthy competitors. The office, while boring at times, was a good quiet place for her to focus and get away from the noise and chaos of the city. She would not get the respite she wished, however- as it seemed the registration office was the rich man’s stop. Bursting into the office with a proud look on his face, he began to make his way towards the registrar’s desks. “Come on, not me, not me….” Kalka thought, dreading the idea of needing to cater to a rich pig’s demands. Unfortunately, the man seemed to read her thoughts- and completely ignore them. Striding over to Kalka’s booth, he pulled up a chair and sat across from the young woman. His mind seemed to wander as she tried to ignore his intrusion, and the girl couldn’t help but peek from time to time. So, this was the ‘Auric’ that people were cheering for outside? Kalka had always hated people like this; Upper-class twits who felt like they could do whatever they pleased just because they were wealthy or pretty enough to get away with it. She had seen her share during her time as a bandit- and judging by the fuss he caused coming into town, he was certainly someone who enjoyed the wealthy life he lived. A pretty face could only hide an ugly truth for so long, however, and Kalka was immediately suspicious of what thoughts lay beyond his chiseled features. And yet.. There was something surprisingly innocent about this man that Kalka had never seen in the elites that would come to her asking for favors. In his eyes, there was no sense of disgust or fear- more a look of curiosity as he took in the building around him. It was almost like a kitten, she imagined, opening its eyes for the first time and trying to make sense of the world around it. It was almost endearing- maybe even cute, if the person in question wasn’t a grown man. Of course, being the sharp-tongued girl that she was, Kalka couldn’t resist taking a jab at the obviously privileged man in front of her while he was distracted. “What’s the matter? Never seen a normal workplace before?” Her words seemed to have brought Auric back to reality. Sighing, he returned his gaze to the desk, a look of disappointment crossing his face. “I must admit, I am a tad displeased with the atmosphere here. Aren’t you?” Kalka looked up from her papers in confusion. “Atmosphere? What are you talking about?” “I’m referring to the environment. The lack of aesthetic is stunning. You would think that such a prestigious event would have put more effort into their decorations. Bland and unassuming isn’t quite what I would associate with the Elemental Championship. However… there is one excellent design choice I have noticed.” Suddenly, before she could react, Auric grabbed Kalka’ hands from across the desk. Pushing her palms into his, Auric took delight in both contact with the receptionist and how she reacted to it. Kalka’s skin was rough, calloused by her years of thievery and adventuring, but at the same time tender and sensitive- much like the woman wearing it. The blush on her face confirmed that part- although whether it came from excitement, frustration or embarrassment Auric couldn’t tell (not that it mattered). “If I may say so, my dear… your beauty alone is enough to rival my own, and could bring life to any room. Perhaps I could call an interior designer to spruce this place up? You’re more than welcome to stay with me until renovations are complete…”. Auric’s comments were not appreciated by the receptionist- at least, if the slap he received afterwards was any indication. Kalka knew it wasn’t the right thing to do. She would probably be given the boot from this job, or thrown back on the streets, or even arrested for assaulting an entrant- especially one of Auric’s standing. Judging by how this man spoke, he was VERY proud of his appearance- and she had just left a stinging red mark on it. In her mind, though, it was all worth it, just to finally be able to deck one of those spoiled elites in the face like they deserved. She couldn’t wait to see the shocked and angry look on his face. But, to her surprise, the gold-clad man’s expression did not change. Even with the stinging red mark on his face, once he recovered from the initial shock, all Klaka saw was the same confident smile and amused expression. “Ah… perhaps I came on too strong? I apologize if I made you uncomfortable-that was not my intention. But when I see such beauty… I can’t help but point it out. Now, then, I’ve bothered you long enough. I was told to come here and fill out some forms… shall we do that?” Kalka shook her head, clearing the confusion from her mind as she fetched the papers from within her desk. “R...right. Let’s get those done. First thing’s first. Can I get your full name?” “Oh, how rude of me. I am Auric. Auric…. Au’Mydas.” The billionaire (trillionaire? Quadrillionaire? Howevermanyillionaire?) seemed to whisper out his last name, quickly and without drawing it out. It almost seemed like he wanted to cover it up. Unfortunately for him, Kalka did indeed hear. “Au’Mydas? That explains a lot. You’re one of them, huh? What’s it like being related to that guy? You know, the Baron?” Kalka expected him to respond in the same way he had to everything else- with a laugh, a haughty answer, and maybe an attempt to flirt with the young bandit. She was not prepared for the stone-cold glare he gave the receptionist. “I do not wish to discuss that. Let us move on, please.” The way he spoke about his roots was unlike the flirtatious and pompous person Kalka had seen before. He was stern, straight to the point, and made no spectacle of it. It would seem she had hit a nerve. Best not to press further, she reasoned, “Touchy subject. Got it. Moving on…. your full name’s set, and seeing as you’re clearly no stranger to minerals, I’ve jotted down Earth as your element of choice. The only thing I need from you is to know exactly what it is you want to ask the Elemental Lords for. That’s where I’m having trouble here.” “Oh? And why is that?” “Are you serious? Look at you. What could someone like you possibly want that you don’t have already?” “I don’t suppose you’d accept ‘dinner with the lovely receptionist’ as an answer?” Kalka had to stifle a laugh before continuing. “Afraid not. They probably wouldn’t either. But it just doesn’t make sense to me, you know? You’re in the prime of your life. You have more money than you could ever spend, the looks, the body, and fans wherever you go. And you certainly don’t seem like the type who just wants to fight for the sake of fighting. What’s your endgame here, fancy pants?” Auric was silent for a moment before leaning closely towards the desk. In his eyes was the same glint of intensity Kalka saw when she asked his name. “It is true. I do not need any more wealth. But money cannot buy everything, as much as I would like that to be the case. You claimed you knew of the Au’Mydas clan earlier, correct? Are you aware of what burden comes with that blood?” “Burden? You mean, the fact that you’re all stuck-up jerks?” Auric sighed. “Indeed… There is that. But it goes deeper. We are a cursed bloodline. All of the family before me have been gifted with great power… and all are corrupted by it. As it stands currently, I cannot remove it- even with the help of Lore’s finest mages. It would take a divine gift to undo a curse brought on by the spirit of Greed itself. You seem quite intelligent, miss.. I trust you can piece it together?” By this point, Kalka’s expression had changed to a smirk. Lifting her feet onto the desk, she reeled back in her chair, trying not to burst into laughter. “Wow, that escalated quickly. Just when I thought I could hate you, you’re doing it all for your family. I’ll admit, maybe you’re not a spoiled brat. But is it really worth putting yourself in danger like this? With some of the other competitors here- much less the surprises we’ve got in store this time around- you’d be lucky to leave the ring without at least a few scars on that pretty face. Sure you’re willing to risk it?” Auric’s serious glare did not falter. “As sure as the sun rises. But with all due respect, darling…. In the arena, it is not me you should be worrying about.” A few days later, the two met again- this time, at the entrance to the arena. As Auric was adjusting his outfit, Kalka couldn’t help but have second thoughts about sending the fop onto the battlefield. Just when she thought he was taking the championships seriously, he showed up in a silk robe. She had to question his sincerity one more time- if this was all a joke, it had gone way too far at this point. “You absolutely sure you want to go forward with this? What’s gonna happen if you don’t come back? Don’t you have workers to pay and all?” The wealthy participant raised an eyebrow. “No need to worry about that. If the worst should occur, I’ve already taken precautions. My estate will be divided up, and my funds will be gifted to those I trust. Those who worked for me will be taken care of. Though, currently you’re none of those things…. So I wonder, why would you ask that? Are you.. perchance… worried about me?” “What? It’s nothing like that!” Kalka stammered. “You’re registered and all… it’s only right for the person who filled out the forms to also make sure you know the risks. I’d be held responsible if I didn’t tell you everything I could, and I don’t want to get blamed if your frilly rear gets kicked!” Auric couldn’t help but smile at this point. “Why, it appears I’ve grown on you! There is no need to hide it… it’s only natural, after all, to be fascinated by beauty such as my own. Perhaps you’ve softened up enough to finally accept my dinner invitation?” The young bandit girl seemed taken aback at first, but eventually grinned. “If you make it out of there alive, sure. As long as you’re buying.” “Of course.” The loud clanking of gears signaled it was time for the two to part ways. Standing on the platform, Auric gazed into the distance as he entered the battlefield, with a gleam of excitement in his eyes. Stepping into the unknown, he held his head high- no matter what challenges laid in store for him, Auric would face them like a gentleman. After all… now he had one more thing to fight for. As he walked into the arena, Auric took in the new environment around him. It was all unusual, especially for someone like him. The clanks and whirring of heavy machinery, the rust caking the metal walls, the scent of oil and smoke clouding the air… it was like stepping into a completely alien world. Yet, even in this jarring new environment, Auric Au’ Mydas couldn’t help but see beauty. Beauty he hoped to experience firsthand. The booming voice over the intercom signaled it was time to leap into action, and a loud creaking noise suddenly caught his attention. Once the match began, Auric barely had time to plan his strategy before his heart flew upwards in his chest. It would appear that the arena had started falling around him- trapping the young man and his opponents in the steampunk tomb being buried further and further into the earth. It would seem that there was more to this battlefield than he initially thought. "Ah," he thought to himself, "So this is where all their design budget went."

TripleChaos -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (7/29/2021 17:56:07)
The sun was still sleeping below the horizon when Darvey arrived at Bren. Dozens of vendors called out praise for their wares, the melodies of many distant lands mingled and blended together, and a myriad of people were bustling about streets lit with countless lamps. Lamps that would never match the radiance of Darvey’s own, of course. Carrying such a hefty lantern casually slung over one’s shoulder was strange enough. Stranger still was how it shined with an intensity you’d expect from a beacon, or a resplendent divine blessing. Many who passed by gawked at it, but most paid it no mind, as if they were used to more bizarre things passing through Bren. Yet none who looked seemed to care that they could stare at such a brilliant light without being blinded. Most of the colleagues Darvey has had have told him that such a conspicuous piece of equipment would draw far too much attention. They were mostly right, he did tend to stick out like a sore thumb in more normal cities holding that lantern at the top of his staff. But what they didn’t recognize was the value of knowing exactly where someone’s focus is, and how much more he could get away with while the lantern captivates the attention of all who gaze upon it. Or something like that. He has been caught cheating at cards more than once, so it might not captivate as much as he thinks. But those times must have all been flukes, it’s the only explanation. At the thought of getting caught, Darvey glanced over his shoulder, then ahead at the few dark alleys that looked attractive to hide in. No one was following him. His shoulders sagged and a sigh of relief escaped his lips. For once, a job where he doesn’t have to worry about being tailed. Where he doesn’t have to meet some underboss who really, really needs someone to tell them to take a bath. Where he doesn’t have to do the dirty work of some second-rate apprentice who doesn’t even know how t– No, he reassured himself, it’s nothing I need to worry about today. While he doesn’t always wear a smile, he tries to stay positive. He rarely gets to choose his work, but work it is, and it’s better than nothing. Yes… and it could be even better if he can do well in this tournament. Regardless, this was hardly the worst town to stay a few days in, wander around one street or another, properly soak in the brief rest that it was. Even a simple bit of time off like that would be wonderful. Of course, if it’s too nice here he wouldn’t want to leave, and that would only be a bother. Maybe just a good break instead of wonderful, he corrected himself. Well and good enough for a time, but the kind of break that would get stale if you try to hold onto it too long. That sounds about right. But before any of that, the tournament. He needed to be preparing to fight, not fantasizing about a vacation. No longer lost in thought, a vendor selling particularly striking fruits caught Darvey’s eye. Getting something in his stomach sounds like as good a start as any. He pulled down his hood and approached the merchant who beamed widely and spoke with his whole body. … Darvey stretched an arm across his chest as he walked towards the arena. It didn’t take long, but registration for joining was more time consuming than he had expected. From what he had heard, most combatants just show up for the tournament and suddenly they’re fighting for a crowd that didn’t know they’d be in the arena. Sometimes before even they know they’re fighting in the arena. Not that any of that concerned him. He was just glad that he was allowed to enter. And that they don’t bother to check if a hometown was even real. He was tempted to pledge to Light as an element instead of Darkness, glossing over those very light-averse powers of his. He had stopped himself, however. The people here in Bren seem to care a lot about those elemental gods, lords, whatever they call them. Darvey’s learned from more than one experience that it never is the best idea to lie to a god’s face, especially in full view of their followers. Never pleasant experiences, those ones. Continuing towards the arena, Darvey passed nothing of note. A bit of space to warmup would have been nice, but he’s made due with less. For once, actually, he knew exactly where he’s going to have to fight his opponents, a luxury he’s hardly enjoyed in the past. Fighting was almost as inevitable as it was unpredictable doing the jobs he has to take on, so he’s had plenty of practice serving a beating when need arises. And taking a beating, for that matter. Although, he was no gladiator, and he was certainly not formally trained in any martial arts, so he’d have to take care not to leave any clash up to pure skill. He didn’t see thoughts like these as a lack of confidence, rather just a healthy degree of caution. After all, while many competitors in this tournament tend to meet their demise within the arenas, those who have failed to appeal to their lords may leave the arena with their life, as well as a bit of shame for sure. A boon would surely be a marvelous thing to earn, but it wasn’t worth forfeiting one’s life. At least not to Darvey. As he neared the arena he was assigned to, stone turned to bronze and torchlight was replaced with the harsh illumination of bulbs. He hardly appreciated such uniform lighting. When it’s so easy to have a dozen electric lamps spread light everywhere it really makes it a pain for him to make use of his talents. It was in places like these he was glad he had his lantern, whose light seemed to only be matched by the sun. If a lantern could speak, the one that swung beside Darvey’s head now would be laughing boisterously, proud of how easily it made those electric lights look like mere candles. Eventually he strolled out of the northern gate and arrived at the arena. An arena like no other he had seen before. Instead of a pit of sand, before him was a massive room made entirely of familiar bronze. Expecting a roaring audience fit for only the most renowned of tournaments, he was met with nothing but quiet. Even pulling down his hood, he could only hear a faint mechanical stillness, close to but not quite silent. There were no spectators for this battle, as far as he could tell. Along the edge of the arena a few other figures emerged from gates, at the same time as Darvey did. They seemed to be stationary for the moment, so he started to size them up one at a time, starting with the closest one, to his left. Hmm. Taller than me. A fellow with a grotesque arm. Very large claws too, good thing they’re only on one side. Grafted on? No, it’s clearly not something voluntary. I thought it was customary to dispose of failed experiments, though I suppose not everyone follows the ethical standards for those fields of study. I must admit, I wish I had a coat like his, and that hat looks quite dashing. Wait, is that a gu– With a burst of mechanical grinding gears, the ground beneath Darvey began to shake, before abruptly falling. His own body took a moment to catch up with the now falling arena, and he would have been completely winded by the drop if he didn’t use a pair of extra hands to catch his fall, if only slightly. He hoped no one noticed them. Returning to his senses as the arena’s freefall steadied, his eyes widened and dread swelled within him. The gate he had just crossed grew smaller and smaller above him as the platform fell further down the passage. As Darvey stared up, a voice called down below. “And so begins the Trial of Descent. Fight or Die, adventurers, but let the Elemental Championships begin!” Just what I get for thinking this would be easy.

Necro-Knight -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (7/29/2021 19:56:54)
A disheveled set of bedding. A balcony door that was thrown open at some point during the previous night’s activities. A man half hanging off the bed in which he’d collapsed, still garbed in his previous night's attire. This was the room Krehgor found himself on the warm Bren morning following a swift knock at his door. The memories came flooding back to him as he drew himself from what was left of a finely-made bed set. A drink in the local tavern a few blocks away… or maybe seven drinks and him stumbling into the Inn, properly scaring a waitress in the process as his mutated limb caught the warm hearthlight. Before he needed to defend himself from a flying platter, the Inn owner, a balding man with an accent depicting nobility and round body, had stepped up to his side. He had reassured the woman that with the local championship in full swing, all sorts of odd characters would soon be visiting Bren. Krehgor would’ve zealously argued with being called bizarre if he could’ve formed the words, but instead he was escorted to a room and let him collapse into a room. Any more details beyond that escaped Krehgor’s memory as he finally righted himself from the mattress and staggered out onto the balcony. The harsh desert sun sent a stabbing pain through the man’s left eye and forced him to bring up his twisted arm, its black shell clicking softly against itself as he did so. As the pain faded to a dull throb and his eyes adjusted after blinking furiously, the man suddenly realized he was at least two stories off the ground. Even through the pain, his brain finally connected with the sensations of hot sun, dry air in his lungs and the sound of a bustling city below. When he had arrived the night before and drunk himself below several tables, Krehgor had not truly realized how large Bren was. From what he could see from his room, he was somewhere near the center of the city, with a grand arena towering over any other structure towards the West. As his original goal for seeking out the sand-swept city came back into focus in his mind’s eye, he remembered that was his destination, not the random tavern he’d woken up in. The monolith of architectural design must’ve seen more battles than Krehgor had seen tombs and he’d raided enough places of the dead to almost prefer them to the living. Rarely did they have good mead though. As his mind cleared with every breath of fresh morning air and wave of the white curtains that hung around the balcony, he turned to head back into his room and prepare himself for the coming conflicts, when a flash of scarlet caught his gaze. His eyes had been trained after years in dark tombs to pick out brightly-colored treasures and the woman who caught his eye in the courtyard below shined with more radiance than any gem or jewel he’d dug up. Red hair like fire that fell to her shoulders moved softly in the breeze in time with a simple white sun-dress that hung around her ankles and Krehgor leaned carefully over the railing of his balcony to keep her in view as down the path towards the Inn. A large swimming pool was set up below him he suddenly noticed and assumed she must’ve been part of the staff, preparing the leisure area for possible morning customers. The tall woman straightened lounge furniture, corrected the placement of plants upon tables that reminded Krehgor of his few visits to tropical locations and somehow left everything she touched with the same radiance that she herself possessed. A smirk spread his lips as the fog in his brain cleared enough to make the connection. Magic. He’d been around enough blessed (and cursed) artifacts to recognize when an object was simply not mundane, but as he reached up to grasp the metallic curtain rod overhead with his clawed hand and lean out further, he was only confused and further by her brilliance the longer he tried to decipher it. The enchantment he’d fallen victim to was promptly broken when the sound of snapping metal pierced his ears and his extended weight suddenly fell victim to gravity. Having gone spelunking through enough caverns and dilapidated sepulchures to make most royal archivists jealous, Krehgor was no stranger to structures giving out on him, but he cursed his claws for apparently having torn the curtain rod free without him realizing it. Where his mind had mostly shaken off the previous night, his body was still failing to respond to anything besides basic commands and all he succeeded in doing was dragging his claws against the finely carved stone balcony as he sloppily tumbled over its edge with a cry, the curtain whipping wildly as it trailed behind him. He hit the surface of the pool with an unceremonial splash that sprayed most of the surrounding area and his body was engulfed in cold water that had not yet warmed from the morning sun. The sudden shock washed away the remaining fog from both body and mind and Krehgor twisted in the waters, kicking his legs to push himself up towards the side of the pool. Catching it with his clawed arm, hauled himself from the waters with ease and only stumbled for half of a step as he stood there, cocoa-colored hair stuck to his skull and clothes hanging heavily from his form. Wiping a few drops from his eyes, Krehgor turned to his left and right, realizing suddenly that the woman who had drawn such a foolish mistake from his hungover self was… suddenly gone. The decor and furniture she’d corrected was still in its place, so he concluded she was far from a hallucination or dream, but even as he walked the edges of the courtyard and peered out into the streets nearby, he saw no evidence of the woman. Turning back to the pool to gather the curtain and its crushed suspension rod, Krehgor simply smiled to himself. Not every beauty was meant to be seen up close and not every mystery had a truth to be found. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- After informing the pudgy Innkeep of the… accident that had transpired in his room above, Krehgor made a swift promise to return to aid with repairs once the contest was over, as his pockets were unsurprisingly empty of any coin. The Innkeep agreed, albeit with a wary look, and Krehgor was on his way towards the arena after collecting his effects. This included a heavy leather coat that hung down to his knees, equally-mutated revolving firearm that he snuggled into its holster on his left thigh, a wickedly sharp kukri knife and a wide-brimmed hat reminiscent of a tropical explorer. Even as he drew many strange and cautious looks from a few select citizens of Bren, Krehgor simply tipped his hat towards them. He’d lost any self-conscious feelings regarding his mutations long ago and now simply appreciated the blessing in disguise he’d been given. When he’d accepted the job to go tomb-raiding in a Lich’s former Necropolis, he’d only been focused on what other treasures he could find and pawn off, as well as the journal that his mysterious contact had requested. What he’d not expected to find was a deathtrap of experiments that had out-lasted their master, which had complicated the job considerably. From undead stitchworks, to living swords, the necropolis had tested him to his limits before the Lich’s final trick played out. As soon as the Lich’s journal left its resting place, the room had filled with infectious slimes, their orange, gelatinous bodies flying at him with malicious intent. His crossbow, now twisted into the revolving six-shooter he wore at his side, had done little against the creations and his left side had been nearly completely consumed by the time he escaped the necropolis. As he burst back into the open air of the surface, he stumbled and finally fell as the infection in his blood became more than his body could fend off. Everything after was a black void in his mind, only clearing once he’d awoken in the bed of a nearby Green Witch. She’d taken him in and used a fungal remedy to fend off the infection in his body, but the resulting combinations of pathogens in his body had left him with the mutations he’d become so accustomed to now. His first test of this gift was spreading the infection to the dissolved remains of his crossbow, shaping it into something far more deadly. The Witch had asked for only one thing in return; the Lich’s journal. Krehgor had gladly given the stupid book up, already sick of the job and wanting to process the changes to his form. That… had taken some time. Another smile rose the corners of his mouth as he remembered how he’d forgotten his number one rule of never swiping a treasure cleanly from its pedestal without doing a sweep for traps or countermeasures. He’d only made that mistake once and he intended to keep it that way going into this competition. Trust nothing, he told himself as he pulled himself from his trip down memory lane and swaggered his way into the main receiving area of the arena. He used his normal hand to sign any waivers or paperwork that was required. He was still adjusting to writing with his right hand, resulting in lettering that was more reminiscent of a toddler’s attempts at a signature, but the man behind the window accepted it without a word. He then directed Krehgor towards a set of open doors to his left, leading down a dark hallway. The walk was long, but he’d experienced longer, going both up or down and sometimes even both. He simply took the time to gather his thoughts, counting and recounting his possessions to ensure he hadn’t forgotten anything. One extra clip of ammunition, his weaponry, his hat… most importantly his hat. Thankfully, it had come out of his expedition into the necropolis completely unscathed and he’d counted his lucky stars ever since. The one thing he was not grateful for was the glaring light reflecting off the metallic walls from electric lights above, tipping his hat downward to shield his eyes from the glare. He was a tomb raider, a grave robber at his core. Him and extreme light had a tenuous relationship at the best of times and he found himself silently hoping to that same luck he always seemed to carry that the arena stage itself would not be like this. As the headache from earlier that morning threatened to return, he finally reached a door that he prayed would lead to some welcome darkness. Instead he was met with the stinging stench of mechanical fluid and steam that rustled the edges of his coat as the door opened of its own accord. The man did a double-take, confused. He was meant to be fighting in an arena, the attendant had told him, not waltzing his way into what seemed to be the heart of some great clockwork creation. As a wide array of different individuals, five in total, made their way into the factory’s heart around him, Krehgor tucked his clawed hand against his firearm and accepted what he already knew. This was the arena, a churning maw of gears, steam and stone strapped with metal surrounding a circular bronze floor. While this was not his preferred location to pick a fight, that was most often a dark alley behind a pub, it was at least an improvement from the uncomfortable light of the entrance. Striding out into the arena with his other hand tucked into his coat pocket, he was about to introduce himself to his fellow combatants when his next step only caught open air and he fell forward for the second time that day. He managed to turn the falling motion into a tumbling roll and came up on his left knee, even as his opponents suffered similar shock. The arena floor had dropped out from beneath them with speed that reminded him of another trap he’d nearly been killed by, though he had to shake away the memory as his mind raced for options. If this was how they were meant to fight, he would need to act quickly before one mistake ended up banging him off of the walls rushing past and grinding him down to the bone. He was about to try and make a flying leap at the first thing that caught his eye, that being a man adorned with nobleman’s gold and finery, when the floor suddenly slowed its descent almost as abruptly as it had begun, settling at a only slightly threatening speed instead of a murderous one. “And so begins the Trial of Descent. Fight or Die, adventurers, but let the Elemental Championships begin!” “...Descent, huh? I know a few things 'bout going und'rground. Oh what treasures and trials await me this time…”

Dragonknight315 -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (7/29/2021 20:11:34)
“500 gold.” “That was not what we agreed!” Albus growled as he looked down into the escort’s blue eyes. “One part before, the other half when we arrived at Bren. You cannot expect me to go along with this.” The alchemist leaned in closer. He towered over the tanned-skinned elf. Lean, frail. Albus could crush him like an ant. Yet the escort stood proud as he stretched out his palm. The disrespect made his blood boil. “Oh, but I do, sir. With what I have seen, you should be grateful. After all, your friend is quite the curiosity, no?” The chimeran’s claws twitched at the mention. “You wouldn’t dare.” The escort smiled, amused at his work. “If you want your secret safe, then I expect 500.” That was it. “Oh, I don’t think so.” Albus gave his own twisted grin. “No need to pay a dead man.” Without hesitation, Albus lunged for the man’s throat. He hoisted him into the air with one hand. He pressed his thumb against the skin, slowly rubbing his claw against his flesh until a trickle of blood began to flow. There was a gasp. But it was not from the escort. “F-father? Albus’s eyes went wide as he turned around. A crowd had formed from others in the caravan. One of them caught his attention. A little elven girl dressed in rags watched in horror. Albus looked back at the escort, his hands desperately trying to pry off his claws to no avail. The sight left a bad taste in his mouth. Albus released his grip, letting the escort fall into the sand. He took a few steps back, and several members from the crowd rushed to the elf’s side. Albus turned his head as he reached for a sack at his waist. “350. But don’t you dare threaten me or my own again. Understand?” “Here we are. . .” Albus sighed with relief as his bags dropped on the floor. He was overjoyed to be out of that forsaken desert. Or at least he would be if that elf hadn’t tried to fleece him. He had given up so much to make it here. Now, not even a moment into Bren, Albus had already found more trouble. For both of their sakes, Albus hoped that they would never cross again. At least the inn was more welcoming. No curious eyes, no glares of judgment. The inn-keeper took a week’s worth of rent, and that was it. It was as if a spotted goat-lion was a common sight. Indeed, Albus took some joy at the wide array of different peoples he had seen so far. Most had been the typical human, elf, or dwarf. But there were many others. Some bird-kin, some lizard-folk. He even swore that he saw a fish person! How did they even make it to Bren? A single town in the middle of a vast desert. One could not find this place by accident. No, all who traveled here had intent. They had purpose. Albus brushed some of the sand off his fur. He had no time to spare; there was work to do. Amidst the many sacks, Albus moved for the largest. One by one, he untied the many strings and chains that held it together. After a few minutes, it was done. Inside was a person, clothed in leathers and a heavy blue cloak. Albus could scarcely call him human anymore. He was more like a doll. His whole body was a pale white like alabaster. The flesh was hard like rubber, flecks of gold running through it like veins. He appeared to be in his late teens, yet Albus knew better. It had been almost a decade since the two had first met. The process had perfectly preserved him at his time of death. Albus pulled him out and gently placed the body on the bed before rummaging through his backpack. The alchemist paused as he pulled out a vial of pure gold. As he pulled the cork, tiny traces of white light illuminated the opening. A soft hum and the scent of lavender filled the air as Albus turned towards his friend. Even now, years later, Albus could never shake this feeling of guilt. But every time, he gave the same excuse. It is what he wants. Albus carefully poured the potion into the figure’s mouth so as to not waste a single drop. Afterwards, Albus sat at the end of the bed, waiting for it to take effect. Soon, there was a gasp as life returned to him. He lifted his eyes and looked towards his spotted friend. “. . . Albus? Are we here?” He spoke, lifting himself from the bed. “We’re here, Luka. I’m. . . sorry.” Albus turned his gaze. “It’s been a few days since. . .We were low on water. Sacrifices had to be made, and—” “Oh, no worries!” Without missing a beat, Luka gave a big smile as he stretched his arms. “I can always come back, after all. Will say, I quite enjoyed the nap!” Albus gave a weak chuckle at the boy’s attitude. So much trust in him, so carefree about death . . . He was something else entirely. “So.” Luka spoke as traced his gear. “What’s the plan, Albus?” “I’m glad you asked.” Albus shrugged off his doubts and focused. “We need coin. Stealing the parts outright is too risky. I’m sure you can work your magic?” “Consider it done.” The risen gave a wink before muttering something under his breath, and then he vanished. Soon the door “opened” by itself, and Luka was on his way. It made Albus smile. The last few days had been hard without him. We’ll get through this. Together. Albus rested against the edge as he looked across the red sands of the arena. It was surprisingly easy to gain access to the stands. The area wasn’t particularly guarded. With only a week remaining, the workers frantically came in and out as they finished preparations. Some were hanging up decorations, others swept the corridors. After pocketing some tools, Albus stuck close to one group and kept quiet until he could break away. For all the stories he had heard, nothing could have prepared Albus for this sight. In its own way, the red sands were beautiful. Countless numbers of souls had fought here, their blood dyeing the ground. Even still, Albus felt at peace. He could sit and stare for hours. As Albus looked out, there was one note that caught his attention. There were no pillars, no statues, nothing that announced the Lords' presence. It made Albus laugh; of course it wouldn't be so easy. If they were here now, it would save Albus the trouble of participating in the bloodbath. Still, such a powerful presence should leave some trace. . . Albus reached into his backpack and pulled out a lead box. Inside was a chunk of pure, crystalized, unaspected mana. As he opened the box, immediately the clear crystal began to shine like a kaleidoscope. "Such potency. . ." Albus was in awe. This was exactly what he was looking for. He walked up and down the stands, eyes fixed on the crystal's shine. High in the upper decks, the chunk swirled with color, but as he returned to the lower area, it grew brighter and brighter. Albus peered several stories below to the red sands. The madman considered jumping for a moment. If only he could touch the sand and take a sample. He needed it. But Albus was painfully aware that he would not survive the fall. Even if he could, there was no way he could climb out, not now. Albus could feel the eyes on the back of head. He had to go, now. He gave one final glance towards the sands. He couldn’t survive, but he knew just the person who could. Still, some bitter voice in his head wished to touch the sands with his own two paws. He would have to earn his way. “Come in!” Albus did not lift his eyes from his work as Luka entered. “Did you get the sample?” Albus spoke, his eyes still trained on the mess of wires before him. “Better, I got several.” The risen pulled out a handful of bottles full of the red sands. “It was pretty easy, actually.” Luka crashed onto the spare bed and began to juggle the bottles. Albus gave a snort. “I forget you are most. . . accustomed to our condition.” Indeed, it almost drove Albus mad. Even in his imperfect state, Luka could move freely, his new flesh more of a gift than a curse. Meanwhile, Albus gritted his teeth as he tried to work his left claw. All the knowledge in his head, and yet his body would not cooperate. Perhaps if he too had a decade of practice, it would be nothing. Regardless, he did not want to worry Luka; he simply forced a smile and nodded. “Thank you. It’s exactly what I needed.” Albus reached to take the glass bottles. He uncorked one of them and held the mana crystal to its surface. As it drew close, Albus had to cover his eyes as it lit up in sharp beauty. “To think, this is only a fraction of their power. . .” Albus gave a soft grin as he placed the crystal back in its box. This was the most potent source of elemental mana that the alchemist had ever come across. With these samples, Albus could tune his machine to hone in on it. He could see it all coming together. Soon, he would have enough mana to perfect his research. A potion that could stave off death without any side effects? The demand would be endless. Kings, armies, hospitals– They would be in his pocket for once. He could cure him and Luka. Then, Albus could finally settle down in peace. Albus let out a laugh. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? After several years of failed attempts, perhaps this dream will come true. After a deep breath, the Chimera beckoned the risen over. “Hey, Luka, could you do me a favor and. . .” The two worked throughout the night, crafting their way forward. The sun rose on the fated day as Albus and Luka made their final preparations. Albus hoisted the haversack on one shoulder, ebon hammer resting on the other. “Now, I can’t make you stay, but I would prefer if you remained here.” Luka kept silent as he helped wrap the backpack across Albus’s other shoulder as the alchemist continued. “With all the commotion out there, I don’t want you getting hurt. Someone might recognize you, and I would rather not be rushed out. Even if this competition goes nowhere, Bren is a nice place to live. I’m sure we’ll find some work.” The lion-goat turned to the risen and placed one hand on Luka’s shoulder. “Just. . . stay low, okay? I only have one vial left.” “Don’t hesitate to use it. You better take care of yourself, too. I’ll be watching.” Luka gave a wink as he vanished once more. Albus chuckled. “I’ll try not to disappoint you.” “Oh, this is not fair.” As Albus made his way through the corridor, he could not help but admire the architecture, the pure genius of whatever mechanism made up this place. Albus did not think much of himself when it came to engineering. He was an alchemist first, tinkerer second. The humming brick of a siphon was a patch job, nothing more. If he had the funds, he would have had a real engineer put it together. But here in this corridor, the place made the giant feel small. Towering pillars of moving metal, chains of bronze and rows of gears– He could spend a thousand years here and not even see a fraction of its wonder. As he reached the end of the corridor, there was a click, and Albus marched onto the copper floor. Before he could truly take in his surroundings, there was a screech, and floor jerked below him. Albus stumbled, adjusting himself as the platform descended. *“And so begins the Trial of Descent. Fight or Die, adventurers, but let the Elemental Championships begin!”* As the voice echoed throughout the arena, the chimeran cracked his neck and took up his warhammer. Albus took a deep breath and roared, his cry rising above the screeching metal. Time for some field testing.

deathlord45 -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (7/29/2021 20:40:02)
Looking down upon the streets of Bren bathed in the light of dawn, Lukhan took in all there was to see in this area. The brilliant cerulean sky stained with the colors of dawn as back lighting the light creature as it began the leisurely stroll out of the sky. The slowly rising cacophony of the streets below as the masses began to rouse from their nightly slumber reached their ears, causing the creature to frown and scrunch up their face. So ungraceful these thronging swarming creatures. Can’t they be quieter and more orderly, not that hard you cretins. Keeping themselves above the writhing pushing mass of lesser creatures moving through streets below. A few of the plebeian entities crowding the city made shouts of astonishment at Lukhan’s glorious existence, as they walked on the light of the sun towards the arena that rises above the city. Locking their eyes on the arena before them a small smile tugs at the lips of the child of dawn as they make their way there. Ah yes, the proving ground that I had heard about. Time to remind these mongrels about their collective place beneath me and all other helio sprites. As the mighty building came to dominate Lukhan’s view their smug grin turned into a quiet indignant grimace as they entered the building lightly touching the floor as they quickly strode through. As they walked down the bland grey hall that ended in the harsh muddy light at the end perplexed and annoyed the creature. Why such a gaudy pitiful light? Surely the only light they would need here would be either myself or the sun. Paltry imitations of true glory are unneeded at best and utter wastes at their worst. Stepping through what the Dawnlight supposed was some sort of vague attempt at intimidation in the pathetic shape of an iron door and into what was to be their proving ground proper, the helio sprite found themself squinting at their surroundings both the grounds and those who joined them there in. Bleh. Such mediocre design, if this is to be a place of glory could they have not reflected that? Even the others here are such ill fits of this place where I shall ascend beyond all others, so drab, dull and boring. “Listen well you impotent dregs of creations true glory walks amongst you. If you understand your place, submit or flee if you value what little worth your lives have, else die knowing just how inadeq-” The sturdiness of the floor beneath the entity gave out as they spoke to the gathered rabble. A deep old fear welled up in the heart of the Dawnlight before settling as the descent slowed. This is like the fall when a sudden eclipse happens and the light of the sun disappears. This is not right! WE AREN’T IN THE SKY NOR UNDER THE LIGHT OF THE SUN! I SHALL TEAR WHOMEVER THOUGHT THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA INTO SHREDS WITH MY BEAR HANDS! “And so begins the Trial of Descent. Fight or Die, adventurers, but let the Elemental Championships begin!” “I’m going to kill all you insignificant peons!”

Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (7/29/2021 21:31:00)
As Connen-Nuete stared blankly towards the azure skies above, he was slowly realizing just how bothered he was about his current circumstances. It went far beyond the physical discomforts of his combustible disguise. Sure, the cloak itself was badly tailored and well-worn into his father’s build, so it draped poorly over his leaner frame. So too was the wig driving him mad with an incessant itch, though he found the bits he had plastered to his eyebrows worse still. Anytime he furrowed his brow it felt like a pair of wooly caterpillars were wriggling around in a many-legged swing jig. Heck, even walking in that heel-to-toe gait of plantigrade humanity pinched uncomfortably at the arches of his bandaged feet. Yet those were all self-inflicted nuisances of physicality. He could look past those. It was, he was coming to realize, simply the fact that he was in Bren. Had things gone more to plan, he shouldn’t even be here. The Business certainly had put forth incredible efforts to keep his father from ever setting foot in this mecca of civilization. Stubborn and motivated as the collective host of F.E.R.R.E.T.kind had been, however, Hadin was more stubborn still. They had only been able to buy their second-eldest brother two years to prepare for today. Two precious, irreplaceable years to scramble for martial knowledge enough to hold his own on a field of combat. Seven hundred or so nights to gently infiltrate his father’s mind just in case today ever came. Perhaps it had always been inevitable that this day, today, would come. Where Connen-Nuete would be staring into the sky while his father remained in a psychically induced sleep. Safe in one of Bren’s many inns a few miles down Supplicant’s Way while his son took his place in the competition itself. Though his father would treat that as a betrayal of trust to the highest degree, Con wondered if the sun shining down on Bren would judge him for it. After all, it had shone down upon his younger brother Lucar-Narash with the warmth of a triumphant Hero...yet his many degrees great-nephew Lodesh-Tinphair had been sunbathing in the warmth of the embarrassed Fool. He certainly didn’t feel very heroic this morning, but that didn’t automatically condemn him to being foolish. Ah well, he would simply have to make the best of it. No one else was forcing him to replace his father, that was his own doing. A bit of the classic Gan-Kar stubbornness at work perhaps. A desire to do things right where his father had the idea all wrong and sideways. He must have furrowed his brow though. Con felt an explosion of unpleasant tingles radiating through his forehead from those execrable false eyebrows, alongside the brush of a soft psychic whisper. ’I hope you don’t lose focus this easily inside the Arenas…’ He stirred himself back to the reality around him, the gaze of his citrine eyes glancing first around the crowd then downwards to one of the pockets of his purloined cloak, where he met the stare of a pair of beady sapphire eyes of a very peculiar stoat. “Mn. Relax, little sister,” he mused softly. Con blinked down at her before getting back to scanning the crowd. The pair of them were looking for someone who might design to carry the stoat safely amidst the crowd to watch from the stands. Someone who might prove sympathetic to the sibkin of the Business. In fact, they had someone specific in mind, if only one of them could keep his head out of the clouds and continue looking. “Just currently a bit out of sorts for what I had to do to Da earlier is all.” The soft response in his mind was far beyond words, conveying a mix of blatant disbelief alongside a silent sympathy. Then she climbed out of his pocket to his shoulder before veritably sashaying - Con could certainly tell even if a human couldn’t - along his arm to perch upon the top of his stave. Con barely avoided a very un-elderly snort of laughter as he shook his head at the sight. ‘It’s happened. You did what was necessary and according to plan. Just focus on the Now already.' It was a reassuring reminder from his diminutive sibling. Ferretkind simply did not dwell in the past once a decision was made. Sure, they attempted to learn from it and there was always a time for storycraft and tale-spinning where more notable events were recounted. They just didn’t tend to let decisions weigh them down moment to moment. Kept themselves free with the presence of mind to tackle the consequences as they came, whether planned or unplanned. “Right. Right...guess that’s Da’s upbringing showing, and all the time I’ve spent nonstop as a humanoid since we found out about this whole…thing.” Con shook his head again, careful to disturb the itchy mass of false hair as little as possible, before scanning the crowd within the walls of the Arena Complex once more. That was the problem of searching for a specific person in a crowd as vast as the throng of Championship spectators. It was like scrounging for a needle amidst a haystack - and he certainly couldn’t just burn the chaff away here. They weren’t even fully certain that the person in question would be here. Just a reasonable suspicion buoyed by the past experiences of his sibkin. Citrine irises flashing as his eyes darted back and forth looking for needles, anyone even close to whom they were looking for. Needles...needles… The flash of straw-hued hair… A wavy pin holding the hair in place… Emerald eyes - the natural kind - narrowed with hints of suspicion and levelled in his general direction… Connen-Nuete blinked in surprise mostly at that last detail. Tilting his head slightly, he glanced to his sister still perched atop his father’s stave as he asked, “Is that who I think it is?” 'She certainly fits the parameters, after considering likely growth. Besides, look at her wrist.' Con’s gaze flicked back towards the young lass in the distance. Unnervingly, she was still looking in their direction but he tried to pay it no mind as he sought sight of her wrists through the throng of attendees. It took a few long moments before he managed to catch a flash of faded scarlet silk. Far too coincidental when matched with that particular pin in her hair. “Mmm, brother Lucar-Narash always did have wonderful taste in clothes. Bold of her to turn it into a wrist scarf...but yes, I think we’ve found her at last. That’s a thane’s scalebreaker being used as a hair pin.” ‘Lodesh-Tinphair gave away a scalebreaker? He never mentioned that.’ His sibling’s surprise was filled more with mirth than reproach. Rather than smirk in response, however, Con began to scowl lightly. “Mn. Why should he have? He idolized the Lightsplitter and would certainly have left a token himself after having run into her.” ‘We are in agreement then. She seems curious enough, staring at us so. Shall we call her over?’ Con barked out in harsh laughter before shaking his head negatively. Not only did the movement draw his sibling’s attention back towards him, it gave him ammunition to feed his scowl, deepening it at the wave of irritation that bloomed across his scalp and brow. She only had to read his expression to know what he had in mind. It would almost be creepy to hear their next words be in perfect unison, had the stoat’s reply not been telepathic. “Playfight? Playfight.” ‘Playfight? Playfight.’ Though they had never actually deigned to call it such, a playfight was both game and practice amidst the kits of the Business. Con was usually roped into playfights to garner the attention of Hadin himself, as a means of introducing the Godfather of the Business to one of the kits who felt needy for his attention. The more theatrical the better too, in order to help the old man’s memory cement the connections. Not that the pair expected to need to be all that dramatic in order to lure the lass in close. The trick would be in not paying her any attention at all. Con began to waggle nonexistent jowls as he deepened his voice into full Elder mode and raised his volume to start causing a scene. “No means no, you recalcitrant robot. You will do as I tell you or I swear -” As he spoke the stoat began to bristle her fur, exposing bits of the grey undercoat beneath her fine ivory fur. Yet to sell being cut off by a mental reply, Con was the one who had to recoil. Widening his eyes as he jerked his head back, then narrowing them dangerously before ‘responding’ again even more loudly. “How dare you insinuate knowing better than your Creator. I’m the one who made your kind, and that means my word is Law. Do you understand, you miniscule marionette of cogs and collagen?!” The stoat’s retort this time was accompanied by a withering salvo of chittering dooks as her claws dug into the top of the stave. It took considerable willpower for Con to react with an appropriate growl building into a good, old-fashioned raving shout. Especially since she was giggling in his head, begging for ‘more! More! Oh, and do the flywheels next!’ Honestly, it was sabotage of the highest order! “Continue this tetchy toddler tantrum, and I swear by the Lords and Ladies that I!” Con began to shake the stave, slamming the butt end of the shaft against the ground with each exclamation for good measure. All to give a bit of extra rave to the one-sided ranting. Emphatic as the motions were, however, he did his best not to make it too hard for his sibling to maintain her perched stance. “Will teach! Your fractious ferretine self! What! The ‘fly’ in flywheels! Truly! Means!” He began to turn as if to get ready and launch his sibling up and over the nearest wall, but he was interrupted by a hand landing on his shoulder. “HEY! OLD GUY! LEAVE OFF, WILL YA?” Lock. Stock. ’And a barrel full of ferrets!’ Connen-Nuete twirled ‘round to face the young woman, having the advantage of his sibling’s mental confirmation to prove their success. Given the occasional absolute lunatic among competitors, the crowd itself had given them a wide berth and much skepticism. But not her. Con’s scowl softened by degrees from the fight to keep a knowing smile from blooming on his face. Harder still was maintaining the gruffness of his falsified voice as he addressed her, despite how grateful he felt that she was proving to be exactly who they had hoped. Rather than a dangerous growl, he was rather certain it was more strangled as he addressed her directly. “And what’s it to you, girl?” “You are being incredibly RUDE. Especially since that,” and she pointed to the stoat atop the stave, “must be a F.E.R.R.E.T. Which means they’re family of Lucar-Narash and Lodesh-Tinphair. So they deserve some RESPECT.” He didn’t reply immediately. Face to face as they now were, he finally had the chance to get a good look at the young woman that Sonya had grown to become. How she had swept her blonde hair up into a stylish half-bun secured by the scalebreaker, and he’d missed earlier that she had left a fair few locks to cascade down her shoulders. Sonya was definitely slim and still rather petite in build, but she was staring at him dead in the eye. Glaring, really. She probably still had a bit of growth to go though, as at a guess she would be around the same physical age as he was at fifteen or thereabouts. The wrist-scarf made from his brother’s gift of a ferretine robe was a nice splash of color, too, on an otherwise drab set of attire. Not more than a plain beige skirt and an off-white blouse, probably speaking of harder times. But there was such spirit in her eyes! Would it last? He needed to be sure. “I treat my children with respect when they earn it. She has yet to gain that privilege, nor have you. Leave a family’s business to their father.” She didn’t recoil away. Both of the siblings could see curiosity spark in her eyes by the slight widening at the mention of ‘my children’, but she didn’t recant. Instead she narrowed her eyes at him and matched his scowl with one of her own. “They are so far beyond you now. You no longer have that right, not after Lucar-Narash fought and died here for his family. Lucar is far more of a father than you can ever claim!” The loyalty she was showing his brother was touching. “Mn? Is that so?” Her opinion logged and noted, but more importantly she had proven sufficient in his eyes. Con glanced towards his sibling, who twitched her whiskers in approval, before dropping the act entirely as he leaned in close to Sonya. “We know you, Sonya,” he whispered softly. “Though no need to disparage my father quite so badly, I was just acting the part to test you.” Even his sibling chimed in. ‘We really were just playing! Hadin really doesn’t act like that to family. Oh, and you’ve gotten much better at pronouncing our relatives’ names, too. We appreciate the effort!’ It rather stole Sonya’s thunder, their sudden admission of charlatan acting. Her righteous anger for a personal cause evaporated into a stunned spluttering. “I...you...wha? How?” Connen-Nuete laughed, albeit softly. Better to let the crowd think the trio resolving the argument peacefully rather than shifting gears quite as thoroughly as they were. “It would be rather awful of us not to recognize the bearer of ferretine gifts. Why my little brother was rather proud of that robe, and my nephew certainly didn’t help his chances any by giving you one of his scalebreakers. Ah, but I’m getting ahead of the point a bit, aren’t I? I’m Connen-Nuete Gan-Kar, and this adorable little bundle of fur is one of my innumerable little sisters.” ‘Charmed to meet you at last! I am Velshara, and I also bear the name-title of the Chronicler, if you’d prefer. Though I’m really his niece, you see. Oh! And feel free to call him Con, the entire Business does.’ “S-Sonya. Sonya Bramshire.” The young lass was still reeling, poor thing. It would have been preferable to take things more slowly, perhaps, and ease her into the concept of telepathic communication. Or maybe it was the revelation that they knew of her rather keenly. Probably both? Indeed, both those things had her struggling to keep up. “Look, Connenwhatever, what I don’t get is how you think you know me.” ‘Why wouldn’t we? They certainly knew you enough to leave you gifts.’ “But that doesn’t~!” Connen-Nuete coughed loudly, interrupting Sonya’s protest before continuing with a bit of an academic tone of voice. Though he did expect Velshara to interweave as he directed their discussion. “Ahem. Sorry. Velshara isn’t really explaining well. See, we know you because Lucar-Narash and Lodesh-Tinphair met you. Knew you, however briefly those interactions were. Tales are shared - spun from memories directly, at least with Lodesh-Tinphair - among our family rather regularly. By the by? It is proper to speak a name fully unless given permission to shorten it. Every male ferret is given a name consisting of two hyphenated syllabic pairs. While us females invariably keep to trisyllabic names. Though the occasional name-Title, like the Chronicler here, break those unspoken traditions. See those titles always bear a significant role to fulfill, sometimes chosen and sometimes forced upon them in order to~” They had reached Sonya’s breaking point. She threw her hands up wildly just to get them to pause long enough for her to get a word in. “Wait! Stop, STOP! Please. Why are you telling me all of this?” He blinked slowly before gazing into her eyes with somber seriousness. “Because we trust you, of course. Oh, and because you’re needed this time around. No gifts for you, but a task!” His expression broke into a rather cheeky grin. “Call it a reward for prior services rendered if you like.” “A task?! Who the hell do you think you are to give me a task to perform like...like…” Con laughed brightly. “Like a trained animal? Nooo, nothing so banal. You see, the Chronicler here needs to watch what goes on this year. Thus her name-title! Lodesh-Tinphair has a habit of warping the truth of what happened, so his story always changes slightly. Even in memory. While Lucar-Narash, well…” A wave of sadness passed over the trio for a moment as the conversation paused at the reminder of what had happened despite Lucar-Narash’s triumph. “Yeah…” came the muted acknowledgement from Sonya. “In any case, the Business itself is loath to allow anyone to come to the Arena anymore. If anyone ever does get permission, then we have to bring along someone to witness what happens. Fair enough, right?” He winked over to Sonya as he led the group to start walking towards his destiny in Factory. “Well, as it stands, the Business has an incredibly difficult time preventing their charming, wonderful leader from managing a bit of mischief on his own.” ‘Meaning he’s off script from what the whole family of Ferrets had agreed upon.’ “Quite! So here I am, ready and willing to compete despite all the very many convincing reasons to the contrary. A mountainous levy of evidence that I had to carefully consider, I assure you. But I can hardly subject my little sister to the perils ahead. Not when there’s a perfectly safe means for her to witness the ghastly affair ahead of me.” Sonya came to a halt and reached out to grasp at the sleeve of his disguise, bringing them all to a momentary stop. He turned his head to regard her, finding himself subject to a concerned frown and searching emerald eyes. “But...why?” At first he assumed she had meant why choose her, but his stomach dropped as he realized her true question. “That’s...more complicated than I can answer quickly. I’ll try, but Velshara will have to explain further, I’m certain. Your mother is still alive, yes?” Sonya nodded, not quite following why Con would ask that. “We’ve...never met ours. Nor will we allow our father to trade places with her.” Cryptic, but it would have to suffice even if it wasn’t the whole truth. And he really, really didn’t have the time to spare to try and explain the entire mess his father had unintentionally put upon his shoulders. Not while said father would only stay in slumber for so long - and the Arena would not wait at all, unless he chose to forfeit. Not on his life. Though it may yet still demand that cost. “Look, it’s complicated. Very, very complicated. But Sonya, friend of F.E.R.R.E.T.s, would you please take Velshara with you to the spectator’s stands? I’m due in Factory and we’re burning what daylight I have left.” Sonya narrowed her gaze. Her lips thinned before settling into a frown before she reluctantly nodded an assent to him. “Fine. But you had best survive or I swear I’ll drag you back from the dead myself. You hear me, brother of Lucar-Narash?” “I promise I will be doing my foremost best to survive, but don’t you ever dare make that promise again, Sonya.” He smiled wanly as he offered Velshara his hand as a step to hop from the stave to Sonya’s shoulder. “At least not again until you’ve heard the tale in full measure of what has led me to be here today. But thank you, truly.” With a glance up to the sky to gauge the time, Con sighed heavily. “Sorry, but I really must be off. Take care of my sister, will you!” Turning about, Connen-Nuete darted off at as quick of a old man’s hobble as he dared within his disguise. It was clear enough to him that her reluctance was entirely out of fear for him. After all, she hadn’t just lived through Lucar-Narash’s death on the sands. She had been there, and as a totally human child no less. It was only natural to fear Death and the way it could lay claim on anyone at a moment’s notice. But it did make him smile to overhear a bit of delightful excitement in his wake as Sonya embraced Velshara properly. “You’re so gorgeous, with fur like freshly fallen snow. And you’re even softer than Lodesh-Tinphair was!” The name may have boasted Factory, but really, Connen-Nuete was having to suppress delighted laughter as he stepped inside the arena. It was all so reassuring, especially for a Gan-Kar. The clanking and purr of heavy machinery, the growing patina of rust decorating the walls, the richness of oil warring with acrid smoke clouding the air… It was as if someone had made a great big playroom for all the kits of the Business to have one big playfight in. All it was missing was a few puddles here and there, honestly. Positively delightful. It frankly undercut any fear from the sudden leaping of his heart to his throat from the rapid acceleration downwards. Levelling out as it did almost, almost took some of the fun away. Freefall would certainly have been an interesting twist to the norm of combat! But it wouldn’t do for an ‘old man’ to hop around in joy and experimentation. Not when there was still a disguise being worn. “About that…” he mused aloud as he hobbled over to the open space on his left. A surprisingly vast gap between himself and another cloaked figure. Though at a guess his competitor in that direction was using their cloak more in the definition of the term rather than his own, festooned with pocket as it was. It all begins with heat… An intonation that began every single one of the lessons passed down to him by his father, Hadin. Even for a natural, instinctual pyrokinetic like himself, there was such rich wisdom in those words. Connen-Nuete’s gaze narrowed into a half-lidded expression as he expanded his mental senses outwards. It would have been so rich to draw from the environment - such a largesse of mechanical waste heat - but he had to stick to his declarations. To his Word. That was the way of the Business. So rather than take from the air, the conductive copper floor, or even the friction of the unseen mechanisms just out of sight? Connen-Nuete looked inwards. Under silken roads and orichalcum super highways, past the sun-kissed tan of his skin beneath his poor disguise. To the radiant heat of himself, pulsing around by meticulous transmission of blood-oil, moving in and out of organs and mechanisms. Dangerous was an understatement. Draw too much from the self and one could pass out or die off, which is why the lesson to do so came far after the first experiences with flame proper. But he needed just enough to spark his fuel into fire. He skimmed from the surface ever so carefully...and still felt a chill run through him as his body momentarily cooled a couple of degrees. Brought it into the palm of his left hand, holding it tight as he grasped the top of the wooden stave. Smiling as he pushed just enough heat into the wood that it caught alight, holding it there as he lifted his gaze to the rest. “Well then. Shall we get this dance started?” Grinning madly - or at least as madly as he could manage beneath such horribly itchy fake-brows - Con took a deep breath while twisting the stave around. Reversing which way was up and touching the bottom hem of his cloak. Catching the cloth on fire as he hobbled from foot to foot and pushed the heat to rise up and around him. Wrapping himself in a raiment of glorious warmth of fire, held in close yet pushed away from harming him through psychically induced circulation trapping the thermal conduction of the air. Transforming his disguise into the fuel he needed, the fuel he craved, that of raw heat bound to his psionic commands. Even as it ate away at the oxygen around him to combust as quickly as he was forcing, thus the deep breath. Though he rather did suppose that to all the rest of the world world, it would probably look like an old man just committed suicide by self-immolation.

Meepsie -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (8/1/2021 14:27:34)
As Auric looked around the arena, one figure caught his eye: a strange amalgamation of beauty and the bizarre. Auric had heard of Krehgor before. Something about a man fused with fungi who could use them to attack who had kicked up some trouble in Bren before the Championships. And while he may have expected to see him in the tournament, to lock glances with him was another thing- especially after noticing the aggressive glare in the beast’s eyes. Just as the man prepared to leap towards Auric, the Factory started to shake and descend, throwing everyone into a short period of disarray. Thankfully, the shock seemed to affect Auric’s fungal foe more than it had jarred himself- just long enough for the wealthy warrior to think of a plan. His original strategy- to let the others fight amongst themselves to save his strength- appeared to have hit a snag, but he would just have to deal with it. “Temper, temper,” Auric thought, “Don’t you know it’s proper manners to wait until both sides are ready?” Ironically, the slight delay allowed Auric himself to prepare. A wisp of golden energy began to curl around his legs as he took a deep breath and clenched his fist. Upon opening his palm, he found a handful of coins inside that weren’t there before. It seemed that his power was ready to go. How convenient- Auric was as well. “Good,” he thought, “Time to return the favor.” Auric focused, and in an instant, a torrent of coins shot out of his hands towards the gunslinger. Whether they hit or not was of no concern to Auric- so long as the distraction served its purpose. He lept backward as he fired, hoping to get some distance between himself and his fellow fighter. As he reached his destination, his robes began swelling up in preparation- stuffed with currency to surprise anyone who dared to lay a hand on his beauty. Just in case, of course.

Dragonknight315 -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (8/1/2021 21:16:44)
So, who will be first? Albus swept his eye across the copper floor, searching for his competitors. As he turned to the right, it was as if a dagger had pierced his ears. The booming voice of the arena gave way to an abomination of speech. “Listen well you impotent dregs of creations, true glory walks amongst you!—” Albus rolled his as he gritted in pain. The voice came from not a person but a creature of pure light. The being had sunlight for skin, its yellow glow overcoming the hazy light from the arena fixtures. Its hands and feet were singed, and it wore a heavy breastplate that descended into an ornate metal garb. It was a creature ripped right out of imagination; Albus had always pictured an angel to look like this. “So, now you arrive.” Albus muttered under his breath. This was one of his competitors; the thought made him scowl. It brought him back in time. A much younger Albus, though still in just as much debt— A human in his regiment once told him that there were no non-believers in a time of war. He preached of the cleansing light, of how it would save him and the rest of the world. The next day, a cannon misfired, killing the human and several others in an explosion. The bodies kept piling in the trenches— perhaps they still were. Albus did not wait to find out. Whatever business the soldier’s God dealt with, it was not in saving people. He left that corner of the world, and if all was willing, he would never return. As the being continued its preaching, Albus had enough of its nonsense. He looked towards the others. From the other corner of his eye, one competitor took a drastic measure as fire swept across its body. They were hard to make out, being on fire and all. Black vest, long golden strands of hair, all now on fire— Albus could not help but gawk for a moment. Did he think that the Lord of Fire would be pleased with his sacrifice? They wanted a combatant, not a candle. A potion might heal wounds, but it could not cure stupidity. But as the flames grew brighter and brighter, there were no screams, no cries for help. Either this person had no sense of pain, or this was done with intent; indeed, Albus noted how its flesh seemed unscarred by their own immolation. A show of raw force. It was clever, Albus thought. It certainly caught him off guard. Perhaps he could make use of this living fire. Albus checked off those two in his mind, and his eyes wandered to those further away. They settled on a curious figure. A roguish man was picking himself off the floor. Simple cloak, leathers, and a wide shipman’s hat. Albus could have pondered on the point of the hat given the giant desert they were in, but his attention was demanded elsewhere. One side of the mercenary was normal flesh, but the other. . . it was a mass of pitch black bone that twisted into claws, flashes of red light glowing from underneath the plates. Albus’s own left arm twitched in response; he could not help but notice the similarities. If he had to guess, Albus expected the mercenary to be fighting for Darkness, though he wasn't certain. He just had an uneasy feeling about the man; he would have to proceed with caution. One man did not share his sensibilities however. Closer to Albus, the young gentleman stood out like diamonds or gold. Dressed in a fine suit with matching wares, the man was well off. Compared to most humans Albus had seen, he was of good stock. What was someone like him doing here? A stupid question, Albus realized. What were they all doing here? Competing for the Lords’ favor. The alchemist wondered if the gentleman was up to the task; did he intend to buy his way through the competition? As it were, the man threw a veritable curtain of golden coins towards the mercenary’s way. His tail twitched from beneath his robes at the sight; how wealthy could this man be if he could throw out that much like it was nothing?! Albus felt the coins calling him, their glimmer begging to be captured. . . If anyone was worth the effort of slaying, it would be him. Finally, one soul stood at the opposite side of the factory floor. The figure was like a black smudge against the stripes of hazy light. Completely cloaked, Albus could not make out any real traits about them. They carried a large staff with some kind of fixture attached, perhaps a censure? Having so little to go off of worried Albus, but they were far away; he would have to just wait and see. And that was all— five others. Albus nodded. Some of the foes were unaccounted for, but with his best guesses there was a modest selection of elements here. The question was, who was first? The rich man had certainly caught his eye, but he would have to contend with the mercenary as well. Furthermore, getting to the two would mean crossing the angel. Part of him wished there wasn’t a second light competitor right next to him. He already had enough light samples— that was the problem, it was all he had. But if he could slay him now, that was one less obstacle in his way of the red sands. Suddenly as if to answer his thoughts, the angel spoke, its voice tearing through Albus’s ears. ”I’m going to kill all you insignificant peons!” “OH will you just shut up, already?” He clutched his head as he yelled back at the figure. “How about you come here and show me some of your so-called majesty, lightspawn?” It was decided; he now had his first volunteer. Albus held one elbow out and tapped it with the side of his warhammer, beckoning his foe to get on with it. It was about now that Albus’s smile went solemn. The coward in his blood spoke. “This is suicide. These being set themselves on fire for sport, and you can hardly crawl out of bed in the morning. Get out of here and save yourself!” The alchemist closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “If they were as almighty as they seemed, then they wouldn’t be here right now. Besides, I’m tired of running away. That’s all I’ve ever done. What kind of life is that? Luka needs me, and I won’t let this opportunity slip away.” As Albus opened his eyes, he reached for a pocket in his cloak, only to find empty air. “Oh, right-” Albus thought. He wished he hadn’t pawned his pistols. Not that they would have done anything to a walking sun, he imagined, but he had seen stranger things in the trenches. Still, its presence would have been a welcome one. The chimeran slowly marched along the wall, ever wary of the descending platform as he moved closer towards the little sun. His left eye darted back and forth between the flame-swept and the angel. He was ready to adjust in case either had any ideas, but if he had to choose, one made a lot more noise, and he had some issues to work out. Albus forced out a smile as he let the gall overcome his fear. He hoped the Lords were entertained. “What did I say? Come on, hit me.”

TripleChaos -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (8/2/2021 0:23:53)
Having righted himself, Darvey prepared to defend against a rapid attack from the gunman with the nice coat… only to see that they had already started charging towards another entrant, an inexplicably handsome man dressed like a noble. He seemed like he belonged in reserved seating rather than on the arena floor, but it wasn’t up to Darvey to decide who was fighting. With no impending threat, he loosened his stance. He hadn’t had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of a firearm before, but he’s seen what they can do. He’d have a great deal of trouble protecting himself from an attack from one of those. He might manage to block two, if he somehow knew where they were aimed, but with the amount of raw force they packed... He felt a chill up his spine, and put the thought aside for now. I don’t have to deal with that, for now. Turning his attention away, he caught the gaze of an old man hobbling towards him at the other end of the arena. He hadn’t planned on attracting anyone’s ire so quickly, but if someone was looking for a fight, it would only be rude to refuse. Except for that other fellow. Darvey wouldn’t want to chance it with that dangerous looking– Before he could even get a good look at them, they made a sudden motion and burst into flames. Even halfway across the arena Darvey flinched at the sudden ball of fire that consumed the man. The flames could never compare to the vibrance within the lantern he held, but there was a certain, gloriousness to the wild licks of flame curling off his obscured body. His still moving body. Darvey began approaching the fire at an upbeat pace. That’s odd. Darvey grew closer, and the burning figure continued to advance with a slow shuffle. I’ve seen my fair share of self-immolation rituals, but it’s unusual for one to be so… calm. He stopped a distance away, in range to try an attack. Holding the staff tall in front of himself with arms wide, he willed the shadows with the folds of his cloak to take form. From the dark, a pair of black darts emerged and hovered gently forward. A shame to show them so early. A moment passed, and the darts shot forward, aimed directly at the blazing shape of a person.

Necro-Knight -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (8/2/2021 15:16:26)
Well that was certainly one way to greet a fellow fighter. The storm of currency certainly didn’t seem to be a sign of generosity, quite the opposite in fact. Having had a wide variety of objects thrown his direction in his life, Krehgor was already moving when the coins caught the rays of light from above. Instead of risking his footing again, the gunslinger released his firearm and used his left hand to grip the edge of his heavy duster, curling his side behind its long side. The coins struck their mark, whether it was Krehgor or not, and his coat flared with magical enchantment. Hexagonal runes engraved into the leathers glowed with every coin blow and absorbed the kinetic energy from the impact. Between the magical shield he’d been wise enough to have infused into his garment and the heavy chitin along his left side, Krehgor’s hardly felt the attack as he twisted around at the waist and drew his revolver with his right hand, resting his forearm on his knee to steady his aim in the rush of motion that was the arena. In full view now, the weapon was a long-barreled gunslinger’s tool with interlocking black plates running down its length and culminating into a spiked tip shadowing the wide-mouthed barrel. From within, an unnatural emerald glow pulsed with an almost heartbeat-like consistency and only grew more rapid as Krehgor levelled it at his gilded target. Shouting over the rush of the mechanisms and steam around them, Krehgor flashed the man his trademark smile, the one that’d won him everything from card games to shoot-offs. He needed to maintain his carefree composure even as another individual of the arena had seemed to spontaneously combust. He was unsure if it was a self-inflicted state or if someone nearby had the ability to suddenly ignite their foe. If it was the second option, he’d be mildly concerned… only mildly. “Howdy! I typically like to beat’a man in cards or dice before takin’ his coin, but ya seem to got plenty to spare… I promise I’ll spend what ya got wisely once we’re done here, brother.” Without hesitation, Krehgor aimed the sights of his piece at the man’s lower sternum and pulled the trigger. The plates along its barrel suddenly split open and released a cloud of green spores as the weapon cracked with a sound reminiscent of a giant bone snapping. While lacking the full, explosive force of a gunpowder-fueled weapon, the sheer kinetic energy and size of the infectious thorn that was ejected from the weapon’s barrel still rocked Krehgor back, threatening to put him on his back for the third time that morning. He’d aimed low, trying to compensate for the rapid descent of the arena floor beneath him and to see if his opponent would be fast enough to dodge the sharp, black projectile. If so, he would need to pace and plan his shots more carefully, since the firearm took a few seconds to construct another round from the excess biomass he stored in its upper mechanism and that was time he could lose his opening. The rushing movement of the arena itself did not help this fact and he made a mental note to send a strongly-worded letter to whoever had signed off on this design. ‘Bet someone’s gettin’ a right giggle out o’watchin’ this, uh-huh…’

deathlord45 -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (8/2/2021 15:25:23)
“OH will you just shut up, already? How about you come here and show me some of your so-called majesty, lightspawn?” Whipping their gaze left towards this insect that would dare speak to Lukhan the Dawnlight like that; fury and indignation temporarily overtaking the constant feeling of descending while they stood in this proving ground. “WHAT, did you just say you wort- pffttaahahaHahaHAAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHHAAAAHAHAHAH!” As Lukhan finally actually looked at the creature, they couldn’t help but laugh at the dressed bipedal lion greeting them. Anger quickly quelled at the ridiculous sight to a quiet seriousness as logic overtook emotion again. Some magus must have been exceptionally bored to create this thing. Not that its origin matters, it’ll die all the same. Pulling back out of their mental reprieve,Lukhan watched as the creature began a vain and minor attempt at goading gestures at them. The Dawnlight could feel their hands begin to crack, rip and burn as they prepped a spear to shoot at the thing before them. Maybe that should be my wish. A body that could properly harness my power, so that my true glory may shine and have none of that nonsense of waiting and maturing into it. I deserve to be unequal to these overflowing vermin! “What did I say? Come on, hit me.” “As you wish little kitty cat, may your arrogant, foolish courage care you on gilded wings to the afterlife.” Angling to the left, Lukhan rushed forward, putting their back to the light and forcing the lion-faced one to look directly at it if they wanted to keep an eye on the Dawnlight. With an underhand motion a brilliant but transient spear of light erupted from their right hand aimed low towards the place where the leg met the hip. Guess this is the measure of how quickly we descend into the world.

Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (8/2/2021 21:21:01)
Ablaze as he was, Connen-Nuete was luxuriating in the vastness of the warmth that surrounded him. It was freedom to be in the flame, burning away the necessity of his ersatz disguise and leaving him unburdened of its weight. Relieved of the incessant itch from the wig. He relaxed out from the forced hobble and began to step and twist and sway on the balls of his feet. Hands dug into his pockets to palm his metallic payloads as he swirled the heat around him, soaking it deeply into orichalcum threads, chains, and those same twin orbs. The blaze itself brightened slightly, climbing out of dull reds flecked with orange tones into a soft, corona-like intensity dominated by a brilliant pale straw hue. It shouldn’t have consumed those bits of gear nearly so fast, no matter how well prepared...and yet that was the trick, was it not? An almost instinctual expression straight from his animalistic hindbrain to render his stave into naught but ash before it could hit the ground. Softly, ever so softly here and there, a clink and a jangle. A hushed peal. The tintinnabulation of the stray cog and spring, widget and sprocket that had been housed in stave or pocket as they clattered against the copper floor. The fire was free and he was free and they both wanted to frolic and sway and dance. No screams, no shouts, just a casual saunter building to trip the light fantastic. It shouldn’t have been so - Th-Thud! Caught mid-twirl, Connen-Nuete was assailed by a pair of heavy darts. The first kissed across his chest before skipping away into the...well, skipping away was all he paid it attention as the second careened against his left shoulder blade. Killing the momentum of his twirling step and tearing away a swath of charred fabric that extinguished itself before it could waft to the ground. Even with the flare of pain spiking his neurons, the pyrokinetic was that greedy to keep the heat. Though he had no means to expect the sudden wave of light-headed wooziness that dislodged a recent memory amidst the momentary vertigo… Even though the entire Business had known exactly why Hadin was heading to Bren, they all had kept mum and had acted ignorant of the truth. Leaving it to Connen-Nuete to be his only (apparent) accompaniment on the weeks long trip down from Vizier Lake to the waking Arena. Along the way they had talked about various and sundry things, but with each day closer Hadin seemed to dwell in his thoughts more and more. His father seemed...depressed, but rather than ferret out the truth through telepathy, he took advantage one morning to steer the conversation. “Hey Da? You’ve been looking like a dragon has taken roost in your brain lately. What’s on your mind?” It was perhaps telling of the stress on his father’s shoulders that this did not draw even the barest chuckle from Hadin. Nor a glare, though, which was a win. Simply a sigh. “Ach. Son it’s...well. I’d be lyin’ if I said it weren’t nothing, and you’d be able ta tell. Just been thinkin’ about old times and old flames.” Well, he didn’t even need to be a mind reader to know what that was referring towards. He dipped his voice into the lowest, most childlike softness he could get away with to spur his father onwards. “...tell me about her?” “Harrumph.” Hadin was silent for several long minutes after the gruff retort, yet in the end he relented as they rounded a bend in the road. “Well, I ‘ken that ya still don’t know anything of her. You would’ve known her as Miriam - that’s the name she took up when we were betrothed - but I knew her as Merrain Kernassa. She was…” Con tried to fill in the gaps as Hadin lapsed in the search for words. Beautiful, perhaps? Gorgeous? Or maybe his father was momentarily spellbound by memory of her charming personality? “She was a spitfire and a brat.” Oh. That was...not what Con was expecting, and his lost blinking expression brought a smile to Hadin’s lips. “A bit of a trickster, her. You two would be thick as thieves together, make no mistake. Ahh, but when she came into her power, that’s when Merrain drew everyone’s attention. A natural gift I’ve not seen before or since, save your elder brother. It stained her ravensblack mane into a burning sunset of soft curls.” Hadin’s sigh was wistful, and Con was happy enough that he was on a more pleasant memory. At least until he tacked on another musing that left both feeling far more crestfallen for the conversation. “S’why they called her the ‘Desert Phoenix’, and she was the surefire bet to take over as our generation’s Elder of Embers. Was never supposed to wind up as me…” The mixed, draining sensation vanished as suddenly as it had flooded his system, before it had even eroded his balance, but the memory of his mother’s title remained. Careless. CARELESS! A bonfire blaze was more his mother’s thing. Certainly his brother’s. They could have made it into a pyroclastic threat rather than a charlatan’s warning. He frankly should have known better, as he lacked the raw power and fuel to really sell the threat for deterrence. Not to mention psychosis? Not exactly an uncommon trait among competitors of years past, either, so his foes weren’t likely to be put off by crazy. The problem with immolation was that it blinded him to others as much as it disguised his movements, and he really should have seen an attack coming. Connen-Nuete moved deftly, hands slipping heated weights into sewn pockets before freeing the sash from his waist. Feet slid along as he twirled one last time, flaring away the bonfire as he sucked in the heat. Channeled it along silk roads and orichalcum highways, keeping it tight, tighter, tightly against himself and quashing most of the flame. Leaving himself only the barest mantle of blazing pyre at his shoulders, the smallest whispers of fire along the length of his liúxing. Banked low like embers, quick to alight at a moment’s notice if given any of the haze of heat-fuel wrapped tightly around him. It left him freely visible as he heaved a breath of the fresh, cooler air that had rushed in with the absence of the immolating inferno. Edge on towards Darvey, his eyes flashing dangerously with inner fire and outward ire. The Elder of Embers was painfully young, with a brilliant metallic mane drawn back into a tight braid that for the moment remained wrapped loosely around his neck. His lightly tanned hide showed not a hint of sweat nor sign of scorch, and the deep crimson of embersilk was a significant contrast to the drab, stained cloak that had burned away. Lengths of sash bound in his left fist held loosely as he dangled the opposite end on his right just a finger’s breadth above the copper floors. Close to his foot in a relaxed counterstance, as he was more than happy to control the range just as they were. Though most worrisome, should anyone recognize the ‘inferior’ alchemical orichalcum, was the delicate rosy highlights blooming across each thread. Blossoming along the mail shirt beneath his vest. Even for Con it was unpleasantly hot to the touch, for all the heat-fuel soaked into it. “I suppose I owe you for that favor.” Even though his shoulder throbbed from the blow, he managed to keep all signs of pain out from his voice, remaining steady in tone if adolescent in pitch. “For reminding me of the caliber of this bloodsport. That one was free. Next time you’ll pay in blood.”

Meepsie -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (8/3/2021 11:38:39)
Launching his attack had given Auric time to take a quick glance around the arena. It would appear that his situation was not unique. As the battlefield began its descent, he noticed that many of the other competitors on the field had arranged their own squabbles. Yet, in all of it, he could determine they were all separate. It was almost gentlemanly, in a way, that everyone decided to engage in single combat- though he expected that to change shortly. Auric’s attention was immediately pulled to the opposite side of the battlefield, where a burst of spark and flame caught his eye. The elderly man he could have sworn entered the arena seemed to have spontaneously combust, and a younger man was standing in his place, surrounded by flames. He certainly knew how to make an entrance. The other fighter he noticed, a young looking boy, should have taken notes- to be honest, Auric hadn’t even remembered seeing him enter the battlefield. Ironically, it seemed the showiest and most secretive people on the battlefield had immediately begun to engage in battle. Representing the Darkness and Fire, he assumed. Well, they were certainly in their element here… it would probably be for the best not to disturb them for now. Directly south of him, Auric could identify two more competitors engaged in combat. A very loud sort of combat, if he were to take any guesses. The booming voices and roars exchanged in that segment of the arena reached him across the field- and while he would have expected as much from the one who seemed to possess beastly features, he was somewhat taken aback noting that the glowing being locked in battle with the animal seemed to be the more aggressive one of the two. The long-haired man certainly shined brilliantly… but even someone as confident as an Au’Mydas couldn’t help but feel uneasy when his eyes fell upon him. That creature’s words made Auric seem humble by comparison. In the glowing figure’s stance, and in its thundering voice, Auric saw a form of cruelty and single-mindedness that he had not seen since…. No, nevermind. Now was not the time for recollection. Auric wanted to observe the other fights a little longer, but had to snap back to his own once his initial attack faded from view. His preemptive strike had missed, and his batch of coins laid on the floor behind his target- who was clearly not pleased with Auric’s welcoming gift. As the privileged man was pondering his next move, he heard the voice of his opponent, who was now glaring at him again and sporting a vicious grin. Bracing himself for impact and swirling more coins around his body, Auric was surprised to find out that this did not seem to be its intent. A voice, coming from the infested body Auric was now facing, rang out through the grinding machinery. “Howdy! I typically like to beat’a man in cards or dice before takin’ his coin, but ya seem to got plenty to spare… I promise I’ll spend what ya got wisely once we’re done here, brother.” It was a gravelly and hoarse voice, one of the kind his family normally associated with drunkards, thieves and the dregs of society. Auric could only hope his personality was more refined than his speech, but it seemed like that was untrue as well- the gentleman barely had time to think of a clever retort before the creature produced a gun from his waist. Well, that was a surprise. Apparently the amalgamation was just as deadly from a distance. While it looked as if the hybrid hitman was aiming for the chest, the descent would prove otherwise: Auric was never good at this sort of trajectory-based math (his expertise was banking, of course), but it didn’t take a genius to know that the path of the bullet would shift up- directly towards his skull. As soon as he saw the weapon being pulled, he willed the jewels from his coat upwards to defend his face. The bullet hit Auric’s head, directly between his eyes... or, it would have, had he not stuffed his robes to prepare for this sort of attack. He closed his eyes, and heard a loud sound as the projectile made contact. He opened them, and sure enough, the bullet he saw flying at him- actually some kind of thorn- was lodged into his protective trinkets. Taking a closer look, he could tell that the impact of the thorn would have been the least of his worries- the ruby stone he used to shield his forehead had captured something interesting. If Auric looked carefully, he swore he could see something creeping along the edges of the thorn, like a parasite seeking to spread to whatever it came into contact with. It would seem that the thorns acted as more than just sharp projectiles- they were a vessel to inject whatever foul substance this was into living beings. If it could turn this thorn into a deadly weapon, Auric thought, he’d hate to see what would happen if it brushed against his beautiful skin. Some people already saw him as a monster. He didn’t need to have the appearance of one too. Carefully, he stood up, drawing the damaged crystal back into his robe. He kicked the thorn, now dropped onto the copper floor, towards the center of the battlefield. Then, his eyes darted back to the fungal fusilier he was facing. He returned Krehgor’s smile with one of his own, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes as he began to clap eagerly. Yelling over the the howls of the descending battlefield, he responded to the hybrid’s original comments. “An excellent shot! I certainly see why I was warned about my opponents. Though, I’m afraid I didn’t quite hear your comment. Something about taking my gold, correct?” As Auric spoke, the golden coins circling around him began to multiply. Swirling across his body and underneath his robes, he began to be enveloped by wealth, forming a cocoon of coins and bills. As it slowly began to shrink, glints of gold covering his head and arms became visible. A slight glint signaled that another coin attack- this time towards his opponent’s knees- was launched as the wealthy warrior continued to shout in excitement- all the while, never losing his eloquent demeanor and wide grin. “I am not one to be stingy. Especially not to someone so impressive. So, by all means… take as much as you like!”

Dragonknight315 -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (8/4/2021 22:44:11)
“. . . What did you say, you wart—” Albus could not help but smile as the lightspawn turned to look at him. It’s discordant voice seethed with indignation. Clearly Albus struck a nerve, or whatever equivalent the being had; the Alchemist now had its full attention. As it stopped to look down at Albus, it swelled with pride and began to laugh, the noise splitting his ears. Still, Albus held his head high, weighing his options. He had doubts that his potions would do any good; despite the being imitation of flesh and eyes, Albus figured that a light-based concoction would only strengthen its form. At most, the flashbang’s sound might serve as a useful distraction, but the holy water would be almost certainly useless. “If only you were a ghost— trenches were full of them. With the right tools, those are simple. Of course, I’m sure the same could be said about you.” If Albus wanted to win, he would have to do this the old-fashioned way. At last, the angelic being composed himself. Albus could see the pools of light narrow as it focused on the chimeran. He swore for a moment that he could make out a smile. “As you wish, little kitty cat. May your arrogant, foolish courage carry you on gilded wings to the afterlife.” With grace and glory, the angel rushed forward to meet Albus. On some level, Albus had to give credit. The creature moved with purpose, carefully placing the factory’s glow behind it in an attempt to obscure his vision, but it didn’t really matter; its form was far brighter, and Albus had already adjusted his eyes. “Kitty cat? Please, I’ve heard it all before. If I had a coin for every time. . .” Its next move was predictable. Albus figured that the being had some cosmic power; he could not fight it head on. He braced his legs, and as the being charged forward, Albus saw its hand move, flashing with energy. Albus jerked to the left as a beam of pure light crashed into the ground, narrowly missing Albus’s leg. Following the momentum, Albus heaved the warhammer over his shoulder and then snapped back, aiming right for its center of mass. “Let's see what you are really made of, lightspawn. I hope you don’t bleed.”

TripleChaos -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (8/5/2021 21:47:17)
The slivers of solid darkness contrasted the blaze they struck before falling to the ground, disappearing a moment later. Darvey hadn’t considered it when he was loosing them, but they appeared to travel in an unusual path, hitting higher than he had aimed. It must have something to do with the arena falling, since his darts would normally fly straight and true no matter how he launched them. Darvey sent these thoughts to the back of his mind. I can’t worry about that now. The burning old man stopped his shuffle the moment the darts collided with what must have been his shoulders. The brief lapse in movement was broken by a sudden twirl as all the flames swirling around him were sucked towards himself in an instant. His flames extinguished, leaving only a mantle of fire along his shoulders. With his remarkably unscathed form revealed, it was clear he was no old man. A hair shorter than Darvey, he was a lean young fellow with tanned skin, wearing a colorful vest and simple shorts. His hands and feet were wrapped tightly in bandages, and his gold-brass hair too was tightly held in a braid. His eyes… Oh, the light in his eyes shined fiercely. Like two bright suns suspended in a dark void, restraining all the rage of an unrelenting inferno into brilliant beacons. Those ferocious eyes, seeming to devour every detail that couldn’t escape their scrutiny. Those eyes reflecting a glint of undeniable resentment. Those eyes… fixated on Darvey. Tearing his focus away, he regarded the rest of his opponent. He had been hunched over holding a staff before, but now he had fallen into a steady stance with a straight back, and his hands held a length of deep red cloth. Bunched up in one hand, hanging down from the other, it was an odd thing to wield in an arena. Assuming it was a weapon, that is. The weighty end that was dangling just above the ground gave the impression of something Darvey didn’t want swung into his head, so for now he would treat it as one. A brief moment after his flames had died down, he spoke in a firm voice. “I suppose I owe you for that favor; For reminding me of the caliber of this bloodsport. That one was free. Next time you’ll pay in blood.” Darvey maintained a dispassionate guise until he heard the threat, upon which a smirk broke the facade as he pulled down his hood. Hearing lines like those, that was what made his profession enjoyable, even if he did usually try to avoid an outright scuffle. You would never get a chance to relish those kinds of fighting words doing any respectable work. Sticking his hand into the fire before even prodding it, making so much more trouble for himself as he has countless times in the past, he spit off a retort. “Ha, don’t sweat it too much, there won’t be a next time; I don’t intend on giving any more favors.” As the last word left his mouth Darvey spun the staff in his hands a single turn before dashing towards his opponent. Making more darts while the lantern drew a radiant circle, he had hoped to set the fellow off balance again and strike him over the head with his staff while he was recovering. As soon as Darvey broke into a sprint, the wiry fellow began to move with his sash in a burst of motion. Before Darvey could comprehend the movements, the end of the sash snapped from the ground directly towards his head. Acting without thought, Darvey pushed off his front foot as it hit the metal floor and leapt to the side. As he lurched, the darts he had prepared flew off harmlessly past their target and vanished into thin air not long after. Only just managing to divert himself in time, he narrowly avoided becoming intimately aware of how much weight that sash held. Stumbling after his abrupt dodge, he brought his staff close to ward against any follow-up swings. Darvey wasn’t sure how he had managed to make the sash move so quickly, and in such a straight path. Did he just kick to send it forward? And how far did that sash reach? He would have to be especially careful about how he continued the fight. I suppose I’ll keep treating it like a weapon then.

deathlord45 -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (8/5/2021 22:33:12)
“Kitty cat? Please, I’ve heard it all before. If I had a coin for every time. . .” The Dawnlight’s eyes narrowed in disdain as the leonine creature avoided the spear. As the hybrid’s hammer arced towards the helio sprite, they smirked letting their upper body go slack. Closing their eyes, Lukhan thought of the brilliant mountain glade they had found oh so long ago as they pushed off to put their momentum into the same direction as the hammer swing. The pressure on their chest through the breastplate, coupled with the pain of both the impact and the feeling of their feet scraping across the floor ripped the Dawnlight back into the world. Focusing in on the pain of their feet, Lukhan also focused their mind as they brought both their hands up and aimed at the enemy. More pain arose in their hands as they burnt and blistered from the power they channeled as two more lances burst forth towards the opposed entity’s upper body and legs. Slamming into the floor and skidding a bit before turning the energy into a roll back to their feet, snarling a little at the leonine hybrid. It doesn’t feel like the armor is damaged but it does feel as if my container has been cracked. Which is unfortunate, since that means I’ll have to finish all of this faster. “Not bad, you circus reject, but nowhere near good enough.”

Necro-Knight -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (8/6/2021 16:52:00)
He’d expected the gem to simply shatter from the force of his thorn shot, but Krehgor felt a wave of disappointment wash over him as the round stuck mere inches from its intended target in the man’s skull. A quick and simple defeat, that’s all he’d wanted. The longer he spent dancing with this walking treasury, the longer the other competitors had to work into a situation he couldn’t defend against. The thought of being outnumbered by entities he didn’t understand brought back vivid memories from the necropolis that earned him his deformities. Then, he’d been alone besides the witch who had stumbled upon his half-dissolved form… but now? He had an arena’s worth of spectators, a reputation and a debt he still had to pay off. Losing simply wasn’t in the cards. “Gotta tell ya, partner, ya could do a lot more good with this coin if ya wanted to, rather than tryn’a kill a handsome man like m’self!” The flashes of coin and ruffle of paper bill signaled another attack from his opponent and Krehgor was already moving, launching himself to his feet with every ounce of speed his enhanced body could muster. After two long steps, the finely-dressed man unleashed another swarm of coins and the tomb raider had his signal. As his left boot planted onto the metallic floor of the arena, he straightened his form and kicked off its surface, hurling himself over the flurry of currency. Years of leaping from one rocky outcropping to another or swinging across chasms with a hanging vine had taught him the best ways to defy gravity as much as he could and his new body only made that easier. Turning the jump into a flip as he felt the soft click of his revolver finish its recovery process, Krehgor extended his arm and pulled the trigger again. The descent of the arena had both helped and hindered his last shot, so this time he was going to work with the physics in play, rather than against. The weapon cracked again with another burst of spore residue and the shot aimed directly at the back of the wealthy caster’s neck. He didn’t have time to make an adjustment or counter-attack as gravity dug its claws into his form again and he finished the vaulting flip over his foe, rolling back up to one knee behind the richly-adorned figure. As he landed hard, his eyes swept up to see a feline-looking being swinging a heavy mace towards the torso of… some form of entity that rippled with wisps of light and struck it with a blow that made Krehgor wince. For a moment, the mental image of his own bones breaking from such a blow sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. His strength was great, greater than any normal man he’d met, but that thing was very clearly not human. Praying to his lucky stars that the feline warrior would be kept busy, the gunslinger whirled back to his original target, his SporeShot trailing a cloud of spores as he went.

Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (8/6/2021 21:00:50)
The retort from his ersatz dueling ‘partner’ was cute. No, really, it was. Toss in the smirk on top and it was almost, almost something Connen-Nuete might have gone and quipped in the lantern bearer’s shoes, but it lacked a certain flair. Certainly it had shades to it that reminded him fondly of one of his Seeker friends, but he hadn’t the time for such levity of reminiscing. Nor providing a few pointers. Not when his opponent spun that stave with its illuminating payload on one end; transcribing a circular path of light in the air. A different sort of combatant might have been wary, leery, or perhaps even mesmerized. Hey, could you maybe not steal from my playbook in such a...an...inelegant manner?! Hypnotic movements of light were most definitely one of the more subtle, bonus aspects of bestowing flame to the paths of a meteor hammer in full swing. Which was why Con felt rather indignant that Darvey could even fathom putting him on his back foot - mentally speaking - with such a blasé recreation of his tricks. The nerve! His opponent had only bothered to spin the unbalanced stave just the once before pushing to approach. Twice, or better yet thrice, would have been better to lull the senses and draw the gaze away from the body and to the shiny. Honestly! What is the point of playing ‘Watch the Shiny’ if you don’t give it enough of an initial draw? Despite his indignation, Connen-Nuete’s gaze didn’t waver from Darvey’s form. Watching carefully, counting the steps. The first proved nothing. A second step still left room for a feint at their range, but the third? That was no coincidence, it spoke of purpose to close the range and of commitment to a proper melee. The Elder’s lips parted, showing a grin too-sharp and too-bright to be human, and he responded in full measure. His stance had been entirely purposeful, leaving him poised to tackle and defend against the expected approach. Loose and relaxed as his sifu had often stressed, couched in the calming lull of a dancer at rest; it enabled a full-body coordination that built force within him with the fury of an expanding blastwave. Toes flexed against the copper floor, sparking a tension that grew upwards through his left leg. Abs compressed and the opposing flows met at the hips, feeding power into the twist. Combined and amplified by torque as the kinematic chain of movement propagated down his right leg to drive it forward with explosive power. A kick that defied its initial brevity of motion as he caught the dangling sash just above its payload, propelling it with devastating intent along a line of guidance provided by pointed toe towards Darvey’s solar plexus. Was it perfectly done, down to the last myomer twitch? Hardly. Yet it was an apt demonstration of the principles of fa jin, the source of the explosive power behind Kai Men Bají Quán. Con was proud that this, at least, he could incorporate into his own style. But the youthful Elder was far too flamboyant to reign in that power and remain minimalist. As the sash played through his fingers, he instead committed to the arc of his leg through the air, leaning back as he adjusted into a fouette spin on the fly. Con even let go of the sash entirely with his right hand, stretching his left arm out towards Darvey to give it the fullest measure of its length. It was at this moment of near horizontal body pose that a pair of dark shapes flickered past him. High and wide, he dimly registered that Darvey must have some sort of skill to...what, exactly? Throw darts of Darkness without his hands? Be a tenebrekinetic like the Elder’s shadestalker kin? Con couldn’t focus on that puzzle for now. I can juggle dozens of heat sources, but I’ll gnaw on that mystery later. Can’t afford to be careless Now! The now which was entirely dominated by tugging back on the sash as it reached full extension, the need to recover into a low stance; to suppress a dull roar of protesting pain flashing up as a series of staccato beats firing from neurons across the entire swath of his left shoulder from the earlier impact. Well, that’s unpleasant. Connen-Nuete wrinkled his nose in distaste of that last sensation, but there was little he could do to address it in the middle of a fight. He had spoiled his opponent’s initial charge, sure, and that seemed...about it. Annoyingly so. Had his shot gone high? The darts had distracted him from watching the trajectory of his own assault, only deepening his aggravation. Con twitched his meteor into a lazy underhand rotation as he maintained his momentum with a few light, prancing steps leftwards. Maybe, if he kept the outer wall roughly to his back, he could ‘convince’ someone else to be opportunistic by exposing Darvey’s rear? Nah. The Business were opportunists, so why should he give anyone else in this descending arena the luxury? He might not be able to finger-gun ranged attacks at the same quantity and apparent swift ease as his cloaked opponent but that didn’t mean he was limited to just the sash and its current mantle of flame. That same sharp grin returned to his face as he refined heat above the weight in his left hand. A Firebolt would do nicely as a statement of quality over quantity, and even if he missed Darvey, who was to say the Trickster couldn’t cause a bit of chaos for his other foes? Con certainly relished the opportunity, if only he could get the right angle...

Meepsie -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (8/7/2021 1:27:00)
“Gotta tell ya, partner, ya could do a lot more good with this coin if ya wanted to, rather than tryn’a kill a handsome man like m’self!” Even through the swirling vortex of money, Auric could hear his opponent’s taunts. Of course he could do more with his coin. He could always do more. But it was never enough outside of the battlefield… so he assumed the same would apply inside as well. As his currency cocoon began to recede, he couldn’t help but focus on the comment that really drew his interest. “My, my! You are confident in your appearance. I like that! Though, your ideas of ‘beauty’ differ from mine, I must say…” Before he could finish, Auric witnessed the myconid mercenary’s legs coil, and the man himself spring up in a flying leap behind the gold-clad warrior. Moving faster than Auric could respond to, his second coin cannon falling on the ground, Krehgor leapt above and around the caster before firing a thorn bullet at the nape of his neck. Auric staggered slightly as the gunslinger landed directly behind him. As the slight twister of bills receded, Auric wanted to praise his own preparation. The golden glint he was preparing was now floating around his head and neck. A full gilded armet, shielding him from more of those annoying thorns. The shock was one thing- but at least he wouldn’t need to deal with those instant killing shots- or whatever foul substance was spread across those thorns- anymore. “But there is more I could do with coin, you said? For instance… pay off your debt?” When you deal with money as much as someone like Auric, you have connections all over the world. Connections involved in finances, ranging from loans to trades to tax collecting. And if one of those friends hears something about a strange earthen evader accumulating a debt in a major city- especially one their patron would soon visit- they would have let him know. And while he wasn’t exactly clear on the details, the word in the business world was clear- this man had a need for money, and no way of paying it off. Was that the reason he entered the championships? If so… it must have been quite the debt, to force him into a situation like this. “I heard about it from some acquaintances. Financiers of Bren, you might call them. Such a shame we had not met elsewhere… I would have been happy to pay it in your stead. In fact… perhaps I still would be.” It would seem that the figure was too distracted to hear the mans’ words, however: a loud hammer blow shook the arena, and clearly his opponent as well. Auric noticed the hybrid shiver as a warhammer, wielded by the beastman, connected with his intimidating foe’s armor. Normally, Auric’s demeanor would prevent him from taking advantage of a moment like this- he had his own bits of weakness after all, and would hate it if people used those moments against him. But if his foe was aiming to kill (and he certainly was, judging by the shots to the head and neck), it would only be proper to return his feelings in full force. And now that his first surprise was out… it would be a shame not to reveal the second. As the last of the vortex faded, with the leftover bills returning to his body, two heavy golden gauntlets, adorned with jeweled shields, appeared in full view on his arms. He had hoped to avoid close combat, especially with Krehgor’s monstrous half in view- but if he had to, he would do it in style. Aiming both at Krehgor’s chest and the gun in his hand, Auric swung his heavy right arm towards his dazed opponent, while keeping his left and it’s shield available to defend. In the distance, coins from their previous areas of battle began to rush towards the mercenary, aiming for the gunslinger’s legs. If the sharp strikes to his legs would not connect, he reasoned, the heavy blow to his startled body would. It was worth a shot… or, for that matter, two.

Dragonknight315 -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (8/8/2021 21:03:33)
The factory whirled with life as the combatants fought one another, but for Albus, it seemed silent, everything so far away. All he could focus on was the angel. As the hammer came down, Albus felt his heart race, swinging with all his might. The lightspawn did not try to avoid it; it simply slackened and braced for impact. The sound of metal meeting metal echoed through the arena. Albus felt the weight press against the being’s armor, sending it flying towards the nearby edge. But as it did, the angel sought to give Albus something in return. With a flick of their wrists, two more spears of light came forth, streaking through the air. Albus pressed his feet against the ground, trying to stop his momentum and dodge. Fortunately, the descending platform had fallen just enough for one spear to sail over his shoulder, barely missing his frame. The other found its mark. The light pierced through his robe and into his upper arm. But as it tore into the false flesh, there was another flash, and a cloud of cerulean dust swept up Albus’s arm. As the cloud faded, Albus looked down to see a golden spray across his robe. Thankfully, the siphon had deflected most of the blow. What was left of the spear had only clipped the edge, missing the most vital areas. It was still functional. ”Not perfect, but. . . an experimental success.” For better or worse, the elixir robbed any regenerated areas of most senses. There was no burning or pulsing pain. To Albus, that might have been preferable. The strange dissonance of knowing something should be there gnawed at the back of his mind. He wondered if this is what Luka always felt. “No, no, this isn’t good enough.” Albus let out a groan as he chucked the lifeless body into another pile. Albus’s spotted fur was caked in dirt and mud from the long night of digging. Luka sat on an overturned cannon, his pale form barely illuminated by the lantern. The arms of his coat hung in the air, empty. “I’m fine, Albus. I’m not picky. Besides. . . I don’t like it here.” “I know.” Albus sighed. “I know it’s painful, Luka, but we have to make the most of this. It’s hard to find so many fresh bodies. After a few days, the bodies are not usable. After a few more, we'll have ghosts to deal with.” “Still. . .” Luka gave his own sigh as Albus pulled another soldier out of the mass grave. The chimeran combed through the corpse, looking for anything of use. Buttons, belts, weapons, trinkets— anything that could be scavenged. This one was a younger man, not much older than Luka. It was unfortunately a common sight to Albus in his homeland, one generation sacrificed to appease the needs of another. Now even in death, they served the living. He carefully removed the necklace and tossed it with the others. On the necklace was a charm engraved with a language he could not read. A name tag, he assumed. After gathering what he could, Albus had one final check as he rolled the sleeves up on the corpse. “Finally. . . Luka, look at this.” The doll hunched forward as Albus brought the corpse closer to the lantern, gently placing it on the ground. By now, the two had inspected almost a hundred bodies. Between the bullets and the cannons, many had been mutilated in the battle. Others had severe burns typical of soul fire. But this one corpse— barely old enough to be an adult. Nothing. There were no visible wounds, no broken bones. Perhaps some poison or magic took its life, but that was not what Albus saw as he took out a blade. “Go on and take a seat. I just need one moment. . . ” Luka looked away as Albus carefully removed the arms from the corpse, the blood mixing into the fur and dirt on both his arms. After that, he began stitching the limb to Luka’s wounds. As Albus worked, he silently. At first, the elixir’s restoration was almost complete. The new flesh was anything but natural, but it did its job. But after a few uses, it seemed as if Luka had built up some kind of resistance. Originally a lost limb was no concern, but now, Albus had to find a suitable replacement. “There—” With the last stitch in place, Albus pulled the vial and held it to Luka’s lips. As he drank, veins of gold seemed to jut from the wounds into the dead limbs. The flesh crackled and hardened, molding into the familiar rubber-like form that the two had known. After a moment, it was done. Luka raised his new hands and inspected them, slowly moving his digits. “See, good as new.” Albus gave a weak chuckle. “It’s hard to pick pockets without hands, I imagine.” He was relieved to see that the process had worked. He could only imagine how much harder it would be if he had lost a limb. One of a kind, or so he thought. But as he looked at Luka, the boy just stared into his new hands. With a sigh, Albus placed a paw on Luka’s shoulder, and the boy snapped out of his trance. “Come on. Let’s go home.” Albus put on an air of bravado as he clutched the hammer and rubbed his knuckles against the missing chunk of his rubbery arm. Golden drops of blood trickled onto the floor below. “What? Never felt pain before, lightspawn? I thought you were tougher than that.” The lion-goat and the angel stared at each other. It snarled at him like an animal, much to Albus’s amusement. A hit from his warhammer would have crippled or killed most things. He knew that even with heavy armor, that strike would have left a terrible wound, and sure enough, the angel seemed furious as it narrowed its circular eyes. “Not bad, you circus reject, but nowhere near good enough.” Albus grasped the war-hammer with both hands as a plan flashed in his mind like a fever dream. The angel could summon his spears at any moment with little delay. Beyond that, Albus knew little of its capabilities. He wasn’t completely at a disadvantage; the factory’s descent made aiming the spears more difficult, and Albus had only taken an indirect hit. He figured that the mana-siphon still had some space left. However, the angel was no fool; it could adjust, and the machine would fail. If he wanted to survive, Albus had to be unpredictable. “I suppose it’s worth a try.” The chimeran took a deep breath. Albus' eyes were fixed to the angel and his hands, watching for any sudden movement. Holding his warhammer with his false hand, Albus reached for the bag at his waist with the other. He traced his claw against the sack, tearing a hole and pulling out a thin glass vial. Without the powder, the vial had no effect. But the lightspawn did not know— “Oh, don’t worry!” Albus shouted out. “This is just a warmup!” Albus raised the vial and pulled the cork out with his fangs. With a single swig, he downed the colorless liquid, trying not to cough as a sour and burning taste ran down his throat. The alchemist had never drunk the solvent before, and he imagined his body would not take kindly to it. But Albus would have to live long enough to find out. The chimean smirked as he chucked the vial down towards the angel and took up his ebon warhammer again, this time putting the sharp end forward. Without hesitation, Albus ran and leapt off his feat, swinging down as he barrelled towards the angel. Anything the angel could give, the siphon would take— or so, he hoped.

TripleChaos -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (8/8/2021 21:44:31)
Darvey held his staff defensively, expecting to be harried by the sash with its startling reach. Once wearing a mad grin, the bright-eyed foe now furrowed his brow. He seems irritated that he had missed his first strike. Or maybe he was realizing how much this arena can upset one’s aim. Whatever was on his mind, he seemed to enjoy scowling for how much of it he’s been doing in such a short span. Ah, maybe that’s just how he normally looks? Wouldn’t be the first person I’ve met that always wore a grimace. Make’s you wish there was a cure for harsh faces like that. With the scowl wearing off slightly, he strutted to his left towards the wall, keeping the sash in motion with an unhurried rhythm. As Darvey stared him down and circled to keep a steady distance, a deafening sound filled the arena. The crash of a heavy blow striking some poor soul. Darvey didn’t dare to take his focus off of the fighter in front of him, he’d have to figure out what caused it later. The ringing in his ears receding, Darvey’s attention returned to how he was going to approach his bright-eyed adversary. He hadn’t expected to land a hit without knowing anything about how his opponent was going to fight, but he was upset that his dazzling lantern didn’t even faze them. The light that poured from it might as well have been ambrosia with how enticing it shines. The white light that washed over the copper plates he stood on made the worn metal gleam with a clear luster. A dozen paces away, even the bright-eyed man and his fire looked dim compared to the wonderful light that bathed them. I suppose you’d get used to bright things if you had a habit of setting yourself ablaze. The only thing that evaded the radiance was the shadow that was drawn on the wall behind the comparably-less-bright-eyed man. The wall that passed by as the arena plummeted... Darvey was struck with inspiration, a stunt he had never tried before. It was an idea that excited him just thinking of it. Excitement that he couldn’t let show, not yet. His adversary hadn’t learned that lesson, as a grin revealed they seemed to be concentrating on something. An attack for certain, but not something Darvey cared to concern himself with. A reckless decision? For sure. Throwing away the caution he supposedly adopted? Without a doubt. But what opportunities seized themselves? Once again spinning his staff as he just had, Darvey poised to charge the bright-eyed man again. Upon completing the rotation this time, Darvey didn’t budge even a step from where he stood. Instead of a frontal assault, an unnaturally long arm shot out like a cannon from the darkness on the wall of the arena. Ink-black sullied with rusted copper, the hand grabbed the left arm of the shadow’s owner, its grip digging into skin. Darvey had figured that as the platform continued its descent, the arm would remain at the same point in the wall, which was moving upwards very quickly relative to everything on the platform. Thus, in a fraction of a second the arm, that was already stretched taut reaching from the wall, rapidly soared away from the floor of the arena. Without a chance to cry out, let alone dodge, the bright-eyed fellow was yanked upwards in an instant. Unfortunately, no plan was flawless. Though it caused no harm to Darvey, he could feel the tendons of the arm tear and fray as it strained to pull its victim up off the platform and towards the wall. He had underestimated how fast they were falling, and the arm ruptured as imagined muscles were shredded apart. The arm returned to darkness before it could lift the bright-eyed man any higher. The visceral sensation subsiding, Darvey was disappointed he couldn’t make the arm last any longer. Not only was it not durable enough, the arm would have faded not long after it broke anyhow, since the shadow it had sprouted from wouldn’t have been able to cover the point on the wall it had emerged from. Perhaps if the target had been closer to the wall or the light... Regardless, the bright-eyed sash-wielder still faced a substantial drop. It may not be fatal outright, but anyone taking a fall like that wouldn’t be landing ready for a fight.

Necro-Knight -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (8/9/2021 16:52:22)
"I'm g'nna have to decline there! I’m not too fond o’taken offers from folks who’re tryna hand me gold with one hand and tryna gut me with th’other… You worry ‘bout your own bus’ness and I’ll worry ‘bout me and mine.” The man wasn’t wrong though, that wasn’t the only debt he had hanging over him and it was surely not going to be the last. Trouble tended to follow Krehgor like a shadow, always had, even before his accident. In most cities, he didn’t need fame and recognition, he needed to disappear. So what, he realized, was he doing in a grand competition fighting for the right to speak with elemental deities? Is that what he was going to wish for, to disappear? To be wiped entirely from the pages of history and walk out of Bren with a clean slate? Gold could solve that problem as well as anything, but gold came with other strings, other jobs. Perhaps anonymity was the best blessing he could ask for. He was torn from his split-second introspection by the flash of fine gold and heavy jewels. The finely-dressed man had produced some form of gauntlets adorned with heavy gems from his coat and was already moving forward with what seemed like none too friendly intentions. His firearm had not yet recovered from its last shot and he doubted he could avoid hitting some other hidden piece of protection on the man. Already moving before his mind was made up, Krehgor reached brought his twisted arm up, gripping the thick leather handle of his kukri knife from his belt as he did so and pushed himself fully upward with his knees, swiping the wickedly-sharp blade in a motion from hip to shoulder. Free from its sheath, the blade flared with a ruby light as it moved through the air. Instead of perhaps trying to catch his opponent’s stomach or ribs with a trading blow, Krehgor brought the blade up and directly into the path of the man’s incoming blow towards his chest. Where they met, crimson sparks flew. The blade’s enchantment was designed to collect and retaliate with a portion of the blows it was struck with, but Krehgor had never used it to block such a heavy strike, the resulting wave of concussive force knocking him backward onto his back yet again. He’d have sworn at being knocked around so much already this morning, but as another stream of coins swept past where his legs had just been, he decided against it. Continuing the motion, he rolled clumsily up to his feet, staggering for a moment on the falling floor and brought both weapons up defensively across his torso. The soft click of his firearm and snap of its carapace falling back into formation alerted him to its readiness, but he kept his eyes on the man. He seemed to be rattled from having part of his own blow redirected back at its source, but not as much as Krehgor would’ve liked for the muscle-deep ache he’d earned in his left arm. Tilting his head up a few degrees, his wide-brimmed hat shadowing his face from the rays of light streaking through the dusty air, he called across the new space between him and his foe, “Sorry, brother, but I still got a few more cards to play. I ain’t ready to fold just yet… your move.”

deathlord45 -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (8/10/2021 0:39:47)
“Oh, don’t worry! This is just a warmup!” Healing? Or was that something else? Don’t have enough time to figure it out. Guess I’ll have to be far more direct this time. Straightening to full height Lukhan glared down the hybrid past the bottle they tossed at the Dawnlight. A vengeful proud indignant rage began to build in their chest at this grandstanding mongrel before them. The sneer that had begun to form grew to a wide joyous smile as the leonine creature ran and jumped at Lukhan. Alright, mongrel, let's dance. A feeling of searing pain shot through Lukhan’s left hand as they called upon the raw light that burned inside of the Dawnlight since origination. A couple of dancing skipping steps quickly brought them out of the way of both the bottle and hammer swing on the side that Lukhan had already wounded. The bluish white light that flashed from their hand towards the hybrid’s face, burned Lukhan’s hand as they released it. Even through the clamour of battle the Dawnlight could hear the sound of dripping on their left as they moved past and behind the leonine creature. “Let us see which of us falters first.”

Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC 2021= Factory Arena (8/10/2021 20:00:05)
Wary circling was many things. It was respectful, which mattered as little as a butterfly’s wingbeat to anyone other than a chaos theory enthusiast. It was safe, a concept purely relative when he knew his opponent had darts...and his opponent did not yet know he could respond with a form of quality compared to the cloaked Darvey’s quantity. Very relative, that concept of safety. It was also the best option right this moment, no matter how swiftly it could border upon boredom. The whole purpose was to bait Darvey either into closing range so Con could bring the liúxing fully into play without overcommitting...or make Darvey commit to staying at range so he could match dart with bolt. Connen-Nuete frankly felt relieved when Darvey began to repeat the motions behind his prior charge. Though he did not find the feint impressive in the least - it was too methodical a recreation. Patterns like that get sentient beings killed by even the most feral and debased of animals, let alone arena-capable opposition. Con didn’t even change the casual flicks of his wrist in response to the feint. Which, perhaps to some twisted sense of irony, meant the Elder of Embers unintentionally bought the feint entirely, though he didn’t realize it quite then. He couldn’t see how Darvey had made an overlong limb of shadow burst from the wall behind him. Hadn’t known his foe was even capable of such a thing until cool, blunt fingers of darkness took a grip of his left arm at the bicep. A single thought sparked across his mind: Tenebremancer! A thought quickly replaced by dread as the grip imparted a force he never would have expected in this descending arena. ’Oh no oh no oooooh no no nooooo~!’ The youth was dragged upwards towards the wall, and no matter how brief the shadow’s coherence, he was thrown airborne. Very. Airborne. Adrenaline flooded his system in a full, unchained riot; not merely disgorged out into a circulation network from a set of glands but a cascading release of snap-firing pistons pumping potent chemical manna into his biomechanical networks. Churning through his blood-oil as the fight-or-flight response dilated his perception of time and did rather funny things to a natural psionicist’s mind. Like leaving a hint of appreciation of his apparent tenebremancer foe’s skills to have snatched a grip from the Elder’s own shadow, even as it unraveled from the stresses. Darvey wasn’t nearly as limited as his Shadestalker cousins, and that tiny note filed itself away in rapt anticipation of similar skills appearing among the third-generation F.E.R.R.E.T.s as they continued to breed. Then he realized exactly how high up his lean frame had been hoisted. Oh. It was at that moment that Con knew with absolute certainty that his father would have died here. The question of whether the elderly former Elder of Embers would have wound up in this exact predicament was rather irrelevant. For all his prodigious experience, Hadin Gan-Kar was terribly afflicted by both the Frailty of Age as well as the general Frailty of being Human. Facing a fall from a height like this was just...not something his father would manage. Not without being broken at the end, which was as good as being dead in the arenas. If not this, it would have been something else of similar magnitude - the caliber of the opposition practically guaranteed that. But…yeah. Nuts* to that.* Connen-Nuete wasn’t born human. Or born at all. He had been carefully crafted, meticulously made with minute magnificence of detail by his father’s wrinkled hands. Perhaps he had not been a ferret among the F.E.R.R.E.T.s, but you couldn’t take the F.E.R.R.E.T. out of this pine marten. This Elder of Embers was used to arboreal bouts of banter, chicanery, and the occasional accident involving a fall. It gave him an instinctual arsenal of response to draw from, though being in human form meant this was still certainly going to suck. Still, he categorically refused to let this be a final swan dive. All the same, what followed was far more impressive for mental gymnastics than any particular signs of physical grace. That racing mind of the Elder of Embers clenched down hard with psionic strength on all the heat-fuel he could, first and foremost. It was a shame that his meteor held a fair share, but neurons overrode emotions as he forced the bandaged fingers of his right hand to release the sash with a vague twitch in Darvey’s direction. The collision with the wall had already robbed it of momentum, but it still held heat so perhaps Darvey would mistake it for an attack. Then he lashed out with a foot against the wall; he needed to halt progress towards it if he had any hope of avoiding going ‘splat!’, but his mismatched velocity meant pushing off also began to spin him into an inelegant tumble forward. This is fine. A tumble would help, in fact, no matter how minutely to the whole of the matter. Absolutely any impulse would as long as it wasn’t straight down. Con momentarily hunched his back, not quite tucking himself as he accelerated the tumble and gauged his one-way trip back to the arena floor. The trick would be to keep himself as limp as possible, save for his legs to act as springs - and the deathgrip around the payload of heat and metal in his left hand. He still needed that, especially as he couldn’t help but fall nearer to his cloaked foe. He stretched out his legs until his toes kissed the copper floor with all the delicacy of a pair of stone giants professing mutual affection - i.e. harder than heck - and let his body fold. Muscles of modified arches compressed, maxed out, and passed the buck upwards to his calves. Then his knees and following still to his thighs as he drew the moment of impact out as long as Ferretinely possible. Still rotating forward, not quite catching the perfect timing for his hamstrings to be replaced by the body rolling past their influence but close enough. Twisting to skew momentum even further off track from directly down, taking it on the left shoulder Bad choice, bad choice, bad-ARGH! Kicking out the leaden weight springs of his legs as much as he dared before he bounced off the discomfort of the copper floor. Rattling his body and his skull, jarring a different memory loose before the flashfloods of pain could dominate… Though the burgeoning city of Bren had been in distant view for the better part of a week, their progress of travel had slowed to an absolute crawl. Hadin’s disquiet thoughts had manifested a distressing need to train after only a few miles of movement each day as the hour of the Championships drew ever nearer. It had worried Connen-Nuete greatly, had worried the Chronicler as well even though he kept his stoat kin safely secreted in his pack, since she pickabacked on his mind most days. Not to say it wasn’t awe-inspiring to see his father in full form. There was a great deal Con had learned in those most recent days simply by observing, but there didn’t seem to be anything he could do to rouse his father’s spirits. Nor has his father let him help his preparations, either. Not that they mattered in the long run, given Connen-Nuete’s eventual betrayal on the horizon in order to keep his father safely alive. Yet it grated all the same. His father neither asked his son to help critique his forms nor be a mock opponent in a spar. In fact he had seemed rather against the idea when Con had meekly mentioned it one night over their evening repast. Con needed to do something, and frankly he rather needed to work off his own growing nerves. To spar would do them both good. So he pulled a memory from his father’s mind one evening after dinner. “Mn...father?” “What is it, boy?” An irritated response, but expected of Hadin all the same. “No. Not Father.” Connen-Nuete had sighed this as he rose to his feet to give his father as serious an expression as he could ever summon up. Which was difficult, as his father always had this quality to him that normally could shake Con. “No, I speak to Hammen Gantherion. Hammen of the Lash. He who holds the title of the Elder of Embers. I challenge you to a duel by pyrelight, a duel of skill and wit, pyrokinetic to pyrokinetic.” Hadin’s eyes narrowed, but a glint in his eye spoke of a bit of his spirit returning. Not in the form of a good mood, alas, but of certainty and steel. “Ye went dredging in my head. I’ve dun told you not ta do that.” The youth smiled thinly as he stepped away from their campfire. “Ah, but Da...I am your descendent. Which means I’ve just as much right to call upon the Crimson Guard traditions as you. By the old ways, yes?” Hadin’s harrumph was loud enough to echo off of distant trees, but he stood all the same and took his place two dozen paces distant from Con. Glaring at his son for long minutes, yet his spirit and his nostalgia outweighed any argument to the contrary that came to his mind. “By the Olden Ways, aye.” Con wasn’t cheating telepathically at the time to know for sure, but he thought he had detected a hint of pride in that response. Even as Hadin took to the pyrelight duel in full measure. Like Connen-Nuete, Hadin had never had the luxury of raw psionic power to manifest heat by will alone, only focus to draw and manipulate it. Yet Hadin’s focus has been refined for decades, and though his use of pyrokinesis had lain dormant for much of that time, he proved focus of will translated beyond any mental boundaries. Decades of attention to the finest detail in the practice of artifice had only made it grow ever sharper, ever fiercer. It was an absolute delight to see that manifest as a coiling serpent blazing a trail down his father’s arm, caressing the grip of his hand as the flame grew longer. Loose and flowing, the fires growing brighter and brighter towards the tip of the lash...and then disappearing into invisible lethality only hinted at by the haze of heat for the entire last foot. That night, Connen-Nuete had inherited the title of Elder of Embers from his father. But he had not done so by the sheer weight of single-minded focus as was his father’s forte… Lances of fresh, white-hot agony stabbed through Connen-Nuete as he continued to roll. Sideways, now, in a mix of maintained momentum and the desperate need to not fall still to be slain by his tenebremancer of a foe. He was not his mother as his right shoulder clipped the floor and his gaze filled with copper expanse. ’No More…’ He was not his father as his hip protested rebounding from the hard surface beneath him. ’...Mr. Nice…’ Nor was he his brother - neither elder nor younger - as his knees cracked together, though he did share a certain deep streak of determination with them both. He was Connen-Nuete Gan-Kar, and by the Lords and Ladies above, he was a ’PYROFERRET!’ first and foremost. Dimly, he was aware of his wounds amidst the fresh cascades of pain wracking along his nervous system, but he gave them little purchase in his mind as he slapped the floor with his right hand to arrest his movement at last. The passel of broken ribs failed to halt the bellows of his lungs as he drew breath, if barely. Torn tendons and ligaments of his left rotator cuff had not quite completely robbed him of the movement of that same arm. Exquisite expanses of blossoming bruises could scream in throbbing torment all they liked, Con refused to let it stop him. It all fed a bright bright white hot agony, a purest virtue of overwhelming pain which mingled with the frustrations to craft an emblazoned anger that erupted straight from his heart. That he could share. As fingers and toes found precious purchase to push and move him into a three-point stance, the air around him erupted into a dazzling palette, spanning from dark merlot all the way to maize with hundreds of hues in between. A full body ’Whoosh’ of expanding fire bought him a single precious moment of forestalled attack as he not only pushed and strained to get his feet under him, but expose the slack-dead mass of his left arm and freely rolling payload of his now discarded liúxing. Clearing the way for his Firebolt at a deathly close range, angled up for Darvey’s groin. The brief fires parted. Citrine eyes confirming his target, he loosed the shot of mental-kinetic force as he willed his body to move.

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