RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (Full Version)

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Dragonknight315 -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/13/2024 22:02:26)

The gold shimmers in Lunara’s hazel eyes as the were-touched bolt leaves her fingers. Aimed for center of mass, it breaches through the fey’s cloak with an otherworldly hiss before denoting. The wind tears into the child with spectral claws, bloodied fabric flying as it turns her into a gory work of art.

<... And stay down.>

Immediately, the ranger drops to her knees and reaches for her shoulder. Her first thought is of relief, her aching shoulder pulsing with each stinging heartbeat from the strain. The ranger's ears are still ringing from the earlier blast, but with each breath, the world slowly returns to the half-elf. But as she gathers herself, she examines her prey, and her blood begins to boil.

The fey still breathes—

Lunara trembles, her whole body shaking with an unspeakable fury as her prey slowly lifts her head.

<... You’re still alive?!?>

The sight wounds the ranger, the anguish greater than anything the fey could comprehend. A single feather, her feather, torn and shredded into non-existence— and the fey still lives. Her spite is a banquet, Lunara knows, her hatred and bewilderment feeding the fey’s existence. No matter— the feather’s sacrifice is not in vain. All Lunara has to do is finish her off.

With the fey still stirring, Lunara shoves her bow back into the quiver’s bands and reaches for a knife at her hip. But just as she grasps the steel, another voice reaches out through the winds. Like a toxic miasma, it swells within her mind—

<What?!>

The half-elf clutches her still sensitive ears as she turns towards the source of the discordance. Right on queue, she finds the devil singing to a captive audience. Lunara sees the infernal crone smile with pure joy and delight as though she had no care in the world.

<Can’t you all just stay out of this one’s head?!>

The ranger half considers shutting the demon up with a tossed dagger, but before she could act on the thought, the winds shift and the fey reminds Lunara of her existence.

“You are lost, aren’t you?”

The words cut through the noise like a blade, and although the demon’s singing still persisted in the back of the half-elf’s mind, she finds it all too easy to focus on the fey’s mind-addling voice.

“Or perhaps you’ve lost something—”

The ranger lets out a gasp as the fey continues. Neither of them seem to move, both enraptured by the killing moment.

“Do you ever wish you could have it back?—”

<Of course—>

“Maybe that’s your boon. Willing to kill every single one of us to repair whatever small thing it is.”

<Always—>

The ranger leans forward, eager to cut the fey’s throat and end her insults. But she simply cannot. The dagger feels heavy in her hands, her faded necklace strangling her very throat. Her mind flows back to the innkeeper— his words leading her back to her homeland, to the forest, to April.

“Insignificant.” The fey continues, the venom dripping from her words. “Inconsequential.”

The ranger bears her teeth as she forces herself up and takes a step forward. <No. It’s worth more than anything.>

“You don’t need it—” The fey’s eyes fix themselves to Lunara’s, the two staring at each other’s souls. “But you think you do. Why? Why are you here? Why do you bother to fight?”

<For this one. For her—> The ranger places a hand over her cold empty heart as she takes another step forward.

“You say you’re not a puppet, that you serve no one, but I don’t think that’s true, because everyone serves someone or something - no matter whether they’ll admit it…”

The thought strikes the ranger like an arrow through her chest. It embeds itself deep within her psyche, working its way through her vulnerabilities. The ranger finds herself on her knees again. But then, she closes her eyes and with a heavy breath she smiles.

“... So that’s what you believe. So close, yet so wrong.

The ranger opens her eyes and throws herself forward, racing towards the fey with a scream in her throat. With the sudden shift, an expression of fear sweeps over the fey’s visage as she reaches for one of her twin swords. But before she could, a dagger slams into the fey’s palm. The steel scrapes against the blackened marble, unwilling to pierce into its surface; alone, it cannot pin her to the ground, but it is enough to stop the fey in her tracks. Thinking quickly, the ranger presses her leg against the fey’s squirming arm and takes the red sword into her own grasp. Much to her surprise, the blade has some weight to it. She plays with it for a moment before holding it to the fey’s chin. Lunara’s message was clear, and the fey froze in place.

“Let this one tell you something. Puppets dance on their strings.” Lunara spoke with a heavy, exhausted voice, her breaths interrupting her speech.

“But I hang from a noose.” The word seems strange in the half-elf’s throat, but it felt honest. It felt right.

“This one knows that she is broken—” Lunara continues. “This one knows that she is dead.” Another lie vanquished, another truth spoken for the fey to hear. Either she wakes from the nightmare today or there will not be a tomorrow.

“ ‘Been at the end of my rope long enough to admit it... But that does not make this one a slave.” Lunara pulls the red sword down, gently tracing the fey’s chin with the tip as she moves it above her throat.

“Your words cannot kill a corpse, so be silent.




Oddball -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/14/2024 21:14:48)

The officer sighed a single breath of relief as her shot struck its mark. She wasn’t quite sure what she would do if her opponent had managed to avoid it, or brush it aside like it was a slight annoyance. Even now, after her clean hit, Camellia had kept up on her feet. The very notion of such unnerved the officer, but she would not show it on the surface… There was, however, one thing that did stand out to Olivier…

Camellia was strangely still for someone who had been struck with that much concentrated lightning.

Cautiously, Olivier crept forwards, her gun aimed at the unmoving drake. Her eyes narrowed slightly. This time, if Camellia tried anything, she’d be ready.

The drake didn’t have to know that her gun wouldn’t shoot for another brief moment, that wasn’t information the officer was keen on sharing with her.

Her focus demanded she kept her attention on this opponent. Even with the mass of distractions that surrounded them, her piercing green pools were locked towards Camellia. Even the slightest lapse of her concentration could spell her end, the drake had made her overwhelming advantage in power abundantly clear.

So she could not help but flinch just a little as the drake suddenly yelled a curse, revealing herself to be kneeling down on the ground. That ability of hers again!? Olivier tightened her grip around her raised weapon as her adversary wrapped a half-grip around the handle of her blade. Was she finally going to draw it? Had the officer finally pushed the drake far enough?

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, Olivier hoped not.

The drake still held that look of defiance as the pair locked eyes. Her gaze spoke for her. This wasn’t her limit, and Olivier wasn’t going to try and take advantage of a downed opponent. Death match or not.

She gestured upwards with her pistol, relaxing her stance just a small amount.

“Up on your feet, I know you’re not done.”


She wasn’t being condescending, or attempting to poke fun at the drake. She simply knew in her heart that this was just going to be a minor setback, and that Camellia would be on her feet in moments. The officer returned the drake’s respectful nod as she carefully watched as Camellia rose back to her full height. Feeling a need to do so as well, Olivier rolled and popped her shoulder as Camellia did the same.

Feeling the metaphorical rust fall off of her shoulders, Olivier took a deep breath and waited for the drake to spring

And spring she did.

A couple of feints to throw her off, measure her movements. She moved with her opponent, not taking the bait but still wary of sudden incoming attacks. Camellia struck forwards, and in doing so, the officer hatched a plan. Subtly, she gripped one of the grenades hidden on her back, her lightning surging through her body.

With a quick shift of her feet, Olivier took a step backwards as the drake’s form shifted, her leg descending upon the officer’s position with a clear intent on finishing her. Stepping in, Olivier swiped the grenade from her back, swinging it upwards with all the force she could muster.
She’d have to thank the surgeons for making sure she was practically immune to the effects of lightning, otherwise her fight may have ended with her stunt.

A brilliant flash of purple clashed with the drake as the grenade exploded against her leg. It wasn’t much, but the shock had given Olivier just enough time to be able to avoid the follow-through.

Well, that was her intention, at least.

With the damage she had sustained? Moving as dexterously as usual was a more difficult task than she had hoped, and the officer grit her teeth as Camellia’s fist caught Olivier’s cheek as she tried to twist out of the way.

Now. The real gamble.

She had to hope the drake would fall for her feint.

It was a matter of life or death.

As the officer completed her rotation, she tensed her legs and lowered herself to the ground slightly. All clear indications that she was going to leap upwards, and try and catch the drake in the chin again.
It had worked well before, even managing to push the imposing figure of Camellia backwards. Second time’s the charm, as they said back home.

Olivier couldn’t help but hide a small smile as her adversary took the bait, beginning to swing high as a means to catch the officer mid-air.

And with that, the officer released the tension in her legs, leaping a meager few inches off of the ground. She quickly dashed forwards, finally reaching for the baton she kept hidden. And in a brilliant streak of purple, she swung the sparkling baton upwards. With it, it carried her hope. Her silent plea that her opponent did not have a way to react in time to the surprise attack…


Because if she did?

There would likely be no coming back.




roseleaf320 -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/14/2024 21:21:22)

Vashiryn’s fireball arced through the air, dim purple and orange light flickering against the arena’s floor. It bore no visage, no extra vision to supplement the one Chalybe had borne. Vashiryn kept it in his peripheral, but focused his glance more on his newly declared foe. It-- her, Vashiryn corrected, as her movements revealed a stout frame and long, tangled hair-- swung aside as the fireball flew past, her movements large and exaggerated. Her various fabrics flew with her, making her small frame look much larger than it was; likely intended. Vashiryn caught what seemed like a cloud of powder that burst from her form as she leapt. Had he more time he might be curious as to its contents, but miscellaneous dust was rather low on his list of priorities. His main question about the woman had been answered-- she was clearly more humanoid than monstrous. That was fine; he knew the Championships would be mostly intelligent races, and prepared accordingly, knowing intelligence would be more difficult to trap. He was not uncomfortable fighting others, as long as they weren’t Al’darii. Vashiryn’s lips pressed together under his mask as the shimmering sword within the fire flickered in his mind. If he had to strike one of his own… would he?

While his fireball had technically missed its target, it had clearly served its actual goal. After her leap backwards, the woman’s head jerked to face him, her gaze locking onto his with an unsettling precision. Her face was wrinkled and discolored. A tickle of what was almost pity graced Vashiryn as he remembered the quickly decaying lives of humans. She was old, already, despite likely being a hundred years younger than him. Vashiryn supposed that meant when she was killed, she wouldn’t actually lose much time.

A voice arose from beside him, and Vashiryn turned his glance towards his newly declared ally. There was an odd glint in her multicolored eyes as she spoke, and Vashiryn felt a slight chill down his spine. “I am Atzilah, Queen of Nazos and Incarnate of the Elder Goddess of Fire.”

Vashiryn winced at her declaration. Though her voice was clearly different-- higher in pitch and forward in resonance-- it held the same strength and conviction Vashiryn loved in Aurcinis’. Vashiryn did not enjoy hearing that voice claim itself an incarnate of a goddess. Neither Aurcinis nor Vashiryn ever claimed such a thing: they were regular Al’darii, given the privilege and responsibility to love and care for Al’dar and their people. Nothing more.

Unless caring for their people required more. Flame Emperor.

Looking at his ally, with her burnt and malformed scepter, Vashiryn had a hunch their Flame Emperor wouldn’t bring the Al’darii any good fortune. But… all it needed to do was bring them life. And his heartfire sung that the vision had been guidance; not warning, as the fixation of the many-legged monster had been.

Vashiryn kept his lips pursed, deciding quickly not to give this “Goddess Incarnate” his own name and title. She did not need it; and he did not want to consider how she might understand it. He was saved from the obligation of giving it by another screech that pierced Vashiryn’s ears and furrowed his brows. Why were overworlders so loud? His ally’s unsettling smile morphed into a scowl, and she left Vashiryn’s side without a word, sprinting towards the source of the noise. It felt as if it was coming from Vashiryn’s own head. But as his gaze followed the burnt Queen, he realized the sound came not from himself, but from his chosen foe. It was not just a single screech, but a continuing language, each word dissonant and gut-wrenching. Whatever little pity he had felt for the woman dissipated in an instant. This one would die; and he would feel no guilt over it.

Vashiryn took off in a sprint, wind rustling his fabrics as he curved his path towards the center of the arena. It took more concentration than he could spare to ignore the screaming and focus on his visual surroundings. One of the first rules of a hunt was cutting off a monster’s escape routes. The Queen was clearly in front of the screeching woman. She spared barely a step as she charged, marred scepter propelling several floating rocks towards their foe. To the woman’s right was the arena’s edge; between both paths stood two more competitors. Vashiryn spared them a single glance, enough to notice the two staring daggers at each other, their lips moving frantically, though he could not hear their words over his own foe’s screaming. So many words exchanged between people who knew each other for mere seconds, and very clearly wanted to kill each other. Vashiryn could not understand it. Regardless, they stood in the way of another escape route. Should the woman try to flee now, her options were behind her or to her left. He curved his path to her left-- his right-- heading towards the center of the arena, careful not to touch any of the arena’s stones as he passed them. If he could cover the right, he just needed something to lock off the foe from behind.

As he raised his hand to prepare his flames, one of the stones from the Queen’s charge slammed cleanly into his foe. The force of it flung her backwards, her limbs flailing like a beetle turned upside down as she plummeted to the arena floor. Her cloaks flared out around her, dust and cloth both bursting upwards before starting to float back towards her body. Vashiryn stopped mid-breath. An opportunity.

Vashiryn pinpointed his eyes on his foe’s chest. Without a breath, he brought his left hand to his chest, pinched middle finger and thumb together, and pulled. Once more, he felt the flame within his heart yank forwards and erupt above his head. He knew not what he might see within it should it kill another; but Vashiryn refused to ever falter. Chalybe was his to use as he knew was right. While his open left hand pulsed upwards to form the second sign, Vashiryn wrapped his right hand around the dagger at his waist. “Counsel:” One of a pair, forged by his great uncle for his Flame-Taking Ceremony. He raised Counsel to his chest, its reflective shine catching the light above Vashiryn’s head. A contingency; should Chalybe fail, Vashiryn would be ready. With a force perhaps rougher than he’d been before, Vashiryn slammed his right hand against his open palm, the blade barely missing his skin as it pointed towards the spear’s target. Chalybe mirrored his dagger, bright orange plunging from Vashiryn’s head towards his fallen opponent.

As Vashiryn brought his left hand up to flick his mask’s cloth-- Fuel our Fire-- Vashiryn spared a glance towards his dagger. Its black surface glanced back up at him with his own silver eye. To Defend the Al’darii and Counsel the King, as long as your heartfire shall burn. Before he could counsel Aurcinis-- could determine why Al’dar’s answer was Flame Emperor, he needed to find the Fire Lord. And to find the Fire Lord, he needed to kill another.




Starstruck -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/15/2024 3:05:03)

The instant she had arrived in Bren, it was like the winds had changed. Something about the magic here superseded the horrible cramping that she endured as a result of breaking- no, not breaking, she reminded herself. Bending - bending the terms of her contract. She could feel it tugging at her ears still. He was calling her name and demanding she divulge her whereabouts.

"Bren," she said aloud. He couldn't hear. He asked again. She replied again. And again. And again. And again. And again and again and again and again and again

But the air here smelled like change. Like a new start for her. She could finally be free; free to destroy lives or build them up; free to fall in love or build an immortal grudge; free to make her own contracts and set her own rules, free from cheaters and frauds who rewrote their agreements right before they were signed.

Free. She barely even let herself think the word, but it came slipping out of her mouth anyway.

"Free."
It was the operatic performance of a lifetime. The crowd was leaping to their feet and roaring with adulation and applause, all for the amazing, incredible, show-stopping, headlining, Deandra Vill herself! It was almost enough to bring a girl to tears. But just as she was reaching the climax of her dazzling performance, possibly one of the best she'd ever given (this part is true), she was interrupted. Rudely. By a rock. She was too busy singing to pay any attention at all. Singing was very important. Very, VERY important. But, it seemed that she had put a target on her back with it. Or more accurately, her front.

The meteor came sailing in with a graceful arc, and down went Deandra. It was an embarrassing pratfall, honestly. The impact was sufficient to knock all the loose change from her pockets. A massive mushroom cloud of thick dust floated upwards. And what's worse, her spare ball of yarn went bouncing away, well out of reach. How would she do her knitting now? But most unforgibeably, she heard a little tink, and then a splash, and her secret supply of moglinberry juice EXPLODED ON HER CLOTHES. A look of horror stained Deandra's face as quickly as it stained the white lace on her back dress, and her face turned the exact same shade of crimson. The wings on her back sprang into motion, pushing her up with unnatural quickness. Her body hung in the air like the asteroids around her, dragging her neck up to face her attackers, apoplectic with fury.
Where are you?
"How DARE-"

Thunk.
"Bren."

Chasing the rock was a burning spear that sailed through the twilight like the arrows that lit the funeral pyre of some savage Viking. It was aimed at Deandra's supine form, a good clean shot that might have popped her pretty (this part is untrue) little (this part is also untrue) head off had it landed. Her timely leap to her feet moved her just inches to the side, but it was not enough to protect her totally from the blow. The spear slid through the flesh of her forearm, lodging itself there while also igniting Deandra's horrible clothes with a brilliant vermilion flame that hungrily gobbled up the cloud of dust about her in a bright flash of light and heat. Unlike the piercing, high-pitched screeching from before, the noise Deandra made was neither a shriek nor indeed anything recognizable as human.
The flames licked agonizingly over her body, but for the very first time since she had been shackled to this plane, it felt like home.
"Ha. HahahahahHA. Ozh ash'm. Vosh izha naszhtaku."

Bones cracked and reformed as Deandra's left arm extended. The spear remained, but its angle and position shifted as her poorly manicured nails reformed into wickedly sharp claws. Her left leg morphed to match, extending into a spindly black limb, as she hobbled towards the champions of Fire, still illuminated with the orange flames dancing around the singed clothing on her left side.

"That was a good try, sweetie," she grunted, sharp teeth too big for her mouth. Her claws flared out in a gesture of rage, then clacked rhythmically against the stone floor as she pulled herself along one step at a time. "Auntie Deandra will give you a little present if you get this thing out of me." She cackled wheezily, dust pouring out of her jaws. "Have you ever wanted to soar through the air? To harm those who deserve harm just with a glance?" Her scarlet eyes flashed as she nonchalantly slapped her burning clothing with her right hand, barely suppressing the flames that threatened to consume her body. Her eyes flicked to the right. "Or how about you, little princess? I heard you babbling about your many, many titles. There is but one title left for someone of your talents, and that is of the Paragon of Fire. Who is it here who stands in your way, mm? And which dear, sweet old lady is here to give you a little...boost?" Her mouth cracked into a smile far too wide for her face.
WHERE ARE YOU ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW


As her competition drew closer, she held out her left hand, disfigured into a gigantic spindly claw, arm speared and on fire, palm up, in the shape of a handshake.
for once she didnt have to answer she didnt have to say ANYTHING


"I don't sleep, you know."

"So?"

"You bound me to this plane forty and four years ago. Every night since, while you toss and turn in the uneasiest dreams I can give you without killing you, I have recited the terms of my contract word for word in the hopes that-"

"I don't care."

"Of course you wouldn't."

"Silence, now. I grow tired of your voice."

"..."




nield -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/15/2024 8:40:36)

The Queen of Ashes let a vicious grin onto its face as one of the meteorites it had sent flying crashed directly into its target, silencing the soulful serenade that had rung out.

The disgusting creature I’d knocked down drags itself up with wings, its already ugly face worsening more by the rage twisting its features. It howls in fury even before the spear from my new servant strikes home. When it does, a new sound emerges from the creature’s throat. Ah~ it’s almost pleasant. Like some of the lower beasts back home.

Then it’s back to nauseating sounds with a piercing nasally laughter before speaking purest nonsense. Well, it’s probably not nonsense, seeing how the creature’s form distorts even more.


As the woman’s form distorted, it was clear that she was no ordinary being. Her voice alternated between a sound worse than the scratching of her claws on the marble beneath her feet and a deep, guttural growl.

As she spoke to the dark elf, The Queen of Ashes lowered its head. When she directed her words directly to the Queen, its shoulders started to shake. If anyone had thoughts that it was afraid of the woman before it, those thoughts were dashed as its laughter could no longer be contained. The Queen raised its head high, manic laughter pouring forth that rang out through the Arena.

It’s such a bad joke I can’t help but burst out laughing. “Oh my~ You think you’re so threatening don’t you, you malformed sprig! Oh no~ Look at my malformed limbs~ Look at how wide my smile that doesn’t fit my face is~ You’re a joke, a terrible one. I’ve seen worse creatures than you looking out my palace window. But you know what? I’ll admit you’re in any position to help me if you can do just one thing.”

With a sharp flick of my wrist I transfer my sceptre into my left hand and summon a ball-sized amount of the Atzilah Flare in my right. “Suppress this flame.” I throw it at the creature. Come on, be stupid enough to think that’s even something that can be done~




Anastira -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/16/2024 0:16:30)

Epithet’s voice rings through the arena, every word the cut of a blade, sharp and certain.

At first, she is not certain her words have held any weight: the archer yet reaches for a knife at her waistband, still in motion - unaffected. But Epithet’s particular infection is inevitable. The air stills between them; the archer leans forward, as though to land the killing blow, but partway there she is caught, frozen in space and in time, suspended in the moment before. Before reaching out, before striking, before drawing blood: the movement already begun, yet unable to reach finality.

And as the words flow, Epithet begins to smile. In a brief, dangerous, reckless moment, she believes this is it - her victory - and that she might as well go on forever…

That moment, however fleeting, is her undoing.

Remarkably, impossibly, the archer bares her teeth, takes a single step forward, and somewhere deep down Epithet feels her stomach drop and her heart skip a beat. Her hands feel clammy. She thinks that now might be a good time to collect Advice and Criticism from the floor, but eye contact is so important to a good Insult - and maybe, maybe she can lock the archer down again. So she keeps going, the words flowing from her like a salt flowing into a wound, every syllable dripping blood.

The archer does not stop. Her hand lifts to her chest and moves forward again - again, and the knot deep down becomes a flutter, wings of panic beating against the cage of Epithet’s ribs, the prison of her chest, beating to break free -

She is drowning, the water all around her, the Hearthlake vast and deep and never-ending -

Epithet strikes the thought aside viciously, focusing on her words. On the Insult. And it must work, because - before her - the archer is forced to her knees. Yes. Bow. Kneel to the queen -

“...So that’s what you believe. So close, yet so wrong.”

The words cut through the Insult, and Epithet feels something tenuous stretch and break: whatever hold she had on the archer dissipating like mist under a hot sun. Worse - the archer closes her eyes and smiles. Smiles. Why? What does it mean? This creature, only moments ago locked within Epithet’s iron fist, but now she is smiling?

Epithet is about to say something - an Insult, maybe, or words without meaning, words without bite; she can’t be sure, the words are unreachable, dancing beyond her grasp. And so, as Epithet searches for the words that should be second nature, the archer lunges forward, racing towards Epithet so quickly she doesn’t have time to draw breath nor scream an Insult. She reaches for Criticism, lunging for it; she thinks she might almost be able to reach it, half-imagines its cool weight settling against her palm, when she is stopped short, pinned in place. She looks back at the archer, confused and uncomprehending. The fluttering wings of panic within her chest become something more, something worse, loud and pounding -

Pain.

Splitting, piercing, fiery pain.

Epithet screams.

The pain is so abrupt that for an instant Epithet thinks maybe this is death, it is over and she is the victim of fate after all, but another moment passes and she realizes that the pain is all concentrated in her hand. She manages to turn her head to look: and sees her own hand pierced through with the archer’s dagger, her blood spilling out onto the marble of the arena floor; and the archer’s boot pressing on top, grinding her bones to dust. The panic has become a choking, suffocating fist closing around her throat, and she gasps for breath.

The archer seems unfazed. In fact, her other hand holds something: a blade, heavy and cruel, black-and-red.

Advice.

No.

Epithet swallows. The archer plays with the blade, toying with it; and then she holds the blade to Epithet’s throat, so close Epithet feels its cold kiss on her skin. She feels cold all over, as though someone has poured ice into her veins in place of blood. She feels as though she might shiver, but the razor edge of the metal against her neck is a violent warning: move an inch, a centimeter, even a millimeter, and the archer’s face might be the last she ever sees. And she can’t have that…

“Let this one tell you something,” the archer says, her voice laden with exhaustion. “Puppets dance on their strings. But I hang from a noose.” What a strange thing to say… “This one knows that she is broken - this one knows that she is dead.” Good, Epithet thinks, even though the blade is still sharp at her throat and she doesn’t dare breathe. She is waiting - for what? For the archer to end this, finally. But the archer is not yet done.

“Been at the end of my rope long enough to admit it…but that does not make this one a slave. Your words cannot kill a corpse, so be silent.”

And Epithet is.



The voices are singing.

“Sail the Hearthlake, the dear father said, look to the coming dawn / who whispered, when the sun rises, you’ll already be gone? / was it I? I don’t recall, it was so long ago / at least when you sail the Hearthlake, you’ll never sail alone!”

The water is deep, murky, dark. The girl flails her arms and gasps for breath; water fills her lungs. She is cold all over, a coldness she has never known before: an absence of warmth. Lost, she thinks. I’m lost. I’m not supposed to be here.

“Sail the Hearthlake, the new bride said, you’ve far now to run / the clock ticks on and the time runs low, but you’re not yet done / do you remember the place we made, the place you thought was home? / forget all these idle mistakes; your salvation is to roam…”

She is sinking; everything is black. Panic fills her body: a flutter of wings, the pounding of drums, the choking blackness of pure and utter suffocation. She breathes out. There are bubbles. How lovely.

“Sail the Hearthlake, the little child cried, as fast as you might / be afraid of the day, as you are of the night / nothing starts and nothing ends in the waters that swallow you whole / this is the fate of those that don’t know where to go…”

You did not kneel, the goddess whispers through the water, a ripple of sound.

I’m sorry, the creature called Wister whispers.

Her story is now mine to tell, says the woman in the hood.

The girl continues to sink. The bubbles are gone.



Epithet’s vision clears.

She doesn’t quite understand what happens in these moments. The archer’s snide comment, the blade - her blade, the greatest betrayal - against her skin, cutting deeper as the archer slices against Epithet’s throat; the memory of a foreign past overtaking Epithet for a brief, black moment. And then, as the blade threatens to cut deeper, Epithet recoils, bending backwards as far as she can, away from Advice’s touch.

She feels her own blood running in rivulets down her neck and onto her collarbones, streaming tears dyed crimson. It should be hot but it feels as though it runs cold.

Desperate, Epithet jerks her left hand from where it is pinned by the archer’s dagger and boot.

Pain blossoms like fireworks.

But there is no time to think about the pain. The archer is going to make good on the kill any moment now; Epithet knows this. So instead she tells herself a Lie.

There is no cut. There is no wound. There is only words, and poetry, and vengeance…

The pain recedes, and Epithet’s hand comes free. She does not look at it. The Lie holds true for now: but if she looks, if she sees the blood flowing free down her fingers and her wrist, if she takes in her mangled palm, the fingers that hang uselessly and the bone that is cracked - the Lie will splinter just like the archer’s arrow. It will shatter into a thousand irredeemable pieces and Epithet will have to face the truth. And that is not something she is ready for.

So instead she lunges, in the moment of the archer’s surprise: searching for her other blade, and yet at the same time her instinct leads her somewhere else.

Without thinking, Epithet reaches for one of the archer’s daggers, sheathed on her belt. Her right hand finds a hilt; before the archer can react, she swipes the dagger across the archer’s face. Blood wells in the lines it leaves behind, and Epithet feels a glow of pride as the archer staggers backwards, reeling. Off-balance…just the way Epithet wants her. Epithet looks back at the archer, meeting her blood-covered eyes; and then, as the archer struggles to orient herself, Epithet lunges forward, slipping beneath the archer’s guard, and stabs upwards: a sharp, confident movement, the blade angled to enter just below its owner’s ribcage, seeking her heart.

Two blades, two betrayals.

“You say my words cannot kill you,” Epithet snarls, smiling, “but perhaps this will do the trick.”




Chewy905 -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/16/2024 23:28:12)

Olivier stepped into Camellia’s strike, surprising the half-drake with a bold display of foolishness. The officer’s hand swung up with full force, lobbing another shocking orb directly into the half-drake’s leg. She kicked through it, purple lightning alighting her scales and slipping beneath them, once more caressing her skin alongside the phantom of memory. Her body sang with pain, the repeated shocks driving a bolt of dizziness to her vision and accenting her exhaustion. This was taking too long. She HAD to end this.

Her leg crashed to the ground, cracking marble as Olivier slipped aside again. Camellia spat her frustration as a violent curse, a sloppy punch chasing after her agile foe. Even rushed, the blow met its mark and scraped the officer’s cheek, the chains of exhaustion clearly starting to claim Olivier as much as herself. But Olivier pushed forwards, legs tensed, body low. It was an obvious movement, the prelude to a repeated step that could claim another prized strike against Camellia’s chin.

No… It was too obvious. No matter how much repetition Olivier displayed in her repertoire, she HAD to know Camellia would catch a second blow aimed at one of the only places she had ripped The Family’s blessing from her skin. Instead…

Camellia swung a halfhearted gauntlet across the air before her, prompting, welcoming the officer’s approach. Her other hand opened wide, claws glinting in the light like bared fangs. Olivier dashed in, a lightning bolt across the sunset. Camellia’s claw began to fall, to catch the prey that had stepped so eagerly into her trap.

Then she saw the baton.

A new weapon, an ace hidden up a trickster’s sleeve. It wore lightning like a dress, sparking with wild abandon and deadly grace. Whether Camellia struck the officer or withdrew her claw, that bludgeon would kiss her violet armor. She would wear those mortal bolts, they would force all of her muscles to dance, and Olivier would dip her low and finish her off. No, she would not be able to avoid this deadly invitation. She would have to accept it, and let the magic course through her as The Family’s flesh willed. But… she’d betrayed them, ripped their flesh from her own…

So she’d face this alone.

Camellia twisted her claw, angling her blow downwards. Her hand crashed into the baton’s tip with full force and she closed her grip with a scream, crushing it in her grasp. Lightning rushed up her arm, searing her scars with fresh suffering. She bit down hard as the current flooded through her, exploring her flesh but desperate to reach the ground as quickly as it could rather than surge through all of her at once. Her ears rang, the high-pitched tone still unable to drown out the words’ endless echoes. She screamed again, battling the last traces of the storm as it tried in vain to drive her to her knees. Her eyes traced the scorched arm that now dangled limply at her side. It was as good as dead, she couldn’t feel it nor move it a single inch. Olivier was already reacting, already raising her pistol to replace the shattered baton. Those emerald eyes watched every movement Camellia made, anticipating every opportunity. A punch would be dodged, a retreat followed. Camellia had to tear herself away again, had to leave for her world of one if she were to ever erase this foe.

But the words still squirmed beneath her seared, scarred flesh, lying in wait. Each fresh memory was birthed away from this world, away from any distractions so Camellia had no choice but to listen, to feel. Would she be able to bear another curse, bear another moment of vulnerability that was so alien yet so eternally familiar?

She had no choice.

Camellia tore herself in two.

Cami.


A hand upon her wrist. Soft lips pressed against he-

Ignore it.

Camellia’s muscles tensed, every last drop of energy flooding her form at her command. The tear was sloppy, incomplete. A ghost of her form still moved upon the battlefield. She had to make that ghost meaningless.

Cami.


A hand upon her back. Soft emerald eyes, laced with silver, gazed int-

Ignore it.

She exploded forwards with all her might, her working arm lancing up, then slamming back. Her elbow struck the back of Olivier’s skull with a violent, sickening crack as the world crashed down upon the half-drake and united ghost with flesh.

Cami.


A nail beneath her scales. Dressed lips whispered a requ-

SHE HAD TO IGNORE IT.

Camellia lashed her arm out as Olivier fell forwards, laced claws closing around the officer’s head and yanking it backwards. With a final scream, Camellia obeyed the siren’s song of exhaustion and plunged Olivier towards the marble, her entire weight behind the thrust.

She would not be rising again after this strike.

She didn’t need to.

The memory sang to her, as the glittering sunlit tile approached, as lethargy threatened to consume her.

Do not forget me.


The wall of words crumbled, a tidal wave of memory ravaging her thoughts. But only one word mattered. Only one name: slipped through whispering lips into the ear of an officer to whom it meant nothing.

“...Venus.”





Anastira -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/17/2024 21:23:44)

Why won’t the archer die?

The dagger strikes flesh; blood follows; and yet the archer twists away, the dagger failing to find her heart. Epithet snarls, primal frustration, as the archer falls back onto the ground; and pulls the dagger out roughly. The archer’s blood flows freely from the wound, a thousand shades of death: ruby, vermillion, garnet, crimson, burgundy, scarlet, a rainbow of one color painting an artist’s masterpiece onto the black marble of the arena.

Epithet crouches atop the archer, grinning wickedly. You may have dodged that one, archer, but now you’re mine -

The archer coughs. She spits her words like they are poison. “You missed -”

Epithet readies the dagger.

Try. Again -

Epithet does not speak. Why would she? What use would her Insults be now, when she stands over her victim, helpless and bleeding out on the floor? Even if Epithet turned and walked away now, this instant, she’s sure the archer would die here. But even Epithet is not that merciless. Or maybe it is just her pride…she wants this. Needs this. The final say, the last word, the kill.

She lowers herself over the archer, almost like a lover - what an intimate dance it is, this tango of death. She inspects the archer carefully - for the first time since she set foot within this arena. The scarred face - scarred before, and scarred again by the archer’s own blade, in Epithet’s hands. The gold in her eyes, like the last fading glimmer of hope. There is sadness, loss, maybe even a trace of desperation in those eyes - but something else, too. Determination. Survival.

Epithet hesitates for the barest moment. What a shame, to kill this archer. She’s the only creature who has ever made Epithet feel truly challenged. In a way, they bring out the best in each other.

Then she goes in for the kill.

Her strike is as confident as before, the dagger plunging downwards towards the archer’s chest, victory so certain Epithet can taste it. So certain she does not even consider that the archer might fight back; she does not consider that the archer might have the strength to do so. She throws all her strength and momentum into that single fatal plunge -

The archer catches her.

No. No. A flash of panic, the fluttery wings of her racing heart. She won’t be stopped. Not when she’s so close. But the archer is deceptively strong, her hands holding Epithet at bay, and the dagger shivers in the air between them, its blade twinkling as the archer’s arms strain against Epithet’s, both of them shaking with the effort.

Epithet closes her eyes and growls, pushing as hard as she can, a sudden burst of strength.

And the archer’s arms give way, the dagger plunging down, down, piercing into the archer’s chest, her torso leaking blood in so many places her body might as well be a river. Epithet swallows, pulling away, the archer’s dagger left impaled at her collarbone. The perfect time for a snarky comment - but all Epithet feels is exhaustion…and vertigo. She fights not to look at her left hand, fights not to think about anything except the tears on the archer’s face: tears which betray the truth - Epithet has won.

Finally.

She wipes her face with one hand, brushing away the sweat that’s beaded there, ragged strands of hair plastered to her face. She looks away, into the frozen-sunset of the arena. It’s beautiful. She hadn’t had time to appreciate that, before.

“You did it,” she hears the archer say, and the words bring a warm glow of pride. Yes, Epithet thinks, not even bothering to look at the archer, not bothering to respond: yes, I did it.

A sound registers from somewhere on the floor - the soft hiss of metal against the ground - and Epithet tries to look, but she is so tired, and as she turns she catches sight of her left hand, mangled beyond recognition. She feels so lightheaded, so dizzy. So tired. And she’s won. Even the archer has admitted she’s won.

So she doesn’t see Advice coming.

She’s still mid-turn, shifting to look curiously at the archer, when the blade plunges into her chest.

To Epithet, the strike happens in slow motion: the blade glinting black-and-red in the light, her blade, and through the tiredness and the pain it seems impossible that her blade would betray her again. She watches that blade flash through the dimness, the dying archer hefting it with a strength Epithet had already assumed gone. She watches the scrolling words against its shaft as it finds her chest, as it rends her flesh in two, as the blood begins to flow.

She vaguely hears the archer say: “But this one has the last laugh…”

Words spoken with a death rattle. But what does it matter? Soon that death rattle will be Epithet’s too. Soon death will take her, too…

Did you really think you could win?

She gasps. At last, pain blossoms like a flower in springtime, welling out of Epithet’s chest hot and fierce. She can no longer Lie. She can no longer spare herself from this pain. Her hand is red-hot, too, two sources of pain shining like stars, all she can think about. Little fires she can’t put out. The world flickers in her vision, fuzzy, far-away. All she wants to do is sleep…

If she sleeps, the pain will go away -

She reaches out as she falls sideways, crumpling on top of the archer’s body. Her hand finds the floor, but her fingers do not stop at solid marble; instead, they find water, black as night and deep as time. She herself is falling, too. She falls through the liquid cool of the waves, past the flickering lights of her ship, through the feather-light notes of the guitar, past the words of the songs she used to know so well. She reaches, not upwards but down, and finds herself called home.

Sail to the Hearthlake, the dead man wept, and breathe your last breath / in the Hearthlake pain will flee, in life and in death / come to the Hearthlake to be with me, where we all belong / home is not a place, my friend; home is the end of the song…

This is all of those things, Epithet realizes as she falls. The end of the story, the end of the song. The last verse, the final words, the last laugh, the eulogy.

She closes her eyes; and all is well.




Dragonknight315 -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/17/2024 21:23:53)

“... Be silent.

The ranger sweeps the red steel towards the fey child’s neck. It strikes true, satisfaction rippling through Lunara’s arm as she feels the resistance against her prey’s own blade. Drops of red trickle from the figure’s throat, the sight spurring the half-elf to push deeper—

<Someone has to fail, and it will not be this one.>

The cut is severe, but before Lunara could turn it fatal, her prey throws herself back in a last minute act of self preservation. Immediately, the ranger feels the fey rip out her arm from beneath her boot like a wild animal. The dagger tears into her hand as the fey pulls it free, but the fey does not care. All that matters is survival. Better to lose one’s hand than to lose one’s. Something Lunara understands well. Something she should have expected. It throws the ranger’s balance into disarray. She tries to adjust, twirling the red steel around into a reverse grip. Before the half-elf can find her footing and plunge the sword down, she feels something brush against her waist. And as Lunara looks down, she sees the dagger coming right at her.

The stolen dagger traces a second scar across the severed songbird’s face from cheek to temple, the red line flaring bright with newfound pain as it crisscrosses the old mark of her turning. The half-elf snarls as she reels back, blood dripping into her right eye.

<So close...>

There is no time to think. Through one good eye and a curtain of red, she makes out the outline of the fey— she’s already moving.

“You say my words cannot kill you—”

Instincts turn to action; there’s no way Lunara can dodge the strike, so the half-elf shifts back onto her heels and leans to the side before bracing for impact.

“... But perhaps this will do the trick.”

Turned against its master, the steel slams into the half-elf’s flank. A near-perfect reprisal— Lunara gasps as the blade rips into her flesh. It narrowly misses her heart, but the thought is of little consolation to the ranger. Her wounded side ignites into an inferno of pain, her whole body going into shock— she can’t stand, she can’t...

The golden flickers within the ranger’s eyes as her knees buckle and she falls onto her back, blood gushing from her wounded flank as the dagger exits her flesh. She looks up from the blackened marble floor to see the fey lording over her with a satisfied smile.

Oh how Lunara wants to wipe it clean.

“You missed—” Lunara spits out, red steel still at her side. Soaking in a puddle of her own blood, the ranger knows her options are limited. She needs to prey on the fey’s weakness— her pride.

“Try. Again—


The ranger goads the fey to strike, and the fey takes the bait. The child lowers herself to examine her soon-to-be victim, taking in every inch of Lunara’s unfortunate state. Then, with both hands, the fey plunges Lunara’s dagger down. Seizing the moment, Lunara leans up with both hands and catches the fey’s arms.

A struggle— eyes locked to eyes, their arms shaking as they desperately tried to overpower the other. Lunara spies the fey’s mangled hand, blood and bone visible from her earlier wound. It should have been easy to pry the dagger away, but the fey ignores the pain, ignores the blood, ignores everything that isn’t Lunara’s death. She pushes the dagger down, inching closer and closer to Lunara’s flesh as the ranger tries to hold her back. Just as the half-elf feels that she is making progress, her body betrays her. Her arm yields as her collar flares in agony; she feels her strength leave as the blood pours from her side.

<No! So close... So close!—>

Finally, her hands give up, and the fey plunges the dagger into her chest.

Tears mix with blood as a cold sensation sweeps over Lunara’s chest. A tide of emptiness flows out from the wound; it eats away at her pain and frustration until the half-elf feels hollow.

She’s dying. For a second time, Lunara knows that she is dying.

“You did it.”

The words leave the ranger’s lips with a gasp as she forces her body to move. She hates it. She hates the numbness, how it rids Lunara of all that is her. But more than anything, she hates the sight of the fey in front of her. With the pain gone, Lunara reaches for the red steel at her side. The ranger can’t even feel her hands or the blade within her grasp, but she knows that it is there. With one last deathrattle, she stares at the fey through her blood-soaked eyes and plunges the blade into the figure’s chest.

“But this one has the last laugh...”

The half-elf's voice trails off as her head slumps to the side. With what little willpower she has, Lunara tries to stay conscious, to live for just a few more seconds to outlast her adversary. As the twilight gloam of the arena encroaches from the corner of her red-stained eyes, she sees the fey fall against her chest, both of them defeated by their own weapons.

<How poetic...>

She tries to laugh, but all her strength is spent. In what may be her final moments, her mind wanders to home, to the brilliant pink light that guides her.

<Sorry... April—>

Perhaps that wish is simply not meant for her. If the Lords will not have mercy on her, Lunara hopes something out there will.




roseleaf320 -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/18/2024 20:49:35)

Vashiryn’s foe scrambled to her feet like an insect; not fast enough. From above, Chalybe’s bonfire struck true, its flamed point stabbing through the old woman’s arm. She let out a monstrous wail, but Vashiryn could not bring his hands to cover his ears. As the woman’s hand shuttered and morphed-- from the fingers of a human to the claws of a monster-- Vashiryn’s silver eyes shone only for Al’dar.

A pickaxe swings; a rock, and another, fractures, shatters, under practiced hands. A new path forged. The ground shakes. It is no different. Indiscernible. Unpreventable. Yet important. A rock shatters. An eye opens. A rock shatters. An eye opens.


Vashiryn’s puzzle clicked into place. Vashiryn’s world crumbled.

The old woman spoke; it did not matter. She raised her monstrous hand towards him, palm up, as if to shake. It did not matter.

For the Al’darii were constantly digging, hunting, exploring, expanding. It was as reflexive to them as breathing. To prevent the multi-legged monster from waking, he must stop the Al’darii from digging. And Vashiryn could not do that as Hearth to his King. Vashiryn would need to have the power of a god. And the closest thing to a god for the Al’darii was the Al’dar.

And thus, the Flame Emperor; no. He had a better translation now, for the flamesign of Al’dar that curled into a sign grander than King.

Al’dar Incarnate.

Vashiryn stood still, chin tipped upwards, chest barely rising and falling with his breath. Beside him, the Queen let out a laugh that stung Vashiryn’s ears, distrust curtling to hatred with every word that left the ruler’s mouth. She displayed such haught that it bordered on carelessness; so convinced in her superiority that it bled from her speech like a stomach wound. And as she summoned a flame within her hand-- a cerulean flame so similar, yet so alien to his own heartfire-- Vashiryn knew what he needed to do.

He knew who the true monsters were.

Cold stone eyes turned to his foe, her charred arm outstretched before him. His spear dissipated from her arm as if it had never been; Vashiryn felt the flame within him flicker in turn. He pushed thoughts of his people aside as he reached one arm out to sign, curled fingers fluttering back and forth like legs. This magic was not Al’dar’s; their legends changed over the years, but the web was a voice-bearing Al’daren’s from birth. The dark elf spoke, his voice the barest of whispers, so not even his mask flickered with its breath. “I weave my web.” He drew the sign across in a single line, and his fingers left behind a thin spider web. It hovered in the air, harmless; a trap in wait, as magnificent as those weaved by the spiders in the underearth. Without another word, the dark elf gripped his foe’s charred claw and pulled.

Without waiting for his foe's reaction, Vashiryn withdrew his hand and reached forward, his touch a gentle caress as his knuckles brushed the web and his finger tapped his palm. Burn, prey.

Vashiryn did not stay to watch the flames that erupted across his web, to see whether his pull had been enough to yank her through them. The old woman was not his true target. His hands were already moving, eyes locked onto the one who claimed herself a Goddess. Onto the dark, exposed skin of her neck; of her voice. Right hand tapped, one finger to his palm as it held his dagger. Vashiryn’s fire barely had time to ripple down the blade before he dashed sideways and drove the point towards the Queen’s throat.

He would not be like her. Yes, he would play her part; would claim divinity among his people, would use it to control them. But he would always know the truth. As Al’dar’s Breath faded from Counsel, drenched in crimson, Vashiryn bit down and tasted his own iron blood. And he vowed from that moment forward that he would never again let his voice flow from his lips, lest it someday sound like hers.

Monsters have no right to speak.




Oddball -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/18/2024 20:56:58)

This was it. Everything was riding on this one maneuver. This would be her last breath, her last chance. She swung the baton with a silent roar. Her target was the drake’s chin and she could not miss…

For the first time in the last decade, fear pooled up inside of the officer. All of her momentum was stopped in an instant as Camellia shifted her weight, her claw moving to catch the baton out of the air. Olivier was helpless to stop the overwhelming power of her adversary and in one single flex of her muscles, Camellia crushed the officer’s hope between her claws.

The roar that escaped the drake was immense, how could it not have been? With such a high concentration of lightning now coursing through her veins it was a wonder to Olivier that she was still standing. She had to end it quickly, she had to put her opponent down for good.

She began to raise her pistol, focusing on not letting the fear that had taken a hold of her hinder her decision.

Come on. You’ve been through worse

As hard as her inner voice tried to, the officer could not hold her weapon as steady as she’d like. Was she still recovering from the damage from earlier?
Was the gap between her and her opponents’ strength really that great?

There was no way else forward. The trigger must be pulled.

And as her finger wrapped around the trigger of her weapon, she felt a presence behind her.

The drake…

Her ability!

With no time to even think of reacting, a sharp pain rattled through Olivier’s body as Camellia’s elbow connected with the back of her head. In an instant, her vision blurred, her pistol clattering to the floor as her body forced her to release its grip. She had been too focused on what was in front of her…

What a rookie mistake.

In her half conscious state, Olivier barely felt the drake’s claw tighten around the back of her head. It had all happened so fast. In just a mere moment, all of her fight was gone.

She was simply at the mercy of her opponent.




The officer barely remembered falling, or the feeling of the marble flooring rearranging the bones in her nose. She simply woke up, on an old playground, with a familiar figure waiting for her on the swings.

With a long sigh, Olivier joined the other figure, gently swinging as she began to speak.

“Never thought I’d be seeing you again so soon.”

To that, the figure laughed. But they also gripped the ropes of the swing just a little harder.

“You promised.”

“Yeah… And I’ve broken it. I’m sorry.”

The figure only hummed in response, taking their time to quietly mull over the officer’s apology. It took them an eternity, but a reply finally came.

“Are you planning on reaching death’s door often?”

“Not if I can help it… But it does mean I get to see you, if briefly.”

“...Olivier.”

“I still miss you, you know? It’s just not the same without you around. Bray’s gone, Allie’s gone, the… The chief is gone. Every day it gets harder to find a reason to keep fighting. Those things have already taken everything away from me. It’s only a matter of time before I succumb too.”

“You know you can’t do that.”

“Yeah!? Why can’t I? It’d be so easy. I could just walk into a group and yell “Come and get me!” and they would tear me to shreds. And then I could finally, finally be reunited with you properly.”

“...You know-”

“Of course I know that I can’t. As long as my body is like this, I won’t ever feel rest. I won’t ever get the chance to relax. As long as this curse courses through my body, no matter how many times I fall I always seem to get back up. Even now, I know that our time is rapidly approaching its end. I just want to stay with you.”

“Olivier… I’m sorry.-”

“It’s not your fault.. It’s not your fault. I’m just venting. Don’t pay me any mind.”

The officer slowly pulled her attention from the floor as she felt a pair of thin arms wrap around her waist. They were cold, and threatened to slip through her body at a moments notice… But they were there. She could feel it.

“I want you to be able to stay. You know that… But we both know it’s not your time to join us.”

“Yeah…You’re right. You’re always right.”

“So you better get going! You’re still in that tournament, right? So go on. Go live your life, Olivier Haith. I lo-”




A sudden, sharp breath escaped the near lifeless body of Olivier as her eyes shot back open. The drake’s claw was still gripped around the back of her head, but it had loosened tremendously since their fall, and Olivier could bet that she could free herself from the grasp. With all the effort she could muster, Olivier rolled onto her back, watching as the drake’s claw flopped to the ground. For all of her overwhelming strength and tenacity, it seemed she had also reached her limit.

Quietly, the officer spoke, a hint of a smile pulling her lips upwards.

“That baton’s gonna cost me a fortune to replace…”


Nothing in response from her opponent. Olivier couldn’t help but internally chuckle a little, she did say she wasn’t fond of exchanging words.

She moved her head an inch, moving to look more towards the drake as she weakly raises a fist. She wasn’t sure if the drake would reciprocate, but she wanted to try at least. She was sure Camellia would appreciate the sign of respect, nonetheless.

“Next time…I’ll be sure to come out the victor..”




Starflame13 -> RE: =EC 2024= Sky Arena (8/18/2024 23:59:51)

Amidst final gasps and dying breaths, skies darkened. The last of the light seeped from the heavens, leaving an inky blackness to spread forth, the twinkle of starlight just bright enough to reflect against growing pools of blood. Air chilled, temperature dropping until movement slowed and stilled, frost icing over flesh and iron and stone, locking the last moments of the melee in a final frieze.

The gong rang forth - waves of sound reverberating against the tiles - and the floor cracked. It bucked and quaked; flung the bodies strewn upon it about its surface to crash against cool flakes of fractured stone. Swathes of marble fell earthwards, gravity snatching at the entire outer ring of the arena and sending it hurtling downwards. Wind cried and screamed - and laughed, the sound echoing from thousands of surfaces and confusing all directions until not could be heard, could be sensed, could be known but the incessant screeching of the storm.

A great boom of the gong ripped through the cacophony, leaving echoing silence in its wake. Blue, clear skies shone down upon the ruins of black marble, the mages scurrying about the edges to shift the stones this way and that. Their frantic whispers broke the tension as they dug through the stone for survivors - safety and sunlight, once a distant dream, mere footsteps away. But such an escape was not for everyone, as the core of the Sky had ascended with some of the competitors to heights unknown.

The Arena had chosen. The final fight was at hand.

Sunlight fell upon the Trial of Infinity




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