=EC= Spike Arena

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DWeird -> =EC= Spike Arena (8/26/2006 18:03:22)
((~ Read the OOC and register before making any posts! ~)) It has been a long year since the last Elemental Championship, but the Championship Arena Complex did not show signs of age, but rather on the contrary - it grew, and along with it, just a hill and a spring with a weary wooden bridge over it away, grew the township of Bren. The vicinity of the Arena has done it much good - apart from the great crowds -- and thusly business -- it brought it during the Championship itself, just the presence of such a building carried the township's name far over the lands. There came adventurers of many sorts, and the two inns of Bren were never short of business, there came priests of the Elemental Lords, building shrines and churches and granting it divine protection not from one, but from all the Lords, and there came many, many artisans to build the three new Arenas around the old one, which, as sizeable as it may have been, was getting far too small for the year-by-year increasing numbers of competitors. The would-be combatants, either just arriving, or having taken a night's rest either at an inn or at the small camp of tents at the base of the Arena hill, would get to see the artisans' handiwork soon enough, right after the priests and mages within them finish their last checks on the protective barriers and image transportation enchantments for the gathered crowds. ~~~ The Spike Arena was rightfully so called, and one of the magicians now leaving it chuckled softly on how the protective spells were best cast upon to combatants rather than the crowd, at least to assure the former would live long enough to provide a spectacle for the latter. The huge metal gate a - a trademark of the Arena Complex, no doubt - now open, the contenders could now peer through and see what sort of obstacles lied in wait for them within. Of the three Arenas, the Spike one was the most gruesome to behold, with an interior, both floor and slightly tilted spike-covered walls made completelly out of a cold blue metal, one which, as they've been instructed before, was non-breakable by either magic or force. There were miniature channels at where the floor connected to the spikey walls, with even smaller holes along them, leading to who knows where - a moment's thought would reveal that this was indeed a sewage system for nothing else but blood! The plentiful spikes which lent the Arena its name were all made of the same metal, and each at five feets length, attached firmly to the walls they stood perpendicular to - thusly being at an upwards angle to the ground itself. The only four spikes not at the walls lied still at the bottom of a very large - yet again, metal - pillar, to which's top they were attached by a lenghty chain. There was an inscription on the pillar, which would reveal to anyone who bothered to circle it and read it all, would reveal that there was a featherweight enchantement on all the four spikes, which would make them weigh but a tenth of what they would normally, making them a very much usable, if a tad unwieldy, weapon. But there was more! If the spike's surface was to come in contact with bone of any sort, it's reduced weight effect would either be reversed, making the spike ten times as heavy instead of ten times as light, or would be turned into a levitation enchantement, which would then make ten times the spike's weight fly straight up into the sky at an instant. There was no way to know exactly what would happen, and there was even less to know for those who never did bother to read the warning - but for both of these, the massacre that was the Elemental Championship was about to begin. The sun hovered above the metal pillar, making it look as some sort of an odd... altar? pjedestal? Mausoleum? ...all would hope that it would not be theirs, but people -- people were known to make mistakes.

Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (8/26/2006 18:05:08)
A figure strode confidently through the entrance of the so-called Spike Arena, garbed tastefully in tailored white robes just turned a touch of gray over the passage of time. Upon each hand was worn a different ring, both of pulsating hues of blue, that seemed to draw the eye and then cast it aside. By his left hip, a shield of a deep blue hue not much larger than a buckler dangled lightly. The blade sheathed just closer to his person behind the shield providing a small clicking counterpoint to the steps of his measured stride. A breastplate of similar hue to the shield was worn over the robes as well, yet the pauldrons that should have matched it were gone, replaced instead by cloth brocades ringed with the white feathers of a dove. Not terribly tall, nor evidently muscled or wizened, the figure seemed ill-fit for such a tournament of high acclaim among the peoples of Lore. Closer inspection of the man would show that the breastplate was stressed and battered in its entirety, that the weapon and the shield both were recasts of much greater weapons. The thought that such might cross through the minds of his competitors brought a smile to the Ronin of Dream’s lips. Once a prince of a people long since forgotten to the sands of time, Kal-Kai-Vec of the Kindred knew well the value of light deception. It would take a determined eye to spot the small, silvery runes etched and tailored into every armament of battle and article of clothing. A yet further determined eye to realize that no two of the runes were alike. The resolute figure paused upon entering, examining the arena and finding it quite well suited to the twin arts of combat and trial. However, Ronin had his own mark to make upon the face of this arena, and it seemed fitting that he was the first present within, in order to make his mark untroubled. He slipped the pulsating ring of force off of his left hand and held it before him as if to peer through the cerulean circle, smiling for a brief moment. Then, carefully in measured, haunting tones, he endeavored to complete the ritual he had painstakingly prepared for this very moment. Tears of Grief, heavy as thou are Blanket this field of future battle Thick with your chill, destined to spill Yet more fated Tears of Sorrow Sluggish shall the Winds move through thee Bank low the Fires that burn in your embrace Find fault not with the Light or the Darkness Yet let others find them both diffuse Confuse and distract the most potent Energies Nor shall Ice find a grasp within your cold Join the Earth shall in your fated lament Force even your kin of Water to be so bold Tears of Sorrow find your brethren For only Tears of Joy will release this burden Tears of Grief, fly hither, fly free Let all behold thy Mists of Misery Bringing the ring up to his lips, Ronin exhaled through the loop following the last words setting free the first wisps of heavy mist. Still, one last reagent was needed to complete this particular ritual, and Ronin was loathe to pay it. For some time he had been without the feeling of compulsive sorrow, despite the burdens placed upon him by the Eight Bindings, and he wished there was a way without sacrificing his recent emotional freedom. Yet the ritual was quite clear, as it demanded a single of the caster’s own grief-stricken tear. Steeling himself, he thought of his dearest love, the elven Jhenna, and how he missed her so terribly much in coming here. As small as it might seem to others, it was enough, and a single tear marched proudly down his cheek. The ring burst, expelling plentiful waves of dissipating force across the arena grounds. With each passing wave, the mists began to form - wispy at first, yet growing heavier with each wave in turn. Soon, the entire Spike Arena was covered in the damp, dank mists that stretched to the height of a man and half that again, and Ronin seemed pleased for the moment. Yet something seemed off, even to himself…as if a face could faintly be seen within the magic-borne mists so recently conjured. A face that seemed akin to the same elemental that Ronin had brokered the contract that led him here once again. Frowning now, Ronin quickly readied his shield and drew the sword from it’s sheath. As he ghosted into the mists to await his opponents, he could be faintly heard. “I will not be denied again.”

Guardian of Nekops -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (8/27/2006 1:43:36)
As the great metal doors of the Spike Arena opened and the magicians filed out through them, the hulking metal form of the Crusher stood motionless, leaving heavily on the oversized battleaxe that was his only weapon. Deep inside the eight-foot suit of armor, Roch grinned at the sight of the battleground beyond the gates. Cold, hard metal was all this arena offered; the strongest and most refined form of his Lord's power in all of Lore. "Well," he muttered as his smile broadened behind the concealing helmet, "except for gravity, of course." There was more of stone than of Roch to the Crusher; which was just how he wished it. Of the warrior's impressive eight hundred pounds, only two hundred and fifty belonged to the man himself. The remaining weight was due to the steel, five inches thick in places, which surrounded him. With its immense size, rough countours, and speckled gray coloring, it was easy to confuse the Crusher for a rock golem. Even under all the weight he carried, Roch was able to stand and even fight easily due to the remarkable weapon upon which he now leaned; Impact, the Axe of Gravity. As long as he had in his grip, the magical axe took away from him the lion's share of his weight and added it to the force of its blows, reducing his effective weight to a very managable three hundred and fifty pounds and converting Impact into a nigh-unstoppable force. With this weapon, Roch the Crusher planned to win the immortality of stone before the day was done. Just as he was about to shift his weight off of the Gravity Axe and enter the arena, Roch noticed that the white-robed weakling in the blue breastplate was chanting something; probably preparing a spell of some sort. Whatever the ritual was supposed to accomplish, it looked like a heavy-duty one, involving as it did a weave of artifact power, the rhythm of the words, and something that the caster seemed to find difficult... some sort of attuning of the spirit, perhaps. In any case, it was a process the Crusher wanted stopped. Lifting up his axe, he started into the Spike Arena... ...and stopped himself, appalled at what he had almost done. This was, after all, the Elemental Championship, and to rush into battle without paying his respects to the Lord of Earth would be, for him at least, the height of disrespect. The warrior closed his eyes and sighed deeply, calming his spirit in preparation for his coming act of devotion. When he was ready, Roch threw the Gravity Axe into the air, letting the full weight of his armor come down upon him in a crushing, metalic embrace. It was all he could do to stand up under it and smile. The power of Earth, he thought fondly, my Lord and Master. One way or the other, from tomorrow on I shall rest in this embrace forever. Then Impact fell back into his hand, freeing him from the overwhelming force, and he rushed into the Spike Arena with a shout. By the time he realized that the arena was filled with mist, a thick, cloying mist that condensed about his armor and slowed his movements just enough to annoy, Roch had already lost sight of the water mage and the door in the swirling fog. Raising his axe into a defensive stance and spreading his feet apart to accept a blow, he tried to be ready for anything that might come out of the blue haze surrounding him.

Davros -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (8/28/2006 14:02:13)
So it was that Malus entered his first elemental championships. He was not able to do so in previous years due to the fact he controlled all 8 elements, all Felconians could. But now, a user of Darkness only, he had entered with the hope of wasting all in his path. He was sure the advantage of knowing how each element worked would help, but then again his magic was different from others. The ancient being strode into the arena, just behind a big lumbering idiot. Who comes to such a competition with such heavy armour. So the winged being strode forwards and looked at the spikes around the place, then felt his own spikes, horns that lined his head and spine, spikes that lead down his arms and hands. This is was an arena he felt at home in. A mage of sorts seemed to be creating a large mist, something Malus didn't want to get stuck in. He unfolded his wings and set his sights upon the great pillar in the middle. It was such grace that lifted him from the ground, suchn a natural, but then again doing it for around 7.5 thousand years anyone would be. He landed squarely atop of the pillar, his wings slightly spread still for balance. His dark, pupiless eyes surveyed the arena as the 3 dark orbs circled his body. He had the advantage point, now what to do with it. He looked over the edge and saw the chain holding one of the spikes, would that be useful? Possibly but he'd think about that later. The mist had covered the ground and as such made it hard to tell where people were, but then again, would any see him out of the mist. Malus drew his 1st blade, the black hilt was gripped by his dark veined hand. The dark energy surged through his as the blackness overwelmed him. The dark orbs circled in a continous pattern behind him, so fast they looked like one wheel spinning around his back. His aura pulsed out of his body and soon his whole physical being was consumed in darkness. He ready to right, a tinge of redness crept into those eyes. He tail swayed back and forth, ready to swipe anything that came near, as he crouched down on top of his look out tower.

Art of Blade -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (8/29/2006 3:30:19)
The great, tall, and overall just very big doors of metal opened up, revealing the deadly arena. Spikes over here, spikes over there, thought Nimra, with a grin. Spikes, spikes, everywhere. A ripple of excitement surged through her blood, as she looked around, and realized the arena's other purpose as a sewage of blood. She felt the spirit within her, and around her, growling such things as "In the name of the Ice Lord" or "Death upon all who oppose". At least... that is what it sounded like to Nimra Berdin, its blood-contracted medium. Casually, she adjusted her orange bandana, and quickly swept off any dust that might be on her dull, orange vest. Her three 'tails', the bright, orange cloth which was tied around her and streamed after her, dropped to the floor as she stood her ground. Today, she thought, turning her heads towards the other combatants, is the beginning of the Elemental Championship. And the beginning... of the end... of the rest of your lives. She noticed a frail figure, clad in blue, chanting a spell... moments after, it became apparant what he was wishing for. Before Nimra could see much more of the man, a thick mist engulfed the arena. Crap, thought Nimra. Of all the damned things one could cast... In one, swift motion, Nimra created a sphere of ice in the palm of her hand, and carefully bit off a bit of her finger so that it would bleed. Quickly, she spread the blood over the ball, carefully, masterfully. In the space of a few seconds, the deep, bitter cold of the ball nibbled peacefully in her hand, ready to bite through even the toughest of armors, and to return to its mistress. Her weapon was ready. Unfortunantly, it was extremely difficult to see anything in this godforsaken mist. Analyzing the situation, she knew she had two options: get away from the mist by climbing up the pillar, or using the mist to her advantage by hiding. She decided that the latter was more conveniant. Swiftly enough to reach in a manner of seconds, yet slowly enough not to kill herself, Nimra ran to the wall that was to her right and patted it. Spikes. Spikes. Everywhere. Close together, ready to kill, ready to drop blood down the small channels beneath them. Merely thinking about it... just the mere thought... it excited her blood. Or, at least, it excited the blood of Berdin, the spirit. It really made little difference, after all, whose blood was excited. They were one and the same. She dropped down, in a defensive stance, hiding beneath the mist and near the spikes. She, hopefully, would be unseen. I could feel... their blood. Their lovely, warm blood, thought Nimra, as her eyes opened wide and her pupils became small. Blood everywhere, blood near the spikes... and blood... three sacks of blood now present. Present. They would make nice presents. Her eyes were filled with madness, filled with ectasy. Would you like them as presents, Berdin? You would, wouldn't you, yes... Especially one of them. It's different, isn't it? A bit of variety to spice up your life... mystery meat? Well, you always liked blood as much as I did, afterall... how unfortunante that I can't see them. I'm so glad that our contract is a win-win deal, however. Blood for you... fun for me... and I would say to myself... what a wonderful world...

ChaosDivine -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (8/30/2006 1:45:49)
Over the many years of the Elemental Championship, many had fought in the arena. Creatures exotic as they were innumerable had bled and died for the glory of the Lords. And yet every year brought new combatants never seen, as indescribable as they were deadly, ever seeking eternal glory in the great hunt. And so it was that the lean, masculine figure padded into the arena unhurriedly, almost leisurely. Garbed in rough, simple hooded robes of brown, they bulged slightly, even as the hem of the robe dragged along the ground, almost as if the ill-fitting garment had not been made for its wearer. Steel gauntlets however, shrouded his hands like a second skin. He twirled his scimitars with practiced grace, inert bronze flames etched into the blades. Still, standing besides the other combatants, especially the steel giant, he must have seemed a pitiful addition indeed. Members of the audience hooted and jeered at the figure, hurling insults and taunts, their mocking calls echoed throughout the metallic arena. Lifting his head but not the hood, the figure allowed his gaze to sweep past though them. Disquieted, the offenders squirmed uncomfortably. There was something subtle, something... dangerous about the newcomer. Almost predatory even. He was hunter. They were prey. Dismissing them, he eyed the assembled participants hungrily, picking the weakest of the pack. There was no frivolous notions of dishonor - the mistress of the hunt did not discriminate. Every kill served as testament to the skill of the hunter. His gaze now rested upon the garish orange female. Though she bore no weapons, he remained cautious - these prey were oftentimes crafty. He forced himself to remain calm, though it was difficult - he could smell her blood, and felt his own blood roar in anticipation of the hunt, the frenzy - the kill. Before he could dart forward however, a thick, cloying mist obscured everything from view, embracing his prey within its fold. He hissed in surprise and indignation. The prey hides. Again he lifted his head, sniffing at the air. Even though it was damp from the mist, he could still taste the scent of her blood, though it was more distant and faint now. The prey runs. He sprinted forward towards his right, deftly avoiding the spikes with a feline grace as he followed the blood scent - a vengeful spirit in the mist.

Art of Blade -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (8/30/2006 9:43:00)
Goddammit. Despite hiding in the mist, Nimra felt someone, heading in her direction, with the intent to kill her. The way it came towards her, the faint sounds of graceful feet vibrating through the floor as she pressed her ear against it. No doubt about it; someone was running towards her. Frowning, she looked around. A wall of spikes behind her in one direction, and an unseen someone running towards her in another. She stared at the wall again, patting it a second time, noticing something incredibly useful. Being trapped between a hard place and an opponent was not exactly how the saying went. However, in this case, it fitted perfectly. There were two things this hard place had which most lacked, though. One, it was slightly slanted; it was not built at a ninty degree angle. Two, it had spikes, which were as long as a child was high (which, despite what you think, is still pretty damn long for a life-threatening object), and surprisingly easy to grip at their thinner- sharper- ends. Smiling, Nimra quickly and quietly covered the floor beneath and around her with a thin layer of ice which covered a wide area. Wet enough to slip on and slide, yet dry enough not to melt quickly. Perfect. She had to admit, the mist, though annoying in the way it blocks one's view, was incredibly useful. Nodding to herself, and smiling dementedly, she tossed her sphere of ice towards the opponent, and grabbed two of the spikes, one in each hand. Turning around, she continued to grab the ends of spike after spike, climbing up the wall with nimble grace and precision, placing hand and foot carefully without injuring herself. She anticipated the return of her sphere of ice; for she has spilled a small part of her blood on it, and thus it was destined to return to her hands after it struck something else, no matter what it was. That was the advantage of the weapon she called the Blood Ball. It hits hard and it always comes back until it breaks apart. She continued to climb up, and left, and right, gradually moving in the direction of the pillar, in the hopes of getting out of the mist. Occasionally, she checked to make sure that pursuers weren't too close to her. She smiled. She felt... alive... these spikes will be dried with blood, she thought with a grin, they have such an exciting destiny... all they have to do is sit there, and wait for us to trip. An excitingly short trip to the bloody sharpness of death. Shaking her head, she attempted to keep her focus. The battle against everyone has begun the moment she stepped into this gloomy, unforgiving arena, afterall.

Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (8/31/2006 16:22:32)
As he eased himself through the clawing Mists of Misery, Ronin was keeping stock of his surroundings. Those moments before the working of magic, he had scanned the arena and found its obstacles easily worked with. Had they not been so, he would have thought against the use of the mists after all. Yet, as he crouched with the central pillar between him and the entrance gate, the grooves callously reminded him of the arena's grim demeanor. Running the lightest touch of his fingers along the carefully made channels, one thought fought for precendence amidst his calculating mind. This is an abattoir, plain and simple. The spectators apparently want blood to be spilled, such as to drown us with so much scarlet water if these channels weren't present. Such mindless bloodsport, it is not the intent of the Championship, but rather a perversion of it by the minds of those who have only the courage to watch, yet the cowardice to avoid competing for the Lord's favor. However, those other careful thoughts did not go unheeded. Senses honed to a razor's edge had not missed the booming battlecry nor the muffled thumps of a warrior, conjecture turning that competitor weighed down by thier own armor at least slightly...or of such bulging and confident strength that silent movement was considered an anachronism. The truth of that matter could be found out easily enough. Neither had the eddies stirred into existance within the mists passed without notice, Ronin was quite aware that either a Wind Mage had chosen to cast...or equally likely that there was a being with substantially sized wings within the arena. There had been a few of the latter in the past Championships, but the odds were split near even. He had not felt the odd tingling of hairs on the back of his neck that usually accompanied casting...not at that moment at least. At least...the timing was far off, much more consistent with the quieted stirrings of combat between two other combatants toward his far left. That makes...four others that I am aware, maybe more depending on the battle to my left. Wind, I've little quarrel with, personally. So, in making that assumption, time to see what this warrior is like. The layered suede soles of his boots moved with naught much more than a whisper on the metal flooring, his approach masked by the mists themselves. He peered, looking not for recognizible form at first, but rather a darker shadow among shifting planes of gray. As he moved, he whispered the words, "Ta'rak na'shir." Both his shield and his shortsword glowed silver for brief moments as thier latent enduring enchantments activated. Soon enough, a hulking shadow formed out of the mists, near where he had stood as a caster moments before. Ronin crouched low, preferring to observe for the nounce, to peer and find details without exposing himself further. As he did so, he felt a slithering far within his core...the serpent was stirring at the prospect of combat, and this was something Ronin had not quite expected. Still, one for patience, he waited within the embrace of the mists for the unknown warrior to act.

Guardian of Nekops -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (9/1/2006 2:22:15)
After a few moments of waiting quietly in the mist for a blow that never came, Roch the Crusher began to think better of his decison to wait for an attack. He had heard a rush of wind directly behind him and footsteps behind him and to his right, but nothing nearby. As for vision, there had been nothing to occupy his eyes save the swirling blue of the mists and his own armored body since the mists had closed in around him, and the featurelessness of his surroundings made the warrior nervous. Unfortunately, Roch had to cope with more than his nerves. Although the hinges of the armor he wore were nearly watertight, the mists seemed to be persistantly and actively working their way into them, soaking through both his battle plate and the hundred pound set of scale mail he wore beneath it to touch his skin with its damp chill. Still worse, there seemed to be wedges of water vapor in the joints, strong enough to slow him down and getting thicker every moment. It was these wedges that finally convinced him that he had to get moving. But which way? All around him was shifting blue, and although he still had a fair notion of where both the door and the odd metal pillar were relative to his position, he had no real reason to go to either one. There was some sort of chase going on behind him, but that didn't seem all that appealing either... perhaps a random direction would be best; let the Lords decide his fate... "Strange," Roch whispered as he switched to a more aggressive stance and turned slightly towards a point in the mist. He thought he had seen a light in that direction, but it could have been just an odd swirling of the mist. At this point, though, any heading was better than none, so the Crusher stalked slowly off into the mist, Impact held before him like a talisman to ward off danger.

ChaosDivine -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (9/1/2006 2:48:09)
The blood scent grew stronger. His blood raced in the thrill of the hunt, the taste of blood a tantalizing treat which urged him on. The beast within - his guide, his brother, his twin - rattled violently at the chains imposed upon it, shaking at the bonds of reason. Slowly, surely, the blood haze consumed him, a vision of red mists dancing before him, till he and the beast were a single entity. He was hunter. He was predator. It was prey. Haltingly, hesitantly, he slowed. A lesser warrior would have allowed the blood haze to cloud his judgment, his natural instincts. Steel flashed as blades settled into a guard position and he spread his legs apart for balance. A lesser hunter would have missed the whistle of air parted and forced aside. He was neither. The impact nearly threw him back as the ball materialized from nothingness, a foggy grey blur given form. The bronze etchings, previously inert, flared to life as steel glowed a golden red, hot as the moment they had been forged. For a single instant, the mist shrank back as a blade carved a curve through the damp air. A moment later, a great cloud of steam enveloped him as the blade bit deeply into the ball. Ice melted and evaporated as the sizzle of water and cracking of ice resounded. Then, as swiftly as it had appeared, it vanished back into the mist. He grinned. The prey is trapped. The ripping of cloth echoed through the arena as two short, glowing curved blades inexplicably flew unerringly into the mist after the ball, steel chains attached to the handles trailing after them. As the shredded robes fell away, a lean, muscular figure was revealed. Bare from the waist up, only a stylized, crimson loincloth which hung from a bronze circle of rings encircling his waist clothed him. His skin was the rich, dark blue hue of a flame. Tribal flames which shimmered as he moved were etched into the skin with light blue ink. A tail stretched and whipped the ground furiously, as a clawed, padded feet dug deep into the edge of the ice which he had only begun to mentally register, upon which he would have surely slipped to an assuredly painful death upon the spikes had the impact of the ball not pushed him back. Two gauntleted hands still gripped the scimitars tightly, while two muscled lower arms, previously hidden under the ill-fitting garment, were thrust forward. Steel chains seared into the forearms - bound as tightly as his bond to the Fire Lord - continued to unravel as the blades flew through the mist. A heavy, glorious mane of crimson cascaded down his back. Sharp, pointed ears poked through, straining to catch the slightest sound. Sharp, curved fangs were pulled back in an anticipatory grin which stretched across his cat-like visage. And where eyes should have been, smoldering blue flames licked at the air from depressed sockets. He was Vlos Nar'hethi. He was Rakshasa. He was the flame given form. He was predator.

Art of Blade -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (9/1/2006 17:05:26)
Where Nimra was just a few seconds a go, there was a loud, violent, and very worrying "thunk". Gritting her teeth, Nimra was about to move on when her ice ball returned to her. Catching it expertly with the precision of a person who went through years of practice catching spheres of ice (which, of course, she did), she examined it quickly. It was cut deeply, an incredibly deep scar in the otherwise smooth surface. Little wisps of steam continued to float up, and become one with the mist. Nimra stared; it must have been the work of a fire-user, or one of those obnoxious high-level light users with their tendency of drilling holes into everything. Either way, they possessed something incredibly sharp, very violent, and was capable of making very worrying "thunk" noises. Pocketing the damaged sphere, Nimra quickened the pace. It wasn't cleanly split yet, which meant it could still be used. She had lost the advantaged that she desired. If you're hiding, the one thing you hope for is that someone doesn't find you. When you're hiding, the opponent should wander aimlessly towards you, where you'd silently kill said opponent quickly and without hesitation. However, if the worst does happen and someone does find you, the best way to stay alive is to get the hell out of there- especially if the person who finds you happens to have objects that make worrying "thunk" noises. She paused. Was it a "thunk"? Was it, maybe, a sort of "clank" sound? Perhaps a compromising "clunk"? Shaking her head, she continued to go directly upwards to check her surroundings. It didn't take long for her head to pop out of the mist. She looked around. The first thing she noticed that it was a lot nicer out here than it was down there. The other thing Nimra noticed was that she hasn't gone too far from where she was. She checked for any signs of her would-be attacker, but could see nothing through the mist. Dammit. Looking forward, she found herself looking straight at the pillar. It stood there proudly, rooted on the ground, the mist flowing around it. And on top of it was an incredibly dangerous, dark, winged, and overall unfriendly looking being. Nimra quickly lowered her head beneath the mist. There are far more dangerous peoples now than usual, Nimra thought. The one with the strange blood is up there, a slightly hot blooded one just attempted to attack me. The ones with hot blood are always so troublesome. She concentrated. Blood was an interesting thing. Being able to sense it was even more so. To put in a nice and orderly manner, all people have different blood. If one were, say, in the mist, blood could still be felt, if just barely. It would be hard to tell differences, unless they were significant (such as the one on the pillar, his blood was definantly not human-like). However, if they were closer by in the same manner as, say, the hot blooded one with the "thunk"ing, no, "clank"ing, no, "clunk"ing weapon, then one would remember it like a face. In some ways, blood can tell a lot more than a face can. A pair of twins can have horribly different blood. She stared through the thinning wisps of mist... the stranger made it no secret that he was King of The Hill (or, in this case, King of The Pillar-Top, which hardly makes a difference in a more significant universe where "camping" would be considered a 'cheap' tactic, and strength is measured in numbers per hit. A more significant, if not absolutely irrelevant, universe indeed). Nimra Berdin felt uncomfortable where she was. If someone attacked her from below, it would be very difficult to get out of the way. Of course, the attacker would have to be able to either shoot a projectile cleanly through all the spikes in an uphill manner, or be a very acrobatic jumper. The latter was ridiculous, while the former was a lot more reasonable. She racked her mind and decided that the best course of action would be the one described in the following sentences: She climbed up over the mist and sat there in the midst of all the spikes. It was a very small and uncomfortable space, with the feeling that she may slide down at any moment, which made it quite fortunante that Nimra was so flexible. Each foot supported on a spike, she placed a hand on each. Ice, far thicker now that it was out of the mist, formed around the spikes a formed a sort of platform in between them, a thick shield so to speak. Because of the way the walls and the spikes were formed, the icy shield was positioned perpendicular to the uphillish wall. She looked around nervously. She knew that, since it was basically her ice, she could seperate it instantly and slide down the wall. She also knew that she was a potential target to the very dark being on the pillar. In fact, her getting attacked by the winged one seemed almost guaranteed, and there was no crossing out the hot blooded one from possibly attacking her. For all she knew, the hotblooded one was probably as nimble as she was, and following her among the spikes right now. She sighed. Why must she put herself in situations such as this one? Dangerous, unpredictable, downright irritating... She thought for a moment. Those situations did feel very rewarding if she managed to get out alive. Creating four sharp, knife-like objects in between her fingers in one hand, and gripping the Blood Ball in the other, she waited. There were, thereotically, countless of things she could do in her position. In reality, when limitations and handicaps were issues, those numbers were hacked off, like the head of a particularily ugly fish. Goddammit.

Zinsho_Lexagen -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (9/2/2006 0:20:04)
He still had no clue why he'd even bothered entering this tournament, not to mention why he'd chosen to fight for the Light Lord. It had been an instinctive choice, one that for some reason felt the most right out of any of the ones he had been offered. He'd seen a few of the other contestants, not from close up where he might actually realize it was a stupid idea, but from far enough away that all he could do is recognize them for what they were. The fact that most of what he'd seen would qualify as some sort of magic-user was a problem, he wasn't even entirely sure he knew how to fight, let alone that he'd know what to do against someone who could obliterate him from however far away spells could work from. Actually that wasn't entirely true, he knew how to take care of himself, the string of broken bones and twisted limbs that had followed his time as a sailor, not his bones or limbs, but those of the other crew who thought to take advantage of his amnesia had proven without a doubt that he could fight, but he didn't know when or where he'd learned. Finally it was the day of the tournament, rising early he took one last look at his temporary shelter, little more than his cloak spread to keep him dry in reality, and then turned to head towards his assigned battleground. As he neared it his appearance blurred, his clothing responding to his mood by distorting his appearance until he was little more than a formless shadow ghosting across the path that lead to the Spike Arena. He'd known it could do this, realized it after it had done so in response to his actions in brawls. It was pretty much the only reason he even bothered keeping the fabric, it was black and hot in the sun and the metal bars woven into the forearms of it made it incredibly irritating to put on and off. The other reason was that it hid all the scars he had, scars he wished he knew the origin of. He wasn't the first to enter the arena, although he doubted many of the other participants would focus on his arrival, what with the behemoth that charged in ahead of him. The others were almost as peculiar to him, he was a blurred six-foot tall lean shadow, what could he do against creatures he couldn't even describe properly. Regardless, the mists that covered the arena were a hindrance that had him feeling as though he wouldn't even get the chance to put up a futile attempt at survival. With a last glance at the freedom outside the spiked walls he plunged into the mists, sticking to the side of the arena and almost cutting himself against the first spike he encountered, his muscles reacting at the last instant to pivot him around it before sidestepping a few inches to avoid future risks. The next spike was just out of reach of his side, satisfying him with his evasion of that initial risk and then the regular intervals of the remainder was enough to calm some of the tension under his skin, he knew where the danger was, even if he couldn't see it, now he just had to make sure it was more of a danger to others than it was to him. Turning his back to the spike and trusting his reflexes not to skewer him on it were he to suddenly leap backwards, he studied the mists before him, growing more and more frustrated with every instant as he saw nothing. Then something happened, something he couldn't explain. Inches before his eyes, if even that, he started to see a lavender glow, an illumination that gradually resolved itself into two flares of lavender, into eyes. Leaping back, twisting to avoid the spike yet scratching his hip on it he saw that even as his head swiveled and he moved the eyes remained where they were relative to him. The jolt of pain became a jolt of light and for the briefest instant he thought he could see again, only to lose that sight as the light faded away. For a moment panic threatened to overwhelm him, but then a flash of insight struck, or rather a memory returned to him and allowed him to calm, to understand what it was he saw. It was his eyes that burned with lavender flames, his eyes that created that glow that gazed back at him in this mist. With that knowledge came the realization that he had seen the arena, that somehow the glow and his emotions were connected, that the jolt of pain had shed light on the disposition of the field. Moving away from the wall he slunk into the mists, no longer moving in fear of bumping into more spikes, nor a fear of his own ineptitude. He knew that he could fight, he knew that just as certainly as he knew that it was his eyes that burned lavender, knew it without knowing why. There would be time to search for the reason later on, time to examine his regained knowledge... but for now... for now there was a tournament to be won, and foes to be stalked. And so Zinsho took to the Arena of Spikes, heading towards the behemoth and his furtive companion, a shadow slipping through the mists, ready to strike.

qbsuperstar03 -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (9/2/2006 10:16:43)
Meditation. That was the key to success. Once one was focused inside, one could focus on external matters. Like surviving. A few practice swings, even though he was already well aware of, and indeed familiar with, his Frozen Dragon Blade. Once more, the basic katas: parrying, blocking, counter-attacking. All these needed to be second nature even in the heat of combat and with a large sword to contend with. Once more, the ritual nick with his own sword. To remind him of his own vulnerability, and to prepare him and his weapon for the bloodshed that was to inevitably come in this seemingly forsaken arena. Once more into the breach. Such was the life of Tobias Malari, the martial artist with a purpose this time. To serve the powers of ice that guided his weapon's spirit. To serve his own personal goal to amass enough fame and fortune to retire from this endless cycle of violence. But what overrode everything else, though, was to survive. Tobias threw open the gates and strode in. There was no turning back now.

Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (9/2/2006 17:59:58)
The hulking, shadowed figure moved slowly…cautiously…in his general direction. This alone as much as confirmed that the man was not a barbarian brute, not in the variety he had made the assumption of referencing in his mind at least. Nay, this fighter was evidently of the heavily armored variety, wisps of color slowly bleeding through the mists as the great ax pierced like a ward in front of the warrior. Something in his direction obviously had been seen… Now we can’t have that, not yet thought Ronin. In his crouched stance, he edged backwards slowly, attempting to stay the inevitable discovery as his mind raced with options. Foresight and preparation, those were his two ultimate advantages in this phase of the competition for favor, and those were quickly fading as others chose to meddle and react on their own. So too was subtlety an advantage he would soon lose, but at least he could bring that about on his own terms. Directing his will to alight upon the runes he wore, he picked out a decidedly complex sequence in preparation to release a spell against the warrior. Water was abundant, held in suspension by the mists, but he had a more personal target in mind to exploit against the warrior. Sweat. The body’s reaction to trade life-sustaining water and nutrients to maintain a consistent temperature with which to operate most efficiently. Alter how those nutrients were arranged within suspension, and one could draw out more water from the body…particularly salt. The reverse was also true, a totally pure source of water drew out nutrients into suspension. Water can be quite the fickle mistress like that, enslaving the living to her ebb and flow. It would be a subtle cast and it would take time to take hold, it had to be, for such subtle manipulation could indeed be countered by a forceful and concentrated effort of willpower. Then the thought fell into place, to layer a more obvious magic and mix it with an attack. Blending some more runes into the spell work by mental command, he rolled to one side. It mattered little if this warrior was able to see the flurry of movement. The time of deception, of being a shadow of the mists, was over. Ronin leapt at the warrior, the blade of his shortsword flashing for the elbow in what was wholly intend to be a glancing blow. As he jumped headlong into danger however, he activated both spells in a blinding flash of silver, causing the mist in a five foot radius to fall as needle thin rain that could annoy with stinging pain…the better to mask the disappearance of the mists that had been so recently in contact with the form. Those tendrils sought the crevices, the joints, the weak points in a desire to coat the flesh of the form in a clammy, sweat-like coat. From this coating of the flesh would the magic eventually take hold, draining the warrior into a crippling dehydration. In time…that was the key…in time.

SD90 -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (9/2/2006 19:08:01)
The great metal doors opened slowly, beckoning him to the interior of the massive arena. It creaked ominously as the horrifying contents of the arena revealed themselves to Ro’s eyes. Spikes. Hundreds upon hundreds of razor-sharp spikes. A wave of fear struck through him, freezing him where he stood, rooting him to the hard, dark ground. Reality had reared its ugly head at last; there was no more escaping his fate. As he stared at the other warriors that had gathered thus far, he knew what he was staring at, what he had been trying to ward off throughout his long and tiring voyage. The cold, hard face of Death. There must have been a mistake…I don’t belong here. Yet, it was him that the elders themselves had chosen to come here and the elders were never wrong. Never. It was something Ro and all the other children of his city had been taught, something their parents and their grand-parents had been taught for generations before them. The elders were never wrong; to question their decisions was to question the divine. And so, when the elders chose Ro to journey to a remote continent in search of what they claimed were sacred artifacts, his parents didn’t hesitate for a moment to give him up to this perilous mission. There was some crying and some sadness over what might have been but most of all there was pride; Ro had been chosen among thousands to find items of glory and fame, items that could stamp a man forevermore into the delicate threads of history. Even if that man were merely a boy who was scared and lost in the fierce winds of destiny that had been unleashed on him. Yet it was also true that Ro had always felt that he had been special and destined for something greater, something worthy of a great warrior. From very early on in his short life, the elders had marked him as a “Kal’ Eautom”. A magician of the Waters. He had learned at a very early age how to manipulate the liquid of life, to move it gracefully at his whim. He could make it swirl around him and heal the wounds of his friends…or drown the bodies of his enemies. Every one of his teachers were amazed at how developed his powers were for such a young age; many of the other children still didn’t know what elemental magic they would be dedicating their lives to. They were no where near even beginning to learn the complex intricacies of binding their elements to their wills. Ro had already mastered it. A shockwave brought him back to reality and back to the present. Something of enormous magical power and significance had just happened within the arena itself. Magical auras resonated throughout the exterior, bring Ro to his senses. He felt alive again, more alive then he had been in a while. Something in that aura comforted him and brought him incredible sadness at the same time. Remorse tinged throughout his veins, a sorrow that was not his. It gradually dissipated and was replaced with something else, something that warmed his soul to the core. Hope. He had hesitated before going in to the arena; now he entered it with his head up high, proud of what he had done and would do. He was ready for anything now.

Guardian of Nekops -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (9/3/2006 2:37:07)
There was definitely something there, the Crusher decided; something that crouched, that was hiding from him, slinking further back into the mists whenever he came near. Seeing the evident fear of his prey Roch grinned behind his helmet, preparing to lunge forward and bring the Gravity Axe down on his foe. Just as Roch was shifting the weight of his weapon to prepare for a strike, the shadow he was stalking rolled away to the right, out of the Crusher's very limited field of vision. His blood began to race as he twisted his body towards where the figure would stop rolling, fully expecting and prepared for an attack, but not at all ready for the bright flash of silver he turned just in time to see. After the dim light of the mists, the magic's burst of light was too much for his eyes to adjust to, and he could do nothing but wait for the blow to land. With the temporary loss of his sight, Roch's other senses were very much aware of something strange going on with the mists around him. First of all, it had begun to rain; small, precise drops that hit with the force of hail judging by the sound they made on his armor. Secondly, he felt more of the mist seeping in through the gaps in his armor. That which had come in before had only been intended to annoy, but this time there was a different feel to it, almost a taste of... The ringing blow on the right elbow of his armor jolted the warrior's thoughts back to the battle. Judging by the sound and the weight of it, the weapon used was a sword, and the edge had barely clipped his armor, sliding right off the steel. Why a glancing blow? he wondered, I'm not very hard to hit, after all. As long as I'm in this suit, I'm an eight foot target... For a moment, Roch considered whether wearing so much armor might have been a poor choice. His mind, and the fingers of his left hand, strayed to the rune of power his blacksmith had scratched on the inside of his gauntlet. The transmutation circle. No! he decided, pulling his hand away, Not yet, in any case. Blinking wildly to clear his vision, the Crusher turned towards where he expected his oponent to be, bringing Impact's adamantine head down towards his foe with six hundred pounds of force. As the axe came down, so did the last of the rain, leaving a clear, sunlit sky over the two combatants and a slick metal floor beneath them.

Ronin Of Dreams -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (9/3/2006 21:38:38)
There was a light screeching sound as Ronin’s blade scratched over the impressively armored warrior’s elbow, not even leaving the lightest scratch to show an attack was made. It was far from the most pleasant of sounds to hear as one turned a lunge into a rolling aerial somersault to recover his feet. He landed lightly, beginning to turn around to face his opponent once more…when the layered suede that made up his boots slipped on the newly washed metal surface of the arena. Failing to keep to his feet on the sliding ground, he sprawled out face down as he gripped his armaments tightly to resist the impulse of flinging them to the far horizons in an effort to catch himself. A hiss, not unlike a cobra warning off a predator, seemed to sound within his depths. ‘Foolisssh Kindred…’ Ronin paid it no mind. There would be no second mistake of that kind, now that the thought of it was in the forefront of his mind. Nor would he waste magic to enhance the grip, as a full third of his runes had been expended in the recent layered magicks. Indeed, he was more concerned as his opponent turns and swung at him, yet the blow was made hastily and without much aim behind it’s obvious force. It would strike towards his left, and for a split second he relaxed…until he realized that his sprawled out arm would be the center of impact. With no time to move both his arm and the shield it held, he made a decision he would probably regret when he gained the time to reflect upon the matter. He dropped his shield and slipped his arm through the leather thong that helped loosely hold the shield in place sans his grip. The head of the axe sped downwards in its lethal arc, and Ronin watched the destructive force unfurl upon the recently reforged Aegis of the Stars. The shield was many things, but indestructible it was not. Even had every rune etched upon its frame been powering the enduring enchantment upon it, would it have resisted the blow of Impact upon it in one piece. However, it was a resilient piece of his own workmanship, both magical and mundane. It bent, nearly groaning in effort to remain in one piece, before being rent in twain in a miniature geyser of splintered wood and metal. The two ends, not even halves under even the most lenient definition, flopped to the ground in a rattle. In a flash of anger, Ronin was once again on his feet. Anticipating the slippery nature of water-laden suede on slick metal, he used the slide to fuel what looked akin to a dance save for the shortsword making warding patterns in front of him. It was a style he had rarely indulged in using, yet flowed with liquid grace and sought to maintain the initiative through movements that created false openings. Ebbing and flowing like the element he chose to serve in this tournament. Smiling, he said to his opponent confidently, “Come then, warrior. You’ll find that I am much harder an opponent to strike, let alone to sunder.”

Nightmare17 -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (9/4/2006 12:08:56)
As the screech of metal on metal died away, an altogether louder sound echoed from the gates, the groaning of metal under strain, the creaking of wood. Through the opening a wooden prow emerged, parting the ground below it just as easily before it as the mist that flowed back to allow its passage. Grey planks creaked as they scraped against the edges of the open gateway, but quite impossibly the entire ship seemed to shift and warp in order to allow the ship passage through the dramatically smaller portal; black-sailed masts sprang elastically back into shape, the deck stretched back skyward like a coiled spring, and still the vessel flowed forth from the gate, gaping holes torn where the planks had caught against a few of the many spikes that covered the walls. Soon, the entire ship stood in the arena, the darkwood deck reflecting the afternoon sun like wet tar, and was finally silent, but for the soft creaking of wood as the ship rocked back and forth as though bobbing in an invisible ocean all of its own, everything dead and still. Finally, movement on the ship, a drooping black flag rising unbidden up the central mast, hauled by invisible hands on invisible ropes - for nothing bound the cloth to the ship - until it hung at the very top of the mast, traces of white barely visible between its folds. And then an eruption from the side of the boat, the anchor falling downwards to strike the floor beneath with a deafening clang of metal on metal, and the flag unfurled as though a gale had caught it, revealing the all-too familiar skull and crossbones that marked the strange vessel as a pirate ship. "Thought you'd start without me, did you?" The flag tore itself free from the mast, suddenly revealed as the cape to a young woman whose features were hidden beneath an oversized pirate hat, balancing precariously atop the rail about the crow's nest without a care. With a defiant laugh she threw her hat into the crowd, or would have were it not disintegrated by a pulse of the protection ward, revealing a shock of curly blonde hair and jumped off the railing into a sail which she slid down to the deck, flag billowing behind her. When she struck the deck folded beneath her before snapping back, throwing her upwards like a trampoline, and with a somersault the woman once again landed back on the deck, compensating with her knees to stop herself being bounced upwards again. "Well think again, nobody escapes the Black Lily!" Lily threw the "cape" to the deck beside her, turning her face to look scornfully down at the obscuring mists that billowed below her with a single ice-blue eye, a black eyepatch covering her left, and she grinned, sparkling white teeth glittering in the sun like diamonds; which, in fact, they were, fused into her jaw years ago when she had lost most of her teeth to a stray bullet. Fame, glory and a small fortune awaited her on her victory. Lily drew a long, curved cutlass in her left hand, its golden hilt shaped like a screaming skull, the sooty black metal protuding from its mouth like a deadly tongue, in the same motion she drew a peculiarly shaped flintlock pistol with her right hand and pointed it down at the deck of her ship, still wearing her dazzling smile. The favour of the Lord of Darkness awaited her on victory, a valuable commodity in itself. The Black Lily pulled the trigger, and a blast of darkness erupted from the barrel, blasting down into her ship which deflated like a popped balloon, dropping her suddenly below the mists where she landed on soft folds of swiftly shrinking shadow and rolled to the ground, looking about warily, her eyepatch shifting as though something were moving beneath it. In moments, the boat had shrunk down to almost nothing, no sign of its presence in the arena except for empty space, before the mist flowed in and filled that too. Lilian Darkeye, scourge of land and sea, pirate and rogue brushed herself off as she straightened, absent-mindedly pulling back the hammer on her pistol with her thumb and scouring the murky depths of the arena, seeking out any potential threats, the heels of her boots clicking against the slick floor rhythmically as she slowly started to walk towards where she knew the central pillar to be. "Come forth, any who dare!" She cried out, holding her blade ready beside her, waiting for her first victim to reveal themselves from the swirling mists with smug anticipation.

ChaosDivine -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (9/4/2006 12:14:18)
Not wanting to risk the off-chance that his opponent might retaliate, he bounded left away from the patch of ice before the blades returned. Disappointingly, only short, violent thuds of metal hitting metal resounded as the chains snapped taut for an instant. No matter, he had not expected to hit his prey with so blind a throw. The chains now obediently wound themselves neatly around his arms in layers, his hands deftly snatching the blades out of the mist, both of which now glowed red hot, the same bronze flames as those on the scimitars etched into the steel. Again, the blood scent had grew faint, distant - but this time, the shift had been too sudden, too abrupt. It was almost as if a wall had materialized between him and his prey. Though considering the ball, and thus by implication the element his opponent wielded, it seemed a reasonable enough assumption. It had ever been his observation that the followers of the Ice Lord valued security and rigidity in their actions, unlike the unpredictable passion of the flame, which either warmed or scorched. Momentarily, an exceptionally bright glint which floated past the mist caught his attention, lending credence to his suspicion. Taking a few prodding steps back, he paused. What he was about to attempt required concentration, and it seemed only prudent that he seized this rare opportunity to take precautions. He tasted the air, his ears twitching as he strained to catch the slightest hint of the others. The only stench nearby he caught besides his prey was faint and high above him, not far from if not at the center of the arena by his estimates - it was difficult to judge in this fog. It was also... remarkably silent for a tournament renowned for its brutality. Only once did he catch the sharp screech of steel against steel in the distance. He could only conclude that the others had been reduced to an elaborate dance of cat and mouse in the mist, same as he. Spread his legs apart to better support his weight, padded feet moved soundlessly on the metallic ground. His scimitars he crossed across his breast in a guard position. What he was about to attempt had taken a great deal of practice, left more than a few scars, and nearly severed a limb had a shaman not been near at the time. So ridiculously absurd and difficult was the proposition, that all amongst his pack had thought him gripped by fever... well, perhaps not fever, but certainly madness. Pulling his chained hands back to his hip, he braced himself... then sent the twin blades soaring through the mist again. A sharp, cracking noise split the air as he was rewarded with the sound of smoldering steel sinking its teeth into ice. Once again, the chains rattled as they wound themselves, but before they could fully retract, Vlos grabbed hold of both chains. Swinging them in an arc, the blades swung back in a circle - very closely missing himself - before he let go again, allowing the blades to fly at the wall. Repeatedly he did this, till the blades resembled twin loops of fire which burned away at the mist, relentlessly attacking the wall. Each subsequent blow sundered the wall further, even as chunks of ice tumbled freely down the wall, bouncing off spikes in a miniature avalanche down the slanting wall. He was reminded now of a children's tale he had heard as a cub. "Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in," he rumbled to himself beneath his breath, mirth touching his features even as sweat trickled down his chin despite the dank mist. For he was the wolf, and his prey - the little pig in the house of straw.

Art of Blade -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (9/4/2006 13:27:59)
I am nothing without you... You are nothing without me... Nimra stared through her wall of ice, ready for the opponent's move... A whistling sound had sung through the mist, and for a few seconds Nimra felt confused, ready to let fly the five weapons: four knives thirsty for blood in one hand, one sphere already quenched in the other. The wall of ice stood there, ready to take as much punishment as a wall of strengthened ice could. The wall is even tougher than the Blood Ball, thought Nimra. While the Ball was made to go back and forth with as much strength as possible, the wall is different. It is made to stand strong. The whistling sound came again, and before Nimra can realize what it was, blades of flame crashed into the ice wall. She shouted in sudden fear and astonishment. "Oh for Berdin's sake!" she screamed, as pieces of the ice wall fell off with every strike. Ice from the wall went rolling down, in a way that was, all in all, not very comfortable. As it struck the clear wall again, Nimra caught a glimpse of the weapons. Blades on chains, monstrously large and engulfed in flame, like a pair of wolves on fire. So this guy is that* kind of fighter,* she thought. This is both good and bad. Mostly bad. Unless I can get out of this alive... Her mind raced furiously, as the wall of ice wore down quickly... Chains... Quickly, she judged which side of the wall recieved more damaged and jumped to the stronger side. It wasn't much, but she needed just one chance... We are nothing without each other... Berdin, you will help me... see through speed... Suddenly, the one particular chained sword crashed through the weaker side of the wall, and suddenly it was clearer... With the speed of a spirit, she quickly stuck all of the knives through four of the interlinking chains, broke the already-cracked Blood Ball in half (thus breaking the blood spell), and threw both pieces after the blade as it returned to its master. She smiled... the knives were as tough as steel. They wouldn't break easily... she didn't understand how the one controlling the strings (chains?) controlled these blades, and it was really by chance if those knives did anything... but it was the two halves, returning as if in the blade's shadow, that would surprise him. And since it was already broken in two, it wouldn't betray her position by returning. Suddenly, the other blade crashed through the remaining part of the wall. Attempting to dodge it, Nimra was, unfortunantly, too slow. The blade, filled with flame, struck straight through her right side. The sword attacked it vertically, and as such her cut went from the side of her waist to the side of her chest. Closing her eyes tight, Nimra screamed in agony. Already, ice began to cover the wounds, not in an act of healing and compassion, but an act of preserving blood and greed... The pain... her mind screamed. It's... so... merciless... un...forgiving... what... *WHAT DID I EVER DO TO YOU?* She opened her eyes, as a voice from a dead self came barging back. *What did I ever do to you? Who are you? What... why did you do... to my... to my... why...* Tears? Of fear? Of loss? Footsteps? Running away for her life? Was that... really her? Was that her, in a time before Berdin? She has almost forgotten that such a time even existed... she merely assumed that she suddenly appeared, as a vessel to Berdin in that Temple up the mountain, where Berdin's spirit once resided... in a time before her... when Nimra, shaken and covered in blood, arrived at the Temple demanding a pact, her mind on one thing and one thing only... She had something to do and may Death damn her if she doesn't get it done! She screamed in fury as she jumped down the wall, barely dodging the onslaught of blades. She moved in between the flying, guided cutlery, running down the downhill wall, stepping out of the way of spikes here and there, as the melody of flaming steel striking the wall sang on both her sides. In one swift movement, she created another Ball in one hand, and bit a finger, smearing it over the sphere. Her wound at her side screamed as Nimra moved, quicker than ever and with more speed than before... engulfed with fury, the madness of being haunted, the pain of unwanted duty... the ball of ice became the Blood Ball, as the wall ended and the floor began... running, faster and faster, closer and closer, a menacing figure before her. She forgot all about stealth, and everything about being tactical. As she clenched her teeth and as pain stung through her, only one thing was on her mind... "I'll-crush-you-you-goddamned-son-of-a-dog!" And with the last, long syllable, she tossed the Blood Ball with all her strength and circled to the opponent's right side, ready for whatever he was to do next, ready to strike again with speed if he survives such a blow. She gasped, and took long, deep breaths; her right hand was on her wound, which stung horribly.

Zinsho_Lexagen -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (9/4/2006 16:08:40)
A flash of silver followed by a screech of metal on metal was enough to slow his advance, partially to reconsider the wisdom of it and partially to allow whoever was there to finish their affairs first. The best time to enter a battle would have to be right after one side was dispatched, then the remaining side would be all the weaker, and all the more vulnerable. The heavy crash that came next left him wondering about the wisdom of that battle at all, yet by then he was close enough to hear the call, the suggestion to attempt a strike and his lip curled up into a feral grin. Such a comment he could understand, such a taunt was one he might have made were he desiring to force the other to over-commit. Such were the words of a warrior that might be worth assisting, if only to teach them the true meaning of those words. Yet another, louder, sound was enough to break such reveries, to cause him to wheel about and fade once more into the mists, once more the stalker tracking a sound that was out of place. For that loud sound was not one that should exist in such a small arena, for it to do so meant there was another target, one currently alone and showing off. A perfect target to be approached from the shadows, and struck down before they even knew they were in danger. His lips curled once more as he spotted the intruder, this time not a pleasurable grin but rather one of anger and intense dislike. He knew he was missing most of the memories of his life, he knew that there was so much he didn't remember, but based on those few memories he did have, he hated pirates. He'd spent many many months aboard sailing vessels, working as crew and trying to learn a trade to replace the one he'd forgotten. He hadn't ever quite met any pirates, but he knew all about their kin. Listening to the bragging of that female ilk he once more began to see his eyes before him in the mists. Before it had been pain and frustration that had brought about this effect, this time it was anger, nothing but anger. As his eyes flared so did his vision, the mists parting to his view even as the ship melted into nothingness. Stepping forward his hand slipped to his shoulder and wrapped around nothingness, yet even as his fingers closed there was a hilt in it. Bringing his hand down to his right hip he shifted into a ready stance, the blade held loosely in his fingers yet steadily enough that there was no real risk of it falling free. For a moment he stood perfectly still, looking at the blade in disbelief until the same knowledge that gave him the confidence to partake in this tournament gave him the awareness that he would know how to use it when the time came. Then he had to deal with his confusion at the sight of the blade, at first glance it was as though it was an absence in reality, as though even though he knew it was there, that it was not. When he moved it there was a vague distortion for a moment, the edges of the blade leaving a wavering impression on the area around them, yet there was no clear way to define where it was. It was as though his eyes refused to focus on it but preferred to slip to either side, to define it by it's absence rather than it's presence. A moment later and he did understand what he saw, the weapon itself made the knowledge clear to the wielder in an intuitive understanding that defied comprehension. It absorbed what light struck it and trapped it, letting it sink into the infinite depths contained in the finite dimensions of the blade. Blinking in momentary confusion he set his eyes upon the blade once more and saw what he had just learned, were he not in the midst of battle he might have lost himself for days trying to trace the patterns of light and energy that flowed within, trying to trace them to their root yet always finding more to look at. With a reluctant sigh he readied himself once more, the blade both absent from his vision and glowing like a well lit beacon at the same instant, and strode towards the now waiting pirate. Halting a few feet behind her he started to chuckle, half tempted to attack her without warning yet at the same time unable to resist her challenge. Speaking slowly, his voice almost as murky as his clothes made his form, he responded to her challenge, his contempt for it evident in every word. “Were I to do exactly that you would be dead vile one. To challenge those you cannot see and expect to survive the first encounter should they choose to approach in secret... that is not bravery, that is idiocy.” With the last of his speech he stepped back farther into the mist once more, fading from view in the mists that cloaked his shadow.

Coyote -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (9/4/2006 18:11:55)
The mists seemed to part slightly from one of the gates as a woman walked through. She wore a rather plain blue dress with a yellow-colored trim that was meant more for moving around than it was for show. There had been some enchantment or another placed on it so it wouldn't hinder her movements. She was about average height with hair that flowed down a bit past her shoulders. It appeared a strange shade of dark brown at first glance. At second, it appeared to have a slight blue tinge to it. She carried a blue staff with what appeared to be a dragon's talons grasping an enormous sperical star sapphire. The staff seemed to radiate a cold light; giving the strange feeling of awe, comfort, and fear at once. And like the rest of her attire, the staff was blue. "What sort of person in their right mind would agree to this?" she muttered as she walked through the metal gates. She came out alone; if anyone else came out through the same gate she did, they did so well before she. Either that or they were very quickly obscured by the rolling mists flowing throughout the arena. She quickly surveyed the surrounding landscape. "Spikes, spikes, spikes... Oh my, a pillar-- With more spikes on it." There was a note of irony in her voice. They were very friendly surroundings indeed. The harsh, bleak landscape was only intensified by the blanket of mist that filled the area. They fogged up the area so it was barely possible to see three feet ahead and created menacing shadows where none had existed before. The spikes appeared even sharper through the mist. In fact, it was possible to stumble right onto one without even realizing beforehand. Well, if she was anything, she wasn't sadistic. Although anybody who was in this arena in the first place had to have some mental problem or another. She raised her staff. It was had an iridescent, pearly quality to it that made it seem as liquid as the waves that were its original home. According to the person who last had it, it was excavated from the ocean depths. All the more reason to own it. She was quite clearly an avid fan of the color blue. The mists seemed to give way to her very presence. It didn't take a genious to know who she was here to fight for. As she raised her staff, the illusionary star in the enormous gemstone that gave the sapphire its name seemed to brighten. The mists parted slightly, giving her a slight advantage. However, anyone that fought her would have a slight advantage as well. She dismissed the thought. She would much rather rely on skill than luck. She preffered shooting carefully prepared spells than lashing blindly into the fog and hoping that it would hit. No, as chaotic and fun as that sounded, it was not the best way to win a fight.

Nightmare17 -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (9/5/2006 5:34:18)
With a flick of her wrist Lily fired her flintlock in the direction the speaker had sounded from, and the muzzle flared with shadow. Once again a burst of darkness erupted forth, shaping into a whirling sphere of destructive darkness, a tiny void that feasted upon all things that it touched. The sphere tumbled in the air, feeding hungrily on the mist that it passed through, and on the negative emotions that had created it, tiny flashes of darkness flickering as the bullet rapidly increased in size, leaving a vacuum in its wake of both air and joy. But the bullet struck nothing, the man had moved aside, and the sphere kept on going, the size of a cannonball by the time it struck the wall above the gate, exploding into a shower of razor sharp shards that rained down over any unfortunate enough to still linger by the gate. Lily's singular eye narrowed to a slit, scanning the mists with a grim expression of distaste. Who did he think he was, talking to her like she was some blind wench walking about without a cane? She'd never been spoken to by a man like that in her life! She growled as she drew back the hammer on her gun, raising it to her lips and blowing away a plume of black smoke that had been rising from it, tinting the mists about her darkly. She spoke, her voice icy. "Oh I can see you me hearty." Lily closed her eye and muttered a brief verse, her words dissonant, painful to hear. "What darkness lies in the hearts of men?" And then she opened her other eye. A blaze of crimson in the shape of a stylised eye burned from her patch, and in moments her world inverted, the sky was painted black. The mists became swirling ribbons of blue, tainted by some unknown sadness, the floor became black and featureless, the only differentiation dark red pools scattered across it. As the mists no longer barred her sight between their trails, she saw the walls, formless black smeared with red, trails of red trailing down to the floor, where beneath a veritable ocean flowed.... Blood. Ancient blood, new blood, blood not yet spilled.... blood destined. One by one, tiny flames burst out across the arena, the trivial fears and insecurities of the audience, the adrenaline fuelled fury of the combatants. Sadness, fear, greed and pain, every flame was a slightly different colour, a slightly different mixture of darkness meshed with the invisible motes of light that might make them worthwhile human beings, the occassional gap in their heartfires that sometimes made their lives worth sparing. The pirate looked upon her own heart, a healthy orange flame of greed, with a measure of pride, which blazed invisibly a moment through it for a moment, before turning her non-eye upon her opponents, carefully noting each one by their own particular blend of negativity, noting the once-spilled blood that marked their weapons before settling upon the one who had been closest to the place she had last heard the speaker, a pus yellow mix of hatred and prejudice.... She opened her good eye, reeling a moment in disorientation at seeing two very different worlds with two very different eyes, before the two images flowed together, a world of the insubstantial superimposed on the obscuring mists that barred her vision. She could see her opponents location, even if she could not see their faces. "And since I can see you...." Lily started running, boots clicking rhythmically on the metal floor as she flew through the mists, skull-sword held before her like a screaming emissary, the blade singing through the air with anticipation as she charged towards her foe. "I'm going to keelhaul you!"

qbsuperstar03 -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (9/5/2006 13:09:12)
There was too much going on here. Various combats had erupted seemingly because one had made a mistake in the process of evaluating their competition. One misstep could result in serious injury, so every step had to count. Immediately, the cowardly girl with the ranged weapon drew his eye. It seemed fire was everywhere, and he could feel his weapon recoil in response to it. He had to put a stop to whoever was causing this unnatural thing. Stepping with the precise, measured focus of a marching soldier, Tobias decided it would be foolish to try to engage her in hand-to-hand combat when he could just get blasted before he could react. He needed to get rid of that bowless crossbow. He wasn't familiar with it, but it was the first thing that had to be eliminated to make this fight something one might call "even." Her screeches...it was like they were in a canyon. "I'm going to keelhaul you!" He wasn't sure what that meant, but it didn't sound like she intended the target to survive. He wasn't for mortal combat, so all the more reason to take down this pirate of darkness. He went into a run, intending to trip her up, hopefully without either of them hitting a spike. And once she was down, he would strike with his full fury when he was more confident of a hit. There was nothing wrong with hitting a girl or hitting someone when they were down. Gender was meaningless to a warrior, and being down just meant that you were in a disadvantageous position and deserved to be punished for allowing yourself to be forced into that position. It was now or never. He would strike now.

ChaosDivine -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (9/6/2006 2:49:38)
The prey was cornered. The Rakshasa grinned, as his blades continued to crash into ice. Larger and larger the chunks of ice which rolled down the slope grew. He could smell his prey, almost taste her fear, her desperation. Overconfidence clouded his judgment as her shrill scream pierced the thick fog. The end of the hunt was near. A mistake. He roared in pain as the daggers raked through arm, sundering flesh, muscle and sinew, sending a splatter of crimson onto the metallic ground. His hand instinctively released the chain, sending the fiery blade slamming into a metallic wall with a crash, shaking the chain and jostling the daggers loose as he stepped back, narrowly avoiding a chunk of ice which ricocheted off the ground. Unfortunately, he did not manage to avoid the second. His ears rung as the rounded piece struck a glancing blow against his skull. He could feel it rattling with the impact, even as blood streamed down his face and he stumbled back a few steps. Distracted as he was, he did not notice that the scent had shifted, and it now rushed towards him. "I'll-crush-you-you-goddamned-son-of-a-dog!" He barely brought the scimitars back up in time before the ball barreled into him with all the animalistic fury of its master. Combined with dizziness from the earlier blow, claw marks etched themselves into the cold floor as he struggled to push the ball away, the scimitars flaring ever and ever brighter, melting and searing their way into the spherical weapon. Trickles of sweat dripped down his face from the intense heat, mixed with blood from his forehead. In the attack he felt the desperation of prey cornered. Finally, the ball broke, rolling about on the floor in two neat halves. By now, both chained blades had returned, the chain encircling his lower left arm doing little to stop the bleeding, the blade attached to it dangling in the air. His back rested against one of the spikes tall as a man, the ball having forced him back several meters. He panted, his legs wobbly from the earlier strain. Only now did he recognize his earlier mistake, and he cursed himself for it. This hunter was overconfident, and like a cub this hunter was blinded by the hunt. But this hunt is not over. Crimson crept into the flames which danced and licked the air, dying it a dark shade of violet as madness consumed him. In his consciousness, the beast now redoubled its efforts, violently hurling itself at the chains constraining it. Link by link, the chains weakened and broke. Formerly a blur of unbridled hate and aggression, a spindly looking cat began to take form. Grey fur bristled in anger, tribal markings inked in black across its body glowed with an inner light. It was Athiyk - his inner spirit - a representation of his true self. Amongst his pack, cubs who reached maturity undertook an arduous trial to seek their own Athiyk and its true form before choosing the path which would guide them throughout their adult life. And though he was skilled as a hunter, his Athiyk had chosen otherwise. It grinned widely, revealing yellowed teeth. How fine you look when dressed in rage. You're lucky... red eyes suit so few. Vlos roared, the sound shaking the arena, equal parts pain and anger. The flames turned a blood crimson, even as the fur upon his tail and mane ignited, searing away the mist in gouts of fire and evaporating blood in a red mist. Vlos Nar'heti no longer existed. The hunter no longer existed. Only an animal remained - dangerous, unpredictable, untamable. The Rakshasa twirled its blades, then barreled towards the girl, moving with a deadly speed and grace previously unseen, pain forgotten, madness twisting his features into a predatory mask. To some extent, he had been right. The hunt was about to end.

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