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Xforce -> RE: =EC= Spike Arena (9/9/2006 18:01:09)
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Kuth paused, staring at the doorway into the arena with perverse fascination, his silvery, almost mercurial eyes riveted on the carvings that marked the gate with an almost eerily intense single-mindedness. He stood there for long moments, slowly poring over every detail of its outward form and construction, imprinting its image deep into his mind. He would remember this day, he would remember this place, and his chance at seizing a destiny closed to all but a chosen few, but above all else… he would remember this really spiffy… giant … door-like thing. There was no denying it was a tremendous feat of construction, an architectural marvel… an awe inspiring colossus, so tremendous that its sheer majesty and splendour defied belief. Here lay inspiration for the ages, a piece of art almost unrivalled in its glory, a monument to all those who fought within… and those who had fought, and died within the walls of the arena. Oh, of course, its structural integrity was probably going to be severely compromised by the time the day was through – but that was probably a part of what made it so undeniably awesome.
Probability had always been a subjective thing for Kuth; given his experience, he often rated the improbable quite plausible and probable, while on the other hand, he rated many more probable, commonplace events both strange and unusual. In this instance; he was hedging his bets. The door had that archaic touch… a blend of the mystical, magical arcane and forgotten that excited him so… Then again, it was, well, just a door… and doors weren’t usually accorded any level of awe inspiration as far as he was concerned. It was a puzzling conundrum for him, even more so because of the chosen venue employed by this door, in particular – a gateway to a tournament of champions? That rated somewhere on the awing scale… he was certain. Two point seven two pohns, at the very least. He squinted, scrunching up his eyes as he stood on the tips of his toes, trying to get a better view of an inlayed carving near the very top of the gate. It was at that point that he noticed something very strange indeed… despite the early hour, it seemed to be getting darker… much darker than it should have been, given the time of day. Glancing at into the sky, he shot an inquisitive glance at a few clouds that could not possibly have been responsible before returning his attention to the gate before him, fully intent on unlocking the mysteries contained within the gateway. A moment later, the loss of light intensified again, suddenly growing far more pronounced, draining away before an onslaught of shadow like the cries of a baby that had just had a pacifier stuffed into its mouth. Alarmed, he turned his attention from the gate, just as… something impacted the other side of the doorway, colliding with the solid, nigh-indestructible metal that composed the gate with terrific driving force. The sound of cracking, splintering metal, the dull boom of the impact, and the vibrations sent forth by the blast reverberated around him, setting his magical senses afire with alarm, and giving him a faintly uncomfortable tingling sensation. Subconsciously, he chalked that last effect up to indigestion.
Another warrior would have run, turned and fled beneath that hellish harbinger of the horrors soon to come. In Kuth's case, it served a different purpose... a purpose more or less akin to an obnoxious alarm bell that wouldn’t turn off, and refused to give those inclined to slumber their precious “five more minutes”. Snapping back to attention, he rubbed the back of his head as he allowed a sheepish grin to cross his face. He'd gotten sidetracked… again. At the rate he was going, it was entirely likely he'd never get into the arena... let alone have a chance to compete. Well... he'd just have to fix that. Dashing towards the entrance, he crossed the threshold, bursting through with the enthusiasm of a seven year old as he emerged within the arena of legend. Its scenes however - its terrible and majestic grandeur, its macabre splendour and grand design, its riveting spike-laden deathtraps and innovative blood drainage system failed to catch his attention, for a far more pressing matter had thrust that little problem aside, usurping complete and total control over his mayfly attention. With all the fog swirling around him, he couldn’t see a blasted thing.
He barely had the time to mouth a surprised "... great forkin' godly garnished gizzards…” before the mists took him, washing over his finely tuned mental senses, overriding his unprepared mental defences with brutal efficiency. Sadness… despair… and sorrow permeated his senses, thrusting him deep into a sea of inner despair and mental lethargy. He felt something tiny prickling deep inside him, struggling desperately against the urge to burst into song. Two seconds into the arena and I’m already in over my head… heh… Gritting his teeth, he forced several of his latent abilities to surface, warping his mental landscape with the force of his effort as he sought a way to escape the turbulent sea of emotions. Tiny motes of white whirled across the silver in his eyes as he marshalled every ounce of power he had invested in his mental defences, temporarily halting the mists’ caustic effects on his personality. Bit by bit, he repulsed the effects of the encroaching mists, lambasting them with an onslaught of mental energy as he slowly – and torturously began to expel them from his psyche. Reaching into one of the many pockets that adorned his vest, he withdrew his weapon, drawing a measure of calm – and hope from the feel of its metallic touch against his skin. A stream of power manifested through its surface, and he hurriedly drew on its energy to fabricate a potent shield over his mental state: a preventive measure against he mists, and a powerful argument against any form of mental attack that might soon be used against him. The exhausting process had taken mere seconds, but to him, it seemed as though hours had transpired. He exhaled noisily, glancing down at the most prized of his weapons, the golden fork he still clenched within his right fist, seeking support from his spoony choice of weapon.
He tossed his shock of amaranthine, silver flecked hair from side to side in an attempt to clear his mental vision, trying to bring himself back up to his normal level of alertness. He half-jumped backwards as a shape moved in the fog ahead of him. Blinking, he cleared his eyes – then stared into the mist. Yet another mist-figure appeared, then vanished, followed by another. Shocked, he drew himself up, planting a firm hand on the plumed hat that adorned his head even as he twirled his fork in a defensive gesture. Something was wrong here… very wrong. Abruptly, a score or more of mist-formed visages burst into reality around him, each of them hauntingly familiar, yet at the same time, completely alien. His mouth dropped in a startled “O”, as realization sank into him. The faces weren’t real… he was hallucinating… hallucinating away the effects of the mist that had made it deep into his mindscape in that first instant, before he had become fully aware of the danger they posed to him. In his experience there was but one way to handle such an offensive; surrender.
Fully aware that he could not possibly have been in a functional of mind, he allowed the mists that lingered within him to take effect, dispersing the mental lock he’d placed on their effects. Dark striations crossed his eyes, wriggling as they slowly resolved into a series of oscillating circles that floated haphazardly within their mercurial depths. Instinct told him to face down the sorrow, and that was that – he felt himself losing awareness, losing consciousness as he dove deep into the depths of his soul. Dove deep into the tenaciously clinging mist that had claimed a grip over his faculties. Dove deep into the core of the spell, into the memories it used to feed itself, to keep itself alive. A flood of nausea washed over him, followed by a profound sense of satisfaction, self fulfillment and a sudden need to philosophize. He didn’t consider the last nearly as bad as the alternative, no matter what the situation, he was not bursting into song. Even insanity was better than song. Or being forced to imitate Shake…
A vision blurred into reality before him. He was back in his room, at his house. He was older… or was it younger? He was taller, certainly – fully grown, by the looks of it, and he had an unusually pleased expression framed his dark elven face, as if all was right with the world…
A rising sense of panic suddenly burst within him. He knew this moment… he knew what was going to happen. A silent scream escaped his lips… for he knew what was soon to come. Moments from now, the unnatural accident that had triggered the regression of his age would occur. And there would be nothing he could do to prevent it… he sighed, and a tear trickled down his cheek, ere his mind began to speak…
Tis the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune, often due to the actions of others,
The scene blurred, reverted to nothingness. A new scene took its place… and he saw a man… his uncle, driven to the depths of insanity. An unholy fire lit his eyes, his hands extended forward like dark claws, even as his father drove the family weapon – an enlarged butter knife of the “vorpal” trait – deep into his belly… His uncle had botched a summoning… and had unwittingly swapped souls – and minds – with a demon of the nether planes. The two of them had been very close before the… accident, and his loss weighed heavily on Kuth.
we make guilty of our disasters solar hellspawn, the moon and the wolves that follow its path… the malignant clutches of aether dimensions now lost to the stars…
The scene blurred yet again, and he saw himself on the streets, younger now – with a wild, feral gleam in his eye. He had not grown much, since that time… physically, had never advanced beyond the age of ten… not since the night of his first kill. He struggled to shut his eyes as the bright tines of his fork burst through his opponent’s jugular vein…
As if we were villains on aught but necessity, fools for some heavenly compulsion, a geas placed upon us ere we were born…
A new scene resolved before him now, as he wept openly, kneeling over the broken body of a dragon, clutching at a bright yellow stone held within his palms… events had been completely out of his control, that time – and an erstwhile villain – a dragoness, at that - had sacrificed her very soul to save him from a face worse than death…
antiheroes, villains and manipulators, by spherical predominance… drunkards, liars and liches by an enforced obedience of planetary influence…
The previous scene vanished, replaced this time by a vision of himself alongside his literal “other half” – a crystal dragon that had bonded with his very soul at the instant of its hatching. A powerful yearning consumed him, as the effect of even a single day’s separation from his counterpart tore at him…
and all that we are somewhat perhaps evil in, by a divine thrusting on. An admirable evasion of man…elf… things… to lay their dispositions at the charges at the hands of free will!
A vision of his brother now flashed into being, a strange hybrid, stranger than even he himself had been, a being at once half elven, three quarters drow, part raptor, one quarter miscreant, part-time adventurer and all invaluable friend. His lineage had been the result of an… accident, involving an unseemly amount of alcohol, and the presence of a wild mage. He had been crucial to his survival, in those early days… when he had opted for voluntary exile, rather than allow his older-but-now-younger brother to perish in the streets…
His father compounded with my mother somewhere near a dragon’s tail, and I bear an advanced magiscience major, therefore it follows that I am unrefined and unpredictable! Fork! I should have been that I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my age regression!
At this, the visions began to fade… the effects of the mist now nearly dispelled. His unseeing eyes gazed upon reality, where he saw before him, the titanic form of another competitor… one who radiated malice so openly that their very aura alerted Kuth to his presence.
Pat! He comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy. My cue is villainous melancholy, with a sigh like Tom o’ Bedlam. O. these eclipses do portend these divisions I shall soon make upon his body!
quidquid latine dictum sit altum viditur.
And with that, the last of the mists’ effects lifted from him, leaving him once more alert, alarmed, and somewhat primed for combat. Drawing on the depths of his spirit, he formed a shaft of joy, which he thrust into his outstretched fork, sending it aglow with power, the power of emotion… the power of spirit… and most importantly, the power of air. Streams of wind rippled around his childlike body, sending his tattered blue scarf billowing behind him, rippling in odd serpentine motions that could not possibly have been natural. A sadistic grin split his face as he fell into a fighting stance, bending his knees and holding his arms at the ready. Piping up, his tiny, child’s voice reached out to the towering draconic figure before him, a fearless announcement of his location - all challenge, threat, and taunt. “Hey… Malice, its not very polite to turn your back to a stranger. Doncha have any manners?”
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