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RE: =EC 2014= Finals Arena

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9/23/2014 1:48:10   
Apocalypse
Member

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Connor could not help but feel the truth of those words ring in his ears as the blasted bear once again dropped to all fours to avoid the outlaw's attack. Unlike the Storm Shot, this resulted in him losing his hatchet. True, Connor had been more skilled in handling a knife than he had ever been in wielding a hatchet, but at least he could block blows with the latter. A Bowie was a a deadly tool in the West, but it looked and felt mighty small here on Lore.

For better or worse, the dead knight had managed to coat one of his arms in lively shadows in response to Connor's electric bullet. This meant that the dead knight did not stumble and slam into the armored bear, which was not good. It also meant that he was able to swing his sword onto Kriege's neck and draw his attention, which was good. Lady Luck has got to stop playing her games, he thought as he took the moment's reprieve to survey the arena. When in a shootout one must always mark his enemies, otherwise a bullet would be sure to mark him.

Connor absorbed the positions of the combatants in an instant. Directly in front of him were Kriege and the dead knight, the two locked in combat. In-between their armored forms he caught a glimpse of the beautiful woman representing Wind. She was so close to the bear and the knight that she must have been a part of the fray as well, though Connor could not make out who she was trying to strike. Across the arena, dragon-man and leather coat were still fighting each other as tall neck crawled to the gate behind the tree and statue. Apparently she had been bested, leaving seven left to make their claim for the championship. Everyone was accounted for except...

His eyes darted to where the ferret was, or rather to where the ferret used to be. The little rodent was gone, vanished into thin air. Oh God, can he do that? The thought was interrupted as a bright glow from above caught the gunslinger's eye. Up in the air, impossibly high for any normal rodent, was the ferret holding in its tiny paws brilliant white daggers. And it was about to show the other competitors why it was chosen as the Champion of Light.

“Connor, shoot the beast now while I have it’s attention! We can settle our score once it’s dead!”

There was only a split-second to react, and there certainly was no time to give aid to a foe. The outlaw rolled to his left, throwing his hand down to push himself up to his feet as he moved. There was not much ground covered in the maneuver, but it did place the Pillar of Energy between himself and the ferret. The hissing and crackling the pillar gave as bits of the ferret's assault struck the other side informed Connor that he had made the right choice. He could not say the same about the three-man brawl raging in front of him as beams of rainbow-colored light rained down on them.

The ferret was his enemy, but it may have just given the gunslinger the opportunity he needed. Reaching across his body, Connor pulled out the green bang bulb and hurled it into the fray. Not making a mistake for the third time that day, he aimed it lower at about the chest level of the dead knight. But he did not wait for the bulb to explode on impact. Instead, Connor shot from his hip in a display worthy of his name "Crackshot". The bullet streaked towards the clash before, its tendrils catching individual grains of sand thrown into the air by the rodent's rays and transforming them into glittering specks of glass before colliding with the bulb a mere couple feet in front of Kriege. An emerald storm erupted from its prison, the lightning darting like hungry snakes in every direction in search of prey. And there are three for you feed on.
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 26
9/24/2014 0:50:25   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 Kriege twisted, and Rowan made the wise decision, letting the blade be twisted out of his grasp. The Vastaa’s right hand lifted, catching the weapon’s hilt as he released the pressure on the blade. The weapon looked comically small in the ice bear’s massive paw, almost as if it was a slender saber instead of a broadsword. Kriege had never had much use for swords. The short stabbing blade was all he had ever relied upon. Claw, fang, and crushing strength had always outclassed any other weapon he had turned his paws to.

He contemplated breaking the blade over his knee, like a piece of dry kindling in winter, but immediately decided against it. The Chosen of Darkness was shouting at Connor about uniting against “the beast,” and the Vastaa would have only a moment to make his move.

Compared to others, Kriege was slow, at times glacial. While he was certainly capable of bursts of speed when the need arose, and could gather a deal of speed on the charge, he would never win a windsprint. Most assumed that the polar behemoth was as slow at thinking as he was at moving, but there was nothing wrong with Kriege’s mind.

Twirling swiftly, the hulking bear hurled Rowan’s blade. The weapon flew from his grasp in a hissing, horizontal arc. Though it scythed through the air, the sword was no threat to the other competitors. In fact, it traveled well over their heads along its way. No, the blade was not aimed at any of the other Chosen, but at one of the features of the Arena itself. The weapon’s arc would carry it across the sands, and directly into the Pillar of Light.

What result this might have, Kriege had no idea, but the conclusion was easy to reach. The knight was Chosen of Darkness, and had, heretofore, demonstrated a power over the shadows. His weapon of choice seemed to enhance, or be enhanced by, that power. Light drove back the darkness; thus, if Rowan wished to retrieve the weapon, Kriege would force the man into the heart of that which was inimical to the existence of the dark.

Smiling his ruined smile, Kriege pivoted back towards the knight, only to be hammered across the side of his face by a mass of icy purple-black shadow. Light exploded across the Vastaa’s vision, and he reeled back a step. The cold meant little, though he felt it; it was the impact that surprised him. A second flash of light seared past his armored form, blearily seen as it swept towards Rowan’s head. The vision was obscured as something clinked and dropped over his eyes.

Snarling, the ice bear reached up, taking hold of the broken faceplate of his helmet. He gave the metal a wrenching twist, tearing it free with a snapping and pinging of links breaking. A swift glance allowed him to take in the positions of both Rowan and Connor. The slender swordswoman was nowhere in sight, and for an instant he thought he saw a flash of light from the Light rodent, but the Vastaa had more pressing issues to deal with. Connor’s arm was moving forward, throwing another of his glass vials.

Kriege swore foully, but the flipping bulb was all that he needed to see. Dropping to all fours again, the armored goliath ran, wide paws hurling gouts of red sand into the air. There was a sharp report, and the ice bear recognized the distinctive sound of the Chosen of Energy’s weapon.

And then the world was washed out in a blaze of viridian light.

For the second time that day, Kriege hit the sand hard, his muscles locking up and seizing reflexively.

He opened his eyes on the tundra. It was an intimately familiar place, a rise not far from the village. At times, he and Shen Lan would go there at night, watching the stars when the sky was clear. Kriege recalled an indian summer, so many years gone. A hot and dry autumn, so unusual for his northern lands, as unusual as the rain that had broken the oppressive heat.

They had fallen asleep on the rise together, sheltering under its lone tree, sleeping after they conceived their son. They had awoken the next morning to the petrichor of tough tundra grasses surging back to life with the benefit of the rain. The Vastaa could almost feel her with him again, and for a moment was overwhelmed with another wave of homesickness. He could almost hear her voice. ”Not yet, love. You have more to do…”

His eyes snapped open. Kriege rumbled, forcing his body up, first to all fours, and then onto his hind legs. Shaking his head with a rattle of chainmail, the ice bear took stock. He could feel flakes of skin peeling off, blood oozing from charred flesh, and muscles aching from abuse. Perhaps it was time to extend an olive branch, not something he made a habit of under normal circumstances.

“Knight,” the Vastaa wheezed, pointing at Connor, “perhaps we could continue after dealing with this one?”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 27
9/24/2014 3:37:05   
Ronin Of Dreams
Still Watching...


 Its aerial spin slowed, the frantic pace dropping from that of an ice skater to that of a ballerina, the snout twisting about yet keeping its gaze steady towards the melee. The slowdown was not due to the slashing laser volley, but the simple nature of having flung its fore-paws wide prior to unleashing the photonic energy. Gravity tugged it downwards even as the beams dispersed, and the soft light that had suffused both trench knives vanished as their charge was spent. With flicks of its gaze, it confirmed that such an expenditure of photonic energy may have been a waste, at that. Damage had been depressingly minimal, despite how destructive the prismatic beams could be when striking the right surfaces.

Still, the beams had forced Connor to reposition and gave the construct some momentary safety from another assault. Only now could the loss of the silken garment truly register in its mind, and it felt its destruction far more deeply than its should. A sense of mourning and shame, reminiscent of the Protocols of Loss, the only emulation of emotion hard-coded into the mechanics of its mind. The concept of applying such a feeling to an article of clothing rather than the loss of one of the greater Family confused the F.E.R.R.E.T., and that confusion fueled the steadily building frustration at the situation continually stacked against it. It was time for that to change.

Reversing polarized flows, the F.E.R.R.E.T. bled the energy from the remaining charge on its right pair of pawclaws back into its body. The spin still held promise, and before it reached the ground it released both of the now dulled claw blades towards the Chosen of Darkness. The crystalline shards glimmered as they spun through the air, propelled not by force of arms but by the simple centrifugal force of the ferret’s spin, in the hopes that harassment from new angles might make the melee more chaotic. Then hind-paws hit soft sand. Blade tips dipped, scoring clean arcs through the grains in contrast to the broad brushstroke of its tail as paws twisted and stepped. A dance to balance while its upper body contorted to keep both its armament and its gaze level and focused towards its opposition.

As it brandished its weapons anew, it saw that casting its blades for a distracting strike was a fruitless effort. The one dubbed “Crackshot” had thrown another of his Energy-laden grenadoes towards the main melee at some point during his movement to the opposite side of the Pillar of Energy from the Lightsplitter. Its whiskers twitched in annoyance at the sight of that oddly-shaped device when another booming report filled the air from one of Connor’s revolvers.

The area between the construct and the other competitors erupted in a writhing, tangled mass of coruscating bolts. A harlequin riot of Energy that scorched the sand into a patchwork network of glass and denied the construct sight and opportunity to join the fray. Again. More so, the electrified area caught the crystalline swords in mid-flight. Though they were non-conductive save for a small strip of copper at the hilt, one of the crystals still held a portion of the snap charge, and blew into flinders which knocked its companion harmlessly skyward. It could no more cross into such a maw of destruction than it could flit through the Pillar which Connor hid behind.

Denied an avenue to close to grips with its foes yet again in this foray amidst the Finals Arena, the Lightsplitter grew tired of playing to a sense of fairness. Had the concept known to it, the F.E.R.R.E.T. would have started to laugh at being honourable. With all of the destructive violence unleashed by Energy, the terrain had become a melange of cooling glass and superheated sands. It bounded to one side away from its point of landing and chuffed lightly, the smells of baked sand and the copper of spilled blood overwhelmed by the cloying stench of ozone. All to the better, as there was more than one way to blind a foe.

With a blink of onyx eyes, metallic fur shimmered, and the Lightsplitter’s form became indistinct upon the tortured terrain of sand, glass, and the spreading haze of residual heat.
AQ  Post #: 28
9/24/2014 8:45:00   
blankmaskara
Member

Just as the gutshot had landed, Ross's mind wavered, then blacked out.

------
"You disappoint me."

The mage once again found himself on the very same shore he was at before, albeit the weather seemed different. Calmer. The rain slowed down to a moderate drizzle, and the wind appeared to have shifted into a quiet breeze. However, his Lord was still there, sitting upon the watery throne it had created for itself.

"Well, what did I expect, really? You are simply a replacement, after all. At the very least, you didn't do what you did before, and run away from battle like how you ran away from your duty to the falling city," She added, her tone rivaling that of a frightening storm, providing stark contrast to the weakening typhoon by the shore, sent a pang of guilt through the Mage. He had failed.

What did you expect, indeed, Ross thought.

Just then, for a split second, his vision seemed go murky as it would underwater. His audience with the Water Lord was falling apart, if it wasn't already made obvious by the waning storm.

"Apologies. I guess I must depart from this…..conversation, I suppose," said the relic hunter, his dispirited voice trailing off into the breeze.

"Of course," did She reply, eyes flashing a deep, violent blue before her form melted and dropped into the sea.

Moments later, all went black.
----------

With a wave of utter agony washing over him, Ross awoke from his dream, a painful shluck entering his ears as a blade was torn out of his hand.

Damnit! Who did that?!

His gaze quickly shifted back to his foe, who stumbled back several steps. The hybrid's face was twisted in agony, recognizably dazed and winded from the blow that was dealt to him. And, as he slowly started to stabilize and get back into focus, an off-center discoloration of black, red, and yellow on his gut became more pronounced, colors become darker and more nauseating.

That must hurt.

With just a small glance to the side, Ross saw his way out through a portal ripped open right behind the Water Pillar. A heartbeat stopped mid-motion, and a wave of regret washed over him. He really was out, as much as he didn't want to admit it. Even the waning Pillar, diminishing into a mere trickle, seemed to agree with this fact. Faced with no other options, his legs seemed ready to make a mad dash for the exit, but his mind kept them glued in place. He knew his opponent had something in mind, another move to throw out with boots crunching on sand already to create some more distance between them.

Although, what exactly is he going to do--Ah, there.

Flames erupted into a crackle upon the Fire Champion's scaled hand, then were sent straight for Ross, embers and smoke trailing right behind it. However, instead of meeting its intended target--flesh and cloth--it connected with nothing but air as the Water Mage rolled out of the way.

"Heads up!"

With a wave of a hand, a quick blast of water was fired off towards his opponent's gut, intending to slow him down, or distract him enough for an opening. Maybe even add some salt to the wound. It didn't matter. Legs already pushing him back up, Ross dashed for the portal. Twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six feet. Just like the mad beating in his heart and the ever-so-urgent steps he made, his emotions were a frenzy of fear and urgency as he got closer to his way out. His orb had already rejoined him at his side, then with a dive and a detonation of steam and water to further propel it, he sank through the portal.

He was out.

< Message edited by blankmaskara -- 10/3/2014 8:57:18 >
Post #: 29
9/24/2014 16:04:23   
Necro-Knight
Member

Rowan growled through clenched teeth as the Gunslinger rolled and obviously denied his offer for cooperation at taking down the beast. A few shots, maybe another explosive electrical grenade, would've defeated the beast. He must have truly hated the Chosen of Darkness after their history in Fountain. To make things worse, Rowan saw the Bear throw his personally-forged RuneSword clean across the Arena towards the Light Pillar. The Knight could have easily used a Darkness bolt to catch the blade mid-air and draw it back, but as he saw movement from Connor again, he decided he could live without his beloved sword. It would just be a distraction, trying to retrieve it.

As Rowan again saw the Bang Bulb flying in his direction, the Death Knight would've again caught the tool and returned it, but the sharp crack of the man’s firearm sent a pang of terror through him. He’d already dispelled his shadow claws, so he couldn't manifest them again so quickly, even though he had the mana to do so. He couldn't afford to exhaust his mana entirely with a shadow-step that would take him farther from the melee he was involved in. Even his shield could not… Not even waiting to acknowledge the thought before he acted,
Rowan brought his shield around in front of his body and drew deep into his remaining mana, nearly exhausting it all at once.

With the snap-hiss of Darkness, a curved wall of Darkness swirled tightly around the Death Knight’s risen shield, looking like a gate into the gaping Void itself with the swirling colors of black and violet. Normally, the Necrotic Orb spell required much more mana and would have engulfed Rowan entirely, but he had neither the mana or the need for such an extreme defensive move. While it still had nearly exhausted the Death Knight’s magical resource, the emerald energy met the shield and cracked sharply against the volatile shadow, harmlessly.

Sorry to disappoint you, Gunslinger, but I will NOT meet my death by your trigger-happy hands.

“Knight,” Rowan heard through the shield of darkness, from the Bear, “perhaps we could continue after dealing with this one?”

Well…He had not expected that. The Chosen of Darkness had not seen what had transpired with the Bear and the Bulb, but from the way the beast wheezed when he spoke, he assumed it couldn't have been pleasant. Despite whatever results the Bang bulb had wrought though, the bear seemed to wish to continue, and even aid Rowan in Connor’s long-overdue demise. The Knight’s icy voice called out then, to both Connor and Kriege.

“Aye, I see no reason why not! This pathetic excuse for a man has lived long enough,” the Knight called, voice sharp and distorted by the shadows in front of him, “You hide behind your toys like a child, Connor, instead of facing your enemy head-on with your own skills, if you have any at all! I don’t know what counts as a man where you come from, Gunslinger, but here on Lore? You are a sore excuse for one!”

Rowan rose both his arms out in front of himself and the wall of darkness split into two streams, each one gathering in the Chosen’s palms. The large amount of darkness that condensed there glowed a bright violet as energy crackled around Rowan’s fingers. Already feeling the soft fatigue of his mana pool being so dry, the Chosen let loose a roar that was as much from effort as it was a battle cry.

The Darkness poured from it’s condensed state in Rowan’s palms and sped towards Connor, hissing like a serpent. If this didn't make contact, the Knight of Darkness was going to be at a severe disadvantage if this melee remained at such a range. Hopefully, Kriege’s assistance would prove to be exactly what he needed, should this move fail. As the Darkness made it’s way towards Connor, Sir Moonstone spoke again, voice strained from effort.

“I could have been an ally to you, Connor, but now…now you will see why people fear the power of a Death Knight!”
DF MQ AQW  Post #: 30
9/24/2014 18:22:14   
Tdub
Member

As the fireball flew its course, Makelyth took the time to become aware of the full extent of his injury. Somehow, the force of the blow had bruised even through his scales, creating an odd, discolored pattern. Some of the bruised scales had even cracked, though how scales could be bruising at all was a question for another day. Perhaps the scales are closer to skin than I thought. Whatever the case, the hit to his midsection had done quite a bit of damage, and Makelyth hoped that the Water mage would not come back for more. Unfortunately, this was not the case, as the fireball was eluded and a liquid assault was once again launched at the prince. Hurling his body out of the way, Makelyth landed on the red sands of the Arena, preparing to strike again. Grunting, the reptilian royal pushed back the pain and rose to his feet, turning to face his foe....

Only to see that his foe was no longer there. The absence worried Makelyth, and he quickly turned, hoping to catch a glimpse of the attack that was sure to come. But when his eyes located the Water mage, no attack was incoming. Instead, the man was fleeing, darting to a strange portal in a full sprint. The prince contemplated giving chase, but decided against it, preferring to stay and fight true warriors. Turning, he saw that Earth's replacement choice was also missing, and no charred corpse remained as evidence.

Makelyth grinned as he realized he had run off the two pretenders. Both of the unworthy replacements had left the Finals Arena, proving their worthlessness and cowardice. Those that had fought bravely, and perhaps even honorably, to earn their place in the Finals had been done a service, and soon it would be time for the prince to collect what he was owed.

It was then that Makelyth noticed the state of the Pillars of Water and Earth. Both of the monuments were now far less than what they were before, and the prince realized that the Lords of both elements had withdrawn their support from the replacements, if they had even been deserving of support in the first case. Truly, the Lords were fickle creatures, drawing these unsuspecting misfits into a bloodbath they had not earned, only to instruct them to leave moments later. But would the Fire Lord do the same?

Burn for Fire, kill them ALL!

Makelyth frowned, struggling to contain the mental snarls. The danger had passed, and for the moment, all was calm. The voices should have been reduced to a mere whisper at the back of his head. Was there danger near to him, or was the affliction becoming worse, corrupting his mind to hunger for flesh and blood? Looking up, the prince realized what the voices had been trying to tell him. The audience, and by extension the Lords themselves, craved bloodshed. And at the moment, Makelyth was not delivering. They wanted a show, and it was up to him to give it to them. Or risk earning the fate of the two pretenders.

Makelyth started running, slowly, towards the melee at the center. As usual, Kriege was at the center of it all, and was fighting around the Wind woman Julianna, the Darkness knight Rowan, and the Energy human known as Crackshot. And if the prince were a betting man, he would have wagered that the Light Ferret was around that area somewhere. Alliances seemed to be forming, so Makelyth did not throw an attack. Instead, he would wait, and see where the battle lines would be drawn. Only then would he choose a side to fight against.
Post #: 31
9/25/2014 19:25:53   
Apocalypse
Member

The violent bolts died down as they finished their course, either surging their way through the gunslinger's enemies, crashing against their defenses, or plunging into the arena sand. The bear received the worst of it; the smell of his burnt flesh and hair was a testament to that. A swirling wall of ebony and violet had been brought into existence, a shield of shadows for the dead knight. And a formidable shield it was, for the rampant jade lightning clashed against it with all the fury of a storm but was unable to penetrate the darkness.

The bang bulb had been a gamble, and not all gambles paid off in the end. True, Kriege had taken the brunt of the blast and was now weakened, but Connor had placed the bear between a rock and a hard place. And there was one way out of this place, Connor realized too late, as the bear offered a truce to the dead knight.

“Aye, I see no reason why not! This pathetic excuse for a man has lived long enough.” Harsh words, but words could not kill a man. They could, however, buy time. As the dead knight continued his tirade against the outlaw, Connor sidestepped to his right, tracing the circle formed by the eight elemental pillars. With the ground in the center now marked with crystalline shards of glass, Connor had no intention of rushing in to fight on unsure footing. Besides, his "toys", as the dead knight called them, were more suited for ranged combat.

The dead knight carried on with his insults, and it was quite impressive how much hot air a corpse could hold. Connor darted his eyes right and left as he maintained his sideways movement. Dragon-man had bested leather coat, it appeared. He caught a glimpse of the latter fleeing into the gate behind the Pillar of Water, which in turn shrunk as it sputtered its last dying breaths. Dragon-man was approaching the melee in the middle but did not seem too eager to charge straight in. No, this one was still weighing his options. Clever, but none too helpful at the moment. At least Connor knew where the Champion of Fire was. The ferret, on the other hand, had vanished. It worried the gunslinger, but he could not afford to worry about the light competitor while the combatants of ice and dark stood before him.

The shield of shadows dispersed, receding into the palms of the black knight. Connor tensed his muscles and bent his knees, bracing himself for whatever the dead competitor had for him. He drew his second revolver and raised the two Peace Makers in unison as the dead knight roared. The bellow was followed by the release of the violet shadows in two torrents of magic, cutting their way through the air and towards Connor. The outlaw wasted no time in firing round after round into the streams of darkness, the Storm Shots dissipating the shadows bit by bit. The dead knight's next words were lost as the all-too-familiar clamor of gunfire filled the air. Connor's hands flowed the motions of firing, pulling the hammer back, recovering from the recoil and firing again with all the ease as a fish swims in the sea or a bird flies through the air. The last bullet cracked as it surged into the dead knight's attack, negating the last remnants of the spell. The electricity hung over in the air, raising the hairs on the outlaw's arms.

Connor holstered his revolvers. Eight shots had been traded for his survival; a trade he would make again in a heartbeat but one he could no longer afford. There was still a host of competitors in the arena and not enough bullets or bulbs for all of them. If he could conserve what little he had until the end, then there was still some hope of victory. All the outlaw needed was a clear head and perhaps some assistance from Lady Luck.

He undid the holds on the knives within his gauntlets, allowing the Bowie knives to fall into his hands. "I've got my toys, you've got your armor and shadows. We all have our tricks and fancies. Want to see what kind of man I am?" said Connor as he lowered himself into a fighting stance. The Bowie in his right hand was held in the traditional manner and close to his chest. His left, however, was extended and held the knife in a reverse-grip with the tip pointing to the left. Not a sight to be seen on Earth, or at least in the West, but Connor was fond of the style he had picked up from some of the local rogues around Dr. Lee-kan's lab. He nodded his head in a challenge to the dead knight. "Come and find out." The blades gave off a slight hum as electricity was imbued in them.
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 32
9/25/2014 22:04:00   
Tdub
Member

Footsteps pounded on the red sands. A target. He needed a target. Which of the array of contestants before him would he fight first? There was still some time to decide. Makelyth had not yet reached the halfway point to his goal, and the distance that had seemed so short before now felt like miles as meaningless steps brought him no closer to the chaos. Reptiles were usually fast, were they not? And yet the injury on his stomach was affecting him more than he had anticipated. Not only was he forcing back the pain, he was letting it slow him down, not willing to push himself to his limits. Not yet.

Footsteps pounded on the red sands. And as they made their imprint on the unforgiving Arena's ground, the equally unforgiving voices in his mind attempted to make their imprint on him. The pain fueled anger, and the anger was doing its best to take control again. It cannot happen again. That thought rose above all others, and kept his mental barriers strong. As his blade shifted within his scaled grip and his breath kept itself short and quick, the prince focused his thoughts, trying to find something, anything, to draw the demons away.

Footsteps pounded on the red sands. That could work. Driving all other thoughts away, Makelyth focused on the footsteps. The thumps that they made as they fell to the ground, and the slight sliding noise that could be heard as they rose again. Left, right, left, right. He was nearly there now. At his distance, he could have launched a fireball with decent accuracy, but he refrained from doing so. The action could spark aggression from more than one foe, and push away potential allies. He could already see the results of the fighting that had already happened. Sand had turned to crude glass in small areas, spiraling in strange patterns, almost like lightning strikes. The sands, disturbed by the warfare, left no doubt that the area the prince was approaching was a battlefield.

Footsteps pounded on the red sands. Words were being exchanged, barely audible and hardly discernible. The bear, Kriege, said something, followed by the Dark warrior. Attacks were launched and alliances seemed to be formed. Kriege appeared to have allied with the Darkness Chosen against Crackshot. What was his real name? Something uninteresting, I suppose. The footsteps slowed to a jog, as Makelyth weighed his options. The Announcer from what seemed like ages ago had called him "honorable," and although such a statement was not completely true, the prince did have at least some form of a code of battle. And he certainly did not want to see this man slaughtered by two opponents, one of them a great monster of a foe. Crackshot seemed to have a score to settle with Moonstone, and so the least Makelyth could do was distract the bear.

Moving to get a clear shot, Makelyth began to shout. "Kriege! You asked for names in the Factory, correct? Something about not passing into death unknown? I am Prince Makelyth of a kingdom beyond your reach, and should either, or perhaps both, of us pass into death today, let it not be unknown! Prepare yourself!"

Footsteps ceased. Another fireball of the explosive variety began to form, and Makelyth reminded himself to conserve his magic in the future. At the moment, however, his mind focused on avoiding death in the near future, and that meant an upfront assault before Kriege could begin his. The fireball flew at its intended target, the legs of the beast, with one purpose: to explode at Kriege's feet and perhaps light some of his fur ablaze. It was not a well thought-out strategy. Perhaps it was not even a "good" strategy. But it was a strategy, and it would hopefully keep both the bear and his aggressive mind occupied.

This was a bad idea.
Post #: 33
9/25/2014 23:16:27   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 Rowan, Kriege was quickly coming to realize, liked to talk. Hiding behind his rampart of shadow, the Chosen of Darkness had his stage, his audience of screaming and cheering witnesses. Apparently relishing the opportunity to declaim Connor’s failings, the knight took it. While the Vastaa agreed on general principle, had he been making the speech he might have included a mention of the Chosen of Energy’s decrepit sense of fashion.

The ice bear had never been the sort to give speeches. Kriege was a creature of action; a man who firmly believed that actions spoke louder than words. Still, he had dealt with more than one long-winded orator in his time. The most notable was a loquacious Koira, whose yapping the Vastaa had ended through the simple expedient of a crushed skull.

Still, at this juncture the armored goliath did not mind Rowan’s apparent penchant for verbosity. It allowed Kriege time to recover from the damage he had been dealt thus far. He wheezed loudly, breath gusting out of his deep chest like a bellows. In all honesty, the gasping breathing, slouched shoulders, and hunched posture were a facade, a screen meant to lead his foe and his tenuous ally to believe he was more injured than he was.

That was not to say that Kriege was not injured. The ice bear’s muscles ached, and he was bleeding from a number of burns beneath the cover of his armor, but there was more than enough fight left in the metal-clad behemoth to take them all on. Another would have called that folly, or hubris. He was not a young man anymore, to do battle with so many opponents. He was closer to his death than he had been in years. The Vastaa knew enough to acknowledge that, but there was no fear, only the exaltation of combat, wrapped about a quiet core of confidence.

A few moments to gather himself was enough, as the knight hurled his darkness out at Connor. Shifting slightly, the ice bear turned to watch the result of the umbral salvo. His dark eyes blinked slowly as the Chosen of Energy produced a second of his raucous lightning throwers, blazing away at the encroaching blackness. Lightning met shadow in a roaring fulmination of sound and fury, blasting the mass of darkness into dissipating wisps.

A small smile curled Kriege’s lips, as Connor did the best thing that the armored goliath could hope for in this situation. The Chosen of Energy holstered his lightning throwers, producing not another of his vile glass bulbs, but a pair of ridiculously small knives. Then again, perhaps for Connor the weapons were of an acceptable size. But, if he intended to use them on the Vastaa, he was likely to be disappointed. The knives had little hope of cutting through Kriege’s armor, and their reach was hardly sufficient against the ice bear’s long arms.

To make the matter better, Connor dropped into a defensive stance as Kriege started forward. His opponents were used to seeing him drop to all fours to charge. The ursine mode of locomotion was, generally speaking, faster than the ice bear’s two-legged gait. At this point, the four-legged, roaring charge was what the Chosen of Energy would expect, even if his attention was occupied on hurling words back at Rowan. Kriege would lose some speed in a two-legged charge, but his long legs aided him well enough as he ran at Connor.

The only drawback to all of this was the sudden reentrance of Makelyth onto the scene. Prince Scales called out to Kriege, answering the challenge that the Vastaa had issued back in the Factory Arena. It would seem that the human-Kaarme-thing suffered from serious issues with responding in a timely manner. Thus, the ice bear was not overly concerned with ignoring the Chosen of Fire’s challenge, given the earlier spurning, and Kriege’s current commitment to his assault upon the lightning slinger’s person.

The Vastaa’s left arm punched out, the stabbing blade sailing in, aimed directly at Connor’s chest. Rather than roaring and bellowing as he did before, the ice bear simply took the obvious opening presented by the Chosen of Energy’s words. “A man is known by what is within him. Let us see what is inside of you!”

If awards were ever given for banter in battle, Kriege would never win one. He was a fighter, not a talker, and did not let the verbal sparring distract his attention from the violence around him. Forewarned was forearmed, after all, and Makelyth had shouted out to the Vastaa to be on his guard. As such, he was hardly surprised when the scaled man launched a ball of flames, the projectile arcing in at the polar giant’s less armored legs.

While dodging, in general, was not in Kriege’s repertoire, he had little desire to be set aflame at this point in his life. As such, he hurled himself bodily at Connor in a dual purpose maneuver best described as: bear-flattens-human. The short leap, as it turned out, would not get him entirely clear of the blast resulting from the fireball impacting the sands. Fire washed over his legs, heating chainmail and singeing fur, but inflicting little lasting damage as the ice bear’s momentum carried him away from the blast. That momentum, hopefully, would let him batter Connor to the sand beneath the weight of Vastaa and armor, leaving him vulnerable to savaging teeth and crushing strength.
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 34
9/26/2014 20:10:23   
Ronin Of Dreams
Still Watching...


 Bounding leaps covered ground slowly, but methodically, and as the F.E.R.R.E.T. embraced the luxury of stealth it brought forth one of the most underestimated strengths in any competitor’s arsenal: knowledge and experience. It was the progenitor model, the schema of every Lightsplitter replicant since, and it had fought alongside the whole host of its brethren often enough to learn. A Lightsplitter’s shimmer was many things, but not the most obscuring tactical device within the greater arsenal of the other models. The Sandstriders would make this terrain of scattered glass and particulate grains an untrackable field upon which to hunt, delving as easily through the sands as bounding from dune to diminutive dune with unconscious ease. It could not change its whiskers to the subsonic field emitters that fluidized sand, but both F.E.R.R.E.T.s had bushy tails.

Several bounds after embracing the camouflage, the Lightsplitter began sweeping away its paw prints with its tail, rendering each bound in passing no more unique than any other portion of the corrugated and battered terrain. A Vanguard’s tricks would have been even more useful, but like the equipment of a Sandstrider, those were impossible to emulate. The preeminent scout and reconnaissance chassis simply never shared their tricks of design or implementation with other models, even the progenitors of the model lines.

With the continued outlay of magical energies as was being pumped out by the revenant-esque scion of Darkness, the F.E.R.R.E.T.’s options remained rather limited. The gunslinger had slunk away, maintaining the pillar as a defensive barrier for the construct to contend with if it desired continued pursuit. Even so, with Kriege looking just as determined to put the gunslinger six feet under, the F.E.R.R.E.T. quickly realized that it would have to be flamboyant in order to close the distance and actually be relevant. Such waste of its last resources would, perhaps, be fitting for a Firebrand, but the Lightsplitter had already discarded such notions by embracing its stealthier side. That just left...Fire’s dragon-skinned warrior, a fact confirmed by a swift sweep of its jet-hued eyes over the arena’s sands.

That irony of coincidence was not lost upon the construct, nor was the appeal of taking on a much more known quantity missed.

Leaps and dives fluctuated in height as the Lightsplitter pranced from hillock of sand to cresting dune and to soft valleys between. Makelyth, better still Flame-tongue, lived up to his fiery reputation by launching a fireball back towards the ursine Vastaa. Concentrating on Kriege was more a boon to the F.E.R.R.E.T. than just its size and its camouflage, and now it was thankful that Connor had moved away from the Pillar of Energy. Skirting around the necrotic warrior-mage meant it could approach from the relative safety of the dragonkin’s flank. Not the preferred safety of striking from behind, but a phrase of Hadin’s about gifts and horses’ mouths came to mind, even if the F.E.R.R.E.T. had never understood it.

The chosen of the flames launched another iconic fireball, arcing off and away to the other melee, as the construct drew close. One last bound brought it almost close enough to reach out with blade and light to scour scale and shed blood, had it wished. A half leap, maybe less, would have been all it would take. But the F.E.R.R.E.T. instead fluidly rose on its hind feet, whiskers twitching in wry amusement, as if to get Makelyth to look at it. Its left fore-paw rose, curling around as if starting to wave at the monstrous foe, but wound up pointing center of mass at Makelyth with fingers spread just a tad. Subtly changing the angles the pawclaw blades were pointing for its last charged Scatter shots.

The crowd had wanted a show. The F.E.R.R.E.T. had long wanted to engage a foe. Lightsplitter and fan both got what they wanted, as what originally appeared as an appeal or adorable communication between wee critter and beastly combatant turned deadly with a mass of lethal light. A young lad somewhere in the crowd, conditioned by the guns of Connor, even added to the silent volley. “Bang!”
AQ  Post #: 35
9/28/2014 12:21:30   
Necro-Knight
Member

Breathing heavily, Rowan stood there and and watched the Gunslinger empty shot after shot into his streams of darkness. Normal shots might’ve been dissolved in the powerful torrent of darkness, but the electrical ones simply held enough force to blow apart his streams. This man just refused to die. What could he possibly be fighting for that was worth sacrificing so much ammo for? Granted, Rowan himself had sacrificed nearly all of his own mana in an attempt to kill the Gunslinger. As Rowan watched the man holster his firearms and now wield his small knives, he couldn’t fight a grin. If a close-quarters melee is what he desired, the Death Knight would more then happily oblige.

Before Rowan had even fully drawn the Sword he’d won from Zephyr, the wind competitor from last year’s melee, he heard the Bear roar out a few words of his own and saw him charge Connor with a speed and ferocity that surprised the Knight. The Chosen of Shadows was suddenly glad that Kriege had offered to ally with him, considering the beasts size, Rowan didn’t know if his armor could’ve withstood such might.

Rowan was about to move to Kriege’s right and come at Connor from a different direction, but before his plated-boot even left the ground, a new voice was added to the melee. One calling out to Kriege, going on about not entering death unknown or something of the like.

Well, you are certainly known now. Way to give up the advantage of surprise, Makelyth, once again for some mistaken piece of honor or something before death.

The knight had barely wondered what element the man was fighting for, having forgotten in the ongoing battle, but when a Fireball lept across the Arena towards Kriege, he quickly remembered. Fire. An element his armor could only moderately protect him from, even with his shield. He watched Kriege launch himelf forward towards Connor, as both an assault of sheer mass and an attempt to avoid the hostile flame. Rowan was confident enough that the beast both could handle Connor’s demise and was focused enough on the Gunslinger to not stab the Chosen of shadow in the back. It was a large risk, but could also pay off if Kriege failed and was defeated by Connor. He called out to Kriege, making him aware of his movements, as to garuntee the beast didn’t think Rowan was abandoning him. “Kriege, I am going to keep the Fire Prince off your back! Do grind Crackshot’s bones to dust for me!” With that, he turned his attention to the Prince.

Scales, like a dragon or dravir, littered his impressive stature and the Death Knight chewed his lip, frowning as he thought. His RuneSword might have had enough force to break such scales, but the Wind Sword most likely did not. Either way, he couldn’t allow the Prince of Flame to interrupt Kriege’s attempt on Connor’s life again. The Death Knight could never face both Connor and Makelyth at the same time, and he hadn’t even kept track of where the Light Competitor had gone, much to his own frustration.

Ignoring any distractions though, Rowan started towards the Prince with a strong sprint, his lips twisting back into that mocking grin he enjoyed wearing so much. He spoke as he closed the distance, voice mocking. If the “man” was from Fire, then Rowan was hoping his temper would be as volatile as his element, and easily worked into a blind frenzy.

“A Prince, huh? Well, what forces such royalty to grovel in the dust and sands of an Arena with lesser beings? Is it desperation, or is being a prince simply not enough for your greedy soul!”

Within striking distance now, Rowan planted his feet and swung his shoulders, right to left, leading with his shield arm. Only difference this time was that instead of using his shield as a counter-weight to increase the force of his sword arm, the knight used his shield itself as a weapon. The diamond-shaped tool lashed out towards the man’s face, aiming to use the thick metal as a bludgeoning tool, while his sword followed it with a edge-first swing towards the man’s throat.

A sudden mass of light caught the corner of Rowan’s sensitive eyes as he moved towards the Prince and he assumed that this attack was from the Light Competitor, obviously. If this was focused towards him, he was in no position to dodge or parry the assault, and if it was focused towards the Fire Prince? Well…that would simply make this that much easier then.
DF MQ AQW  Post #: 36
9/28/2014 17:23:46   
Apocalypse
Member

The challenge to the dead knight was answered by the bear, and it was about this time that Connor realized how much trouble he was truly in. Both of the armored behemoths were tougher than nails, and their alliance only made matters all the more worse. With his ammunition dwindling, the outlaw suspected that he might not be able to contend with either one, much less the duo together. He gritted his teeth as Kriege charged forward, this time on two legs instead of four. Connor might have laughed at the oddity of a bear running on two legs had it not been for the fact that the gunslinger was the target of the assault.

"Kriege! You asked for names in the Factory, correct? Something about not passing into death unknown? I am Prince Makelyth of a kingdom beyond your reach, and should either, or perhaps both, of us pass into death today, let it not be unknown! Prepare yourself!"

The sound of dragon-man's call was like music to Connor's ears. He was not a friend as this tournament only crowned one as champion. But he was an enemy of an enemy, and that was just as good in this arena. Kriege may not have cared about answering Makelyth, but the dead knight was more than eager to win the bear's trust by clashing with the reptilian prince. This brought down the number of immediate threats from two to one, doubling the outlaw's odds. Though increasing one's odds did not equate with the odd's being in one's favor. Especially when an armored bear is involved, thought Connor.

As Kriege closed the distance between himself and Connor, the gunslinger reached to his neck with his left hand and grasped the opening of the poncho while keeping a hold on his knife. The energy combatant waited until the bear began his strike before ripping off his poncho much in the same way as he did in the Fountain Arena. A billowing mass of cloth flew up as Kriege made some remark about what wanting to see what the insides of the gunslinger were. The purpose was to cut off Kriege's field of view, if only for an instant. In that instant, Connor leaped to the left and stooped low as a large metal blade cut its way through the poncho and through the air where the outlaw had been standing a moment ago. Connor asked Lady Luck to make the sequence of blinding cloth and misplaced blow enough to disorient Kriege before springing forward. The bear held the advantage when it came to brute force, but if Connor could hamper Kriege's mobility, then there was a chance the outlaw could take down the beast. With this in mind, Connor maintained his closeness to the ground as his Bowie darted out at Kriege's right leg. The compound of tearing flesh with sharpened metal and seizing up muscles with electricity would aid in tipping the scales in the outlaw's favor.

Lady Luck, however, was not feeling as benevolent as she had in the past. Kriege, in an attempt to either avoid the flaming projectile behind him or crush the opponent before him, threw himself forward with all the strength only an armored bear could muster. This resulted in Kriege's knee crashing into Connor just below the shoulder. The world spun as the impact tossed the gunslinger aside, flipping him around once before he landed on the arena floor with a grunt. The red sand absorbed some of the force from the fall, but it did nothing for the ache in his bones from the bear's over-sized knee cap. "A bear, why'd you pick the bear?", Connor murmured to himself as he picked himself up to his feet. His hat had fallen off at some point during the tumble, and the knife he had used to strike out at Kriege was also missing, presumably knocked aside like a fly by a bull's tail. He pulled down his bandana, making his next few words a little more audible. "You could've fought the leather coat, or the dead knight, or even the fer-" He cut himself off as the mention of the unaccounted for combatant created a sense of urgency within the outlaw. His eyes darted around the arena before catching an outburst of light near the clash of the dead knight and reptilian prince. At least it's not after me, Connor thought as he returned his attention back to Kriege, yet.

Connor tossed his knife in the air and caught it so that he was now holding it in the traditional fashion. Piercing blows, not glancing slashes, would be what the outlaw would need to overcome this beast. That, precaution, clever fighting, and sheer dumb luck, Connor thought as he approached with gradual steps. A charge now would be the end of him, plain and simple. The time called for a different sort of method. "And how do we find out what kind of bear you are?" Connor called out as he collected energy in his right palm, the electricity giving his skin a soft glow. "Should we skin you? Cook you? Or maybe tame you?" Provoke him, anger him, get the edge on him. If the outlaw could do these three things then he just might survive his next encounter with the beast.
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 37
9/28/2014 20:20:03   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 Kriege closed, and the Chosen of Energy reached up, taking hold of his ridiculous garment while still holding his tiny knives. The ice bear swung, and in reply Connor ripped the fabric of the thing, ducking to the side and flipping the cloth up and into the air. The garment billowed open obscuringly, but the Vastaa was no amateur to be stunned into immobility by suddenly losing sight of his target.

Pivoting smoothly, the polar goliath adjusted his swing, pushing his punch into and through the fabric, giving his arm a slight twist to impart momentum onto the hooked cloth, causing it to wrap about his left arm. Kriege supposed that it would make the blade attached to his limb less effective at cutting, but it would do little to prevent the blade from piercing, and would do next to nothing to cushion a bludgeoning impact.

Even as he twirled the garment about his arm the Vastaa was still moving, hurling himself at Connor. The leap was blind, and mostly taken on years of battle-instinct. He was lucky to get close, though the ice bear would have called it experience, not luck. Kriege had never believed in divine intervention. Lyth, goddess of battle, favored bravery and skill. There was no such thing as luck.

He impacted something that must have been Connor, a weight clipping across his side and banging off his right leg. The armored behemoth growled, a jolt zipping up his leg. It would seem that the Chosen of Energy could channel his power through his weapons, not just fling it from his odd ranged weapons.

Lumbering to a halt, Kriege turned. Reaching across his body, he sunk his clawed gauntlet into the pile of the garment wound about his left arm. With a simple swift movement the Vastaa twisted and pulled, raking his claws through the fabric with a series of rips swallowed by the thundering crowd. Shaking his limb, the ice bear cleared the shredded fabric away, but for a few clinging strips.

Dark eyes refocused on Connor as the Chosen of Energy flipped his remaining blade, free hand glowing as he started to approach. Kriege snorted in annoyance, the emotion provoked not by Connor’s words, which the Vastaa ignored, but by his continued insistence on talking. The armored bear was uncertain why his opponents persisted in their attempts to bait him. He had not gotten old, and killed any number of younger opponents, by flying off the handle at the drop of cutting word. Temper was what had slain Merdon, his first son. It wasn't that Kriege was as cold as the element he represented, simply that he knew when it was time to unleash his anger, and when it was time to hold it back.

Still, there was no harm in playing the part that was expected of him, so Kriege’s jaws opened, issuing a deep, ursine bellow. The ice bear rumbled forwards, launching a broad swipe at Connor’s head, as if intending to simply knock the man’s head off. His arm drifted upwards, taking the swing off-center, as though rage made the attack inaccurate. Inaccurate, but no less deadly. A crashing blow from the heavy, armor-backed limb would be just as deadly to the top-half of the Chosen of Energy’s head as the whole of it. Still, the whole attack was a feint. Kriege intended to force Connor to duck down, rendering him less able to dodge as the Vastaa lunged forward, his right paw reaching out in an attempt to grab hold of the Chosen of Energy. With a grip on Connor, it should be a simple matter to bring the fight to a swift conclusion.
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 38
9/28/2014 20:21:44   
Tdub
Member

The key to victory, as Makelyth had learned during warfare, was understanding one's opponent. That had been the downfall of many of his kingdom's armies, for many of the young men volunteering to serve were so overcome by hatred that they absolutely refused to learn anything about dragons. And so Makelyth made it his goal to understand Kriege, but the attempt was not really successful. The prince was no stranger to bears, as many could be seen wandering the forest near the castle's walls in his homeland. But those bears were relatively peaceful, and seemed to prefer lumbering around in search of berries and small game to violence and attacks. Kriege, on the other hand was a bear of war, and no bear in the prince's kingdom had ever shown the thirst for blood that the beast before him had shown.

Not to mention the fact that no bear in his kingdom had ever been seen wearing a great hulk of spiked battle armor. It was this armor that worried Makelyth the most. Not the teeth, not the claws, but the armor that would allow the beast to easily crush the prince under his weight, and no amount of scales would protect him from such an attack. Therefore, the reptilian royal was both relieved and disappointed when Kriege appeared to ignore his call completely, opting to launch an assault at Connor and suffering few injuries from the explosive fireball. Still, it irked Makelyth that, after blithering about honor, courage, and names in no fewer than two Arenas, the bear simply ignored the prince that had launched a fireball at his legs. Get back over here, brute. I have not yet finished, nor even truly started, with you yet.

Still, fate works in mysterious ways. For even as one door closes another door opens. A cry rang out, the Darkness Chosen's declaration of attack falling upon reptilian ears. Amid the senseless insults and persecutions of merit, not a single word of any importance was used, and it seemed that the shouting served no purpose other than to ruin Rowan's element of surprise. Obviously, this man liked to hear himself talk, and the prince got the impression that the "knight" was more of a performer than a warrior. Still, because he had to turn to face the man, some use was found from the babbling. The ferret from the Factory caught the very corner of Makelyth's flickering eye, and the prince became aware of the rodent's presence.

Suddenly, Moonstone ceased his ramble and charged the prince, shield-first. As if in reply, a burst of light swept from the small creature in a cascade of luminescent fury, reminiscent of the previous round's brief assault. Unlike in the Factory, however, Makelyth was fully prepared to avoid the center of the attack, launching himself in a fantastic diagonal leap that brought him out of the way of the lights while remaining upright, only a few glancing shots making contact with his scales, causing a mild stinging sensation. At the same time, the prince switched his sword to his left hand, and drew a knife with his right. The jump had brought him closer to where the ferret had launched his attack, and just to the right of Moonstone.

Had the man been half a second sooner, he may have found himself taking a few hits from the ferret's blast of scattered light. As it was, Makelyth was not yet willing to allow the irritating man to go unharmed. A sword belonging to Moonstone swept inches from the prince's throat, and the "dragon-touched juggernaut" wasted no time in attacking the exposed side, bringing his right arm forward to plunge the knife into Moonstone, just below his ribcage. A moment later, his left arm came around in a wide arc, intent on severing the man's head from his neck. This man wanted the attention of the crowd, and he would surely get it once his head was safely removed from his shoulders. "You dare insult MY honor and integrity, slime? Good luck."

Once the man was dead, there would be nothing but pleasure for Makelyth, for one less proud, ignorant fool for him to deal with was one more name crossed from the list and one more hint of a smile crossing his face.

And then Makelyth would find the rat.
Post #: 39
9/29/2014 19:51:27   
Ronin Of Dreams
Still Watching...


 The silent twinned explosions of photonic energy were far from gentle upon the F.E.R.R.E.T.’s frame, nor would they be to any subject receiving it at such short range. It had stood not for purposes of mockery, but to place its entire body in position to act like a spring against the recoil. It had not carefully pointed in the manner of a taunt, but to both bracket its foe and let the reactionary forces cancel at least a sliver of their might against each other. It had not aimed at Makelyth’s center of mass simply to increase the chances that the hybrid being would take the full brunt of the assault, but to give the construct a better angle to deal with the consequences of its actions. The adorable, taunting pose that had the crowd roaring, jeering, and laughing all the while held a truth behind it far beyond their ken.

What the Lightsplitter had done, was fire off dual Scatter bursts from one of the most optimal positions available to it while upon the ground.

Its body trembled sympathetically with the blast wave’s resonant frequency as the construct was bowled over and flung away from Makelyth. Fur scraped against the sands as its back hit the sands less than a full bound away, but the F.E.R.R.E.T. arched its spine and flipped off of the ground. The lashing reach of its blades stabbed into the sands as it righted itself, carving deep grooves as it slowed its residual momentum. The terrain of the Finals Arena was a boon here, giving freely and consistently, while also being rather soft upon its chassis. Its paws dug into the sands as well as it slid the last few inches to a stop, eyes flicking over its opponents to judge its next move.

That is not to say that the Lightsplitter, for all its evasiveness, had not found itself degraded by the pressures of conflict. Though it had been restored to a pristine state of Full Repair by forces it could not understand, the mysterious lady falling further and further out of memory despite its mechanical precision, its evasiveness had its own costs. Torsion and torque had horrendously deleterious effects on the integrity of internal springs, bearings, and structure reinforcements. The worst losses among the Lightsplitter lines had come from such accumulated effects causing loss of functionality, leaving other Lightsplitters vulnerable to direct hits that none save the Glacierbourne were meant to endure.

With the realization of its compounding effects upon itself came the evaluation and analysis of what it had actually managed to accomplish. An emotional being would have become crestfallen as, by appearances, the dragonkin came away remarkably unscathed. There was no blood noticeable, and the scales themselves did not show bruising underneath. Such seemed so contrary to the efforts of stealth and its prime positioning that this Makelyth must have a monstrously durable body indeed! The Lightsplitter instead became far more determined, as greater threats demanded a greater effort on the part of the construct. It wasn’t just some sense of will, but instead it was its own will reinforced by its hard-coded nature.

With a flick of its whiskers and the shimmer upon its hide, the F.E.R.R.E.T. bounded forward once more. Makelyth’s efforts to dodge had kept the distance between them shorter than it had anticipated, a most unexpected boon. A boon compounded by Makelyth’s apparent continued concentration on the fell knight of Darkness. There was just enough sand to build itself up to an acceptable speed before it stretched out its body in a leap beyond Makelyth’s back leg. To strafe scale, flesh, and bone with the stark light white that flashed into being beyond its right trench knife, bridging the distance betwixt crystal blade and exposed leg.

Overlooked. Underestimated yet again. This time the F.E.R.R.E.T. would enlighten the unwise by tearing through their calf and tendons, enlightening him of his folly by robbing him of the right to stand.
AQ  Post #: 40
9/29/2014 23:30:49   
Apocalypse
Member

Kriege's rumbling roar joined the cacophony of the arena, its primal strength dwarfing the jeers and cheers of the crowd. A rancid stench filled Connor's nostrils as the bear's breath washed over him. It smelled of rotting fish and days-old animal carcasses; it smelled of death. Connor wondered how many adventurers and combatants had lost their lives after gazing into Kriege's gaping maw.

No time to think of this matter as the bear lashed out, aiming a precarious blow at the outlaw's head. It lacked the finesse and control of Kriege's previous attacks, and Connor realized something was off even as he ducked beneath the wild swing. Then it hit him: Kriege had maintained a calm yet ferocious demeanor even when facing the combined efforts of the beautiful swordswoman, the dead knight, and gunslinger himself. One little jibe should not have been enough to push the bear off the edge and into a fury. Too late, as the bear's ploy sprang into action and his right paw came hurtling in towards the outlaw.

Connor angled his shoulder back and away from the oncoming assault, but his lowered position did not provide much in the ways of mobility. With impending doom closing in, the gunslinger acted fast and struck upward at Kriege's arm with his palm facing up. The stored energy burst forth upon impact in a bright display of saffron bolts. The electric charge of the palm strike would have been enough to deflect a sword in mid-swing, but a bear limb was another matter. He had knocked the strike off its course, but not by enough to evade the danger completely. The outlaw plunged his blade towards Kriege's elbow in a last-ditch effort to wound and shock the arm. The bear's blow, by definition, glanced off his shoulder, but it might as well have been a head-on punch from a giant of a man. Connor reeled back from the sheer force of the attack, causing his knife to miss the weak point in the armor and scrape across metal plating as it released its charge. Kriege's assault reignited the pain from his previous encounter with the bear's might, sending flames throughout the shoulder and the surrounding area. A grunt escaped through clenched teeth as the gunslinger used the backwards momentum to spin around in a full circle, thus granting a quick recovery and slight distance from the behemoth representing Ice.

As he completed his footwork, the rumbling clamor of the crowd rose. Many onlookers had expected the latest exchange of blows to be the last, and Connor's escape had upset their predictions. But what they were viewing? A duel between the Chosen of Energy and Ice? No, it was a farce of the battle they had come to enjoy, but one that provided more than the satisfactory amount of entertainment. This "fight" was nothing more than an outlaw struggling for survival while a massive beast tossed him around like a child's plaything. Connor could imagine the deep-pocketed patrons paying each other as their bets on his life proved true or false. Not for him to win or lose, but on how long he would live before being struck down by the unstoppable warrior-bear. But I have some fight left in me!

Caution and care had served Connor well in this tournament, but they could only take him so far. Kriege had proven himself to be an exceptional combatant, and nothing less than Connor's all would be of use against him. He needed to fight with cleverness, with determination, with fury. The outlaw could not challenge Kriege in a trial of strength, but he could match him in ferocity.

In a flash Connor drew his Peace Maker and aimed at the center of Kriege's ursine figure. Pitting the last couple of bullets against the beast's bulk may have seemed like a futile effort, but they still would have been more of a waste if Connor was killed before he had a chance to use them. Dying with a bullet left in the chamber meant dying without using all of the resources available to you. It was not a coward's death, but worse: a fool's way to leave this world. I'm many things, thought Connor, but not a fool. Not anymore.

Two shots rang out as the gunslinger pulled the trigger for the last two times, the electric bullets singing as they streaked towards the colossal combatant . Without hesitation Connor rushed towards the bear to exploit the advantage the Storm Shots provided. The gunslinger dropped his revolver, abandoning the namesake weapon in favor of charging his now empty hand with lightning. The Bowie received the same treatment, energy pulsing in the Western blade as the outlaw thrust at an unprotected portion of Kriege's left leg. Connor meant to strike and then continue running pass the bear, giving himself the time and the space to form a new plan of attack after crippling Kriege's leg.

Lady Luck, if you're still listening to a dastard like me, thought Connor amid the assault, I need your help now more than ever.
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 41
9/30/2014 13:36:52   
Necro-Knight
Member

Pain ripped through Rowan's side as the dagger hit hard against his armor plating. Despite the force behind it, the armor simply cracked from the focused blow, though Rowan was sure something was going to be severely bruised from it. His armor, much like his RuneSword, was not made of a normal steel and was durable yet light. The Knight was shocked that the blow had managed to cause such damage to his armor, but was quickly grateful for the blow. The force had caused the knight to buckle over and pull his head from the path of the Fire Prince's blade, and now as he coughed from when the air had been knocked from him, the Knight took his chance.

Pushing off hard with his legs, despite the sharp pain in his side, Rowan took a leap into the sands to his left and away from the Dragon-like Competitor. The Chosen of Fire was quicker then he'd thought, perhaps he could play defense until his mana returned, then force the Chosen of ash back with magic. These thoughts came to an end when Rowan heard a familiar pop, and the Knight felt his heart sink when none of the Pillars in front of him faded back into the red sands. He turned, hoping to the Avatar's that it wasn't true, only to find an exit portal floating where his Portal once stood proudly. He had squandered his chance a second time, disappointed his Lord of Darkness... Suddenly remembering he was still in the line of fire, the Death Knight climbed up from his knee's and took into a sharp sprint towards the portal. Failure or not, he wasn't going to die here.

As he went, Rowan sheathed his Wind-sword and stopped just outside the portal. Turning back to the Arena, he moved his way to the right of where the Darkness portal once stood, raising his hand as a weak bolt of shadow lept across the Arena and claimed the hilt of his RuneSword from near the Pillar of Light. He'd been forced to move around the Pillar of Light some and away from his chance at safety with retrieving his weapon, but he wasn't about to leave such a tool for one of the others to claim. Catching the long blade in his fist, Rowan took a step back, wincing as the pain in his side flared again.

Compared to the injuries I suffered last year, this is mild, I suppose.

Making his way back to the Portal with haste, Rowan thought of Julianna. She'd disappeared some time ago, and he hadn't seen a corpse, so she must have been in a similar situation as himself. He thought back to the offer she'd made him, that if she survived, she would travel with him. He planned to come collecting on that bet as he stepped into the Portal and out of the Elemental Championships.
DF MQ AQW  Post #: 42
9/30/2014 21:32:36   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 Kriege had once torn a Koira’s head off. The mutt had had it coming, of course. Leading his soldiers through Kriege’s lands in an attempt to surprise a rival, the Koira warleader was misfortunate enough to encounter the Vastaa and his men coming back from a raid of their own. The ice bear had been understandably unhappy at the transgression, and had expressed his displeasure in single combat with the canine warleader. It had ended once Kriege got hold of the Koira, and rather gruesomely separated head from torso.

His strategy against Connor was, in essence, the same thing: Get hold of Connor, and then rend him limb from limb. The Chosen of Energy, naturally, would object to such rough treatment. Connor’s reply took the form, perhaps predictably, of another fistful of lightning. The man’s hand slapped ineffectually against Kriege’s arm, releasing the far more effective burst of energy. Kriege snarled, the blast jolting through his body, throwing off his aim. Rather than catching and gripping his opponent’s shoulder, the Vastaa’s arm was knocked upwards, claws curling into empty air. The heel of his hand clipped Connor’s shoulder in passing, causing the dagger thrust at his elbow to go foul, screeping across armor plating.

The armored behemoth was somewhat disappointed as Energy’s Chosen spun away, recovering admirably in light of the no doubt painful blow. Kriege shook his arm slightly, trying to relieve the tingling pins-and-needles sensation coursing through the limb. If the blow had been square he might have shattered Connor’s collarbone, but there was no place in battles for might-have-beens, and the ice bear would need to work with what he had at hand.

Connor’s reply sent his hand blurring for the lightning slinger at his waist. Kriege pivoted as the Chosen of Energy fired, jerking to one side. It was not enough. The Vastaa growled as first one, and then a second, projectile hissed and snapped into his heavy armor. Muscles locked up and spasmed, and the polar goliath tasted blood as he bit down on his tongue.

Then the colossus staggered, blood leaking from his lips to stain yellow-white fur a rusty red that matched the sands below. Charred, singed, and electrocuted multiple times over the last few minutes, Kriege dropped down to one knee, his right hand digging deep furrows in the red sands as he clenched at the ground for support. The Vastaa’s dark eyes locked onto Connor as the man ran forward, yet more lightning crackling in his grasp. The ice bear’s chest shuddered, and a pained exhalation escaped, rather than the intimidating roar of the moment before.

But that was fine. Energy’s Chosen charged, wielding his knife and angling for Kriege’s exposed left knee. It was a Koira tactic: harry and retreat, limit your foe’s mobility to limit his options. Sound tactics, when forced to fight a larger, stronger foe. Especially if that foe was also far less intelligent.

So far, the Vastaa had been underestimated. Respected for his size, and the strength it implied, he was, nevertheless, overlooked by his opponents when it came to intelligence. Perhaps Connor would be surprised then, when Kriege’s right arm swept forward, raking through the sands and hurling a massive pawful straight into the oncoming man’s face. This time, when the Vastaa drew in a chest-swelling breath, he was rewarded with the courage-withering roar he desired. Surging up from his knee, the armored goliath whipped his arms out to either side, launching himself at Connor to meet the charge. He would wrap the Chosen of Energy in a metal-backed bear hug, and crush the life from his body.
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 43
10/1/2014 19:11:59   
Tdub
Member

Makelyth snarled as his knife failed to pierce the Darkness Chosen's armor. Everything had been perfect, from the position of his hand to the force of his blow. There must have been something special about the armor. Otherwise, the strike should have done more than crack it. Or perhaps he had miscalculated? No matter the case, the unexpected jolt forced the knife from the prince's grasp, and the blade tumbled to the sands. Moonstone also bent his body forward, causing the sword swing to miss, and as Makelyth was steadying his blade for a return strike, the Dark-clad man leapt away from the draconic warrior. And then he was gone, fleeing for his life as his foe stared with disgust.

One glance at the Pillar of Darkness confirmed his suspicions: the Darkness Lord had withdrawn his trust in Moonstone and "left" the Arena, followed quickly by his supposed Chosen. Why would he let something dictate his life like that? Tactical retreat was one thing. Some battles simply could not be won, and preserving one's life should take precedence over a prideful death. But why would this "knight" abandon a battle he was capable of continuing simply because some high-and-mighty being said "I don't like you anymore"?

That man is no warrior. He's a pawn, or a fool. Likely both.

Now, where are the other pieces?

The Wind woman was gone, likely taking the same cowardly path the Darkness competitor had chosen. Kriege and Crackshot were still locked in combat, both sides gaining and losing advantages. And that left...

Oh, no..

He had been so caught up with watching his previous foe flee that he had forgotten about what was perhaps the most dangerous being in the Arena. Some sort of Light technique had rendered the ferret difficult to see, but signs existed. The flash of the strange, shimmering entity, as well as the slight disturbance of nearby sand, were the only warnings Makelyth had before action had to be taken. He attempted to move, to shift, to flee, but time moved faster than him. The prince was barely able to move a small number of inches by pivoting before pain erupted, nearly forcing him down onto one knee.

The movement had saved his leg, but the wound was not minor. A cut, somewhere between the lengths of deep and shallow, ran from mid-calf down to below his ankle on the left side of his left leg. In the short term, semi-major difficulties in running, walking, and certainly jumping, not to mention the sheer amount of pain, would affect him for the remainder of the tournament. In the long term, infection was a very real threat. The red sands seeping into the cut near the bottom of his foot did not help, creating a feeling similar to rubbing salt on a wound.

And it made Makelyth very, very angry. Angry at himself for losing his focus, and angry at Moonstone for causing him to lose it. Angry at the Fire Lord for putting him in this tournament in the first place.

And most of all, he was angry at the rodent that was allowed to run rampant through the Arena.

Roast and consume, burn fur and melt skin

Heat once again rose within the prince, but this was not culminating at his hands. This fire would be leaving his body in a more conventional draconic manner. He remembered being a part of a convoy during the war, only to survive an attack that destroyed the entire set of wagon in one pass, a great rain of fire devastating the path. He hoped to create a situation similar to that, with him breathing the flames onto the ferret from above. He would keep the heat on, focusing the flames wherever the little rodent moved, not losing sight of the rat for the next few seconds. His leg hurt, his stomach hurt, and his head throbbed with hatred.

And he would make Light's Chosen pay for its crimes.
Post #: 44
10/2/2014 12:18:19   
Ronin Of Dreams
Still Watching...


 The art behind warfare has long since tailored certain tactics to befit certain forces. The cavalry charge, for instance, has a refined simplicity bordering on elegance. A mount is coaxed to build speed from a distance, allowing for rider and mount to strike with the full measure of impact and momentum. They become a weapon, regardless of the use of a rider’s armament, the presence of a weaponized champron on the mount, or any number of natural implements of harm from a variety of mounted creatures of Lore. The shock of impact of such a weight could often shatter even the most stalwart armored footman.

While certain pieces of distilled wisdom from the aged artistry of warfare certainly could apply to any of the greater cavalcade of F.E.R.R.E.T.s, the very nature of conventional and approved tactics could not. A fact that rather swiftly proved to save the Lightsplitter’s life. The blades of light had no need for momentum and mass, so its bounds were far more controlled than a full gallop. Stark white light split scale and hide, scoring a wound deep enough to surprise the construct given Makelyth’s preternaturally swift reactions. He was the Chosen of Fire for good reason, so reasoned the F.E.R.R.E.T., and therefore worthy of every dram of skill it possessed.

The construct twisted as its paws landed, changing directions with the harshness of sharp angles, sending up a plume of sand as it bled momentum. It felt rather than watched Makelyth turn more swiftly still, even as it tightened its arc around the draconic champion. Waves of heat and light sprang from the prince’s toothy maw, a lance of flame that would make even the eldest of wyrms proud. The lance struck, and Makelyth was far from a poor shot. In a single instant, the course of the entire battle changed.

The conflagration bridged the gap, a white-hot streak that rivaled the cutting light, and simply consumed all it touched. In an instant, the F.E.R.R.E.T. had lost the majority of it long, fluffy tail as filaments of steel simply sublimated under the fury of Fire’s might. An afterimage of the tungsten alloyed skeletal segments glowed within the lance, but their fate was shared with steel with all the difference of a fraction of a fraction of a single tick of the construct’s fastest flywheel. The sand beneath liquidized into slag, and the heat crept up to wash across the whole and scorch all filaments the sooty black of oxidization by heat.

Then time, like a river dammed, burst past the moment into its rapid streams. Though damage registered as keenly in mind as pain would to the biological, mechanical protocols locked away shock and forestalled panic. Even so, luminous jade spilled from its irises amidst the jet landscape of shaped orbs, and its movement was perilously slowed by the incalescence. The stump of its tail and both hindpaws took on a cherry-red glow as it bounded closer again to Makelyth, pursued by the promised holocaust of dragon’s breath. Such wasn’t quite the only option, but as grace and speed were compromised by the risk of warping its frame beyond function, there were very few left to it.

In fact, there was but a single option which combined both evasion and maintaining the barest wisp of initiative in the duel of Fire and Light. An option uniquely suited to the form of a F.E.R.R.E.T., and with the potential for comic value to the crowd. Twisting as hard as it dared, it leapt for the space between Makelyth’s legs. The risk was great, what with readied legs and Makelyth’s proven reflexes, the simplest denial might come with a swift boot to the rodent. Then the light sprang from its blades, the hues of citrine and garnet to the fore as the purity of diamond split sideways, as the F.E.R.R.E.T. poured on the photons.

It might dearly wish for the enchanted hide of a Firebrand to make its situation far more simple and chitter in the face of flame, but it would at least make the simplest option a drastic mistake for its opposition as well.
AQ  Post #: 45
10/2/2014 21:44:54   
Apocalypse
Member

The Storm Shots collided with their mark, and sparks danced across Kriege's form. Another two rounds of lightning proved to be a little more than the bear could handle as the beast fell onto one of his front legs. Lady Luck could not have provided a better outcome. With Kriege overcome by the energy surging through him, the outlaw had a perfect opportunity to incapacitate one of his legs, one that was required for walking on either two limbs or four. After this strike, Connor would just have to circle around the bear's now immobilized figure, darting in and out with quick stabs to take down the colossal ice combatant. Perhaps not the cleanest or quickest way to deal with an opponent, but the means of combat did not matter so much as the end result. Only a couple of steps remained between the two foes as Connor closed in.

There was a blur of movement by Kriege's forward leg before a red cloud sprayed upward and into the face of the unsuspecting gunslinger. He cried out in pain as grains of sand dug into his eyes and scratched his corneas. Blinded, Connor raised a hand to wipe away as much as he could while cursing the mongrel. Now granted, the outlaw had resorted to such low blows himself in the past, but at least he never pretended to be anything more than a dastard. Kriege's opening challenge in the arena had painted him as an honorable fighter, or so the gunslinger had first thought. But it was apparent on Lore that when the going gets tough, the tough get dirty. Much like the dead knight, the bear's words had been ones of dignity while his actions were like that of any yellow-belly caught in a shootout. When lives were on the line, everyone preferred to be a low life than to be at the end of their life.

Connor tried to stop his charge, but two massive arms enclosed around him and lifted him off his feet. The energy combatant gasped as the air was forced from his lungs, bulk and muscle squeezing it out of him like he was a pair of bellows. Connor's charged hand was caught between his own chest and that of the behemoth, a result of his trying to rub the obscuring sand from his eyes. If he could only set his hand free for a moment, maybe he could...

An audible snap came from somewhere within Connor's right shoulder, and the gunslinger let loose a scream. A good portion of the audience leaned forward in anticipation, cheering and chanting as they clapped their hands and stomped their feet. The moment they had been waiting for, the moment of downfall and death, was here at last. A Chosen would pay the ultimate price for trying to please his Elemental Lord, his blood joining that of the fallen before him as it seeped into the crimson sands of this hallowed battleground.

Or at least, it would have, but either from a minor re-positioning of his body after the break or a surge of strength born from desperation, Connor managed to free his hand. Teeth clamped shut to end the cry of pain as the outlaw thrust his palm onto Kriege's torso. The collected electricity jumped from human to bear, shocking the beast for God only knew what number time that day. Whatever the number, it still proved effective as Kriege's embrace loosened, dropping his prey onto the arena ground below. Boots sifted through sand as Connor landed with bent knees, clenching his teeth to silence the agony burning in his shoulder. The outlaw sprung at the diagonal between his forward and his right, taking a swipe at Kriege's leg with his Bowie as per the original plan of attack. The outlaw launched himself forward a few more bounds before turning around, his right arm hanging limp by his side. Funny how in the Fountain Arena the gunslinger had feigned a useless arm and now was gifted with a legitimate one in the Finals. Poetic justice at its finest.

Connor blinked more than a few times in short succession, driving the last bits of debris from his eyes. They still stung like a hornet had had its way with them, but at least the outlaw could see. It could have been worse. He could have been dead. Elsewhere pillars had fallen one by one, leaving only three standing tall amidst the arena Had he really been fighting the bear that long? Had one competitor gotten the best of the others while these two had clashed? That did not matter so much as the fact that there was one other combatant left. A few choice words right here might procure the time necessary for him to join the brawl. "You gotta admit," said Connor as he spread his good arm wide with a slight smile. Energy pooled into his left palm, but this time the glow was hidden by the tight grip he had on his knife. "Pretty good for a man against a bear, huh?" The crowd roared, whether in favor or protest the outlaw could not tell.
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 46
10/3/2014 20:25:40   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 Connor may not have approved of Kriege’s tactics, but that was hardly the Vastaa’s concern. Kriege’s code of honor was ambiguous to the other entrants. He fought face to face, not skulking through shadows or hiding his presence. He declared his intentions and gave his name, that those he slew might give their account to the gods in the next world. He upheld his word, putting forth or withholding his hand as he said he would. To the ice bear, that was honor. None of these things, however, forestalled him from using tricks that might be deemed underhanded or dirty, like hurling grit into the eyes of an opponent.

Whatever the other Chosen might have thought, Kriege’s conscience was clear, as clear as Connor’s impending demise. The armored behemoth burst through the remaining cloud of sand, arms wrapping about Energy’s Chosen with a snarl of satisfaction. It was far past time that he had managed to get a solid hold on an enemy. Metal-clad limbs wrapped about his opponent as the Vastaa straightened up, hauling Connor to his chest and starting to squeeze.

Bone and muscle compressed beneath armor, and the polar goliath had a moment’s satisfaction at the feel of the Chosen of Energy’s chest compressing, breath gusting out in a pained whoosh. Beneath the crushing pressure of Kriege’s grip, something in Connor’s arm or shoulder gave with a sharp, greenstick snap. The sound was music to the ice bear’s remaining ear, almost as heavenly as the howls of the crowd in the background.

That satisfaction, sadly, was not to last. For what seemed like the umpteenth time that day, the world dissolved into a blast of seething, fulminating light. Kriege bellowed, bucking backwards and losing his grip on Connor as muscles twitched and jerked rebelliously. Rearing and roaring, the Vastaa reeled several steps to the side, steadying himself as his heart thundered unevenly in his chest.

Energy’s Chosen recovered more quickly, darting back in past Kriege and slashing with the remaining knife. The heavy dagger sheared over the chainmail skirts that hung about the ice bear’s legs. Links fractured under the force of the blow, the weapon sliding off the hem of the chainmail to bite into Kriege’s leg. The only blessings were that the wound was on his less injured right leg, and the wound was shallow, from the end of the cut as the Chosen of Energy bolted by.

Straightening up once again, Kriege turned to face Connor, letting his gaze sweep the sands swiftly. His dark eyes found few left. Exhaling heavily, the Vastaa reached across his body, the clawed digits of his right paw scrabbling at the pins and fasteners of the metal gauntlet covering his left forepaw. Silently thanking Xyv that Connor, looking more than a little roughed up himself, was taking the time to talk, Kriege stripped the left-hand gauntlet and attached blade off. The revealed paw was singed and bleeding from the nearly constant exposure to the Chosen of Energy’s lightning blasts. Still, the paw flexed and moved to the polar goliath’s command. It would serve.

Kriege shifted his grasp upon the removed gauntlet, focusing his gaze upon Connor. The armored bear smiled, revealing teeth stained by his own blood, drawn when he had bitten his tongue earlier. “Not bad, no. Not bad at all. You’ve done better than the others.” If Energy’s Chosen wished to talk, the Vastaa was more than happy to oblige at this juncture. His own injuries ached and bled, but the pain of the broken bone his opponent had suffered would only get worse as the ends of the broken bone grated against each other from movement. Any distraction could prove fatal at this point, and the pain would be hard to deal with for long. “Of course, we both know how it ends. I’m going to come over there, and then I’m going to tear out your throat with my teeth.”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 47
10/5/2014 1:32:32   
Tdub
Member

Everything was going perfectly. The rodent seemed to be partially caught in the heat of the flames, although it quickly bounded out of the way. To Makelyth's surprise, it travelled the sands in a path that led it directly to the dragon prince. Keeping a close eye on the ferret, he followed it with his fire, attempting to overtake and consume the rat in a fiery demise. However, he was forced to cease his fire when the little beast drew so close Makelyth could no longer bend his neck forward.

A brief moment passed before Makelyth saw the light of the ferret's blades, and the rodent's intentions became clear. Grunting, he made a small leap over the oncoming assailant, dodging the attack while keeping a sense of balance. Still, the maneuver flared up the pain in his leg, and he winced as the voices growled louder in his mind.

Destroy the rat, kill your foe!

Makelyth was moments away from turning around to do just that, when something changed. If, at that moment, he had been asked what it was, the prince would not have been able to say. But something was different than it had been, and the effect was all but devastating. The entire atmosphere of the fight had melted away, and with it ran the energy that had been coursing through his veins. The pains in his stomach and legs multiplied tenfold, and an overall sense of disappointment hung in the air. And, slowly, Makelyth realized what had happened.

Still, he needed visual confirmation of his suspicion. And so he turned, and what was left of his heart exploded in a bizarre and disturbing combination of rage and sorrow. For what he saw was the stillness of the Pillar of Fire, the sign that the "esteemed" Fire Lord had withdrawn his support and faith. The Pillar did not move, but to Makelyth it was if a solitary finger had been raised just for him. The Fire that had burned within him was spent; his energy exhausted. And the battle was over, according to his "patron." The only sign that any hope remained was a gateway appearing on the wall behind the Pillar, beckoning him to make his disheartened exit.

Slowly, Makelyth took the first of many long, shameful steps toward the opposite end of the Arena. His mind raced with fury, questioning what he had done wrong and cursing the name of the Fire Lord. And, among the chaos of his head, one thought rose above all others. The prince stopped, lifting his head slightly, and made an angry cry.

"I control my own fate!"

Turning, Makelyth sprinted for the ferret, letting out a war cry to shake the heavens. Every muscle in his body burned, and he pushed aside the pain, letting rage engulf his senses. And then a voice boomed, or perhaps whispered, in his mind, invading his thoughts in an unwelcome intrusion of uncomfortable heat.

There is no returning from this course. You WILL die.

The distance closed, and Makelyth let out one last shout before he launched himself into the air, bringing his sword down toward the rodent with the intent of cleaving the beast in two.

So be it.
Post #: 48
10/5/2014 12:18:48   
Ronin Of Dreams
Still Watching...


 As Makelyth leapt into the sky, the F.E.R.R.E.T.’s thoughts focused solely on the space and freedom of the sands in front of it. It bounded left, then right, as it zigged and zagged to create a few yards distance on Makelyth as rapidly as it could before slumping to a halt. An overworked, overheated body that slid around on the sands so the Lightsplitter could face its opponent. Heat rose in waves that might have been steam, if only for the absence of moisture within the construct’s body. The sand made a poor medium to quench the dull cherry glow of its hindpaws, but still it watched its foe carefully as blissful convection began to cool its frame.

The first shaky, resigned steps of the dragonkin towards the gates made the Lightsplitter begin to consider just how long it could delay rejoining the fray. Given the temperatures its body had reached, the danger lay in the cooling process, for its delicate internals could yet warp and skew. Already, pops and tings rang from contracting metal and the occasional cracked cog-tooth. Then Makelyth turned with a cry, and the Lightsplitter’s spirits dropped like a stone.

Control and fate were aspects that the F.E.R.R.E.T. could hardly understand from the perspective of a biological. It pushed itself into a stand as the dragonkin began its charge. Already, the finer edges of grace and liquid movement were lost, but its control of its own body was absolute compared to the control Makelyth had over his emotions. Its eyes whirled, watching the approach with a calculating mind. There would be no chance to completely evade the looming mass of scale and muscle, better to face the blade instead of skirt away and be trampled underfoot.

Against a blade much larger than itself there was little that the F.E.R.R.E.T. was capable of doing. Yet still it tried. It raised its left fore-paw, bringing yellow and orange light to bear to meet the onrushing metal on its deadly descent. Makelyth’s blade tore past the light, notching the heavy steel but fazing its descent not at all as it bit into the Lightsplitter’s shoulder.

By not moving, not scampering away, it magnified its nature as a small target. The descending sword shattered prism crystal. Sheared filament and braided steels. Chopped through the tungsten support skeleton and rendered springs, tensioners, and clockwork into so much minced filings. But it only did so at the F.E.R.R.E.T.’s shoulder, as the smallest of shifts and sidesteps slid its body out of the line of fire. There was a final dusting of lubricating graphite to mar the sheen on Makelyth’s sword, and then it struck the arena floor to cast up a great plume of sand.

The strike had bowed its spine, and though silvered steel glittered from the fresh cuts, it rebounded just as the sands beneath its feet had. The F.E.R.R.E.T. launched itself up towards Makelyth’s shoulder, hind-paws digging blunt claws into the bestial fighter’s scaled upper arm. Black-hot metal, metal heated by Makelyth’s own attack, scorched through scale and into the fleshy hide beneath. It rode the reflexive spasm, braced by force of will with but three legs remaining to it, then worked against Makelyth’s efforts to bat it off by swinging its hind legs around onto his back.

Another scorching embrace brought a voice to the pain being inflicted to Makelyth, a deep, sundering growl that split the verbal silence as effectively as the earlier warcry. It idly wondered what was flashing through the biologic being’s mind as Makelyth rose to his full height in preparation for the twisting and swatting that would follow in short order. Had the dragonkin counted the shattered blades, and overlooked how both hands had been armed? Did he understand the weaknesses of vulnerability?

The crowd had reached a fever-pitch, even if the lack of blood from losing its limb had suppressed the joy of the most bloodthirsty. Here, now, there was expectation for true violence. A measure of gory revenge for the sheer damage inflicted upon the little Chosen of Light. A flash of light, a swing of a sword...and a lack of understanding spread with growing silence. Like a puppet whose strings were cut, Makelyth folded forward beneath the construct, thudding down to the sands even though the spark of life remained strong in his eyes.

Fatigued metal groaned as the Lightsplitter walked the length of the dragonkin’s arm before descending back onto the arena floor. With onyx eyes it stared into Makelyth’s, acknowledging the fighter’s strengths one last time. It was a wordless thing, to condemn the Chosen of Fire to a slow, numb death. The opposite of bright passion and roaring flame, but it felt fitting all the same. It turned, slowly rising back to stand on its hind-paws, leaving Makelyth to watch the end of it all. There was a slim chance that, alongside being given time to atone, the end of the Championships would arrive before the blood would starve of oxygen and death would claim him. Others might then heal Makelyth, but it mattered not to the F.E.R.R.E.T. Black of body but bright of soul, its fight was not yet over.
AQ  Post #: 49
10/5/2014 17:29:47   
Apocalypse
Member

The Chosen of Ice and Energy stood staring down one another in much the same manner as they had done during the inauguration of the melee. While it was a familiar sight to the crowd, the contrasts between then and now were both sharp and astounding. In the first instance, both combatants had been made fresh and clean by their respective Elemental Lords in order to give them the appearance of champions. But as the tournament dragged on, the true conditions and consequences of battle had revealed themselves. Kriege had cast away his helm earlier in a clash with other opponents, exposing his white head and missing ear. Blood had been drawn on both hind legs, the crimson liquid soiling his snowy fur . The repugnant odor of burnt hair wafted over the audience in the seats closest to the ground, though the smell they experienced was incomparable to the stench of it within the arena itself. Kriege may have looked rough, but Connor doubted he was looking any better. One arm was useless, hanging by his side due to a break that the outlaw had determined was in the arm but near the shoulder. His hair was saturated with sand from more than one tumble on the arena floor, and his irritated eyes must have been redder than the burning coals of a locomotive. The gunslinger had lost his hatchet, hat, poncho, a Bowie, and one of his revolvers throughout the fight, not to mention two bang bulbs and all twelve Storm Shots. This, not the opening bravado, was what a war and its constituents looked like.

The bear undid the fastenings of his left gauntlet, and Connor was thankful that its wicked blade was being removed from play. Granted, the paw underneath was only less dangerous by a minuscule amount, but the outlaw was not about to overlook any slight detail that could give him an edge. Besides, Connor had already sacrificed plenty of his weapons; it was time for Kriege to be deprived of one of his own.

The bear smiled, perhaps at either Connor's words or his crippled limb. Either way, it was not the most inviting sight, especially with blemishes of blood discoloring his vicious fangs. “Not bad, no. Not bad at all. You’ve done better than the others.” Connor let out a short laugh before realizing it was the nicest thing anyone had said to him since the beginning of the tournament. Odd how out of all the competitors it was the bear that had had the most decent words for the gunslinger. Back home it was joked that the local sheriff Ol' Jack was mean enough to hunt bears with a hickory switch. After a few rounds with Kriege, Connor knew that the saying was complete horse manure and that Ol' Jack would have been mauled thrice times over before he landed more than one hit on a bear. The ice combatant had given him his respect, but the good feeling of the compliment was tarnished by his next statement.

“Of course, we both know how it ends. I’m going to come over there, and then I’m going to tear out your throat with my teeth.”

"You can try," said Connor, and the crowd exploded at the retort. He could hear a few of the more vocal and deep-pocketed onlookers placing new bets on the "underdog outlaw" with the "fighting spirit". While the exchange of currency showed some support for the bullet-less gunslinger, Connor was not so sure of his own success. A pint would be more likely to last longer at a five-card poker game than the energy combatant would in his next bout with Kriege. But there were still chips on the table and cards left to play. The game was far from over.

His right arm ached where the bone had been fractured, but his left arm gave no him no discomfort as Connor cocked his arm back. The energy collected in his palm transferred to the blade, little tendrils of lightning flaring up in arcs as the outlaw hurled the Bowie. It targeted Kriege's right hind leg as hampering the behemoth's movement was, at least in theory, still a viable strategy. He drew his third knife of the day from his left hip and charged both flesh and metal with electricity. If Kriege wanted to come over here, Connor would be sure to make the bear pay for every step.
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