Home  | Login  | Register  | Help  | Play 

RE: =EC 2018= Factory Arena

  		Logged in as: Guest
  Printable Version
All Forums >> [Gaming Community] >> [Role Playing] >> The Championships >> RE: =EC 2018= Factory Arena
Page 2 of 2<12
Forum Login
Message << Older Topic   Newer Topic >>
7/27/2018 3:18:58   
Apocalypse
Member

“Y-You sure about this?”

There was a click from underneath the bard’s hand as the door swung open. A flurry of snowflakes flushed into the foyer and settled across the floor. The hallway beyond was dark, soil and ceramic shards littered across the carpets. Dapper turned to face the shivering elf, the flames of the torch passing too close for comfort...for a living man. “Looks plenty inviting to me.” He cocked his head to the side and gave a sly half-smile. “If you’re afraid of the dark you can go home, you know. Nothing to be ashamed of. I’ll pick up a few candles on the way back.”

Loralyl’s face burned red as her eyes narrowed. “One of these days I’ll bury you again,” she muttered as she stomped past the revenant and into the mansion. The elf disappeared down the hall without a glance back. Dapper grinned as he watched her stalk off, taking care to shut the door before he followed.

The grand foyer was in an even worse state than the hallway. Paintings hung crookedly on the walls, threatening to fall off at the drop of a quill. Furniture had been overturned or thrown about in a manic fashion. Crumpled and torn tapestries were strewn across the floor. On one side of the room stood a tall mirror with a spider web of cracks across its surface.

Loralyl stood in one of the few open spaces with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. “How is it c-c-colder inside than out there?” she said. Wisps of white breath accompanied every word.

Dapper nodded absent-mindedly as he approached the mirror. Fractures stemmed from the center, though the undead was more interested in the thin layer of frost that coated it. He wiped his finger across the glass, the ice giving way under his touch. It must have been new and fresh to be removed so easily. Perhaps the mansion had already started falling into disrepair without maintenance? “Plenty of paper and the furniture’s mostly wood. Start a fire while I do some exploring.”

Loralyl gave a huff. “And how do I know if you’re in trouble?”

“You’ll hear me scream ’ohgodshelpi’mintrouble’.” He spun around towards the elf. “Is that good or should we make it simpler?”

He ducked as a chair leg soared past his ear and winced when he heard it crash into the mirror behind him. The shards jangled as they fell one by one. “Sounds like you got it. I’ll be off then.” He hurried up the grand staircase before Loralyl could ready another throw.

She needs a proper apology, Dapper thought to himself as he crossed through the portal into the next hallway. The revenant could not feel and thus was immune to winter’s cold kiss, but Loralyl was not so fortunate. She had trudged through the blistering night for his sake. She deserves better.

The corridor opened up into a grand hall. From the ceiling hung a brilliant chandelier. Torchlight reflected off of frost-coated crystals and onto the barren walls in a stunning reproduction of stars in an empty night sky. The bard hummed as he gradually soaked in the elegance surrounding him. Dapper closed his eyes. Patrons of only the wealthiest stock crowded the hall, each one more glamorous than the last. Yet all eyes were not on each other but the figure in the center, an elven woman twirling on her heels as her voice filled the air with beauty. The nobles held their breaths in awe only to explode into thunderous applause when the performance came to its end. This. She deserves this.

But he could never give her this.

Not this revenant with half his face marred with decay. Not this fiddler who failed to read sheet music or name a played note. Not this dead man whose touch was as cold as the grave’s.

A bloodcurdling scream ripped Dapper from his stupor. He bolted off towards its source. “Loralyl!”



The symphonic cacophony came to a close as the bard reached the spokes protruding from the central pillar. A tight fit to be used as stepping stones, but he had been through narrower sets of stairs in destitute taverns and inns. Though none of those climbs had the threat of a fall for a misstep. Nevertheless, he scaled two spokes with each stride in his ascent.

The Factory’s movement came to a jarring halt. The fiddler caught a glimpse of a prismatic spray of light before he was pitched forward. He had just enough time to raise his arms before his face smashed against the metal spoke with a sickening crunch. Dapper clambered to his feet, ignoring the now-crooked nose hanging at the end of his vision as he checked his instrument. Unlike his ugly mug, the fiddle and bow were unharmed. “You dumb klutz,” the bard chuckled to himself as he resumed his climb-

-and found Pride waiting for him.

Dapper gave a yelp and stumbled back a couple steps, almost tripping in the process. The bow slipped through the chaos and found the fiddle. A jaunty tune cut through the confusion as a large cymbal bloomed to life in-between the two. With a final stroke, the fiery instrument was propelled through the air where it…passed through Pride’s smug face before dissipating. The fiddler froze, noticing for the first time that the wraith neither moved nor had mist pour off his form. He tentatively reached out with his bow to give the icy specter a poke in the chest. It sunk into his form with no resistance.

Illusions. Perfect.

Dapper looked out over the arena and saw many Prides in many places, but only one showed any signs of life. Or rather unlife. Below him stood the third dead man while the approaching contender sealed himself in a comically-sized bubble. Apparently his music was doing its job and attracting a crowd.

The bard sucked air in through the corner of his mouth, hearing rather than feeling the swishing of the blood pooling along his gums. Not letting the precious ichor go to waste, Dapper leaned over the edge and spat the reserve at the blackclad opponent. If it landed true, he would ignite the blood along with the hapless sap.

Turning his attention back to Pride, Dapper began an improvised folk song. Two études sprung to life as a tomato and a brick as they danced around him. Well-suited for their purpose as with two draws of the bow they were launched in quick succession at the relentless wraith. The fiddler had to provoke Pride for his scheme to work.

Before the chaos ensued, he answered the bubbled one’s request in limerick form.

”Surrender not unto you I may?
To bring to an end all this today?
I’m hardly a fighter
Would make my day brighter
But it has a cost I can’t quite pay”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 26
7/27/2018 16:28:25   
draketh99
Purple Armadillo


 “Where am I? What is this? Who are they? No. No. No please!”

At the edge of town, there was a street. At the end of the street, there was a house. Inside the house, there were many hallways. At the ends of the many hallways, there were many rooms. Each and every one of these rooms had sat empty, lonely, and as quiet as they had ever been.

“What are they? Stay away from me! Don’t! Don’t touch me!”

These rooms once held many guests. Many were wealthy. Some were affluential. Some were beautiful. All were strangers.

“Above. No, below. No, behind. Where are they? They won’t stop screaming. They don’t stop screaming. How long have they been screaming? They never stop. They never stop.”

The rooms no longer held guests, they held frost and empty air. The kitchen no longer held servants, it held rotting food. The parlor no longer held music, it held silence as cold as the winter air.

“Please, you don’t understand. I don’t belong here. I shouldn’t be here! Please just let me go! You have to understand, it wasn’t like that! It’s not my fault, how could I have known? Please, please I’m not ready.”

At the edge of the house, there was a hallway. At the end of the hallway, there was a room. In this room, there was silence. There was yet less silence than had been in all of the other rooms. The winter’s frozen gust howling through a closed window.

“How long have I been awake? Why did they start screaming? No, I’ve always been here. They’ve always been screaming. There’s only ever been this. Only this. How could there be? There can’t be. I have to go. I have to leave!

A flash of light. Sparks of blue. A flickering image of a man grasping to a place he shouldn’t be. The pale image of a face appeared in the mirror. Ol’ Tom looked so sickly, so much thinner than he used to be. His eyes so sunken in you could hardly see them. His limbs so stretched you couldn’t fit them in the mirror. Gone were the ornate suits he bought himself, replaced by the rags and tattered cloak he’d earned.

“I see it. It’s over that way! The way out! If I could just reach it. I can reach it. Just a bit further. I can feel it. What are you doing? No, no don’t. I’m almost there please don’t! No.

Stop it.

Stop it!

S T O P I T!”

The image flickered again. Frost spread across the floor, creeping through cracks in the floorboards, between fibers in the silken rug. An oaken chair creaked and groaned. Handprints outlined by frost apperated atop the high back. Ol’ Tom flickered once, two times before the chair rocketed across the room. Plaster dust leaked from the wall and wood splinters coated the floor. Tendrils of frost slithered up the walls, worming their way behind paintings, mirrors, and tapestries.

“You can’t take me back! I won’t go back! It’s not my time.”

One, two, three windows burst open. Wind and snow coated the windowsills in the cold, biting dust of winter. Ol’ Tom flickered just once, staring at himself again in the mirror. Disgust crept across his face. Dismay followed disgust as the expression only disfigured him more. His mouth twisted and grew, his jaw disappeared. He wanted to scream, just like them. Just like them. The window shattered. Reflective glass petals scattered across the floor before being claimed by the frost.

Ol’ Tom knelt down onto the floor. He wept. It was all wrong. It was embarrassing. But he was here, and it was all here with him again. It was all his again. Everything would be his again.




The floor stopped. The ticking stopped.For a moment, there was silence, though that particular moment felt like years. There was a bright flash from somewhere behind Pride as he sat. His eyes went wide and his shoulders tensed and coiled back. He pushed off of his hand to stand, facing this figure before him.
”Why? Why is he here? Why now?”

This creature stood before him, crouched, poised, and ready to pounce. It looked just as Pride remembered, just as it haunted him in his dreams. The torn black cloak was the same. The eyeless stare was the same, as were the massive iron chips for teeth. Thick, black, chained manacles hung from its wrists just as they always did. The grotesque creature returned just as it always had. This time, though, Pride was awake.

Pride stepped back, the frozen sheet underneath himself rapidly melting into a puddle, mist and fog pouring out as heat rapidly returned to fill the void. Again, Pride dropped his right hand to his side and drew up, willing another javelin of white opaque ice out of the ground. He gripped the large, misting porcelain spike and snapped it from the ground. He could hear Dapper now having run behind him towards the central pillar, yet he had no attention to give. His eyes blazed and composure broke. He aimed the frozen spike at the cloaked apparition.

“I’m not going back! You’ll never take me back!” Pride’s scream echoed and reverberated, passing over crystalized mock vocal cords, giving multiple resonances to a single voice.

He rocketed the javelin at his target with all the strength his desperation could provide. The spike soared true, passing harmlessly through. It smacked and clanked against the metal floor, quickly dispersing into a pool of fog.

A silent moment passed, reminding Pride that the movement of the tower had begun once again. A slow realization crept into his mind, eyes narrowing in time to such realization.

An Illusion.

An Illusion!

He’d been had. He’d been made a fool of. This was unacceptable, absolutely unacceptable. Pride whipped around on his heel, scanning the arena for the first target to lash out at. Dapper had climbed the central pillar while he was distracted, seeming to have his attention focused on the dark. The dark one happened to be standing still? The only one left to watch was the strange, talkative one.

Pride turned, looking over just in time to see a stream of bubbles hurled towards him. He hissed through his teeth and drew up a wall of ice directly in front of himself, hoping to protect himself should they not be simple, normal bubbles. The hiss under his breath quickly became a curse as several bubbles quickly burst their way through the wall, leaving puddles and pock marks where they collided. Several bubbles had managed to collide with the side of his face, leaving a small web of cracks and steaming gashes along his cheek.

Pride turned to roar at his opponent. Instead of a yell, a gasp and a grunt came out instead. Two fiery shapes stuck him in the back, shattering two of the crystals along his cloak. Pride turned, finding the source of the strike in Dapper up along his perch, spouting limmerics.

Rage mounted upon rage as Pride quickly strode towards the pillar, his left hand swiping in Dapper’s direction as soon as Pride was in range, sending a coating of pearlescent ice onto the pillar behind the bard. In as quick a motion, Pride closed his fist, pulling his arm towards his chest and up to his right shoulder, pulling a full cluster of ice spikes from the wall behind Dapper, hoping to skewer him where he stood.

“I’m through playing games, Bard. This will end here, and this will end now!”
DF  Post #: 27
7/27/2018 22:30:50   
Randall Flagg
Member
 

 ...That wasn’t right. How could she miss? KLUB never missed. Sat inside of the effigy’s cockpit, Sylvia was wracked by disbelief. What would she do now? Wasting no time in taking another swing of the large weapon seemed like the ideal course of action, but she was surprised to find the arm holding it gripped firmly in place. She tried to peer through the shifting steam cloud to make out just what the burning glow of Suhmat’s form signified, but the high pitched whine of warning systems snapped her attention back to the instruments that screamed the answer at her. As the world around her heated up, the warning informed Sylvia that critical structural damage was being dealt to the effigy’s dominant arm.

“NO WAIT STOP YOU’RE HURTING IT!” The panicked words rasped out of her throat without pause as she struggled on the controls, frenziedly attempting to wrestle free from the hot coil that had ensnared her beloved work.

When the heartbeat of the factory was momentarily replaced with a silence that ripped through the arena, Sylvia’s concentration slipped to focus solely on the disappearance of one of the competitors who claimed an alignment to darkness. Devoid of the arena’s rhythm, the sudden rush of the aggregated noise of the combatants proved a dazing mixture. Fireworks going off nearby, taunting, posturing and… some manner of solo performance? Too many distractions. Sylvia needed to exclusively focus on T.R.E.E.’s dire situation, and endeavored to not avert her mind for another instant.

Tick…

The return of the clockwork song soothed Sylvia... for a fleeting moment. By the next, another warning noise had gone off to report that she had lost all control of the effigy’s left forearm. It was with the glaze of shock and renewed disbelief that her large eyes followed it and KLUB fly off to the side, out of her immediate reach. A shaky left hand rummaged through her bandolier, squinting through a losing battle to keep her tears from flowing. However, they were now all that obscured her vision; the rush of steam had reversed its altered direction and revealed . Clear vision also allowed her to spot an opportunity: A wave was swinging K.L.U.B. into the vandal, effectively bringing her weapon closer to T.R.E.E., as well as allowing her to stagger her attack to coordinate with the piercing impact. She reared back and swung a powerful kick for Suhmat’s center while using the recoiling mass’s momentum to swing and plant SPADE into the floor. The seed she had planted into the instrument jettisoned into the stone, allowing it to take root with mystically accelerated growth.

“Don’t worry buddy, I’ll fix you” She muttered, administering a few more seeds from her bandolier to keep injecting the lot through the business end of the effigy’s now lodged tool.

Mumbling sweet nothings to T.R.E.E. in consolation, Sylvia took small comfort in the sudden growth of an enormous bush around around the effigy. She hoped the barrier it formed would serve as a sufficient deterrent for any attack as she waited for vines to crawl out of the ground to ensnare the severed limb that held the weapon that had struck Suhmat. Urgency was key here, and so she didn’t have the luxury to take her time on this repair — Perhaps the barrier would allow her both expediency and safety.
AQ  Post #: 28
7/27/2018 23:34:36   
  Chewy905

Chromatic ArchKnight of RP


 Having your blindfold burst into flames while you’re wearing it is an unpleasant experience.



Maled Con listened intently, trying to detect any hint that his illusions were doing their jobs well.

“I’m not going back! You’ll never take me back!”

A scream off to one side. Maled smirked. Someone wasn’t enjoying the sights. But what were they seeing? He was so curious. A metallic clang rang out from the same direction of the scream. An attack, then, likely one of those ice javelins the white suited man had been using. He supposed it was possible to try attacking white suit while he was distracted, but decided the distance between them and his current lack of sight would make follow ups difficult.

Above him. A pitiful yelp, a lively spot of music, and the roar of fire.

Perfect. That, I can capitalize on.

Maled Con leapt straight up, reaching blindly for the spokes above him.
And for the first time since entering the arena, everything went wrong.

First, a wet splat on his blindfold. Quickly followed up by extreme heat all around his head. He refused to allow the highly painful distraction to stop him from climbing up the spokes, but he had forgotten to account for the turning of the arena. His hand clawed at empty air, the spokes having moved off to one side, and he plummeted back downwards, head aflame. He hit the ground hard, landing on his hip, and stifled a shout, instead releasing a sharp exhale of air. He grabbed at the blindfold and ripped it off his eyes, tossing it aside as it finished burning to a char. His sight had returned, but the pain seared into all sides of his skull caused his vision to be heavily blurred. He ran a hand over his hip. Sore, probably bruised, but miraculously intact.

As his vision cleared, he looked up. The suited corpse was off to his right now, standing atop the spokes Maled had just failed to grasp. His attention was elsewhere. Of course it was elsewhere. No one gives me the time i deserve. and he was playing a folk tune on his fiddle, creating shapes of flame directed at the white suited man.

Wait. A fiddle, a suit, a corpse. Fire. Why was this so. Familiar?



“I’m happy to present this year’s potential Paragon of Fire, Dapper Phoenix!”

Maled Con turned off his hearing boost and set down his glass of water. A competitor playing on stage? This may be worthwhile. He turned to face the stage and directed his full attention to the upcoming show.

The bard on stage didn’t look particularly healthy. Scars and staples were abundant along his discolored skin. Maled sympathized with the man, rubbing his onyx hands together absentmindedly. Not everyone was respectful of the different these days.

The suit and jacket he wore gave him a distinct appearance, with the folded neckerchief in his pocket adding just the perfect splash of color to the ensemble. The man bowed, and the crowd erupted into applause. It seemed as if some people already knew him. Perhaps this wasn’t his first performance in Bren? As he straightened up the crowd fell silent. This man appeared to garner a decent deal of respect. Or perhaps the citizens of Bren are discriminated less towards the unusual folk. Maled reflected on the time he’d spent in the city so far. The initial guard on his first day had been suspicious of him, but beyond that no one had actually questioned his appearance.

The performer raised his violin and set the bow on the string. Simultaneously, the candles on each table and around the walls of the bar winked out, plunging the room into darkness. Maled was tempted to boost his sight to see the cause of the disturbance, but the excited, hushed reactions of the crowd indicated that this was a common occurrence.

Then the music began, a slow, haunting requiem, almost sending chills down Maled’s spine. The candles closest to the stage sparked to life, just bright enough to illuminate the musician and his instrument as he continued his ghostly elegy. The fires of the room followed the flow of the music, various candles becoming lit, shifting colors from their natural red to shades of blue and black then being snuffed out as the song commanded.

Maled stood up from his place at the bar and quietly maneuvered through the crowd, wanting to get closer to this phenomenal musician and his show. As the piece drew to a close with a fitting decrescendo, Dapper’s movements became slower and more dramatic. One long, low note ended the piece, each candle winking out one by one until the tavern was once again dark and the music ceased.

The room erupted into applause as the candles relit, and the musician bowed deeply. Maled joined in the ovation, watching as Dapper walked over and spoke to an Elven lady that had been seated by the side of the stage, then disappeared up some stairs in the back of the room.

Curious. That truly was a marvelous performance. But I can’t let myself be outdone just yet. The names of the greats are always overshadowed by those that do them in, after all.

As the Elf prepared her lute for the stage, Maled stepped over to the man who had announced Dapper’s act.

“Excuse me sir, who was it that just played? I’d like to remember so I might catch another one of his shows.”

The man responded with a wide smile and an overly loud and excited voice. “That would be Dapper Phoenix! He’s quite talented! I could get you a list of his upcoming performances if you’d like?”

“I’ll get one later, thank you.”

The tavern had returned to its common rambunctiousness while between performances, and Maled used the opportunity to head, unnoticed, up the stairs Dapper had climbed earlier.

The stairs opened out to a hall, doors lining the sides. An inn then? Or perhaps simply rooms for the performers to stow their instruments. One of the doors was cracked open just slightly, a voice from within humming the requiem that Maled had just witnessed, giving away the inhabitant. The door opened inward, which would make it a little more difficult to hide in the way he preferred.

Instead Maled walked back to the staircase, hiding in the darkness of its entrance. He touched a hand to his lips, allowing his sense of smell to drop away.

“Dapper!” Maled Con called in the Announcer's voice, trying to mimic his overly upbeat attitude. “The audience demands an encore! If you don’t come down now we may have a riot on our hands!”

The humming stopped, creating an odd, oppressive silence that Maled wasn’t used to hearing within a tavern.

“An encore? You must be faffing me, old man.”

Maled held his breath, considering if further persuasion would be suspicious or not. Then the door swung open and Dapper strolled out, violin in hand, whistling a lively tune.

Maled tensed as Dapper approached the stairway. He reached down and drew one of his knives, shifting into a natural, comfortable stance. Dapper came to the edge of the stairs and began descending them, passing by Maled.

Maled stepped out from his hiding spot, now behind Dapper, and drove his knife down in a smooth, practiced movement. The blade struck between the man’s shoulderblades, sinking right down to hilt. Maled closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of the musicians life ending like his songs.

Except it didn’t. Dapper’s whistling continued as he walked on, undisturbed. The lack of action shocked Maled, and he didn’t pull the knife back out. He watched, confused and slightly unnerved, as Dapper continued down the stairs with a knife in his back. Maled took an involuntary step backwards. An undead? He supposed it made sense with the stapled together skin and such but was it truly possible for one to be unable to die? He took a few deep breaths, trying to regain his composure.

Should I try again? Probably not. Did he notice me? Also probably not. What do I do? I’ve never had a kill just NOT happen like this. I guess I just move on and hope the knife is never connected to me.

Maled went down the steps and left the tavern, but stopped short when he saw Dapper still at the foot of the stairs. The musician was watching the stage intently, completely entranced by the elven woman that was currently singing. Maled slowly stepped forward and carefully removed the knife from the man’s back, prepared to blind him and run if necessary. The bard didn’t react at all. Maled slipped past him unnoticed and exited the tavern, ready for a long rest after what had transpired.



Dapper. Dapper Phoenix, the Walking Corpse. My missed mark.
Maled Con smiled and rolled onto his back, looking straight up at the dead man. He glanced to the side. The colorful, polite man from earlier was in a giant bubble. Okay, whatever. The white suited man had just suffered the impact of the bards fire, and was heading towards the pillar at speed. His left hand swept out, and Maled’s vision followed it’s path over to Dapper, seeing a sheet of ice form on the wall behind the musician. A cluster of spikes formed from the ice, ready to impale the corpse.

No no I already tried that! That won’t work! But, you may be useful. I’m not one to let a target go easily, and if I need help to take it down, so be it.

Maled Con got to his feet and drew Ball from its pouch once more. He thought out his throw carefully, taking into account the possible movement of Dapper and the movement of the platform, finally settling on aiming just slightly to the side of Dapper’s current location.

If he stands still, this will ricochet off the pillar and hit his ear. If he dodges away from the spikes, it could hit his ear or his eye. A deaf musician is just as hopeless as a blind one.
Maled checked and doubled checked Balls hopeful trajectory, then opened his hand and let Ball fly.


Post #: 29
7/28/2018 19:47:01   
Necro-Knight
Member

So y’know those moments when you feel pretty good about life, then life suddenly reminds you that you don’t ever get a break? It was becoming one of those days. I’d managed to cripple the wooden creature, but the sound of surging water reminded me that I’d given my second enemy too much time to retaliate for the wound I’d given him. As my roll came to a halt, my weight resting on my right arm, I had only a moment to tuck my left arm up roughly over my face and chest before the large blunt weapon hit me with enough force to rattle my teeth. My gauntlet across my chest prevented the spikes from sinking directly into my heart or lungs, but as the weapon struck my arm and rolled across my shoulder, it added a new set of burning, slick gashes to go with my first one.

I barely had time to scream before the force of the water that followed reversed my rolling motion and sent me sliding across the Arena floor. I was then met with another solid THUMP of impact that forced the air from my lungs and sent a sickening crack rippling through my body, originating from my lower right side where the tree behemoth had suddenly shown me the error of my ways for disarming it. Pain exploded from what I could only guess was a broken rib, just above where my plated belt saved me from earning a second one, and my direction was quickly reversed, flying now back towards the water-born.

I hit the arena floor hard, gasping for any bit of air I could get and soaked enough to ruin my fiery tendril spell, leaving me curled up in an almost feral act of defense. With every breath I managed to drag into my ruined body, my ribs screamed in response and the gashes all along my back and shoulders were soaking my body in my own crimson… I had to be losing too much blood to continue for much longer, and my rib was going to make any more of my agility all but useless. Was this the end? No… it couldn’t be, I wasn’t going to die getting kicked onto my knees like some rabid dog.

I agree.

I’d have cried out again from the shock of the second voice if I had any air left to do so, but instead it came out like a small corak, and a laugh that sounded like crackling wood in a grand furnace responded in my skull.

Pathetic little child… You’re trying to use technique and strategy in a place of blood and carnage. Now you lay here, whimpering like a punished dog… It’s my turn, mortal, only because I wish to continue existing. This is not mercy, it is self-preservation.

Oh, so it only took me being torn apart and my rib broken to get El’nath to finally speak to me, huh? I’d have come up with an insult to think back at the moody little arse, but a new fire erupted from my chest, the almost pleasurable rush of the pain sending stars across my vision and set my mind ablaze. Run. Burn. Char. Melt! These were the only words left in my mind as I pushed my broken body to its hands and knees… and roared, the gutteral sound echoing through the clocktower with rather impressive force. As my vision rapidly deepened to a furious crimson, I saw bright flames spark to life across the exposed flesh of my body and claws elongated from my fingertips. I could breathe again, rapidly sucking in air to fuel the fire of my demon, and my ruined rib only seemed to add to the inferno.

These idiots had no idea why I was fighting, why I’d come here…how could they? They only saw a young man trying to achieve glory, when in truth, I was a hero in the making. It was my responsibility to save my people and they were denying me… They wanted my people to burn eternal, and for that, they deserved no mercy. They only deserved a flaming, agonizing death beneath my claws.

A moment after I focused my fury into making this fantasy a reality, the power was doused with a second snap of water across my back that engulfed me in a brief cloud of steam and earned a scream of pain and anger. The flames across my body dwindled for a few moments, and the pain of my injures hit me in a second wave that nearly emptied my stomach. After a long moment, I felt El’nath roar again and the rush returned, this time pushing me to my feet with every inch of the pain adding more to the bonfire of my possession. Even as I had returned to what felt like an adrenaline high unlike any other, I also knew somewhere in the firestorm of my mind that I couldn’t keep it up forever. El’nath might’ve had power beyond my own, but he was still drawing from my own willpower, and it had cost us to recover from that whipping so quickly.

Must work fast. Water too dangerous, kill wooden target. Slow, weak, easy to burn. Burn.

Not waiting for a third response from the water-born, we turned my broken body back towards the tree abomination to see it trying to form a haven behind some form of shrubbery… Oh spirits above, how kind of it. It provided us kindling. If I’d had the mind left to guess the distance, I would’ve judged it at about a ten foot leap I followed the sprint up with and sent myself over the bush, directly towards the chest of my soon-to-be living matchstick. I had to wonder… did it have a heart? I hoped it did. Then I’d be able to tear it free and make them look at their own burning core before they died.
DF MQ AQW  Post #: 30
7/29/2018 3:12:24   
  Lorekeeper
And Pun-isher

 

 Ominous as its name may be, the Forsaken River was the vital artery of Eridani in more than one way.

Historically, it had always been at the center of the island’s agriculture. A combination of tiered plantations and basin irrigation allowed for the exploitation of the mysterious water body’s regular flooding to achieve the care of a great variety of crops. Being blessed with a significant amount of elementally aligned individuals, the island’s population could both minimize the effort of agricultural maintenance and avert the destructive effects of what floods defied prediction.

Its symbolic value was reiterated on a daily basis to Initiates of the Order of Tempests, as well as to the occasional stubborn Adept who was too fixated on the rush of intense maneuvers to remember the basics. The river was said to have washed away the tribal names dividing the clans that once inhabited the island, purifying the blood left by many a treacherous deed. Many enemies were subsumed into one family, willingly coming together to spare their children of the burden of a regrettable past. It was thus not the river itself that was abandoned, but the pride and greed that once saw the island consumed by battles too great for its small expanse.

This river had come to represent unity and, perhaps most importantly, choice. The people of Eridani had a certain respect for it that fell just shy of reverence, and one could usually count on any point along the basin to be quiet.

… Usually. There was a notable exception to be found in the sheer ruckus centered on a particularly overwrought young man, dug up to his heels in the sands of its shores. Dusk found him struggling to keep his balance steady and his movements in their proper sequence, forcing his breath through the agitation that pushed against his every inhalation. The slowly diminishing light made the fleeting but intense glints of blue light in the boy’s irises all the more noticeable, even as glimpses of the sun’s submerging reflection painted filtered streaks through the flowing tendril that coiled around him.

Having coaxed a large amount of water from the river’s grasp, he now devoted his every thought and motion to commanding a violently fast flow to fly in sweeping curves and serpentine rushes along a circle of wooden posts. Despite the solitary nature of the exercise that consumed him, this young man gave off the appearance of being in well over his head, and yet stubbornly refusing to sink. Not every drop streaming down his body was water that escaped his control. There was a tremor to his left knee whenever his weight dropped to it. His dark hair hung down to his chin, long since having shaken off the band that held it in a ponytail. And as far as his training uniform went… Well, it seemed to have taken more of a beating than the surrounding sand.

“You know, Gabriel. After a certain point, it isn’t training anymore. It’s just bashing your face against a wall you’re too tired to walk around.” Lena was unique among the masters in her ability to be gentle and welcoming without abandoning the structure of her teachings. In contrast to that, she was also gifted with a very potent voice and the ability to be about as blunt as a cane to the head. It didn’t take an Elder to discern which tone she employed on Gabriel, seemingly disappointed at finding him in such a state.

“Real funny. Can’t talk. Must concentrate.” Despite his exaggerated pause, the boy was surprised to note that Lena was wearing a simple dress as opposed to the traditional white-trimmed black attire of the Eridani masters. She had come to find him on her own time. Even as the youngest of all masters, the savant was already this dedicated to her pupils.

“On what? It’s getting late, I can tell you’ve been at this for too long to stay focused, and those targets can’t take much more of a beating. You’ve done enough work for today, go rest up for tomorrow’s lessons.”

“I’m trying to avoid the targets.”

Lena promptly fell quiet, letting her pupil’s exertion resume for a few seconds before she grinned awkwardly. One couldn’t be faulted from expecting shyness from seeing her gingerly gestures, but her words only grew sharper barbs.

“In that case, you definitely need more work. A lot more work.”

“Alright. Good night, Master Lena.”

“Not so fast, kid. I want you to work smarter, not harder. You’re not going to accomplish anything like this.”

“But this is what I need the most practice with.”

“Alright, I tried the vague and diplomatic nonsense the Elders do, now let’s have a real conversation.”

Slender arms uncrossed to draw opposite lines across the air, calling forth two powerful gales to descend on the shore. The wind commanded by Master Lena became focused into two intense currents, one of which swept the sand around Gabriel into its proper shape while knocking a loose post over. The second floor directly impacted his legs from behind, undoing his already strained balance to send his rump crashing soundly onto the fallen log.

Moving more patiently than her rash method belied, Lena waited for all of the water controlled by Gabriel to crash down on the sand before joining him on the forcibly improvised seat. The young pupil opened his mouth to complain, but was not given time to do so.

“I was hoping this wasn’t a matter of ego, but you’re trying to prove something to yourself. Or worse, taking something out on yourself. Otherwise you’d have been brooding where someone would notice you without having to go looking.”

“I’m not getting away from this, am I?” Gabriel was fond of his master, but was uncomfortable with how disarming and perceptive the woman could be. She could read all of her students well, but he in particular seemed to be an open book in her hands. It was especially uncomfortable for him when she could confront him on an issue before it had reached his own notice. Or in this case, before he had thought of how to put it into words.

“Nope! You’re stuck with me until we sort this out.” There was the disarming part. She was smiling from ear to ear, with a genuine mirth that tended to escape anyone else who had endured the harsh trials of earning the title of Master. That was the smile of someone who was not only happy, but wanted to help others find their own happiness.

“I’m trying to catch up. I’m about as good as I’m going to get with a weapon in my hands—”

“No you’re not.” The interruption was faster than a second, stinging yet encouraging all the same.

“— But I still can’t control my powers. I can’t slow it down. If I make my own water, I just quickly make so much that I get too tired to wield it. It just doesn’t look that bad in class because we do our power training after the physical work. I feel years behind Adam.”

“That’s because you are. Your brother’s an adult. You’re fourteen, river take you.”

“Yeah, but now I’m an Adept too. I can’t have an Initiate’s control. It’s embarrassing.”

Lena seemed upset for once, staring in the direction of the Temple with a furrowed brow. “I guess congratulations aren’t in order, since you’re clearly not happy with it either.”

“It bothers you too?”

“I know handpicked promotions have always been a thing, but I don’t like people suddenly going over my head when it’s about my students. And look at how this left you. Now you’re trying to suddenly be on the same level as all the other Adepts.”

“I have to be. They can send me off to battle now. They’re counting on their new prodigy. I can’t be out of control.”

“That’s not what you do with a prodigy. Just because you’re advanced for your age doesn’t mean you don’t need to grow through those years. And it will be years before you’re in control.”

“Wait, years?! Why? I’ve got you teaching me, an Elder coming to beat me up every weekend… I know I’m not going to be better by tomorrow, but I’m no prodigy if I’m going to be that much slower than anyone else. Faust was a prodigy. You’re a prodigy. I’m just being called one because they need more people to send off to war.”

“...Yeah.”

“Isn’t this the part where you act encouraging and tell me that’s all crap I’m making up?”

“No, I’m not going to baby you. That’s probably exactly what they’re doing, but it doesn’t mean you’re not a prodigy. I mean, come on, you’re setting the bar for one pretty high. The genius who controlled three elements of the storm, and your humble servant who became the youngest master?” Lena reached out to smack Gabriel upside the head. “Elder Pontius looks after you for a reason. Elders have been doing less of the teaching themselves, but he’s got a good read on your power. Anyone would take long to master what you’ve got. We can’t tell how long it’ll take you, even between the two of us.”

“Why is that?”

“That’s because it’s one thing to drink from the river’s power, Gabriel…” A third figure had quietly approached them, aided in his stealth by the sea breeze and the slow gait assisted by a cane. “But it’s something else entirely to be the river.”




The echoing roar caught Gabriel by surprise, as did the concentrated conflagration covering the cornered combatant. However, he was too committed to the spinning maneuver that guided his follow-up assault to properly brace himself for what his instincts needed no analysis to warn would undoubtedly be an unhinged, feral counterattack. When his guard faltered from the mid-air stretching of a recent injury, the warrior from Eridani expected to have to cut loose from a decidedly more disadvantageous position.

Those claws definitely look dangerous, but I’ll need to be ready for close range if he’s still able to use lava… My water’s still good against him. Looks like it messed with that flaming cowl, he’s probably going to take my opening.

Wait. What?

Even after having been hurled closer to him, the now frenzied warrior had not only let his waning guard go unpunished… But once again ignored him in favor of the less immediate threat of the wooden effigy? Gabriel was not about to complain about his good fortune, but he couldn’t say he found the circumstances strange. Still, the opportunity would have to be taken

I could try and end this now… No, it’s best to not get caught conjuring more water when I can still save time and energy. Just in case he rushes right back.

Once turned away from, he rushed to his feet. This time, he retracted his left arm into a coiled rear guard, drawing back the water from his wave attack while the right hand bid it to join what wasn’t lost from the whip that followed. Not the limit of his control by a fair margin, but it was still stronger than either individual attack — And it would be too slow to condense the dispersing steam into a more overwhelming force. No, it was time to enact something of a dramatic punishment for ignoring him a second time.

The coiled arm was then thrust upward, sending the combined stream rushing as high as his control would allow. The crystalline flow seemed to leave all impurities behind in its path, becoming a flowing kaleidoscope for the light filtering through the gears above. From there, it was brought back down to home in on the leaping foe.

Gabriel spread his legs into a firmer stance, striking downward with both hands. He concentrated on sheer speed and tension, guiding the serpentine projectile toward Suhmat’s back to try and hit it at the height of his jump — When he’d have next to no control over his direction — to try and force him down onto the effigy with far greater force than intended. All possible damage aside, this might only aggravate his enemy’s rage… But as long as his attention was turned to the wooden menace, Gabriel could work with that.

In the meantime, he finally had the opportunity to move to a more favorable angle. Step by step, he circled around the engagement in the direction of his original entry point, expanding the right side of his field of view to include what might have previously been threats from the rear guard.
Post #: 31
7/31/2018 3:35:51   
Apocalypse
Member

Dapper had always found the hiss of fire on ice as satisfying as any symphony - doubly so when Pride was involved. The bard held three notes - a ‘triple stop’ - that reverberated and entwined with one another as the specter raised his face towards him. Steam seethed from the fresh fissures collected from the recent bout with the majestic magistrate. The revenant did not even bother to suppress his smile. He only gave a slight nod. “Got something on your face.”

A violent stroke of his hand was Pride’s response. Dapper’s smile vanished as he jerked his head to look behind him. A glacial slab of the wraith’s power made manifest stood poised to strike. The fiddler threw himself to the side even as stakes of frost surged forward, piercing the revenant’s body…



Spears of ice pierced the revenant’s body, their tips blackened by the ichor seeping from the wounds. No less than three perforated Dapper’s chest. More pinned his legs and feet in place. Another had passed clean through his wrist and into the wall beyond while his other arm hung awkwardly to his right, punctured on either side of the elbow. The dead man took no heed of his mutilations, his eyes rooted to the scene before him as he cried out the only word that mattered. “Loralyl!”

The elf stood before the hearth where flames of frost, not fire, burst forth. Their wicked tongues cleaved through the air and wrapped around the lutist’s form. Jagged tendrils slid around her ankles. The ice glittered like rubies where it was stained with blood. Winter’s blight coalesced about Loralyl, her clothes crystallizing as the infection crept up her body. Wide eyes focused on Dapper as the elf reached out her hand. The glacial surge rose and fell in a steady cadence. Each recession dangled the promise of mercy before taking back the ground it gave and then some. Dapper screamed her name over and over as he struggled against his restraints to no avail. His vision blurred as his eyes watered. Tears must have been streaming down the bard’s face.

“Loralyl!”

No heart beat faster in the dead man’s chest.

“Loralyl!”

No adrenaline filled the dead man’s veins.

“LORALYL!”

But for the first time, fear gripped the dead man. Not for his survival, but for hers. Of a world without her. This concept, this impossibility, splintered and stripped his mind. No past, no future, no present but what existed in this room and threatened to vanish crystal by crystal…

NO


Dapper Fenix called out once more. In anguish. In pain. In suffering. A note as beautiful as the dawn. A cry as terrible as death’s beckoning. It reverberated throughout his entire being, threatening to split him at his core. Around him, the icy prison shattered…



Around him, the icy prison shattered.

Without hesitation, Dapper had drawn the bow across the fiddle for one final performance. In synchronous fashion, the strings severed against themselves, each torn asunder. The ensuing sound drowned out the machinations of the Factory and the battles of the combatants. Some would find only beauty in the note that followed. Others would only hear terror and chaos. The Secret Chord whispered its own tale to each who experienced its majesty.

A sphere of fire, pulsing gold and crimson, encased the dead man. Blossoming to life upon the bard's desperate act, the flames had splintered the impaling shards. With a flourish, the pyre revealed itself to be the blazing wings of a seraphim on high. The ebony orb hurtling towards the musician ricocheted off the burning feathers and barreled into the distance. Dapper took no heed of the ball’s movements; he had eyes for only one foe.

A beat of the wings and Dapper was in the air, rising high above the spokes. For a fleeting heartbeat, the musician hovered. The bow and fiddle fell away, leaving Showstopper and Heinous Conductor in his grasp. With wings alight and blades drawn, Dapper appeared at last to be something more than a walking corpse in a stitched suit. For this flicker, he was an angel of old, set to administer justice.

'And be careful who you get close to.'

Wings folded onto themselves.

'She would make a lovely sculpture.'

He fell, streaking through the air like a comet crashing down upon the land below. Cascading towards his wraith - his stalker, his other self - Dapper flashed out his fiery appendages. In a voice like thunder, the revenant answered. “Done playing?”

The wings slowed his descent at the last moment before sweeping forward to wash over Pride with all of hell’s own fury.

“SO AM I.”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 32
7/31/2018 15:44:59   
Rayen
Constructively Discussional!


 Dalavar watched and waited for a reply that never came. Perhaps the exuberant melody of the hot-headed bard had drowned out his offering of peace; maybe all three he addressed were too focused on their own tenuous survival to comprehensibly contemplate the message he proclaimed. Their battles raged on, shimmers of white-blue, red-orange, and flickering black dying the thick, steaming air as it flurried in the arena’s ceaseless ticking and turning.

Beginning to enjoy the methodical noise produced by Factory, The Mage Slayer timed the flipping of Temerity in his hand to the arena’s reverberations. The large bubble that now encased his entire body alternated with each beat between a pearlescent glassiness and an intangible opalescence, as its structure shifted from physical to magical barrier, and back again. With some distance between his most immediate threats, it seemed likely that the next attack would be magical, however the illusionist, Maled Con, seemed to adeptly control a solid dark ball.

Suddenly, the air seemed to draw towards the musician, an aura of flames surrounding his instrument ominously. Instinctively, Dalavar stepped back and clutched the cold metal of Temerity’s foot in order to maintain the anti-magic aspect of his bubble. In a deafening cacophony, each of the fiddle’s strings snapped, emitting a deafening, heart-wrenching note.

The steam and intermittent gloom of Factory vanished as the entire arena was bathed in ephemeral, ethereal flames. Dalavar felt them brush against the magic of his bubble shield, but though they failed to penetrate its barrier, there was no escaping the magic of music. The magnificence and horror stored within the chord resonated with the diaphanous fabric of the bubble, and all within it.

His Great Audaciousness absentmindedly wiped a faintly glowing tear from beneath an eye. The piercing note had evoked a jumbled montage of memories within the timeless traveller.

A vacuous doorway crafted from the souls of thousands.

The extinguishing of the moon, its formerly hopeful radiance dissipating to reside elsewhere. Now merely a bright crescent, it smiled mournfully down upon its children.

Soft and blue, a glassy expanse was broken up by ripple-like concentrically circular structures which littered the waterscape. Craters from fallen pieces of the moon indistinguishable from wide circular walls, analogous to those lunar craters visible from the world below; all had been painstakingly tended and shaped by the magic of Dalavar’s people to resemble the surface of their radiant celestial sphere.

Carrying the weight of countless lives upon his shoulders, His Great Audaciousness grinned. Guilt did not weigh him down - it never had; Sorrow did not weigh him down - it fuelled his conviction. Dalavar, The Mage Slayer had made up his mind. Now was a time to act beyond words. While he commanded a resounding voice, he could not deny that the Correct action could speak far more loudly.

Surging forward, his body erupting in a soft, pale radiance due to his recent perpetual motion, Dalavar dismissed the large bubble he’d been maintaining in favour of unhindered movement. Each step was placed with care and purpose as he strode towards the central pillar and Maled Con. As aggressive as the representative of Darkness had been initially, the strange individual had afterwards seemed at least somewhat rational and courteous, so Dalavar hoped he’d be allowed to climb the spiralling cogs unhindered.

However, having cleared the space between them in a mere few paces, it became rapidly apparent that Maled Con would offer little resistance. Everything about his tenebrous aura seemed focused on the flashy clash between discordant elements that seemed to continue escalating in a never-ending crescendo, even after the instrument had been destroyed.

So, moving unobtrusively past, Dalavar circled the column to the base of the thin staircase and began to climb, before coming to a halt to look over the battlefield from roughly two body heights above the arena floor. And from this vantage point, His Great Audaciousness began expelling as many workable orbs as he could. Eight fist-sized bubbles drifted seemingly in an arc down towards the clash between the vicious white-clad man and his opponent, who now beat phoenix-like wings in a conflagration of rage.

The Mage Slayer twirled Temerity between both hands and the air, like the most expert colour guard. His light, normally a beacon of peace and contentment, now issued forth a warning: I have consumed worlds for their abuse of the arcane; Your magic is treasonous to my conviction. Prepare, for my judgement is Absolute.
AQ DF  Post #: 33
7/31/2018 21:13:14   
  Chewy905

Chromatic ArchKnight of RP


 An explosive roar, filled with anger and rage, caught Maled’s attention. It echoed around the tower, seeming to come from all sides at once. But it was instantly drowned out. A single, overpowering, beautiful note. It shook Maled to his very core, stopping him entirely as he let it’s purity wash over him. Fire burst out from the pillar above, revealing Dapper, on feathered wings of blazing red fire. Ball was knocked aside by the wings, ignored entirely as the corpse focused his attention on the white suited man.

Maled followed the trail of Ball, watching as it flew up towards the gears, melting rubber dripping off of it. It collided with the mesh of gears and was once again torn to pieces by their ceaseless rotation. Maled turned his eyes back to Dapper.

The man flew straight up, his crimson wings easily breaking the laws of the world as he positioned himself above everyone else in the room. He was an angel, a perfect seraph, arriving to protect those who would lose their lives.

No wait. No he’s not. He’s a punisher, a killer. Then why?

Maled gripped his head and screamed as a suppressed memory flooded through him.

Angel. Feathers. Purity. Why… am I here?



“Name. Element.”
Today’s tavern was one of Maled’s favorites, Musical Chairs. As it’s name suggested, the owner enjoyed getting the best musicians in Bren to perform for his patrons. There was a large stage, with a wide, tableless area in front of it for any folk that wanted to dance. The building itself was built to allow music to sound its best, designed around creating favorable acoustics.

The current performers were a group of fiddlers, playing lively song after lively song, enticing the crowds to dance and be merry (and toss a coin or two on stage). The music messed with Maled Con’s hearing boost a bit, but he was still able to understand those registering for the championship anyways. It helped that they themselves had to commonly shout over the music anyways.

The newest hopeful wasn’t even human, instead it was some multilegged thing that looked a bit like a centipede mixed with a praying mantis. It’s long body was circled in coils around it while it leaned on the desk with two front, scythe-like appendages. It’s head was obscured by a constant shimmer of light that made it impossible for Maled to discern any features or even basic shape.

“💣︎⍓︎ ■︎♋︎❍︎♏︎ ♓︎⬧︎ ♏︎⌧︎□︎📫︎❒︎♏︎♎︎◆︎⬧︎ ⧫︎♒︎♏︎ ⧫︎♒︎♓︎❒︎♎︎” The creature made a series of wild chirps and slight screeching sounds.
The registration clerk, a very tired looking old man, sighed, completely unperturbed.
“I’ll need that in a more common language, please.”
The bug thing’s entire body shuddered, possibly a sign of embarrassment? Maled hadn’t dealt with a large amount of other races. His hometown was slightly isolated, and certainly not the type of place people went willingly.

“Please excuse me, I’m not used to your tongue yet.” The creature’s voice was fluidlike, a stark contrast to the grating sounds it had made earlier. Maled was unable to place if the voice was masculine or feminine. “My name is Exo-redus the Third. I’ll be competing for the favor of the lord of light.”

“HEY!”

Maled gripped his ears in pain, the extremely loud interruption deactivating his boost and almost making him fall off his stool.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you. Well, I guess I kind of did. It’s rude to eavesdrop. There’s so many mages around, you never know when someone can tell you’re doing it.”

Maled took a couple deep breaths, steadying himself as he waited for his sense of speech to return. He gathered his composure and turned to face the annoyance.

She was beautiful.

It’s not like this was Maled’s first time being faced with someone attractive,but this woman was like nothing else: pure and perfect in a way no being should be able to capture. He didn’t feel love at first sight, or even a form of lust. He was just stunned. She was wearing a spotless, long flowing white dress, which brought out the beauty of her perfect white skin. She seemed more suited for a wedding than a tavern. Her dress stopped just a bit below the knees, revealing that for some odd reason she was barefoot.

“It’s impolite to stare. It’s also impolite to ignore me when I’m talking to you.”

Despite the pointedness behind her words, her voice was smooth and silky. She was looking down at him, hands on her hips, her expression one of impatience. Her light blue eyes pierced into him, with her gorgeous face framed by long snow-white hair. Maled was dumbstruck.

She looks so pure it's unnatural. Heck it might be unnatural.

Maled shook his head slightly, trying to free himself from his sudden enrapturement. He succeeded enough to project his usual image of arrogance. “I’m sorry, do I know you? I’m a little busy, so if you could just go bother someone else?”

She laughed, a glorious ringing sound that reminded Maled of the bells from his town church. He had loved those bells. Each time they rang he’d stop to listen and take in the passage of time.

Not good. I’m slipping. Is she using magic? It doesn’t feel like magic. Should I get up? Leave? No, if she is charming me, she’d be a prime target so I don’t fall victim a second time during the tournament.

The woman sat down next to Maled and called over the bartender. “Two of your finest please, we need to get this killjoy to lighten up a bit!”

No! The last thing I need is for my mind to be muddied even more by poisonous drink!
“No no I insist, just refill my water.”

The woman pouted but didn’t complain. The bartender winked at her, took Maled’s glass and went off to fulfill the order.

“So. Let’s try again. Why were you eavesdropping on people?”

“Really now. I don’t have any reason to talk to you, so run along.”

“You don’t have any reason not to talk to me either. I caught you invading others privacy so I’m here to invade yours. Talk.”

Maled sighed. The bartender came back, setting down a glass of water in front of Maled and a vibrant multi-colored drink in front of the woman.
“If I tell you, will you leave me alone?”

The woman smiled, eyes full of mirth. “I can’t guarantee that.”

“I’m curious about who’s entering the Elemental Championships. I want to know who I should be watching.”

“You could always just ask them.”

“Are you participating in the EC’s?”

The woman sipped her drink, savoring the taste. “If you’re asking me a question I suppose that means you want to converse with me. Should I be flattered? You don’t seem to be the most approachable person.”

Maled scoffed. “I suppose a conversation should start with an introduction then. I’ll give you the privilege of my time. My name is Ormane Tyde, I’m here to watch the Elemental Championships. What’s your name and what brings you to Bren?”

Did he imagine it or had the woman’s gaze become somewhat hostile for a moment? When he looked again they were kind and gentle again. He looked away, trying to prevent himself from being pulled in.

The woman performed a short bow, made awkward by her sitting position atop the stool. “My name is Nigh Weathers. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ormane.” She spoke his name carefully, as if she was reading it instead of simply repeating it back to him. “I’ve been sent here by my church to try to convince potential entrants to turn back and not throw their lives away for the entertainment of others.”

“I take it you don’t think well of the Championships, then?”

An edge crept into Nigh’s voice. “It’s a pointless bloodbath put on so the impure have something to watch. Good lives are lost in those arenas, I certainly won’t be watching it.”

Maled flinched slightly. The title of “Impure” certainly fit him. But being called out, even unknowingly, by this woman stung a bit.

She noticed instantly. “Oh I’m sorry, I meant no offense. Those are my personal views, don’t let them define you.”

“So are you here to try converting me? You’d be wasting your time, I have no interest in any religion.”

“A dangerous thing to say in the town closest to the gods. But no, I truly just came over because you seemed like an interesting person, even if you eavesdropping on others.”

“Fine. I’ll indulge you. What do you want to talk about?”

“Anything! I want to get to know you! I haven’t been in Bren very long and I’m terribly lonely.”

“And you just picked a random person at a bar to be your first acquaintance here?”

“Correct! Oh I love this song! You must dance with me, come on!”

“Hey no wait-”

The night passed in a blur, Nigh’s incredible charisma breaking Maled’s facade and getting him to actually enjoy another person’s company for once. As their time together came to a close, they bid each other adieu.

“Hey Nigh, I’ve got one last question.”

“You could always ask it next time, Ormane, I intend to keep an eye on you.”

“That’s the thing. If i were to enter the EC’s, would you support me?”

Nigh looked pensive, considering Maled for a long moment. “I suppose I wouldn’t be happy with it, but as your friend I would force myself there to watch and support you.”

Maled flinched. Friend wasn’t a good word for him. Too many had simply been tools or targets.

Nigh flicked her hand and a pure white feather, a little less than a foot long, appeared in it.
“This is a feather from the guardian angel of our church. She will protect you and watch over you just as I will.”
She tucked the feather behind his ear, her hand glowing slightly as it affixed the feather there magically.

Maled brushed his hand up against it, soaking in it’s perfect, lovely softness as it caressed his skin. “Thank you Nigh....” He whispered.

“Of course, I’m here for you now. Thanks for the lovely evening. Same time and place tomorrow?”

“Sounds good.”

Nigh bounced from foot to foot for a moment, then leapt forward and hugged Maled quickly, before letting go and running off. “Goodnight!” She waved cheerfully over her shoulder.


Maled had slept well that night, happy to have finally found someone he could actually trust. He briefly considered if maybe he shouldn’t enter the EC’s. But no, too many people were counting on him to win. He had to win. Not for himself, but for Sehmed. For Samuel. For M. For Tani. And for the others that had entrusted their gifts and futures to him.
What do I wish for if I win? Do I wish for forgiveness? Peace for them? I just don’t know…



Maled was barely able to stop himself from collapsing. His body shuddered involuntarily, and he instinctively reached up and brushed his hand along the two feathers behind his ear. Flashes of one final memory invaded his mind.

A knife. A slashed throat. A white woman, mouth open in a soundless scream. A final, pleading, mouthed question. Why?


Maled looked up at the winged musician again.

Red feathers. A corpse.


White feathers, stained in pure red blood spilled by an impure hand. A body, lifeless, still. So full of energy the night before, all stolen away because of one man’s devilish acts.


Dapper’s wings folded onto themselves as the musician shot downwards at the white suited man.

Maled started laughing. A low chuckle at first, building as he stumbled forwards towards the fiery scene to an ear-splitting cackle of insanity. He reached into his belt and removed the small ear plugs, deftly slipping them into his ears.

Sound died. The constant ticking and whirring of the arena vanished. The deafening roars from the other side of the arena fell on deaf ears. The crackling flames before him danced silently. His laughing never stopped. He slapped his left bicep quickly, the sense of feeling in his hands vanishing just like his hearing as his muscles bulged. He stooped low and drew one of his knives, sliding the blade along his palm, creating a small, bleeding cut. Painless.

Knife. Throat. Death.


An angel. He’s an angel. No. No other angels. None but her. Die. DIE AS SHE DID! FEEL THE PAIN MY CURSE BRINGS!

He rocked back, then launched himself, quickly, silently, at the duel of fire and death and chaos. Close. Closer. Even closer. Now. He lunged forwards, his knife flashing forwards to slash out the throat of the false seraph, heedless of the fiery wings that had swept forward to exterminate the man before Dapper. Heedless of the deadly bubbles coming down from above.

That’s right. I remember. Archangel watch over me. I’m here to see her again. Through life or through death. I. MUST. SEE. HER.
Post #: 34
8/1/2018 0:19:07   
Randall Flagg
Member
 

 The vines crept around T.R.E.E.’s left arm as Sylvia began to turn knobs and levers inside of the cockpit. She knew this could work… theoretically. Listening to the battle raging on inside of the arena, she continued to work with a fervor of urgency. The effigy’s torn limb began to be overrun by crawling vines that burst upwards and raised limb and weapon alike.

When the burnt remains of an arm descended onto the effigy, Sylvia pressed the severed limb back into its place, the charred areas creating a small grind of dust that gently drifted to the arena floor. The repair systems on the effigy sent a healing wave through the internal components of her left arm down into the severed limb, anchored and held in place by Kudzu vines through which veins of a verdant light marked the spread of the restorative magic..

When she thought the mending was finished, Sylvia gently flexed the reattached hand, tentatively letting those fingers wiggle a little before clasping them around KLUB’s hilt. The effigy’s newly repaired arm felt no observable difference in the weight, shrugging its shoulders in renewed synchronization with her own. Ready once again, she rose the effigy to its full height to look over the summoned wall. With the arm reattached, Sylvia had a bone or two to pick with the vandal that she had just kicked clear of her precious T.R.E.E.
AQ  Post #: 35
8/1/2018 16:51:41   
draketh99
Purple Armadillo


 Pride clenched his fist. His eyes widened. It was just like before. It was just like that day. The screech of Dapper’s fiddle, he’d heard it before; yet it was different this time. Where had he heard it?

Pride turned to face the diving revenant. His right hand drifted behind his back, drawing up another javelin. The sight before him unearthing rage and memories long since buried. He gripped the spike so forcefully that frozen knuckles and joints popped and cracked. His adversary had burst forth in two blinding, blazing wings. The heat radiated through the air, warping and shimmering around Dapper’s form.

It was just like that day.



Heat. Pain. It was all his. It was all gone. Flames licked at his form, coaxing him into a fatal embrace. Ol’ Tom felt the walls around him screaming in their death throes as wooden beams collapsed from the ceiling. He felt the rooftops lamenting their fate as they buckled and imploded upon themselves. He felt all four corners of the foundation wish goodbyes to each other as they failed and fell.

“No. Please. Why are you doing this? This is all I have. This is all I am.”

Roaring thunder echoed through the streets as entire wings collapsed under their own searing weight. Everything crackled. Everything sparked. Everything burned.

Everything quiet.

The entire mansion, reduced to rubble, sat in a steaming pile of its former glory. Snowflakes sizzled against the hot embers of the most expensive bonfire in hundreds of years.

Black silhouetted figures had been strewn across the ground. Passers by left to ponder the justice of the punishment that fate had dealt to these poor looters, perhaps just looking to make a living.

The night grew silent as the scorched earth cooled. Not even the wind howled. There wasn’t a sound, save for a small rustling. A shifting from under rubble as one of the charred, silhouetted figures crawled forth from the blackened grave. There was no breath, no coughing, no gasp for air. The figure crawled out into the street, ashen snow sticking to its form, coating it, taking shape.

The figure slowly morphed. What was once a charred corpse crawling across the ground had slowly become a union of seared flesh, glittering shards, and soot coated snow.

The amalgamation wheezed and sputtered, attempting to scream from permanently seared lungs. There was a click. There were many more clicks. Chips of ice and snow bonded together into complex patterns into the gaping maw of this silently screaming mass. Shards and rods of ice snapped and resonated together, some dampened by snow, others left to the frozen air. The figure chirped. It whirred. Horrible scraping and unintelligible garbled syllables echoed out as the mass slowly learned to speak in its new form.

It reached out one final time, its own tonality jumping and lowering at each syllable. It roared out with its newfound voice.

“You will not be rid of me so easily. I am no mere man. I am reborn from ash and snow. I am driven by all I have accomplished, and all that will be accomplished. I am pride incarnate, and you cannot kill that.”



A growl reverberated from Pride. Fear had frozen into resolve. The scorching pain of that day sharpened his focus to a point.

“You’re through running?” He goated at the flaming revenant before him. “Good, I see you’re finally showing some of that stolen backbone of yours!”

There was a flash off to the side. The dark one, now crazed, seemed to be charging at Dapper as well.

Pride hissed.

The fool. I will not have my satisfaction stolen from me!

The frozen wraith lunged forwards at Dapper, flaming wings closing in on him from either side. Opaque shards of ice steamed, fizzled, and popped at the nearing heat. His left hand raised before him, drawing up a wall of flat, white, fogging ice just behind Dapper. He hoped that he could catch the bard mid-backstep. The cracks in his shoulder widened as the searing heat of the wings drew much closer than comfort demanded. The cracks spread to his chest, exposing a pulsing blue light.

Pearlescent ice screamed as the remaining crystal shards along his cloak shattered in an explosive ball of steam.

Pride shifted onto his left foot and pushed off, thrusting his javelin directly at the bard’s chest.

“Goodbye, Dapper. It’s been a pleasure.”
DF  Post #: 36
8/1/2018 19:36:55   
Necro-Knight
Member

So close… Just a few more feet and I could dig my claws into this monsters chest, tear it open and see just what made it tick. I was lost for a moment in this fantasy when another cold, hissing impact of water struck me square in the back and with another eruption of pain from my wounds and broken rib, was promptly smashed onto the arena floor like an insect beneath a child’s hand.

The water itself sent El’nath hissing and screeching back into the depths of my mind and the pain of the sudden impact with the arena floor was multiplied by the loss of adrenaline and elemental infusion. Unfortunately, while doused and infuriated, El’naths rage would not let darkness claim me, even as my vision greyed and swam. So, as I lay there and struggle to breath without suffering, I realized… if I died here and now, my people would die with me. I was the last member of my civilization and at the hands of a stranger, there would be no memory of us besides ashes and ruins. That had NOT been at the hands of a stranger, no… that had been at my hand. My foolish, stubborn and idiotic decision.

But, a voice said in my head, it was also my decision to try to save them.

This voice was not El’naths broiling, churning tone… It was my own. That same small spark of personal fire that had driven me to this accursed arena in the first place. It was either true heroism or true and total insanity, but at this point, I had nothing left to do but listen.

I came all this way, spent almost every coin I had and risked my very life to return theirs. I didn’t care if I died, not truly. Doing so only meant my people could not return from my mistake, but either way, I would be reunited with my home, my family and my brother. I realized suddenly in that moment as the arena slowly came back into focus through the pain that I missed him dearly. He’d have won this, he’d have done so with power and glory and brilliant flames. He wouldn’t be lying here in a pool of his own blood and broken.

I remembered, in a sudden flash of clarity, our first time training with my newly-awoken power. My flames were wild and unpredictable, even dangerous… but my brother had never once shown fear, never once backed down when I could’ve hurt him. Instead, he worked around the wildfire and helped me sharpen myself into a true Fireborn. This… was not how I would honor his and my people’s memory.

Gritting my teeth, I slowly pushed myself to my feet as a small warmth kindled near the base of my spine and spread upward, growing hotter as it spread up across my shoulders. The pain did not subside, but the consistent flow of crimson stopped dripping across my ribs and shoulders and my vision cleared even further, allowing me to see that the arboreal creation had repaired the limb I’d managed to mangle earlier.

“Now… that’s just unfair,” I said, to no one in particular.

Reaching a hand up across my wounded right shoulder, I felt tender burns across the flesh that had been torn apart, but… I had not been burned elsewhere like I would've if I had lost control of my flames during my brief rampage. The flames had felt as if they’d come from within, to cauterize the wounds with the last bit of power I had.

“Oh, now you’re being helpful… buddy, we need to talk about your priorities in the afterlife.”

With one arm wrapped tightly around my torso to try and brace my shattered rib, I pushed myself up with a brief cry of pain, before turning to keep both opponents in my field of view. A walking tree and a man who seemed to be able to conjure the ocean out of thin air. All in all, I hadn’t picked weak foes by any standards, and I’d managed to wound both in some manner, if temporarily. But, even outnumbered, wounded and in copious amounts of pain, I wasn’t going to witness the end of my people’s lineage on my back.

With the sharp snap of metal grinding against metal, I extended the long blade from my left gauntlet, the mechanism a little slower to respond from damage most likely. I could see my weapon trembling from the pain and exertion of remaining on my feet, and I was sure my foes could as well, but I wasn’t going to just roll over. The lasting legacy of my people shall be their final warrior facing down his end, not with fear, but with burning determination. I was Fireborn, and there was no other way to die.

In as much of a taunting motion as I could muster, I brought the blade up and swept my arm back towards my chest with a few shaking motions. The movement nearly sent me spinning back to the ground and my stance faltered sloppily, but I remained on my feet… I would die a warrior’s death, my people. For my brother.

“If you’re… going to send me home… then come on… COME ON!”
DF MQ AQW  Post #: 37
8/2/2018 13:37:09   
  Lorekeeper
And Pun-isher

 


You are a persistent little wretch, aren’t you?




There is a pulse to this place.

Even now, the thought lingered. It gained new meaning. The beating of the Arena’s mechanical heart had steadily become more than a series of noises to filter out, grow used to, and yet sometimes orient oneself by. This vague melody, once a faint undertone concealed amidst a grotesque challenge to the senses, had finally revealed the poetry of its orchestration. Steady beyond the hands of mortal musicians or craftsmen, omnipresent and yet multifarious in both direction and composition. It was a manifold instrument setting the stage for its inhabitants’ entwined destiny, performing a symphony that each of their hearts would interpret differently.

As a defeated opponent, broken and dejected, still found the courage to struggle to his feet and meet his approach with dignity, Gabriel could hear this unnaturally orchestrated pulse take up a dirge. Further, he could hear it play a memory. Looking down at his opponent, he took in the whispered song of a moment stolen from his mind and watched as it was turned into another instrument of the Clock Tower. The larceny of its ominous music invited a revelation: Suhmat stood before the former Adept as he himself one stood before an overwhelming menace, terrifying and absolute.

He was too young back then. Too young for war, and certainly for suffering of that sort. But the same could be said for the other allies that collapsed as he did, faltering all around him. Broken before the advent of a ruthless father. Fallen, doomed beyond any mortal fate. Stripped of everything but purpose, and the dying wish that an army of united strangers had delayed oblivion itself long enough for Hope to take root.

The Fireborn’s eyes carried the same mournful defiance that he had seen in his allies. Human, Elani, Ulgathi, Vartai, Kruath'ri… For once, all of their eyes looked the same. Like Suhmat’s.

Gabriel’s mien transformed in an instant. He approached Suhmat with a firm stride and firmer purpose, grasping the swiftly manifesting haft of a spear. The length of ebony stretched towards the warrior, all but pressing the subtle wave of its silver edge against his chin. From the abyssal blue of its flat, runes of a much clearer color cast the flow of their faint radiance upward onto their potential prey’s face, forming a contrasting play of dancing hues with the more intense glow that filtered overhead.

At spear’s length, Gabriel spoke at last with a voice that was deepened and wearied beyond the apparent youth of his marred expression. Sever was a weapon that carried a certain finality, and it would not do to speak its purpose lightly. To do so would be to dishonor its target.

“I ask of you, warrior of Fire: In one breath, from the bottom of your heart… What boon would you ask of the Lords?”

The warrior’s inhalation was slow and pained, threatened more by the pinching of his broken ribs than by the stillness of Gabriel’s spear. In overwhelming contrast, however, his response was swift. The answer had been waiting for this question, even if it would have sought these words in different lips.

“To go home.”

Whether it was the whim of higher powers or the ever so brief collision of kindred spirits, the words inspired an emotion that Gabriel had never learned the name of. Even though he would never know the memories stolen by raging fire, this nameless familiarity almost conveyed the feeling of the desert sun setting over the ocean and giving way to cold nights, and the veil of a breathtaking starscape coming to life over the still-bustling ports. Waves of the endless sea dancing to one side of the walls, waves of the shifting sands looming to the other.

Images that the Kinslayer would never know, forlorn nostalgia that would not relent. They colored Suhmat’s words and smoldered on his gaze. This was not the yearning for a home far away, but the longing for a home long lost.

It was in Gabriel’s power to grant that wish. But even if he was right… It was not his place to do so.

“Hold on to that wish until the very end. Never tarnish it.”

Sever was promptly withdrawn, promising a swift end from its vertiginous spin over Gabriel’s head. The blade sang its own humble addition to the Factory’s play as it whispered promises of death to Suhmat… then cut past him, relinquishing its strike to the heavy pommel instead. A different sort of darkness awaited the body that crumbled before him. Without fully realizing it himself, Gabriel hoped to not only inspire Suhmat to forge ahead, but to reaffirm his own resolve — Or rather, come to understand it.



It is unfortunate all of creation cannot be more like you.




Across the body of the first competitor to fall to his peers stood another challenge. The Spear of the Forsaken River had completed one last turn before coming to wait behind Gabriel’s back, blade aimed to the right while the left hand was held forward toward the restored druidic effigy. A foe that commanded immediate wariness and respect, since the advantage of alacrity afforded Gabriel little safety from its sheer menace. He could feel, through what water remained on its hulking frame, that there were few to no gaps in its form. Its prior cries hinted at another presence within, but direct blows would stand no chance at piercing through the wooden armor and reaching it…

...In complete and overwhelming contrast to Gabriel’s composure. The eyes that had preoccupied themselves in completing a thus far fragmented analysis of the construct found their task cut short, lids suddenly spread wide around contracting pupils — Even as they were all but crushed under the pressure of a sternly furrowed brow.

For during each moment of this attempted evaluation, the young man’s senses were beckoned more intensely. His attention was compelled with rising power. There was no bridge to separate this rush, only a single crescendo. There were, however, two distinct sources: One inspiring, the other infuriating.

The con fuoco glory of The Secret Chord seemed to reach Gabriel’s heart before his hearing could properly make sense of it. Though the severing of strings delivered a shrill, fortissimo finale to its prelude, this was the one composition that grew from such a display rather than suffer a ruinous end. Its power extended beyond sound, exalted by a majesty that didn’t need to meet Gabriel’s sight to inspire memories he had not valued enough at their time:

The moments of light to be found amidst the torments of war, in the eyes of those given a reprieve from its ravages.

The birth of camaraderie amongst strange and new allies, a bizarre but welcome experience after an early youth marked by the lonesome tenets of the Order of Tempests.

The sorrow and glory of an ally’s sacrifice, paying the ultimate price without hesitation. A shooting star streaking amongst mortals, who find in its fleeting majesty the inspiration to obtain victory.

The discovery of love’s foundations hidden in years of teachings. An aging hand struggling to reconcile its instincts, dancing at the intersection of fatherly love and a mentor’s temperance. A younger hand pushing one’s back to keep them heading toward the future, causing feet to skip a step and a heart to skip a beat.

All of this came to an abrupt and bitter end, yet the swelling of Gabriel’s heartbeats did no such thing. The admonishment and promise of judgement had completely transformed the nature of this brief but sublime reverie. Inspiration was corrupted into pure wrath, a rising rage that took a great force of will to contain. Even then, it would only be held at bay for long enough to offer a moment of regained composure to the competitor within the effigy.

Bidding Sever to vanish for the moment, Gabriel gathered his hands in a martial salute to extend a gesture of respect. “I would offer you a proper duel, warrior of nature… should we both succeed. I do not wish to spurn you, but I am bound by purpose to face that man. Forgive my arrogance.”

His prompt departure left behind the curious sight of a spade scraping lightly against wood, in a synchronized extension of the effigy’s thoroughly confused pilot.




A father comes not to reprove, but to reform.

Indeed…



Gabriel had spent a good deal of the prior engagement seeking opportunities, and scarcely creating them. Although it was his way to frequently change his apparent combat style, just as water takes the shape of its vessel, this particular change would have to be more drastic from the very approach. He had fought conservatively so far, saving energy for the right moment. The time had now come to force the momentum and the moment to become one and create that opportunity in their rhyme.

Mercifully, the druidic construct allowed him a safe departure. When a gaze stolen over his shoulder confirmed this, Gabriel inwardly thanked its creator before turning a run into a full sprint. Extended hands bid water to rise around him before coalescing into another surface at his feet. As he was not yet engaged in combat, he could command a larger amount this time — A combination of miniature wave and platform to carry him closer to the central pillar, then rush past as he leapt forward. As he had priorly sprung off of a similar conjuration, this time he raised both hands toward the arena’s shifting ceiling. This command sent the water rushing upwards, propelling the warrior along to the higher spokes of the pillar. In overshooting the intended height, the maneuver didn’t make for the most subtle of entrances, but subtlety was no longer close to Gabriel’s intent.

Instead, he made a very deliberate descent towards Dalavar while delivering his response to his most audacious announcement. There was no unnatural quality to his words, nor any favorable silence from the arena to lend a better stage to his own proclamation. But nonetheless, the conviction of his stride and delivery were strong enough to command attention.

“You.

You chose the wrong stage for this display. You would stand under the gaze of the Lords and present yourself as a devourer of worlds? I fought in the war for this world’s salvation. Dead before the god you present yourself as a pale mockery of, to steal seconds from His advent. Doomed and Forsaken before his Network, that Hope would have time to rise.

I am not here for the slaughter. But I will show you Judgement.”

Gabriel expected to be met with action, but was nonetheless not surprised by finding condescension in its stead.

"The form of judgement you enacted upon the vessel of fire, now slain and forgotten, renders you a hypocrite, child. Speak not in absolutes or grandiosities until you can support them with honour, wisdom and calculated mercy."

A mirthless smirk stole some of this sentiment as it found a home on Gabriel’s face. Though his wrath did not subside, there was a small satisfaction in meeting his opponent in a battle of wits as well, in advance of a more decisive clash. The water that elevated his form danced a short distance behind him, mimicking the waving of the worn blue coat. A dramatic prelude to a duel could stir the crowds better than violence being the opening act, but Gabriel had forgotten about the spectacle. In a strange way, his motivation was now purely personal.

“You may ask him about my hypocrisy later, if you survive this arena… For now, spare me the grandiloquence. This is not the stage where stories are told. Here, they are made.”

A moment’s realization saw these words inspiring a bright but bittersweet expression in his prospective opponent. The ensuing reverie nonetheless grew haughty, in a combination that Gabriel felt summarized this curious personage perfectly. “Stories are made every moment of every day, and the best ones are those which end happily. I implore you to revisit your destructive outlook on life, lest you find it rapidly extinguished—”

As it had happened to Suhmat before him, Dalavar found his posturing interrupted by a veritable torrent of the water that had awaited Gabriel’s command. This time, however, he didn’t offer his foe the dignity of finishing his speech before being assaulted. The small wave struck downward along the direction of the spokes, slamming Dalavar into them and washing him just far enough to send him falling down directly opposite of the position of his proclamation of judgement. Now only a body’s height above the ground, the fall was not remotely threatening, but it certainly had an undignified end.

Shortly afterwards, Gabriel narrowed his focus to something more adequate for combat, lest he find himself grasping more than he can hold once his opponent saw fit to pay him in kind. It was a more modest amount of water that broke his fall, depositing him between the pillar and his most loquacious foe yet.

“I just told you to spare me the grandiloquence.”
Post #: 38
8/3/2018 19:50:05   
Apocalypse
Member

Wings of fire roared as they cascaded over the wraith, the flames licking away at its icy form. In turn, Dapper’s fist crunched upon the arena floor as he caught himself in his landing. The sound was all too familiar to the bard’s ears - more than one bone had been broken. A high price, but with his fiddle gone the revenant could not afford to relinquish any more of his arsenal. He needed his swords.

The wings pulled back, their size diminished from their brush with Pride’s frozen self. Another cost, but one with a payoff - azure light poured forth from the fracture stretching across the specter’s chest. The glow from its wound waxed and waned in rapid fluctuation, mimicking a heartbeat that had stopped oh so long ago. But the wraith was relentless, launching forward in spite of the inferno surrounding him.

Dapper staggered as he rose to his feet. A quick glance caught the puncture wound in his thigh: a parting gift from one of Pride’s earlier spikes. The bard heard a clack as he clenched his jaw shut and threw himself backwards. Burning wings beat to either side, propelling the dead man backwards and out of harm’s-

The hissing of fire on ice flooded his ears. Steam clouded his vision. And what little momentum he had died. Wings of fires fluttered in at the corners of his perception, mere shadows of their former majesty as they flickered, then winked out. An ice wall. The barrier cracked and popped as it extinguished his means of flight and cut off his escape.

Quick.

Efficient.

Cold.

A spear of frost penetrated the dead man’s abdomen, flesh giving way as winter’s blue was dyed rustic bronze. The wall behind him splintered as the lance pierced through his body and drove into the icy formation. Pride looked up at him with his scarred face, satisfaction gleaming in those glassy eyes. “Goodbye, Dapper. It’s been a pleasure.”

Blood seeped from the dead man’s chest. It pooled on the bard’s thigh. Trickled from the musician’s lips.

This is it.

Showstopper slipped from his grasp and clattered against the Factory’s floor.

No more running.

A hand trembling from blood loss rose up level with the spear.

No more hiding.

Fingers mauve from bruises and contorted from broken bones wrapped around the javelin’s shaft.

Just one final…spectacular...performance.

Tongues of flame grew from the bronze-tinged spear. Burning flowers bloomed from the dead man’s chest. Scorching tendrils erupted from the bard’s thigh. A waterfall of fire fell from the musician’s lips. A laugh, wild and free, echoed throughout the arena in conjunction rather than conflict with the machinery’s clanking. The javelin shattered in his fiery grip. The wall collapsed in shards around the revenant.

The cracking of ice.

The cackling of fire.

The gear’s monolithic beat.

The three came together in harmonic symphony as the musician hurled himself forward. Flames licked up his body, incinerating large patches of his torn and bloodied suit in the process. Blood ignited - a living pyre in its last flicker of life. A fiery hand clamped over the wraith’s cruel smile, its muffled shouts joining the musician’s laughter. The revenant’s flesh burned from cold even as flame engulfed it. Pride fell backwards, eyes wide at the dead man’s sheer audacity. Dapper Fenix flashed a grin. “And so it has, Wot! Take your bow, and take it well! For there will be no encore - not for blights like us!”

The Heinous Conductor, glistening with frost and alight with fire, plunged down towards the bard's past.
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 39
8/3/2018 21:01:18   
Rayen
Constructively Discussional!


 Dalavar watched in resigned dismay as the former bard’s apparent lust for vanquishment consumed not only the remainder of his own life, but also that of his frostbitten foe. However, there still remained time to countermand their self-imposed sentences, could His Great Audaciousness just capture the juxtaposed pair’s attentions away from the tragedy they unfurled together.

Approaching the opportune moment to enact his grand scheme, Dalavar regarded the velocity and positioning of his small flotilla of bubbles with anticipation. The magic he wielded, though largely ineffectual in skirmishes such as this, brought the ageless man a great deal of joy. Bubbles were a lively, delicate work of fine balance and symmetry; creations so visually captivating that of course they were doomed to break the hearts of those who gazed with adoration upon them. But if one knew how, as Dalavar did, they were simple to reproduce, and so he lived with the hope that more would appear to draw his attention away from the macabre realities he had - and would undoubtedly come to - face.

As the Mage Slayer continued to rapidly spin his cane between both hands, he focused on the bubbles as they wafted and swirled, allowing his surroundings to blur. The iridescent reflections danced playfully through the steam and sound - from the rotation and repetitive clack of the arena, to the shrieking of gas rapidly escaping the rapidly heating ice below, to the…relative silence to his stern?

“You”

Dalavar pivoted on his feet to take in the rear he’d thought preoccupied by fighting. A strong young man, his fine outfit highlighted by the pulsating blue aura enshrouding it, bored accusing eyes into his elemental counterpart. On the arena floor behind him, a man, still displaying the faint red aura of Fire magic, lay dead, providing a partial explanation for the comparative serenity Dalavar had heard.

“You chose the wrong stage for this display. You would stand under the gaze of the Lords and present yourself as a devourer of worlds? I fought in the war for this world’s salvation. Dead before the god you present yourself as a pale mockery of, to steal seconds from His advent. Doomed and Forsaken before his Network, that Hope would have time to rise.

I am not here for the slaughter. But I will show you Judgement.”

Pausing momentarily to consider the fellow, likely barely old enough for formal marriage, but already battle-hardened and fierce. Dalavar did not fully understand the recount of the past war that had left the young man so heavily scarred across the left side of his face, but while he felt compelled to extend heartfelt praise, a single prevailing thought manifested. What knows he, that I do not? What sees he, that I have not? What right has he, who would proffer a blade and threatening word, to pass judgement while I walk without malice through a battlefield seeking peace? He could grow tall, yet his naiveté inhibits his recognition of the Truth; my responsibility lies in the unshackling of his soul, that he may be free to examine the source of my conviction.

Believing the warrior’s arrogance to be disrespectful to his recently bested opponent, Dalavar declared, “The form of judgement you enacted upon the vessel of fire, now slain and forgotten, renders you a hypocrite, child. Speak not in absolutes and grandiosities until you can support them with honour, wisdom, and calculated mercy.”

However, the reply His Great Audaciousness received left him somewhat confused.

“You may ask him about my hypocrisy later, if you survive this arena… For now, spare me the grandiloquence. This is not the stage where stories are told. Here, they are made.”

Was this proclamation a threat? Perhaps it was merely a concerned warning, accompanying the implication that the man who lay defeated on the ground lived still, thanks to this wielder of the tide. Regardless, the words struck a nerve. Dalavar knew that this arena was not a performance stage; Life was a performance stage - the Factory Clocktower merely provided an audience. Likewise, Life was the source of all stories. All. This space was merely a minor constituent part, the opening chapter, of the infinite complexity that made up Life. To imply that here, amidst such anger and adversity, developed stories worth retelling reminded The Mage Slayer exactly why he had come, and what he must say.

“Stories are made every moment of every day, and the best ones are those which end happily. I implore you to revisit your destructive outlook on life, lest you find it rapidly extinguis—“

Words cut short as a torrent of water collided with the solid-framed, flamboyant man, shoving him unavoidably to crash down hard upon the helical spokes. Temerity clattered to the makeshift step to his side, reminding him of the desperate battle continuing to his south. Gripping the dark cane tightly by the head in his right hand, Dalavar propped himself up onto one knee as his opponent, righteous anger dripping from every word, stated, “I just told you to spare me the grandiloquence.”

The fine, gossamer fabric surrounding His Great Audaciousness rippled like the shadows of disoriented moths in the light of a fire. Regaining his feet, Dalavar parted his now-stern lips to direct a new message at the impertinent competitor.

“Very well. What is your name? I won’t ask again.” Without blinking, Dalavar jerked Temerity upwards in his hand, punctuating his final words with several loud popping sounds as all eight of his active bubbles ruptured violently as they instantaneously boiled, releasing seething showers of clear liquid above the heads of the three combatants he’d marked earlier.

A wicked spear appearing at his back, the young man assumed a defensive stance, replying simply, “I am Gabriel.” The contrasted succinctness of speech between the two elucidated the great disparity their respective backgrounds. One far older man, whose lack of physical prowess or arcane might had been supplemented with a voice and mind both so unique as to captivate and sway all but the strongest of hearts; the other, a younger man granted power over the tides as a birthright and trained from childhood to utilise the art of martial combat against multiple powerful foes, and possessed of a versatility to shift the tide of battle on a whim.

Dalavar parried Gabriel’s brusqueness by informing, “And I was called Dalavar, so may still be. A great curiosity to meet you, Gabriel. Do you seek enmity with me, shall we continue peaceful discussions, or might you rejoin your battlefield yonder, that I may mine?”

“I have made my intent clear. Whether we are enemies when this is done is another matter.” The young man named Gabriel offered a considered reply, its subtle undertones indicating that he wished not to fight out of malice or with the intent to take life, though Dalavar could barely guess at his motivations.

His Great Audaciousness paused for a moment, the soft white radiance he emitted fading with his stillness. He had to admit, Gabriel was not an ideal opponent. Flaunting overwhelming arcane and martial abilities, Dalavar’s preferred defensive style was likely to very literally become swamped by the more highly trained warrior.

A fair distance from Gabriel after his inelegant fall, Dalavar hoped to capitalise by materialising a body-sized bubble in order to afford himself protection against the varied attacks he could come to expect from the young human. Clutching the crystal orb that topped Temerity in his left hand, The Mage Slayer braced his shoulder and the edge of his foot against the central pillar to act as either a support against another burst of water, or a platform from which to spring off the spiral staircase entirely - altogether likely the wisest option. Focusing his life force through the dark timber of his pipe, Dalavar began materialising a large bubble when, in a smooth motion and a flash of blue-and-grey, the water under Gabriel’s control whipped out towards its target, pinning him between the central pylon and a speeding lash.

Genuinely not expecting an attack of this speed or finesse, Dalavar dismissed any thought of summoning a larger bubble, gripping the melon-sized glassy ball in both hands and launching himself out from the cylindrical wall and over the trajectory of the whip…

But not fast enough to avoid a biting whap against his right ankle. The pain was considerable, equal to that of a serious break, but mercifully the water’s surface tension dissipated somewhat upon collision with the bony region of his leg.

His Great Audaciousness hit the ground hard, but utilising the structural strength of the bubble as a rubbery pillow, managed to redirect much of the momentum into propelling himself upright, landing - albeit with great pain on his right leg - on both feet. Having shattered upon impact, Dalavar began immediately focusing on the creation of the larger bubble he desired. Hobbling cautiously away from Gabriel in a wide arc, he aimed to position the central pillar and its spokes between himself and his current opponent. Within a mere few seconds he’d have an adequate shield with which to face the misguided - or so Dalavar believed - conviction held in the eyes of the younger, infinitely more naive human.
AQ DF  Post #: 40
8/3/2018 22:27:46   
  Chewy905

Chromatic ArchKnight of RP


 “Oh good, I’m glad you made it!”

She was standing at the edge of the tall building’s flat roof, looking out at the setting sun. The beauty of the scene was put to shame by the woman’s own, though. Her white hair shone brilliantly on the dying light, her dress billowing softly in the wind. She was facing away from Maled, who had just come up the stairs after receiving a letter.

“Why did you want to meet up here? The EC’s start in only a few days.”

“Yeah, that’s why we’re up here. I wanted to enjoy a sunset with you before you go into that death trap. Have you registered yet?”

“I still haven’t. I probably will soon.”

“You don’t have to, Ormane. Is a wish really worth this much to you? So much that you’d risk your life for it?”

“This is my chance to feel alive. To be someone new. To make my mark in the world.”

“You don’t need to risk your life to do that!” She was practically shouting now, distress flooding her melodic voice.

“Nigh… you promised you’d support me…” Maled’s voice was quiet and shaky.

“I want to Ormane. But I don’t want you to die in there. Life is too precious to throw away for the joy of others. Please Ormane. Please reconsider.”

“I can’t Nigh. I’m going to do this, but I want you to support that.”

Nigh turned around to face him, the brilliant sunset now behind her. There were tears in her eyes. And she took a long, slow breath to still her trembling body. “No Maled Con. I’m not letting you enter the EC’s. I’m not letting you end your life. You seek redemption, right? I can grant that.”

Before Maled could respond, shocked that Nigh had just uttered his true name, he was stopped short. Two large wings burst from the girl’s back, pure white feathers scattering forth and drifting slowly to the ground. Nigh floated into the air slightly, just a foot above the ground. Her wings spread out, spanning an impressively large distance. Her beauty was magnified, passing beyond what should have been possible. The golden light of the sunset danced along her wings, her hair, her dress, causing her to glow with heavenly light. She smiled down at him gently, plucked a pair of earplugs out of thin air, placed them in her ears, then clasped her hands in prayer.

Maled didn’t even notice, overwhelmed by a single thought.
Here in the city of Gods, I have found someone above them.
Beyond that. His mind was blank, unable to comprehend the divine figure he was facing. As she spoke, her voice caressed her ears and invaded his mind, enslaving him completely.

“I know you, Maled Con. I know the sins that weigh you down. You poor, poor man. They must be so heavy.” Her perfect voice carried no malice, only sadness and pity. “It’s not too late for you, Maled. You don’t need a wish to cleanse yourself. You don’t need to die for the sins you’ve committed. You can be redeemed. Come to me, Maled.”

He advanced, taking slow, careful steps, desiring nothing more than to listen to the Angel’s voice. To heed the Seraph’s instructions.

“Good. See? You’re not hopeless. You wanted to win the contest so you could be forgiven, right? You don’t need that, Maled. Come. I can bring you to the Church. You can be absolved. You don’t even need to confess, you need only listen.”

Maled continued his slow advance, and Nigh’s arms opened, inviting him to her embrace.

“The Church will free you from your curse. The Church will free you from your sins. We’ve saved so many people like you, Maled Con. I can fly you there, out of this accursed city. You don’t need the lords. You don’t need a wish. You don’t need to shed any more blood, take any more lives. You need only come with me.”

He stepped closer, into her arms. She wrapped them around him, holding him lightly. Her wings followed suit, surrounding him in their gentle light. He reached up, his hand touching her face softly.

“Are you a god?” He whispered.

“No, Maled Con.” She smiled gently, eyes mirthful, the gorgeous sight imprinting itself into his memory. “I’m just a servant. But I can save you. Let me save you. Please.

His hand brushed her lips.

Seal the voice. Prevent calling for help.


His body did not respond to his instincts, but his magic did. Nigh kept whispering gently, pleading for the man to give in. To save his life and others. But the words did not come. She didn’t notice, her plugged ears denying her any awareness of the lack of sound.

The enrapturing voice silenced, Maled’s trance was broken. But before clarity could return to him, instinct reigned.

Break out. Don’t allow yourself to be trapped.


Maled stepped back quickly, Nigh’s arms and wings releasing him without resistance. Her face showed pain, hurt that the man had left her. Denied her. But she made no moves to grab him. No moves to force him to follow her will.

After rendering the target senseless, helpless, end them quickly. Mercifully.


Swiftly, Maled Con drew his cold black knife and struck, slashing across the angel’s throat, creating a spray of crimson blood. Her head snapped back, mouth open in a silent scream at the dusk sky. The blood stained her feathered wings, her white dress, her skin. All turning red. Her perfection was disappearing. Tainted by a cursed man. She fell to the ground and collapsed forward onto her hands, her once spotless wings falling limp alongside side her. The large gash at her throat kept bleeding.

Maled stepped back involuntarily, his wits returning to him. He dropped the knife, the metal clattering loudly against the stone roof, and rose a hand to his mouth in shock. Nigh looked up at him, a combination of physical pain, emotional pain, and fear painting her expression. She weakly mouthed one final word, her voice still failing her.

”Why?"


Her eyes closed, her body still. Life faded away as the sun set over Bren. Maled slowly stepped over to the Angel’s corpse, and took the earplugs out of her ears. He plucked one unmarred feather from her once-pure wings and held it in his hand, staring at it blanky, then sunk to the ground.

For the first time, Maled Con wept for a life that wasn’t his own.



The wall appeared suddenly, without any warning. Maled reacted just as quickly, throwing his knife at the wall with all his strength. It lodged in, sinking just enough to stay stuck. As he approached the wall he leapt, kicking off the ground, then the knife’s handle, then the top of the wall, while simultaneously drawing his second knife to replace the lost blade.

Maled pushed off the top of the wall and launched himself into the air, looking down at his opponents and deciding who to bring falling death upon.

The bard had stumbled back and collided with the wall, the cold grip of the ice snuffing out the light of his wings. The white suited man’s frozen spear pierced the fallen angel and pinned him to the wall.

The dead man gripped the spears handle and shattered it as his body burst into flame. Dapper lunged forwards and grabbed the white suited man, presenting his back, his neck, to Maled.

There. I’ll extinguish you. I’ll succeed where I failed in that tavern. You will never pose as a divine being again.

Maled shifted in the air, twisting his body to reach a position from which he could drive his black blade through the back of the desperate musician’s neck.

He never got the chance.

The air above Maled roiled and shimmered, then ruptured, releasing forth an ocean of boiling hot water. The liquid rained down on Maled, scorching his back, his head, his arms, his legs. Branding him with the mark of a fool that refused to notice anything but what was in front of him. He shouted out as his body contorted in pain from the burns, exiting the oh-so carefully planned maneuver he had prepared. His hand opened as the boiling droplets kissed its surface, releasing its grip on his last knife. In a panic, he tried to grab at it, but the stinging pain all over his body blurred his vision, and he grasped hopelessly at empty air as he plunged down, gracelessly, towards the growing pyre of corpses.
Post #: 41
8/4/2018 18:30:26   
draketh99
Purple Armadillo


 Ice cracked. Steam bellowed. Careful, meticulous pieces had been strung together in a symphony of pearlescent humanoid shape. They had all now been deformed. They were broken. They were ugly.

No… No!

Flames had gripped, torn, and defiled the wraith’s once perfect body. The seething Pride sat back,a gaping expression at his foe. He refused to grasp onto the cold reality. Not the reality of what had happened, but what was about to happen.

It can’t end like this. It won’t end like this!

Pride locked eyes with Dapper, rising to his feet. He pushed off his knee in time to feel the gleaming tip of the Heinous Conductor scraping against his cracked and pulsing chest. Realization struck him as sharply as the blade ever could.

You’ve stolen everything from me!

The wraith’s cold stare never shook, never glanced away from Dapper’s eyes. Pride took a step towards his opponent as the bard’s blade found purchase. The blue, shimmering light that poured out from Pride’s cracked chest now pulsed and flickered. He took another step. Plates of shimmering ice were shoved to the side by the glistening steel. Another step. The blue light now flashed wildly, flitting about like a bird trying to escape a cage.

Another step.

With an unwavering gaze, Pride approached Dapper, bringing his left hand up to the bard’s throat. His frozen grip began to squeeze, siphoning heat and breath alike. The wraith leaned into another step forward, slamming knuckled of his right hand towards the wound his javelin had left.

A final step.

A loud, wet crack echoed off of the arena floor. Blazing steel had punctured through Pride’s chest and was now sticking out the other side. Ice crystals slowly started to dissipate into fog. Frozen plates began to fall. Condensation dripped like rain.

Is the show already over?



The mansion was quiet. It had been for days now. Ol’ Tom sat on the floor, kneeled in front of his only companion. His misshapen reflection stared back to him from the shattered mirror. It nodded at him, clearly expecting him to speak first.

“This is wrong. This is all wrong. This isn’t what I wanted at all.” The spectral frost sobbed.

“It’s not what you wanted. It’s what you asked for.”

“How did I ask for this? This hell of an existence? There’s no hope, no rest. I can’t close my eyes without allowing the screams to drag me back.”

“Think of what you were plucked from. What could send you back? Nothing dares approach us.”

“Do they need to approach us? I may fall apart here. And you, you’re nothing but a reflection. A cold reflection!”

“I’m much more than a reflection, Tom.”

“Oh?”

“I’m your reflection.”

“You look nothing like me.”

“I look nothing like how you see yourself. I look very much like what you are.”

“If you know so much about me, where have my lines gone?”

“Your what?”

“My lines! They’re gone! Everything I touch, everywhere I go, they’re gone! The line between me and them. The chairs, the walls, the floor, everything is me!”

“Everything is yours.”

“No! Not mine, me. Everything I touch is me. But I’m less now. I’m not fully me because everything is.”

“Hush now, you’re being foolish. Show some pride. Besides, we have guests.”

Moonlight flickered and faded, hiding behind a passing cloud. When all had cleared and moonbeams filtered their way back through the windows, Tom found himself alone again. The mirror showed him nothing but the empty space that was himself. For several, long moments there was silence. Everything was him.

The creaking of a door and the patter of footsteps broke that silence.

“Who’s there?!”

A shiver crawled its way up Ol’ Tom’s back, his grave being stepped on. The front door had opened. The hallway called out to him. Something foreign had entered. The sensation was strange. The hallway felt a tingle as footsteps crept along the carpet. This was uncomfortable.

Ol’ Tom blinked. He was there. Not where he was, but where they were.

“Is that good or should we make it simpler?” One said.

These were people. He’d used to be people. Was he still people? What were they doing here?

“Sounds like you got it. I’ll be off then.” The same one said, walking off shortly after.

“What are you doing here? Just what do you think you’re going?”

Nothing.

“Are you deaf? Everything here, all of this is me. Mine. How dare you walk in unannounced!”

Still no reaction. The remaining person began sifting through papers and shattered furniture, blissfully unaware of him.

“No please, please hear me. I’m here. I’m really here. Please tell me I’m here!”

Tom reached out, grasping at her shoulder as frost crept out from his hands.

“No, no, no this isn’t right. You can hear me, can’t you? Please tell me you can hear me. You have to be able to hear me. I'm real, you have to tell me I'm real! I'm back!”



Pride blinked. The flickering in his chest slowed. His eyes, for the first time in their creation, softened. Their once sharp focus now wide and glossy, reflecting candlelight back to the flaming revenant.

The wraith’s grip on Dapper’s throat weakened. The light clatter of ice hitting the floor picking up like sleet onto a tin roof. Pride’s chest rose one final time, drawing in what he could so that he could know.

A crack slowly crept its way up Pride’s arm, his hand splitting into two pieces sitting against the bard’s throat. A frozen jaw trembled as he pushed what air he could from his pierced, cracked chest.

“Can you hear me, Dapper?”

Blue light flickered.

Pride’s body collapsed at Dapper’s feet, a glistening snowfall onto the polished floor.

Where the frozen form once stood, was a pulsing, blue form.

It looked younger, perhaps less battered. It didn’t bear the look of one forged by fire. And yet, despite all of this, it looked like Dapper.

It smiled at Dapper, nodding to him. Then, like spark from an ember, like a flame about to go out, it flickered. As quickly and quietly as it had appeared, the flame went out.

And then, cold. Everything cold.
DF  Post #: 42
8/4/2018 22:23:01   
  Lorekeeper
And Pun-isher

 

 Although the bulk of Eridani’s population resides in its southern reaches - the most hospitable part of the island - the treacherous cliffs to the east hid their fair share of secrets. Thunder’s Augur, the long since ruined home of the island’s eldest tribe, was chief among them.

The Firstborn of Eridani were an enigmatic people. By far the most hostile during the tribal strife that once divided the island, they enforced their borders with lethal force. And yet, they were the first to agree to peace talks. Similarly, they seemed to have the least pride in their heritage, but guarded it jealously all the same — to the point of being the most reluctant to consign their name to the compact of oblivion sworn upon the Forsaken River.

To this day, Elders question how much of the Firstborn’s knowledge may have wasted away along with their original home. They theorize about how many secrets they did not yield to the unification that birthed the Order. And though they have no practical answers… They are right to wonder.

For while Thunder’s Augur did already stand when other feet met the island’s southern shores, where the only accessible port lies to this day, its inhabitants were not originally of Eridani either. Far beneath the humble homes set upon the tall eastern cliffs, outcroppings too treacherous for any common sailor to dare approach hide an additional point of egress from the island. And even in modern times, a vessel with pristine white sails waited within the maw that these jagged shards concealed.

“Thunder’s Maiden. Cheeky name, considering where you’re keeping it… But isn’t it supposed to be bad luck to rename a ship?”

The captain’s cabin seemed to savor the words with a faint, somewhat distorted echo. Cleared of all effects but a desk, a bed and a peculiarly well-kept aluminum mirror, the room provided a curious acoustic through its curved roof and barren walls. This reverberation, contrasted by the nearby sounds of hauling, cleaning and maintenance, added an eerie gravitas to the potent yet ever-youthful voice of the woman standing by the desk.

“That it is, Lena. Which is why I’m giving her back her original name. My ancestors called her ‘Bad Hand’ to pass it off as some smuggler’s ship. They assumed the Lion’s Maw would be discovered… Guess they overestimated the Order.” Strand after strand fell before the polished metal mirror, slowly separating a scalp from the immense mane of tangled grey that plagued the man’s head. Every scrape of the razor seemed to rob him of another year, revealing more of the shockingly clear skin that lay beneath. His wiry beard was next on the chopping block.

“More Thunder secrets. I guess it’s obvious enough how you got the crew, then.” Though the language of her slender body menaced with sufficient tension to hint at her real strength, there was no loss of mirth to Lena’s chestnut brown gaze.

“I am not the only one who’s gotten tired of the other Elders. And for that matter, neither is the kid. He’s not buying their false condolences.”

“So naturally, you and every runaway who hid from the Order are going to drag him along on an adventure.”

“Do you resent that?” The query lanced through the air with the precision of a fencer’s thrust. The reflection of eyes too fierce for their age — One emerald green, another a more common shade of blue — defied Lena with their indirect scrutiny.

“As a matter of fact, master, I absolutely do. Gabriel is suffering, but he refuses to heal; he’s making himself out to be just as bad as his brother, even when we know he’s not responsible. Or even because we’re not blaming him for Adam’s plot. He’s running away, and you’re enabling him.”

“He killed his own brother, Lena.”

“He didn’t have a choice!”

The room shuddered with the echo of a hand slamming into the wall by the now trembling mirror. “No, that is exactly the opposite of what happened. He had a real choice for the very first time, and dealing with the consequences has taught him to finally treat his life as his own. Do I wish it had gone differently? Absolutely, as I am sure that you do. But now he needs help to take those steps of his own free will, as you yourself did when you doubted your ability to become a Master.”

“Let’s say I agree with you. If you want to guide him, then return with us. You don’t have to rejoin the Order. Just help me teach him, like we did ten years ago. It’d take some time, but you could help him become a Master too. We could use - no, we need people with his perspective.”

A solitary strand slid down the old man’s shoulders on its own, unaccompanied due to the sudden stop in his smooth scraping. “I won’t guide him. I don’t have the right to.”

“Of course you’re going to say that. You two can be such brooding piles of nonsense, and that’s saying something coming from me. You’re so annoyingly alike that it’s seriously starting to get on my nerves.”

“That is… fair to say. You realized before I did that I see myself in him. But it would be wrong for me to teach him. You were both much too young to recognize the magic at work inside him. I saw it, yet I abandoned him when he needed me most. The rest of the Elders were reason enough to leave, but I was playing the part of the old kook in the east while my own students were sent off to war. ”

“And since you’re both going to guilt yourselves stupid for the foreseeable future anyways… you’re just going to ferry him about?”

“I will be his stepping stone. He will go where he needs to, and hopefully learn to call somewhere home. Personally, I am hoping to connect with certain magi to the west. People who have made a refined art out of the phenomenon that naturally alters his body’s energy.”

“And you think he’s not going to recognize the only Elder he cared about just because of a bald head and the silliest-looking eyepatch I’ve ever seen. You know what? I’ll give that the benefit of the doubt. It’s been a decade, he’s been through a lot, and you are starting to look so ridiculous that this might just work. But what I still can’t for the life of me believe is this facade, all of it coming back to him and you. Are you sure that’s not exactly why you left, then? Cold, Wise Elder Pontius got too close?”

“Ah, come now, lass.” Thoroughly bemused, Pontius delivered his reply with an accent so typical, yet so practiced that one could easily believe it was his usual voice that was the forgery. “Can ye really look at me in the eye—” Pausing for effect, the former Elder punctuated his suddenly boastful performance by loudly snapping the three-strapped eyepatch over his green eye. “—An’ tell me that ye haven’t gotten too close yerself? ‘Sides, I s’pect the laddie to figure there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

“Please, no more eye jokes.”

“This be me ship, windy. But I ain’t too worried. Y’see, it wasn’t me that he kept his eyes on during all those lessons.”



Were Thunder’s Augur still alive with the songs and secrets of its people, Gabriel would make a fine addition to their humble family. Were he aware that their legacy had lived on in more ways than the Order’s teachings, he might recognize the hand of their descendant in his own formation. Like them, he had been gifted with a power of overwhelming intensity. As they tamed lightning through simplicity, and tempered its seductive power with humility, he had been forced to develop a great respect for the very basics of elemental control.

They built austere lives on the foundations of dangerous secrets. He built a simple but effective style around the limitations imposed on him by the secret of his power.

An elemental magus must generally shape a measured amount of energy after drawing it from its source, typically their own internal reserves, then use it to impose the ordered form of their spell upon the world. Gabriel had always struggled with this fundamental aspect of elemental spellcasting, both in shaping and controlling the release. This limited the Adept to the basics of water manipulation for years, even as his peers advanced to more esoteric knowledge. However, the limitation brought with it focus: It sharpened his innate senses and brought about the ability to derive greater might and versatility from small amounts of his source element than other students could claim merit for. Therefore, by the time Gabriel was finally able to release the turbulent power within in small measures, his mastery of external sources had prepared him to use it unhindered.

In this balance of secrets and fundamentals, it came as no surprise that he fought not with advanced maneuvers, but by alternating various simple styles without ever revealing which was at his core. Which one should be interpreted to best predict his movement. While he was no descendent of the tribe from Thunder’s Augur, and had never learned their ways, Gabriel had unknowingly developed a keen connection to the culture that had shaped them..

The most remarkable similarity, however, lies not in the hiding of secrets, but in knowing how to reveal them. Thunder’s Augur, after all, had not truly died. Their ways were keenly woven into the teachings of the Order of Tempests, such that their descendants — And any similarly humble souls who lost their way — would know to seek independence if their new society grew corrupt or warlike. They knew well that secrets are not meant to be perpetually guarded, but revealed when the right moment arrives.

His foe had made proclamations of judgement, and now eluded his sight while clearly making preparations that Gabriel had failed to interrupt. If he was to fight on his opponent’s terms, after laying his ideals bare… Was this truly the time for restraint or secrecy?

Rather than give chase, the Kinslayer of the North Gate turned around and ran up the spokes of the central pillar. The charge would be loud, but he expected that his choice of direction would also be confusing enough to mask the maneuver that would follow: He cut his ascent short by somersaulting past the edge of the metallic steps to vault over Dalavar. The water that trailed behind him promptly crashed downwards, bearing no threat beyond a display of startling speed. Upon Gabriel’s landing, however, it was given one final command: To disperse violently.

Rushing in every direction, the explosion of fine droplets thoroughly soaked a wide area around the point of impact, but had its most noticeable impact on the air itself: The levels of moisture elevated to the point of being distinguishable by merely breathing, accentuating the Clock Tower’s tepid ambience. Having released all active control, Gabriel then reached up to pull the blue headband down and over his eyes.

Now I can truly see you.

The absence of mortal sight quickened the clearing of Gabriel’s mind. Such deprivation allowed it to freely apply its senses without active exertion, while the release of his water control let Gabriel focus entirely on his Legacy.

The world shrunk to a slowly drifting circle. The dense moisture provided a medium to perceive the disturbances of, while his own form and Dalavar’s were now defined by the pulse of quickened hearts and the flow of myriad veins. Gabriel could see plumes of the purest energy welling up within Dalavar, shaped not by any focus points within his body but by an exquisite array of arcane patterns within what was now recognizable as far more than a simple pipe. The cane held in the other hand bore similarly intricate patterns at its center, though it was the flows of light at its handle and foot that truly stood out: One a beautifully intricate gold, the other a flowing, misty silver, reaching out to each other through lines of the purest blue that were also present where the twin patterns met with their wielder’s hands.

There was no time to make sense of this sudden influx of information, however, as the growing orb of light in his opponent’s hands occluded more of it each passing instant. The audacious wizard’s preparations were most likely complete — And in advance of the coming clash between elemental counterparts, the full legacy of Crenon’s Gate manifested at last. Finally held in both hands, Sever sliced forward, now veiled in the same clear blue light that filtered through Gabriel’s blindfold. Toward the height of its arc, it was not a spear but a broad-bladed trident that encroached on Dalavar and his growing bubble.
Post #: 43
8/5/2018 22:32:50   
  Starflame13
Moderator


 The ticking of the clockwork grew louder, coming not from the gears above and below, but from the heart of the pillar itself. It grew to be felt in the bones of those living, and in the minds of those not. It grew until the heartbeat of each and every spectator was keeping time to it.

Gears creaked, steam hissed, and the arena spiraled onwards. A stairway to gruesome injury above, a fall to certain death below, the platform offered the only safety to be found, in spite of the viciousness of the battles happening upon it.

Then it jolted suddenly, whirling into a fervor of motion. It knocked competitors off their feet and sent them crashing to the floor, dizzy and disoriented as the tower picked up speed. Whirling so fast that soon the watchers above could make out only faint blurs of color and light between the spinning spokes of the gears.

And when it had returned to its original pace, when it had slowed enough for those upon it to shake their heads and pick themselves up, when the ramps to safety had extended once more, only a handful of the competitors remained. The Elemental Lords had chosen their Paragons. The Finale was about to begin.
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 44
8/6/2018 14:47:13   
  Lorekeeper
And Pun-isher

 

 Charging at a foe under the spokes of the central pillar while relying on his inner sight was a particularly committed maneuver. The vanishing of the Mage Slayer and extreme acceleration of the arena’s rotation saw him stumbling to try and find a balance that would elude him, even before being swept to his back by the impact of the helical array of spokes against his right side.

Gabriel remained sprawled across the floor for a few seconds after the Tower’s rotation came to a halt. The renewed sting of the fire warrior’s blade caused an involuntary shift away from his right side and the recovery of his bearings. Achernar was gone, the concentration needed to maintain its manifestation completely unraveled by the sheer daze of the experience. After being spun about by the spokes and then slid across the rapidly rotating floor once his mass reached the end of the bottom steps, it still felt as though his head was being dragged about.

Leaning on his left arm, Gabriel stumbled to his feet and undid his blindfold. Though the haze remained, there was little need for interpretation on what happened. Underneath the now loose length of hair, his eyes darted about and found that he was alone, but for the foe he had abandoned. Even as a newcomer to Bren, the pulse of the Arena provided all the explanation that the former Adept needed, even if it was far from the answer he wanted. Everyone but himself and the druidic effigy had been chosen. There was a certain amusing irony to that, after his own proclamations, but he was too confused still to fully appreciate that. Even so, there was nothing to do but to accept the will of the Lords.

Before being sure that he could walk steadily, Gabriel turned to the effigy once more… And bowed, leaning low without uttering a single word. He then identified his exit bridge and made his way out, hooking his right thumb into his belt by way of keeping the right arm still. The feeling of dejection was hard to avoid, but something greater had taken root in his chest.




A familiar boot tapped and clacked rhythmically at the end of the dark hallway. The tempo was instantly recognizable: It mimicked that of the Tower. Following the silhouette of the black-trimmed white uniform, Gabriel’s gaze was met with the same amber eyes that saw him joining this competition. Cerise awaited impatiently at his exit, a good ten feet ahead of a familiar sailor and several tavern patrons. She entertained herself by fidgeting with her hat even now, while her left hand dramatically held up a rolled up scroll.

“I suppose I can’t say you didn’t warn me. Sorry to disappoint.” Gabriel was amused by the sight of his registrar, though his difficulty in interpreting the complexity of his own heart at the moment turned his voice strangely serene.

“Well, I suppose you could’ve pulled those fancy weapons earlier. You clearly know how to pick your battles, but take it from me: That doesn’t just mean picking the ones that won’t flatten you. But... disappoint?” A tilt of the registrar’s head left strands of maroon hair brushing against her shoulders. Played up or not, her question was genuine.

“I lost. The Lords rejected me.”

“Eh. They’re gods. If you’re going to try to apply our logic to them and think everyone they don’t explicitly hold up got rejected...”

“... That is a good point.” The young warrior may not have obtained the result he desired, but perhaps that in itself had taught him to desire something for himself. After a life of spurning pride itself, he had finally begun to embrace the passion that this denied him. He had asked Bren for an ending, and been given a beginning instead.

The Lords may well have known what I wanted, even if I myself did not. Perhaps they instead gave me what I needed.

“Now then, I believe we have business.” Cerise quickly walked around Gabriel, moving at what he could now tell was indeed magically enhanced speed, while scrutinizing his figure. Idly, he thought that she must have been looking for every single place where he might have been struck.

“...Good grief, you really did make a list.”

“Doubting your best friend? You wound me, Gabriel.” She suddenly stood several feet in front of him, extending her arms and letting the thoroughly inscribed scroll unroll. The registrar grinned with an excess of mirth that was simultaneously contagious and… concerning.

“You were cut pretty fast, somehow avoided some burns and a good whalopping, but after the beatdown the tower itself gave you over there? You know, there’s one thing that comes to mind that the Arena didn’t do to you.”

Even though Gabriel was thoroughly entertained by Cerise’s theatrics, he had not the slightest clue of what to expect from them all the same. Warily, he asked: “What would that be?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I never saw it buy you lunch.”

It had taken its sweet time to stop spinning, and there it went, confused again. But after a silent pause, Gabriel’s head was shaken by thoroughly cathartic laughter instead of the arena’s dizzying speed.

“Why not? Let’s go.”

“Excellent.” Cerise hooked her right arm around Gabriel’s left and immediately pulled him along. “Now come on, let’s get you to the healers. Can’t have you bleeding on everything.”

Nearby, the melancholic smile of a watchful sailor turned into raucous laughter. A familiar tavern patron joined his hands in concerned prayer.
Post #: 45
Page:   <<   < prev  1 [2]
All Forums >> [Gaming Community] >> [Role Playing] >> The Championships >> RE: =EC 2018= Factory Arena
Page 2 of 2<12
Jump to:






Icon Legend
New Messages No New Messages
Hot Topic w/ New Messages Hot Topic w/o New Messages
Locked w/ New Messages Locked w/o New Messages
 Post New Thread
 Reply to Message
 Post New Poll
 Submit Vote
 Delete My Own Post
 Delete My Own Thread
 Rate Posts




Forum Content Copyright © 2018 Artix Entertainment, LLC.

"AdventureQuest", "DragonFable", "MechQuest", "EpicDuel", "BattleOn.com", "AdventureQuest Worlds", "Artix Entertainment"
and all game character names are either trademarks or registered trademarks of Artix Entertainment, LLC. All rights are reserved.
PRIVACY POLICY


Forum Software © ASPPlayground.NET Advanced Edition