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RE: =EC 2019= Grand Arena

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8/15/2019 23:14:04   
  Chewy905

Chromatic ArchKnight of RP


 He was gone.

Gone.

The flaming fairy had made it sound like The Lords had simply spirited him away, but would a Lord truly understand mortality? Would a Lord recognize the violence of their approach? Would they know the melting point of human flesh? Her own Lord would. After all, it had placed her here for the purpose of saving her fellow Paragons, had it not? If it had, she had failed. Jax was either dead, or hopelessly lost. Cruelly banished to somewhere only the Lord that sent him there know.

Would Nigh meet a similar fate if she displeased the Lord of Light? Would the diamond paladin turn its rapier on the Angel and strike her down? Nigh considered turning around. Walking through the gate and never coming back, before her Lord made that decision for her. As she surveyed the desert sands, it became clear she was not the only one to contemplate retreat. As Nigh watched, Nadia, the Paragon of Earth, bowed deeply to her pillar and carefully exited the trial.

Nigh breathed a deep sigh of relief. One soul. If nothing else, and even though it wasn’t from Nigh’s actions, one soul had still been saved. Her eyes drifted along once more, seeing only chaos and violence. Scythes of water. Bolts of lightning. Declarations of war and confidence. Nigh looked down at her bow, resting in the palm of her hand. The wood glittered in the sunlight, calling her to bend the string.

But what was the point? How could she push back foes so intent on killing? Each Paragon was here for a reason, each reason was so very close to that Paragon’s heart. To risk death was a choice. Perhaps they did not fear it. If they did not fear death, why would they fear pain? No. They wouldn’t. She would never be able to drive them off. They would fight, bleed, and kill or die until their Lords made them stop.

So she must delay them. Fighting each other, their souls are at risk. Sark Ynet has proven himself cruel, vigilant, and dangerously efficient. Nigh would have to do whatever it took to draw the Energy and Water away from Darkness. Even if it meant endangering herself.

Feathers scattered as great white wings bent back and pulsed. Her foot trailed along the ground, throwing up a smattering of crimson sands as a small trench followed her path. She stopped beneath her pillar and whispered a quick prayer, an apology to her Lord for the transgression she was about to make. Her wings bent once more, and with all her strength and power, she leapt. Sand scattered away from her launching point as the hot air rushed past her. She alighted on the Paladins shoulder, a slight buzz in the back of her brain accompanying the landing. The Lord of Light did not appreciate Nigh’s actions, but gave no final judgement. For now.

Nigh’s wings wilted, hanging down limply. Her muscles screamed from the exertion it had taken to rise to this height. But it had been necessary.

From here, I shall be seen.

Morrigan, Paragon of Energy, was holding her own against Sark, pushing him back with a flash of light and an empowered blade. Her eye and ear were uncovered now, scars displayed proudly as opposed to their hiding place within Cellar. There was a heavy, hazy light around them, signifying grave wounds of the past.

They would make an excellent target for drawing her attention.

Wood rose. String bent. Silver and gold flew for a third time, aiming for the blind eye of the elven Paragon.
Post #: 26
8/16/2019 0:44:14   
  Starflame13
Moderator


 The stench of decay - that of rotting, moldering soil - crept through the Arena as the Dragonborn turned her back on the sands. A tremor shook the Pillar of Earth, the bones of its statue clanking against each other in a senseless symphony. Stone slabs shuddered and cracked as the figure uttered a single piercing wail of fulmination, the sour note rebounding from ear to ear as the effigy began to dissolve. What was once solid as bedrock dissolved into a swirl of grit and dust, the puppeteer’s strings spinning wildly out of control as it tumbled and crashed to the crimson wastes below. The crowd watched on in mute horror - before the criers shook themselves as if to recall their duties and stepped forward as one.

“And so has Nadia Shieldforged surrendered her right to call herself Paragon.” They called out in somber tones, a balm to soothe the audience after the eeriness of Earth’s cry. “The Pillar of Earth has fallen - and we bear witness to her departure, and the loss of her Lord’s favor.” The northmost gate slammed shut with a resounding boom, lending finality to their words. Yet the ground about the now-empty stone pedestal continued to shiver violently, remnants of the ire all had heard so clearly. Nadia Shieldforged had much to accomplish in her travels, should she hope to regain the blessings of her Lord.
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 27
8/17/2019 11:19:44   
nield
Creative!


 Sark Ynet had disregarded him the instant he began gliding away, but Gary did not hold that against the man.

After all, he had more pressing issues to deal with.

Morrigan had let off more blasts than the one Gary had dodged purely by chance, resolving to himself to keep more of an eye on her, for he couldn’t tell if it had been intended for him or not, nor whether he was merely a target of opportunity if it were. Sark Ynet slammed his weapon down into the sands, which Gary did not quite understand, until the first blast met the ranseur and chased down its length to dissipate harmlessly in the sand.

Though the man was able to dodge more lights from the Angel, the final blast from Morrigan slammed into Sark Ynet’s leg with hungry intent, though this did not stop the man from dodging Gary’s own attack, the great scythe blade gouging into the crimson sands where Sark Ynet had stood moments before. Then the man had snatched up his weapon and rushed at Morrigan, her blast clearly not having been voracious enough to keep the man still.

“Let them come. Let them all come. I am still waiting to be impressed!” the man cried and Gary’s nose twitched. There then was more noise behind him and remembering that there had been other competitors to where his now-defenceless back now faced, he dared a glance back, just in time to see the statue upon the pillar of Earth fall to pieces. At the same time he noted that the pillar of Fire seemed to have been empty a short while.

That is… a worrying trend, I find. If it continues, the pillar of Water is next… He turned back around, seeing Morrigan in combat with Sark Ynet, but found his eye drawn elsewhere. Nigh Weathers had alighted atop the pillar of Light while he had been looking away and he saw her raise bow and loose more lights at Sark Ynet, whilst he was engaged. Let me help you, Nigh Weathers… let’s make him choose between dodging us or defending himself of Morrigan’s assault

He moved towards the two in combat, raising his scythe once more into the air, but now he made it into two. While they stayed the same of length, they were halved by width, with half-width ‘cords’ for two feet before they joined together. As he ran, he called out, his deep, bassy voice resounding through the arena. I do like my above-water voice. It makes my ears tickle. “I ‘pologise that in me do you find a figure of small impress, Sark Ynet. But ‘tis not thineself one must impress within these walls, but the Lords themselves.”

Gary noticed now for the first time that small specks of black dust seemed to follow Sark Ynet around. That’s curious he thought to himself, but gave the dust little further thought. As he reached the edge of his range, he brought the two scythes down, the left-hand scythe cleaving for Sark Ynet’s waist, whilst the right-hand scythed desired his neck. “If you find around you no figures of impress, be that sole figure thineself, Sark Ynet. Let us see you dodge all we array against you.”
AQ DF MQ AQW Epic  Post #: 28
8/17/2019 22:57:06   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 Sark Ynet bared his teeth as the knife-ear mocked him. It was a smile only by courtesy, lacking anything that might be recognized as humor. All it held was scorn for the words - empty air inflating false bravado.

--All serve, o bearer mine. True freedom is knowing this, and choosing whom and what you shall serve.--

He cast the old memory aside, back to the past from whence it echoed. The ring had been taken up, that choice was gone. Thus too, all the choices that had come before. All that mattered was here, now - the enemy before him.

Chase’s leg kicked, throwing up another burst of incarnadine grit that mingled with the brackish dust rippling off his shadow limb. His eyes narrowed reflexively against the flying sand and Sark Ynet turned his head slightly, putting Morrigan on the peripheral of his vision as she evaded the thrust of the ranseur’s spike.

It would be the last thing he saw from that side for some time.

“Tell me, Rissa,” his own voice was a poisonous echo in his mind as the Knife glittered between them, “would your choices have been any better than mine? No, I think not. But I can show you. Never fear. Soon, you will see what I see.”

In the knife-ear’s hands her blade pulsed, azure radiance blazing from the weapon as its edge was limned in light. Even with his gaze averted, the surging light still stung. The pupil of the cat’s eye jewel, glittering in his right socket, contracted to a narrow band, but nonetheless bore the brunt of it. Patchy blue-black shadows danced along the edge of his vision on the right side. But he had no need of sight to know where Morrigan was.

He felt more than saw the Paragon of Energy’s blade scrape along the polearm’s helve, vibration of the strike running up his arm as the sword peeled curls of wood from the sturdy haft and fouled the thrust. Sark Ynet was not overly concerned. While her blow was strong, Chase was no lumberjack, and she was certainly not wielding an axe. Of more import was her follow-up from the parry.

In his mind’s eye he could see the movement clearly, the knife-ear’s weapon flashing in the sun. Circle parry. Complete the spin to recover. Strike across. The hacking blade swiveled with a twist of his wrist, shifting into a reverse-grip that left its blunt edge slanted back along his gauntleted forearm. His arm swung forward, angling the deflection blindly; a moment later he was rewarded by a shock of impact as the weapons kissed and the crippling stroke was averted.

“I taught you better, boy. If you would deny everything Rodeken - everything we - stand for, at least have the courtesy to remember your sword forms.”

There was a great rattling to the north - along with a sudden charnel-stench that reminded him of Brenth - accompanied by more booming words. But the wiry man had as little time or care for these as the last, caught as he was in his conflict with the trio arrayed against him. Pivoting widdershins with the momentum of his swing, Sark Ynet threw his left arm out in a rising arc, sending the ranseur’s haft whistling back through the air on a course to crack Morrigan across the jaw.

And as he came around - another gust of umbral motes dancing in the air about him - he laughed, seeing the Paragon of Water rushing back in, now with two aquatic scythes. Gary called out, but the words were of little interest next to the strikes that accompanied them. The jagged man raised his right arm, thrusting it unhesitatingly into the moiling shadows at the edge of his vision. A second instinctive parry turned aside the upper scythe, but with his weapons bound up, Sark Ynet was left to trust in his armor to safeguard him from the lower strike.

It did not let him down. The aqueous weapon crashed against the chainmail, links screaming in protest at the impact. One or two shattered as the scythe scraped along the wiry man’s hip with surprising force. Tomorrow there would be a wondrous rainbow-pattern of bruises. Today it merely hurt.

But if there was one thing Sark Ynet understood, it was pain. So he laughed in the face of his enemies, and rasped a mocking reply as he twirled the hacking blade back into a forehand grip. “I should be inclined to dodge more of your strikes, ysgarth, were the strength behind them worthy of mention."
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 29
8/18/2019 0:15:29   
roseleaf320
Creative!


 Sometimes, people are at their most beautiful when they are struggling. Their masks are removed, and raw, genuine emotion is released for the world to see. This is the easiest way to reveal the true beauty of humanity. And with the belt of hands wrapped tight around her stomach, her hands pushing helplessly against it as she struggled for breath, Arro certainly seemed most beautiful. Such a pity, to flourish on the same stage you are set to die. Perhaps she would surrender and leave, choosing to allow her youthful flower to wilt slowly in the outside world. Then he would get a moment of breath. But Bassareus had a feeling that was not an option for her.

Though it seemed this was not the case for all the participants. As six Paragons fought for the status of kings, the Dragonkin of Earth turned from her Pillar and waltzed out of the arena; completely abandoning her chance at the Lords’ blessing. What could have possibly caused her to leave this way? Had she been frightened by the Fire Pillar’s violent combustion? A feeble character like that certainly had no place in the Grand Arena. Abandoning everything after getting so far… what a foolish decision. She made one less competitor for Bassareus Laverne to best.

As if in response to the Dragonborn’s abrupt exit, a foul smell crept into Bassareus’ nostrils, spinning a tale of pestilence and rot and echoing the pain still throbbing in his stomach. The Earth Pillar crumbled before his eyes, solid stone splitting thousands of times over until it became one with the crimson sand. The second had been eliminated. Six remained.

Soon it will be five.


Despite Earth’s show of rejection, the clashing of swords remained unabated. As Wind and Ice were locked in a couple’s dance, the remaining four Paragons had opted for an all-out brawl. Bassareus was thankful to catch sight of Nigh safely on top of her Pillar: her wings had clearly been restored. Though he had no particularly fond feelings for the Angel, it would have been a shame to see his efforts in Cellar wasted so early in the competition. Sark Ynet, in comparison to the gentle Angel, had clearly attracted quite a few more enemies as a result of his meaningless taunts. And… he had also attracted the eyes of the crowd. Cheers rose with each clash, the audience hanging on the edge of their seats, craning to see what the man of Darkness could do against so many. Sark, you’re being too loud… and stealing my stage. With a group of four all fighting together, Bassareus and Arro had faded completely into the background. And though his time in Cellar had broken the silly need for human approval, Bassareus could not stand for this old, tattered man taking all of the glory that he himself deserved.

As the beautiful fawn broke free of her confinement, ice curled around Bassareus’ lower back. It formed a thick theatre mask, eyes much too large, lips elongated and curled into an inhuman snicker. Behind those lips, still enclosed by a mouthlike circle of ice, was a rather large cherry which took up much of the cavity in which it rested. A leftward pivot spun his cloak out from behind him, a graceful dance step amid an otherwise chaotic scene.

Three.

Of all the things to do, little Arro was attempting to stab him with a large chunk of ice created from his own body. She had watched his transformations, and yet, still lacked understanding? A simple reformation of the leg made the girl lose her grip on the improvised weapon, and slightly lessened the strain Bassareus had begun to feel from overuse.

Two.

Unfolding her hand, Arro was quick to adjust her strategy and managed to slam Bassareus’ chest. With the telltale sound of fracturing bones, he flew backwards- straight towards Sark Ynet and his immediate opponent. His arms flailed in front of him as pain once again shot through his body.

One.

Those who talk out of turn are often the source of their own fall. Inside of the created mask, the cherry burst. Shards of ice shot backwards, ripping through his clothing and rocketing towards his new targets. The blast propelled Bassareus himself forward, back in the direction of his Wind woman. A whoop of pained laughter escaped his lips as he was batted around like a rag doll. In other contexts, this would be pretty fun.
Post #: 30
8/19/2019 20:53:42   
Dragonknight315
Member

Morrigan paid no attention to the choir of Earth as they announced their champion’s retreat.

Metal clashed against metal and for the brief moment the blades touched, a flicker of teal sparks danced between the paragons. Had the two weapons stayed in contact for any longer, Morrigan could have sent more energy his way, but like the rivals they were, the two only stayed together for as short as they could before parting. It was if the jagged man could read her movements before they were even made. Of course, she was merely a novice with the blade, but even if Sark had anticipated the attack, her blade’s light should have been too much for mortal eyes. . .

The gemstone.

It was obvious to her now, painfully so. The gem’s size and shape, its color— it had to be enchanted. The thought conjured the image of the warrior fluttering his fingers in the Cellar. She had first assumed that Sark had woven the magic that wounded her frame, but soon she realized that it was the crystal golem that created that umbral ability. But what if Sark did cast a spell? What magics could be at his command?

Morrigan did not have the time to dwell on these revelations as Sark mirrored her assault with a spin of his own. She staggered forward, her momentum betraying her as the jagged man brought his pike’s staff against her cheek. It cracked against the side of Morrigan’s jaw, bone cracking, pain rippling through it as she was forced back. Her eyes opened wide as she gasped for air, shuffling before falling backward. But as she fell, one sight graced her eye. The angel sat atop her Lord’s pillar like a heavenly messenger from above. She released her bow as to pronounce judgment on Morrigan’s sins, silver and gold glinting in the air before burying themselves in the same cheek.

Morrigan and her blade crashed against the crimson sands. Her scream could be heard across the entire arena. She could feel it all in her mind — her flesh tearing, her nerves burning, her jaw and teeth being shattered to dust, with all immediately put back together only to experience it again, and again tenfold. She felt her very scar ignite with flame. The agony was absolute, her mind on the brink of collapsing, but it simply wouldn’t. The angel’s curse gave her no such release. She was to bear the weight of it all.

As the phantom pain came to an end, Morrigan spat the old bone shards out, her bloody teeth becoming one with the ice-riddled sand. She reached for her jaw, and all seemed to be intact. But Morrigan couldn’t help but sense a throbbing ache in all of her joints. A casualty of the fall, most likely.

Morrigan pulled herself to her knees as she gathered her thoughts and looked back towards the angel, clutching her scar as the specter peered down upon her.

Forget that water rat. YOU will be next after I settle this debt, angel. See how your god protects you!
I
t seemed as if the angel had heard her, for a hushed voice echoed in her ears, one eerily familiar.

“By my hand, none shall die here. If you want to live, follow my lead. I’ll save you.” The angel gave a nod as to cast away any doubt as to the source.

The light paragon. . . Just who do you think you are?! Save me?! You have no place here. . .

Morrigan had her fill of "gods" with her time at the academy. Her pain gave way to anger as the mana swelled from within, her own soul begging for the angel’s blood. Her muscles tensed as sparks rolled through her body, the shock adding to her suffering. But then, a moment of clarity arose—

“Remember the Cellar. Remember how you nearly fell.”

If the angel wanted to end her, then she was a fool for letting the oppertunity pass. She had sworn protection for the moment. Going after her now would be fruitless when there were others of greater concern. No, Morrigan would abide by her word— for now.

The showman was still entangled with the wind paragon, shards of ice scattered all around them. His body seemed mangled and torn, a gaping hole coated in frost placed in his back. Their fight had little meaning to her for the moment. And so, she looked back towards her insufferable prey. More of the crystals littered the floor, but the jagged man and the rat were still there. Her fingers twitched once again at the sight of her foe.

Suddenly, the voice returned again, this time far more vibrant than a whisper.

“Look at you. A warrior clad in broken garb. Allowing your first prey to slip away from you, as your feeble mind focuses only on what’s directly before it. Pitiful. The lords are watching you, and they will show no mercy."

Ah, so that’s one of your powers, huh? Stealing my voice to cause trouble? How sinful, angel~

The thought made her chuckle. Was this the lead she was asked to follow? Perhaps it was for show, but regardless of the angel’s intentions, Morrigan couldn’t agree more. For now, their words were one in the same. She grasped her blade once again as she focused on the jagged man. She held her hands forward, her mind drawing upon all the pain and anger she experienced in the past moment. The warrior, the rat, the showman, the angel. They would all fail in time, starting with the one who crossed her first. Space lensed around her as she focused most of her remaining mana into her hands. The light seemed to bend around Morrigan, the distortion rippling as it traveled around her arms.

Reality in momentum, magic in my hands!

Before another moment could pass, Morrigan leapt to her feet and charged forward with runeblade in hand. She could feel the power in her fingertips as she reached out and released the spell. Her mana became a wave of pure force, the air whirling as it rushed towards Sark’s knees. If the wave connected, then it could sweep the warrior’s legs out from under him; she would be ready to strike him down.

Keep your word, champion of light, else I come for you sooner than later. The ‘gods’ are watching now.
AQ DF AQW  Post #: 31
8/19/2019 21:29:39   
  Chewy905

Chromatic ArchKnight of RP


 While not quite in target, Nigh was still relieved to see her bolts had finally struck true. In a moment of great need, assaulted from all sides, Nigh had been able to prevent Morrigan from becoming truly crippled in such a dire situation.

The primal feeling, deep and strong, returned, signaling her voice’s awakening. Unlike in Cellar, however, she could feel the difference. A slight tingle in the back of her throat, a quiet hum. Small, but distinct. When she spoke, it would be Morrigan’s voice, from Morrigan’s place. First, a promise, and a plea. Whispered in a voice so soft that only the faux speaker could hear.

“By my hand, none shall die here. If you want to live, follow my lead. I’ll save you.” Nigh nodded slightly, a confirmation for the Paragon of Energy that she was being watched and protected against the insatiable hunger of Sark Ynet. His skill ensured that he would feast sooner or later, even when presented with so many trials at once. But no man was without weakness. Perhaps, if he was so eager to incite the flames of rage within her, he was vulnerable to them himself?

Though she spoke, the distance between Nigh and her new voice prevented her from hearing herself. Even through this complication, Nigh refused to falter. Her- Morrigan’s- voice, would pierce through the racket of war to strike at Sark’s mind.

“Look at you. A warrior clad in broken garb. Allowing your first prey to slip away from you, as your feeble mind focuses only on what is directly before it. Pitiful. The Lords are watching you, and they will show no mercy."

Morrigan advanced with Nigh’s words, light distorting around the Energy Paragon as she weaved a spell together with which to grace Sark Ynet. Nigh advanced with her, creeping up the diamond statues arm and onto its hand, stopping on the handle of its ornate rapier. She stretched her wings, trying to shake off the exhaustion her flight had wrought. Her bow rose and the string bent back, the adrenaline coursing through her veins and almost making her overdraw the mystical weapon.

As Morrigan struck for Sark’s knees, bolts of silver and gold rushed o’er the sands, eager to bury themselves in the man’s side.

I do not trust you, Morrigan. I have not forgotten the rage you exhibited within The Cellar. But perhaps, when the moment comes to drop the executioner’s blade, you will take pause. Perhaps you will understand the blessed suffering he will experience in life is a greater punishment than the eternal peace he would find in death. Show me, Champion of Energy. And remember, the Lords are watching.

Post #: 32
8/19/2019 22:52:58   
nield
Creative!


 The man was skilled, of that there could be no question. A bright light on Gary’s translucent inner lid was vaguely uncomfortable; how much worse would it be for someone with their eye exposed to it? But hampered as he must have been, Sark Ynet whirled and twirled, his weapon cracking into Morrigan’s cheek with force as he raised his other arm to intercept the scythe craving the flesh of his neck.

But finally now was he open, his arms occupied, with no way to dodge or block Gary’s second scythe. It crashed into his side with force, not enough to break through the man’s armour, but enough to damage it. Sark Ynet but laughed at the pain the blow must have caused. As though that laughter were the catalyst, Gary became aware of a dull ache through his body. Seems I need to be more acclimated to fighting above-water…

The man sent forth mocking words: “I should be inclined to dodge more of your strikes, ysgarth, were the strength behind them worthy of mention." Gary had not the faintest clue what an ysgarth was, but his lips twitched into a smile at the man’s words. “Still were you quick to defend bare flesh and trust in your protections. But fret not, O foe mine. I will actually be putting my strength into this next attack.”

Gary saw the lights Nigh Weathers had sent forth crash into Morrigan’s cheek and he grimaced. Poor aim there, Angel… but I’m sure you’ll hit this dastard next time. At the same time, small crystalline shards shot towards Sark Ynet and Morrigan from where his foe from Spike, Arro, was in combat with the Paragon of Ice, whose name escaped Gary. More distractions for this Grand Foe, which suited Gary quite fine.

Gary had pulled the scythes back and rejoined them, sending the remaining water from his chest up the trickle on his arm into the cord, which shifted from the fur of his arm to his hand, where he gripped it solidly. The cord shortened, from seven feet to only three, and ceased being a cord and became now a shaft, sturdy and solid. The rest of the water coalesced in the scythe, which changed shape to become the head of a mighty axe, outfitted with spikes and barbs. He held the weapon such that the head was behind him, pointing at the crimson sands.

Gary broke into a run at the man, the dull ache intensifying slightly at the effort. He noted that Morrigan had picked herself up and was also charging Sark Ynet. Morrigan from his left, me from his front. Not quite a pincer, but certainly a threat that he need pay attention to. Once Garye was a few feet away, he leapt into the air and, with all his strength, swung the axe. If it connected, it would catch the man low in the body, with more force than merely controlling the scythe earlier had imparted.
AQ DF MQ AQW Epic  Post #: 33
8/19/2019 23:49:57   
Apocalypse
Member

The noble’s impending impalement was interrupted by the jagged shaft of frost lurching in Arro’s grasp. She loosened her grip, and the rod shot out of her hand, tumbling end over end until it latched onto the frozen pole residing where the performer’s foot had once stood. It shattered into a cascade of translucent gemstones over the ice before transmuting back to flesh. Without the additional reach provided by the makeshift weapon, the monk’s strike fell well short of its mark.

“Little wretch thinks he did something clever.
...well, he’s alive. That’s something for sure...
He fights to his strengths.
Then take his strength away.”

Her back foot carved a bow in the sand as it swept forwards, blood-red clouds left hanging in its wake. The monk twisted her body to follow the inertia of the failed blow, shoulder and torso shifting to present only her right side to the Paragon of Ice. Her opposite arm pulled back to ready the next assault. She tucked her chin in and kept her head low. The half-elf did not move so much as flow - every singular motion bleeding into the next.

“Iron Gale.
doyouseethosetwotheyareterrifyingohIhope-
Ugh, What IS That Stench?
Careful - he’s trapped you once already.”

The right foot took its place at the front to mirror the same stance she held a heartbeat ago. Fueled by the rotation of her body, Arro drove her open palm into the magician’s chest.

“Rip his tongue out, see if it’s really silver.
...I don’t think a vendor would take it...
ohthatsmellslikesomebodydiedwhodiedwasitthevartai-
Focus!"

A sickening crunch accompanied her technique's conclusion. The monk drew a sharp breath as the sensation of burning knives flared along her forearm. Bassareus Laverne reeled backwards from the raw power of the blow; Arro had killed several seekers with the Iron Gale but with her injured hand, the nobleman would escape with cracked ribs. It was likely that her outburst within the confines of her summoning chamber had saved the performer’s life.

“Weak of will, weak of body.
Hmph, He’s Still Alive?
...they’re really going at it over there...
Such pain. Now...pleasure.
Arro...breathe."

A flurry of razors erupted from the bladedancer’s back as he floundered about. His blundering bombarded the elder and elf with icy death as Bassareus himself was launched back towards Arro. A shrill laugh escaped his lips in spite of the strained look on his face. She raised one arm to greet his impromptu propulsion while her Whispers roared.

“...well, you’ve fought the little cat before...
nonoitisstrangeandscaryandalmostkilled-
The Shattered Night looms tall.
The elf is wounded. Easy prey.
Its Ugliness Is Absolutely Repulsive.
We shouldn’t attract more enemies."

Focusing on the aquamarine form of the feyling, Arro braced for the impact. In one heartbeat, Bassareus Laverne flew across the sands. In the next, he came to an abrupt halt as the Paragon of Wind became a channel for the living energy within all things, funneling the weight and speed of the noble’s involuntary charge through her own veins to her opposite palm and unleashing it as a whirling tempest. Freed from her control, the violent gust tore through the air on a warpath towards Water’s Paragon.

“Good Riddance. It Is Unsightly.
pleasekillitpleasekillitpleaseletthiskillit-
Effort wasted on a foe unworthy.
...this one has proven dangerous before...

I had to pick someone.”

The nobleman stood in shock at the sudden theft of his momentum. Bewildered eyes drank in his own still form before meeting Arro’s gaze. Devilish lips curved into a delighted smile. “Little dove! You do care!”

“She needs more time.
BREAK HIM ALREADY!
...there’s not a lot of time to be had here…
Can You Kill This Daft Fool Already?
She’s learned nothing. Shames the Stormfather, disgraces the memory of her brother-

I DON’T CARE!”

Stormy eyes peered into - nay, through - the performer’s grinning visage. “I have nothing to prove to you,” the Windsgraced spoke with not a Whisper but a voice. Her voice. She shoved Bassareus, the dumbfounded noble falling flat on his back with a soft thud. The Unyielding Keeper of the Ruinous Tempests stepped forward to tower over the poor excuse for a Paragon. “This is no performance. This is a storm.” She raised her injured hand, brandishing the manifold tattoos commemorating her victories. Immortalizing those slain. “I would add you to my triumphs, but the thought of you Whispering to me makes me retch.” Arro raised her gaze to the clash of ocean, night, and thunder. Only one would weather the storm in Bren today. To make amends, it needed to be her.

The Windsgraced charged.

Deep in the recesses of her mind, a whisper of a Whisper cooed to her.

“I like this Arro.”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 34
8/20/2019 0:23:41   
  Starflame13
Moderator


 The tang of brine - a salty sea breeze from some far-away ocean - washed across the Arena in gentle waves. At the same moment, the gravity about the Pillar of Water rebelled, tiny grains of salt flaking off to drift away. Bit by bit, the figure eroded, as if some invisible river was wearing away at its features. The drakel closed what was left of his once-bright eyes and tilted its snout to the heavens, letting out a mournful cry as the statue began to dissolve in earnest - entire sections sloughing off to plunge to the sands below. Then the Pillar’s very foundations liquefied, crashing to the ground with a momentous splash that soaked its surroundings. Yet it was not to last, the moisture already evaporating away as the criers called out once more.

“And so has favor been withdrawn from Gary, Paragon of Water.” Their voices rasped, parched with thirst, as if longing for what had suddenly been lost to the sands. “The Pillar of Water has returned to the depths of the ocean - and we bear witness to his choice, and to his Lord’s grief.” The last patches of water around the former pillar vanished with a murmur, the noise swallowed by the roars of the crowd as their attention returned to the carnage before them.
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 35
8/20/2019 23:56:42   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 His weapon’s haft met the knife-ear’s jaw and he felt the bone flex, dislocate, break. Sark Ynet bared his teeth as the sensation sang up his arm. Morrigan’s eye flared wide as agony bit into her, sending her to the sand. The ranseur’s head flickered in the sun as he twirled the polearm into a forehand grip, drawing it back for the thrust that would snuff out his foe.

“You killed them. You killed them all! My men are dead, crushed by stone and transfixed by bolt, and for what?”

“No matter, Chase,” the jagged man rasped, “the boy was never any good at chess either.” Torthol had not been able to understand sacrifice. The boy’s command, his father had traded for Abaret. It had been simple, really. And the Paragon of Energy would - in but a moment - be another offering on the altar of Sark Ynet’s victory.

The exemplar’s arrows saved her life, and perhaps his.

By now the wiry man was familiar with the glinting light of Nigh’s darts, winging in from her perch atop the statue dedicated to her Element. He leapt backwards instinctively to avoid what he assumed was another attack, only to watch in vague surprise as each arrow in turn found a bursting end against the knife-ear’s face.

Beneath the cry of pain had been the burst of ice, and in his pleased distraction Sark Ynet had not been ready for the surprise assault that sent the flying dandiprat sailing back in Arro’s direction. The unforeseen blast sent razored shards crashing against his armor with gelid impacts, driving him back another step. One of the projectiles carved a line of cold pain across his left cheek; a second came closer, shattering against the cat’s eye gem set into his right eye socket in a burst of radiant hurt.

“It is only an eye, my lady.” The Knife's tip trailed lightly over vulnerable flesh; tasting it, tasting blood. Spears of white-hot pain ripped through his skull, but it was only pain. Pain was only in the mind, and Sark Ynet’s hands never wavered. “But you'll need it, to truly see what I see." The searing hurt subsided to a cold, dead throb that beat in time with his heart. In his fingers, the Knife twirled, glittering menacingly beneath the slick of crimson on its blade. “But, I’m afraid we will have to make… room for it first.”

Were the wiry man standing over Morrigan when the burst had scattered among them… there was no way to say what might have happened. Better, perhaps, things had fallen out as they had, though the reprieve had given Chase a chance to recover somewhat. She looked surprisingly hale despite her howls only moments earlier. In fact… it did not even appear her jaw was dislocated, and he knew his strike had broken the bone.

“The leech-men drove out the healers, replaced the cleric’s prayers with bone-saws and bandages. They say the God-Emperor still has a touch of it though, the healing hands - one of the gifts of House Variel.”

Well and good. There was something strange afoot with Nigh’s arrows, or else the knife-ear had more tricks yet to play. Neither would help her long.

And then she spoke - without moving her lips - and Sark Ynet’s eyes narrowed. They were not her words. The idea was instinctive, but had a rightness to it, an intuition that rang true. Either way, in the end he cared not. Hers or another’s, the words were only that, and the jagged man knew well enough the score of their duel thus far.

Chase surged to her feet, but he was already moving, closing the distance. Her spell came forth, a wave of force that scythed over the sand, hurling crimson grit into the air to dance with the black motes sloughing from his arm. And the wiry man smiled his scornful smile as he jumped.

In a moment of perfect clarity he saw them all - those so-called Paragons arrayed against him - and he knew that he had been right. Two, three, four, jackals all, but this was no pack. They had no common tactics, no coordination to their strikes. Sark Ynet saw the path, and his body responded with all the unthinking reflex of countless years of experience.

--Now let them see you dance, o Dragon mine.--

“Your Lords may watch.” The leap carried him skyward, legs drawing up beneath his body to clear the rolling wave of energy.

“But I have slain gods before.” Light flashed, an argent bolt shattering on his right greave while its aureate partner hissed by just beneath a second later.

“In truth, I find them bloodless prey.” To one side the ysgarth hurtled upwards, watery axe ascending in a cleaving arc.

“Diluted and anemic.” Brackish dust trailed from his left arm as he thrust the ranseur down to intercept the aqueous blade.

The polearm’s head met the axe’s blade, catching it ‘twixt edge and intact tine. And then something the wiry man did not expect happened. After a bare moment of resistance, the ysgarth’s weapon came apart, ranseur slicing through its once solid shape like a knife through soft cheese.

With precious little time to think, Sark Ynet was forced to improvise; he whipped the hacking blade overhand at the charging Paragon of Wind, just seen dashing towards the fray. It was an awkward projectile, and a poor throw - more sun-flashing distraction than danger - but the jagged man needed only clear his grip to brace himself.

Clamping onto the polearm’s helve with his newly freed hand, Sark Ynet slammed the weapon’s head to the sand and used it as a pivot, angling his leap into a descending double-kick at Morrigan’s chest.

“And you’ll find I too am without mercy!”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 36
8/21/2019 3:33:38   
nield
Creative!


 Gary felt it. Before the smell of the ocean met his nose, before the sounds of the pillar collapsing vibrated upon his ears and the Criers calling the judgement.

He felt the loss of favour.

He had failed.

But he had launched an attack. The loss of favour had not stripped him of momentum, so his axe was still arcing up towards Sark Ynet. But the man displayed his boundless skills yet again, leaping up to deny the attacks of Morrigan and Nigh Weathers, before swinging his weapon down to meet Gary’s.

Connection was made, but Gary had no intent, even now, of letting Sark Ynet do whatever he pleased, so he did the one thing he could think to do.

He dropped the axe.

The physical connection lost and with Gary directing not a single iota of concentration to maintaining its rigidity, the water returned to its natural state and did as it was wont to do, simply moving out the way of the man’s ranseur. But Gary would not see the man’s next actions, as a violent burst of wind crashed into him and sent him flying away several metres. He was able to salvage the landing, hands and feet scrabbling along the sand. He was battered now and would certainly bruise, but there was certainly something to be said for the outcome of his competition.

He was still alive.

Since he had every intention of remaining as such, he picked himself up and walked over to the gate by where the pillar of Water had once been, evaporated now, as the water from his axe would have as well, baked out by the sands and sun. He glanced back over his shoulder, to where the fight raged on and called out, to Morrigan and Nigh; “Show him. Your power, your determination. You’re better than he is. Prove it to him.”

Then he walked out.


He had rested awhile on the bed of the river, where he had spent his nights awaiting the championships to begin, but now the time for resting was over. He was not sure what he was going to do, nor where he was going to go, but it was time for him to set off on a journey, to find some way to save his people.

Who can say if he would ever succeed?
AQ DF MQ AQW Epic  Post #: 37
8/21/2019 23:51:52   
roseleaf320
Creative!


 While the fight continued on close by, the showman Bassareus Laverne lay on the ground, rejected by crowd and competitors alike.

How ironic.

All of that wonderful effort, that beautiful explosion which fractured light in hundreds of different directions, had been wasted. His stage was stolen, there was no spell grandiose enough to claim the attention of his fellow Paragons. Even Arro had determined they were more interesting than him! So here he was, completely alone.

How dare she! She had been nothing but callous and cruel. The thought of him made her retch? No woman had dared to speak to him in such a way! He had done nothing to deserve this brutal hate! She should rejoice at the prospect of being the center of his focus, to dance among the Ice. But instead she had run away, spewing nonsense about whispers when it was clear she just didn’t feel he was worth the effort. She was not a dove, but a vulture, picking off of other’s scraps.

Fine. If they were ignoring him, he had free range of the Arena. He rose to his feet unsteadily, removing his tattered shirt and discarding it onto the sands beside him. He had returned what he could to his back before he fell, but shards remained out of his reach in the fight beyond. The makeshift ice-clot he had created couldn’t even fully staunch the blood that trickled down his body to join the crimson sea at his feet.

The Angel. She’s far from the fight- perhaps she can interfere.

“And so has favor been withdrawn from Gary, Paragon of Water.”

Bassareus did not halt his stiff stride towards the Angel as the Water Pillar spilled its contents across the Arena floor. It seemed as if the Arena breathed a sigh of relief as its long-dirtied sand met the ocean it so desperately longed for. The small, strange creature at Sark Ynet’s feet abruptly retreated. He strode confidently towards his door, choosing to exit and live rather than stay and die without his favor. Now there were five. Bassareus couldn’t help letting out a haggard sigh of relief. He was still here. Even a brilliant performer is prone to doubts sometimes, and elimination had quickly become a constant fear. It was easy to predict reactions of a large crowd- they simply cheer at what is most beautiful, most flashy, most violent, etc. But the Lords were entirely different. No one could even attempt to predict what would cause their favor to be won or lost in an instant.

Obviously, the Lord of Ice understands your true power. He sees its beauty even when the other Paragons don’t.

He would show them. The plan had formed while he had moved, while his moment of unexpected calm had allowed him to drink in the beauty and poise of the Angel he faced. She stood majestically atop her pillar, wings spread wide, bow drawn and released with perfect precision. That bow was the easiest way into the fight.

He halted at the foot of Light’s Pillar, careful to avoid contact with it lest the Lord of Light sear him with but a touch. Turning his left palm upwards, he revealed a delicate arrow sitting in a perfect outline inside his forearm. He pulled gently on it by a fletching, careful to avoid the sharp edge. He held it towards the brilliant Paragon of Light. Beautiful Angel, be the vector through which my volatile creation can hit its mark.

“Nigh Weathers, my savior in Cellar. I have fashioned for you an arrow which will not kill, but rather puncture skin and freeze the muscle. I implore you, take this gift and use it to save those that seem so lost in the fight. Show them, and all those watching, the mercy that you and your Church of Voices can grant.” For that was, in fact, where her powers had come from. The same church which sent an old cleric onto the street to pander to deaf ears. With such unique control of the voice of others, the connection couldn’t be a coincidence.

If he hoped to launch some kind of attack as the explosion was going off, he needed to be ready to run as soon as the arrow left his hands.

Nigh… please, take this.
Post #: 38
8/22/2019 19:54:56   
Dragonknight315
Member

For all of Sark’s white hairs, his age was no obstacle. To the audience, it was almost as if he was showing off, clearing her attack with a single jump, all without breaking his speech.

“Your lords may watch, but I have slain gods before!”

Then what are you doing here, darkling? What use is a wish to those who can overthrow the heavens? What a foolish slave.

No matter. The two paragons were now speeding towards each other, death awaiting at their intersection, but they were not alone. In her charge, Morrigan witnessed that familiar silver piercing through the air once again, this time finding purchase in Sark’s shin. Its gold twin did not strike true as it disappeared beneath the crimson sands.

No pain; not for now, at least. For what it was worth, the trap was set. The angel had kept her word thus far.

Behind the jagged man, Morrigan could see the water-rat at work. He weaved the flowing water together into a gruesome axe fit for a warlord before taking to the sky. Such ferocity, the intent to kill— Perhaps there was more to this creature than she first assumed.

She would never know, however, for the Lords’ decree resounded once more. Sea air filled her lungs for a moment before vanishing without a trace. The Lords wanted no more of the paragon of water.

For the first time, Morrigan observed with her own eye what happened to those deemed unworthy. As the water-dweller soared to meet the jagged man, his axe ceased form before it even crashed against Sark’s polearm. The water simply fell to the ground, consumed by the uncaring sands. Whatever hope the creature had died up with it.

Whispers of doubt lingered in her ears, hushed voices that she knew no name for. Their words were absent, but their intent was clear. This is what it meant to be deemed unworthy. To be rendered so weak and helpless. . . Would she next?

I will not return to that place.

Not a moment sooner, a gust of wind burst through the air, carving through the crimson sand as it crashed into the denounced paragon and carried him away.

Another gone, now. Only five remain. But one has yet to join our fight.

There was a kind of irony to the situation. Arro, the paragon of wind, had started out the closest to Morrigan, but they haven't interacted in the slightest. Now, the paragon was likely at her heels if the howling gale was any hint. If so, Morrigan knew that she had to keep her eyes forward. Trapped between the wind’s paragon and the man of darkness, she could only deal with one at a time.

Her concerns were realized as Sark pulled his machete back, primed and ready to throw. Seeing this, Morrigan ducked to the left, hoping to avoid his throw, but it was not aimed for her— not in the slightest.

Just before the clash, the water paragon beckoned once more, and the whispers ceased.

“Show him. Your power, your determination. You’re better than he is. Prove it to him.”

The time had come. With both hands, Sark slammed down into the sand with his polearm, leaping into the air with boots forward. But Morrigan had her eye on Sark; she would not be surprised again.

“And you’ll find I too am without mercy!” he bellowed.

“I have no need of mercy, but I’ll make you beg for it, godslayer!”

As the paragon lifted his feet in the air, Morrigan leaned back and she dove into a straight-leg slide. With one leg tucked in, sand fluttered in the air as she skidded across the ground. Her joints hissed from the sudden exertion, but with her reserves almost depleted, Morrigan had to make this last moment count. She took a deep breath and swung her blade through the air towards the back of the jagged man’s thighs.

I’ll prove it, all right. I will show them all the weight of their lives.
AQ DF AQW  Post #: 39
8/23/2019 0:23:26   
  Chewy905

Chromatic ArchKnight of RP


 Her arrows flew true, but Sark was ready. Every single time she had fired at him, he had been ready. But this time, a single arrow had finally found its home. Silver broke against his armor and buried itself in his shin, and Nigh could see the telltale swirl of light indicating his new injuries. He likely didn’t even realize he had been wounded.

That’s one. All I need is for gold to find its place, and Sark’s punishment will come.

A salty breeze rolled over her senses, a lovely scent reaching her nostrils while the cool wind caressed her skin. Then the salted pillar fell, water cascading downwards and darkening the red sands around the lost symbol of the ocean’s glory. Its Paragon, Gary, disengaged mid-strike and strode to his gate. Glancing back, he called out a final wish.

“Show him. Your power, your determination. You’re better than he is. Prove it to him.”

Her power. Her power had been worthless in the face of this consuming shadow. He was a warrior, a soldier. Perhaps he used to be even more. How could she compete against that? She was a healer, a savior, a priestess. Her combat training was rushed, desperate, simply a means to regain her voice. Why was she chosen? Was it a sick joke, the Lords choosing sacrifices for the dragon’s maw?

No. No matter how cruel the other Lords were, she had to have faith in hers. The Lord of Light had given her her gifts. Her voice, her bow, her church. And now it had led her here. In a world of corrupt, merciless Gods, hers was an exception. And it wanted her to make that an exception no longer.

She bent string once more, gold gathering into its needle form, sights trained on the light of Sark’s cuts. She took a deep breath, and spoke in Morrigan’s voice yet again.

“Lo! Your prey slips from your grasp, oh hungry wolf! First the feathered, now the furred! You may leap and dodge, but you can not strike. For gaze upon your foe! Even when you break her body still she stays resilient! What will your Lord think of a bloodthirsty champion that draws not but a drop?”

Her muscles tightened as she prepared to release the string, but a call from below gave her pause.

“Nigh Weathers, my savior in Cellar. I have fashioned for you an arrow which will not kill, but rather puncture skin and freeze the muscle. I implore you, take this gift and use it to save those that seem so lost in the fight. Show them, and all those watching, the mercy that you and your Church of Voices can grant.”

The performer. She turned quickly, bow still drawn, and almost gasped. He was surrounded by light. It flowed around his back and his ribs, thick and heavy. Bassareus’ partner had left, off to embrace the melee within the heart of the Arena. Blood dripped from his back, staining the crimson sands with more of the viscous liquid they had collected over the ages. His chest rose and fell quickly, haggardly, skin stretching over horribly bruised ribs. He stood impossibly straight, as if worried that if he bent, he would break. But he already was broken, body and spirit. A broken man deserves trust. Despite his copious arrogance, and his actions within The Cellar, his words were laced with truth, they had to be.

She leapt, wind racing past her, her hair flowing as she dropped to the ground. A flap of her wings, accompanied by a sting of overuse, allowed her to alight softly next to Bassareus. He extended his hand, an arrow of frozen glass nestled in his palm. His eyes pleaded for her to take it. A gift. A gift had been his first action, back within the death trap of The Cellar. A rose offered in a time of pride, an arrow offered in a time of humility.

Mend the body. Break the spirit.

Nigh set down her bow and drew forth her solid golden arrow, its luster reflecting in the oppressive light of the sun. She set it in the man’s shaking palm, and took his icy arrow in return. It too reflected the sun’s golden rays. It was beautiful, and its virtuous purpose was moreso. But it was cold, so very cold to the touch. Her fingers curled around it, and she could feel its chill freezing her to the bone. She laid her other hand on his palm, covering the arrow of gold, then lifted her hand up and reached out, giving his damaged ribs a gentle touch. When the pain arrived, perhaps his own hand delivering it would allow him to stay resilient.

Nigh stepped away and turned back to the chaos of the three Paragons. She picked up her bow, nocked Bassareus’ arrow on the string, and pulled back, the arrow’s chill continuing to freeze her fingers even as she drew the quill.

A breath in.

A breath out.

And release.

But her aim was off. The awkward weight of the frozen arrow, coupled with the sting of her frostbitten fingers, caused the missile to go wide and slower than usual. Not that it mattered. Arro, Paragon of Wind, crossed the arena at a breakneck pace and leapt, intercepting the performers arrow midair with an open palm. She snatched up the arrow with her other hand, reared back, and returned it.

Nigh lifted her shield, prepared to deflect, rather than block, the projectile as Maled had taught her. But she never got the chance. As the arrow approached, it fractured violently, exploding into a barrage of razor sharp shards of ice. Though her shield deflected some, multitudes more yearned for her skin, only to be stopped by the shimmering golden light that protected her body.

Her body, not her mind. The pain shot through her like a lightning bolt, imaginary daggers and razors to slash through her cheeks, her stomach, her arms. She did not cry. She did not scream. She didn’t even realize that the performer had stepped forward, his own shield in hand, and protected her side from the bite of the frosted shards. There was no room for such emotions. All that ruled through the pain and the sounds and the sights was the flames of rage.

Bassareus Laverne had lied.
Post #: 40
8/23/2019 22:51:13   
Apocalypse
Member

Gale striking true, the aquatic feline tumbled across the arena sands in vermillion puffs before regaining its footing and scampering back to its pillar. Salt fell in sodden clumps from the draconian idol as it wasted away to join its fallen brethren. Even with the guardian of water gone, the pungent taste of brine lingered on her lips.

“Thus, Ocean’s Titan falls.
Oh He Did? I Must Have Not Heard The BOOMING Declaration.
Four more remain.
...yeah, that was pretty hard to miss…
Four quarries, four conquests.
ishegoingtostabusinthebackImeanwedidjustleavehimthere-”

A flash of silver cleaving through the air cut the Whispers short. The monk braced a leg in front to kill her momentum, cardinal grains biting into the many lesions marring her foot as she slid forward. A breath in, an arm raised. Cold metal graced her forearm with a lover’s kiss before plummeting to the sands below. A breath out, an arm lowered. Arro’s gait carried her over the wicked blade, and she stormed onwards to the fray.

“thatwasclosethatwastooclose-
...not close enough, really…
Don’t leave the knife - take it, run him through!
Shattered Night, Huh? Is That All?
A test. He has weighed us.
Arro, the magician!”

From the corner of her vision, the half-elf caught sight of the angelic archer descending from her lofty perch. Verdant eyes narrowed as she turned towards the two shadows looming over the barren land beneath the luminous guardian of light. The performer plucked an implement from his forearm and presented the arctic creation to his fellow bladedancer. With a delicate hand, the seraph bestowed one of her own brilliant arrows upon Bassareus Laverne in gratitude for his frozen one. The ice gleamed like sapphires in the guardian’s refracted light as Nigh raised her bow.

“Nefarious schemes.
pleaseturnandrungetawayfromitplease-
Dive beneath it! Too dangerous!
Ugh, And Into The Sands?
Rip her wings from her back.
...heh, arrow for an Arro…"

The Windsgraced veered to the left, placing herself just outside the sea of stygian stars capering about the Shattered Night. The seraph unleashed the magician’s arrow, crystalline ice whistling over the open grounds. With a grunt as lightning raced along the nerves of her wounded leg, Arro hurled herself forwards. A high quality arrow, or even a decent one, would have struck its target before the monk could intervene. As it was, this particular craftsmanship elected beauty over function; its flight impeded by either awkward composition or ignorant design. Even so, the Windsgraced outstretched arm only just intercepted the missile’s path. Breath in…

“Are You Daft?!
Braving the storm for a thorned rose.
whywhywhywhywhywhywhyWHY-
...this can’t end well…”

Ice touched but did not pierce as it met flesh. The surrounding air burst to life, her clothes aflutter as the arrow’s energy vented back into the world.

“...huh, it did…
okaygoodalllimbsareherenowcanwerunbefore-
Please, be careful.
This one will never know of care.”

Freezing cold bit into Arro’s fingertips as she snatched the ice midair and twirled it between her fingers to heft it as a javelin. Twisting her shoulder back, the Windsgraced launched the projectile back at its archer. The monk let the momentum of the throw swivel her body to face the crimson sands which rose to meet her. Arro thrust out her hands to guide the fall and tucked her chin to her chest. A hiss escaped the half-elf’s lips as fire blazed in her injured wrist, but her landing did not falter. Red mist trailed in the wake of her somersault as the Whispers’ beration continued.

“A foolish maneuver. Sacrifice a hand for an enemy?
She succeeded.
thankstormsquickeveryoneisdistractedyoucanmakearun-
You’re wasting time. So many left to paint red.”

Arro coughed as lingering granules found their way into her mouth and nostrils, drawing an arm across her bleary eyes to no avail before springing to her feet. “He’s right.” Blinking through the irritation, the monk ran forward to the fray.

“He is?
He is?
I am?

You’re all holding me back.”

The clamor of the Whispers was a cacophony caught between uproarious indignation and rapturous laughter. One ignored as Arro broke into the haze swirling about the Shattered Night. The long dead voice of her master had warned her time and time again of this aged warrior chosen to be the herald for Darkness. And yet it was not he that the half-elf had sights for...

“Child, you forget yourself.
We’re just trying to help. Without us-
-you wouldn’t be here.

Without you...”

Pivoting on her good leg, Arro dropped low and aimed a sweeping kick at the scarred elvish figure standing for Energy. Either the thundercaller would weather the storm or be left broken in this coliseum.

“...I wouldn’t need to be!”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 41
8/23/2019 23:11:44   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 The knife-ear had good reflexes. Sark Ynet was willing to grant her that, if nothing else. Morrigan had flinched as the hacking blade whickered by - a not uncommon reaction when edged metal is flashing alongside one’s head - but she recovered in a moment, dropping below the level of his double-kick and sliding across the red sand. What followed was more meaningless noise. Chase talking, or someone talking through her. Noted, but unimportant.

“Below, behind, you strike at your enemies however you can, boy. Wars are waged for advantage, and battles are fought to be won.”

Rising slash. That was the natural strike to attempt. It would be weaker than it might otherwise have been, because of his foe’s supine position. But weaker was not always less deadly, and the wiry man’s legs had only cursory protection between shin and hip. Letting himself be hamstrung at this point in the battle was not conducive to survival. Sark Ynet let his right leg drift forward, out of line with the left. The movement altered his angle just enough to start a spin, and he twisted his hips in an effort to clear the strike he knew was coming.

“Desire alone is not enough. Neither is honor, nor petty concepts of ‘right’ and ‘justice’. We are the choices we make, Torthol. And only those willing to make hard choices can change the course of history.”

Canvas parted beneath the edge of the knife-ear’s blade, metal kissed flesh, and a line of heat entwined with the shocking snap of skyfire traced the outside of his left thigh. Muscles seized and the jagged man’s teeth snapped shut, biting into his tongue. The copper-salt taste of blood filled his mouth, as it had in the Cellar before, and rigid jaws stoppered the curse that sprang to his lips. It might have been worse. As he predicted, the angle of the blow was poor, and the swipe not as strong as it might have been. In a moment Sark Ynet would find his feet and then -

And then he saw the arrow.

This one was made of ice.

“You’re the boy’s mother, Letta, whatever else you may be. Take your exile. Perhaps they’ll have you in Abaret, if you would still make alliance with my foes. But know that next time, I’ll tear your heart out.”

A cascade of intuition and logic crashed through him, faster than Morrigan’s lightning bolts:

Arro, rushing into the melee between himself and Chase, leaving Bassareus free. The hacking blade flickering through the air, meeting flesh and simply… falling to the sand.

The coxcomb was nowhere in sight.

Only one competitor upon these sands had been wielding a bow, and Nigh had alighted upon the Pillar of Light to rain arrows down on her foes.

But the Tribute of Ice was not so great a distance from that perch.

Bassareus, Paragon of that frozen element, had unleashed the blast of razored shards previously.

It came together in a flash, and Sark Ynet’s left arm whipped up, folding back to press the umbral ‘meat’ of the limb to the side of his face and neck.

And then… nothing.

The jagged man landed awkwardly, feeling the impact flash up both legs - dull tingles along the left as he pivoted northward and throbbing protest from the right. It was the latter that concerned him, particularly when his ankle buckled beneath him, sending the wiry man to one knee. Beneath the greave his right shin spluttered confused signals of pain, insisting there was something wrong despite the lack of visible damage to boot or plate.

Mismatched eyes flashed north and west, finding reason for the lack of a second burst in the form of Arro. The Paragon of Wind was mid-air, poised in the follow-through of a cast that had sent the dart back to its source. She rolled, coming to her feet fluidly and charging at a very familiar target.

--Swift and fierce, o Dragon mine. I do believe I like this one.--

That might be, but if the pugilist turned her head and and saw Sark Ynet on his knees there was no doubt in his mind she would be on him in an instant. The only problem was that the wiry man was not certain he could stand just now. His left thigh was numb from the knife-ear’s lightning, and his right ankle ached with each movement of his foot.

“Not much fang, eh, Rodekian?”

A snarl split the jagged man’s lips, and he spat a wad of blood in tribute to the incarnadine sand as he willed, commanded, forced his body to obey. Sark Ynet found his feet, snapping his left arm out in a rolling gesture, wrist flicking disdainfully to clear the last clinging crimson grains from it. A fresh spate of black motes followed, swirling in the air about him.

Well and good. It seemed that Arro was to be a new partner in his dance with Chase. Let Bassareus and Nigh plot; the jagged man had business with Morrigan.

Pushing off on his right foot to spite the pain, Sark Ynet charged north and east, cutting a path towards his foe in parallel to the pugilist. The ranseur twirled into a two-handed grip and he swung, a hard, flat arc that scythed in from the knife-ear’s left, angled to drive the broken spike on the weapon’s head into her shoulder. “Brave words, from the woman I saw screaming for her life on the Cellar’s floor.”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 42
8/24/2019 0:21:14   
  Starflame13
Moderator


 Grime, sweat, blood - the terrible smells which accompanied the battles faded away, leaving the Arena full of clean, sweet air. The radiance about the Pillar of Light flared, its statue momentarily lost in the brilliance. Yet, all too soon, that lustre began to flicker and die. The paladin released her sword, her edges blurring into transience as the blade vanished into nothingness. The ghostly figure shifted once more until the werewolf stood glaring at the battle before it. It let loose an unearthly howl - and its form suddenly blazed so brightly it blinded the crowds. Cracks wove their way from maw to pad as it solidified and shattered, pelting the sands below with crystalline shards. The criers stepped forth as sight returned, their voices speaking from everywhere at once.

“And so has favor been withdrawn from Nigh Weathers, Paragon of Light.” Each intonation bespoke a different resonance, a unique timbre, a chorus of many that delivered a single message. “The Pillar of Light has shattered - and we bear witness to her choice, and her Lord’s distress.” The crimson sands glinted ever more dangerously around the former pillar, razor sharp and ready to draw the blood that the Arena craved.
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 43
8/25/2019 20:48:23   
roseleaf320
Creative!


 As Nigh glided down to stand beside Bassareus Laverne and placed a hand tenderly on his bare and broken chest, Bassareus felt a warmth well up, pushing all of his hurt and longing to the surface of his mind. All he wanted was for her touch to envelop him, for the Light to flood his body and wash away his very being. His will pulled towards Nigh even as her hand fell away, an abrupt removal of the Light for which he longed so dearly. The sacred arrow laying in his palm remained the only echo of a moment’s peace. An angel’s tool… she had meant for him to use it on himself. Would it finish the job her gentle touch had started?

Did he want that?

Thoughts of a surprise attack had long fled his mind, discarded in favor of beholding Beauty incarnate as she notched his own attack into her shimmering bow of Light. Bassareus Laverne had just surrendered his control to a total stranger… no, not a stranger. A girl who had proven caring. A savior.

A savior who had trusted him enough to shoot a bomb into the crowd she was trying desperately to keep alive. The Light of the golden arrow now felt oppressive, violent. She should not have put it in his hand. For him to choose to use. You don’t deserve her.

It didn’t matter, though. Not in this arena. You could not win a death match by being truthful and kind to those in your way. Even if they were angels. He watched her breathe in, then out, releasing his arrow with graceful precision. It was going exactly where he needed it to be.

Until it wasn’t.

The woman that had bruised him and broken his ribs only to discard him like a chew toy had apparently decided she was bored with her choice of opponents. Bassareus was not allowed to do anything at all, not on her watch. What an ignorant girl, not knowing her place below the star. With but a single movement, the brilliantly crafted attack forged of Ice and Light was thrust right back towards its masters. Nigh!

But he could not save both the Angel and her golden arrow. In the heat of the moment, Bassareus had chosen to hold onto her gift, and a single arm on the side opposite Nigh was not enough to shelter her and himself from the explosion. He watched her face writhe in agony as shards scattered, though none had broken through the aura around her to pierce her skin. Though he wasn’t sure what was going on, Bassareus Laverne could tell that it was entirely his fault. His attack. Deflected by that she-demon.

A blinding light cut through his thoughts, consuming his entire field of vision. It flickered out to reveal the Light Pillar, once a noble paladin, shedding its form in favor of a ferocious werewolf. It bared its ugly, curved fangs and yowled, causing the hairs on Bassareus’ back to stand straight up. It can’t be…

But the werewolf grew bright again and shattered, pieces raining down onto Bassareus and his companion. “And so has favor been withdrawn from Nigh Weathers, Paragon of Light.”

His ears rang, his vision blurred. Pain flared in his chest and back, as if the light Nigh had bestowed upon him had been so suddenly ripped away. Bassareus could only watch as the Angel beside him, so noble and persistent in her quest, collapsed into the mixture of sand, glass, and ice below her.

So this is what the Lords value.
Post #: 44
8/26/2019 0:27:10   
Dragonknight315
Member

A harvest game. That’s all the slide was to Morrigan. A relic of her childhood, she remembered playing in the autumn fields, chasing the other children as they sought to avoid their chores. Duck, weave, only to rise immediately after—

Looking back, it was the most useful trick she ever learned as a serf in the fields.

Now, decades later, it was time for Morrigan to harvest. The angel spoke through her once again, taunting the jagged man, but her words fell on deaf ears. But there were other voices present; those whispers she heeded.

“Go. Their life for yours.”

Her blind eye stung as the black and crimson sand fluttered in her wake, but the strike was made. She pulled her runesword across Sark’s thigh, blade meeting canvas and then flesh. The sensation of it all— the burnt flesh, the sound of static, the resistance against her blade.

Such satisfaction.

Carnage in itself was no joy, not to this extent. But to take her fate into her own hands, to be one step closer to the end. . . She felt alive again.

The whispers applauded her. In his attempt to end her, Sark had conceded control to Morrigan. Was this how she appeared to the others? After her lightning struck true, Morrigan swore that she would remain on the offense, but what if her approach was flawed? Was it so foolish to let the prey offer themselves to her?

Perhaps, but she had to finish this last act now.

Although the cut was far from perfect, it would serve Morrigan well enough. Sark sailed overhead, blood dripping from his wounded leg. She could picture the broken warrior against the ground, unable to stand on his own feet. All Morrigan had to do was turn and end it. But as her slide stalled, another awaited her.

The lurking Paragon of Wind had finally graced her.

A curse passed her lips as Morrigan pushed off the ground. As Arro leapt towards her, the scholar tucked her arms in as best as she could. In one clean motion, the pugilist swung her leg around and cracked her shin against the rising Morrigan, leg slamming into her left bracer. The force pushed past her metallic guard and into her chest, and Morrigan was sent hurling to the side.

For all of Morrigan’s disbelief, it seemed that some higher power cared enough to toy with her. The paragon’s blow had unknowingly sent her out of the jagged man’s sweep. But with the warrior’s reach, adjustments could, should have been made. But then, it was as if the sun was brought low to meet the world. The primordial mana pulsed once again with a randiance like no other. It was in this cloak of light that Morrigan landed, knees buckling as she fought for balance.

The choir spoke once again—

“And so has favor been withdrawn from Nigh Weathers, Paragon of Light.”

—with a surprise most curious.

So, your patron has finally forsaken you, angel! But how will you keep your promise now?

Morrigan wanted to laugh, but her body wished to howl. Burning strokes erupted through her left arm as she clutched the dying blade through sheer force of will. She would not let it go.

Even if all her wits had left her now, Morrigan knew that she couldn’t go on like this. Mana spent, the blade’s crackling light faded away; her most powerful advantage was now gone. And it wasn’t just her blade that was exhausted. The mana in her veins had all but vanished. Her body was a patchwork of aches, strains, and brokenness. Without her ‘guardian angel,’ she was alone again.

Alone with nothing but her onyx blade.

She could hear the whispers prodding her ears, their words a phantom of the worried attendant—

“Alone? Were you always so lonely?”

The whispers peered into her mind and found names, faces, memories— they asked who they were.

Her beloved friends.

Her spurned family.

Her innocent sacrifices in her cruel attempt at extending her life.

“Where are they now?”

Gone. Gone without a trace with no way to bring them back.

“Will you too disappear? Is there any meaning to your pain?”

With only four left, Morrigan was close. She was so close to being free, to seeing the end. Her body shook as Morrigan looked to her sword’s reflection once more and witnessed her broken self.

This will not do.

Morrigan reached for the purse at her waist, her right hand fumbling for the crimson vial. Another boon of her youth, it was a herbal remedy made by her own hands. She trusted no one else with her life.

She bit down on the cork and tore it away before downing the burning liquid. Warmth flooded her veins and soothed some of the aches. It would be the last mercy afforded to her. Morrigan tossed the empty glass towards the jagged man and held her blade forward. Be her foe wind, dark, or frost, Morrigan would end them.

It would all be behind her soon.
AQ DF AQW  Post #: 45
8/26/2019 22:09:35   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 He was going to miss.

The prospect was not unduly concerning to Sark Ynet. He had not properly accounted for swift Arro’s strike, expecting the pugilist to punch or kick, not sweep Morrigan off her feet. It hardly mattered; even should the driving spike miss its target, the ranseur’s edge was not far behind. The fleet blade’s cut would make up for the skewer’s lack. All that would be required was a slight finesse of the helve to rectify the angle of the strike.

But that adjustment was fouled by the refulgent surge of Light’s judgement. The criers’ shout followed on its heels, but all that mattered to the wiry man was the sudden brilliance at the left side of his vision. Twitching reflexively at the crescendo of light, the jagged man missed Chase entirely, his weapon cleaving the air above her with a malign hiss.

“When possible, always fight with the sun at your back. Make your enemies squint when they approach, and they’ll never see your attack coming.”

Sark Ynet rocked back a pair of swift steps and sent the polearm into a defensive spin, tined head whistling warding arcs from one side to the other, and back again. Spots and shadows writhed along the edges of his vision - the left was worse, though the right was thankfully clearing by now. Impaired as his sight might be, he had no need to see the ranseur to know where it was, where it was going. The weapon danced effortlessly through his calloused hands, as much a part of him as the limbs that wielded it. All he needed was a moment to recover, to mark the sounds about him - the harsh breathing of warriors in the midst of exertion - that would serve as markers to point out his foes, even when his sight was reduced to the cone of space immediately before him.

He thought he caught a hint of breathing from where Arro had been a moment ago, but the pugilist was lost to his sight amid the haze of revolving splotches edging his perception. The noise was near silent beneath the crowds' cheers; he could not say for certain he was hearing her, or if it was only his wish that he did. Nearer to hand sand rutched, and the man caught the gasp of a pained exhalation. One he was quite familiar with by now.

--Resilient, o Dragon mine. Not unlike Torthol.--

The knife-ear. The wiry man’s head tilted slightly, giving him the momentary air of an inquisitive dog, or a wolf on the hunt. “She is not Torthol.” He snarled, managing at last to locate the Paragon of Energy in his occluded vision. Foe located, he darted in once more.

--You speak true, o Dragon mine.-- The whisper was smug, self-satisfied as a cat in the cream. --She is still alive.--

Sark Ynet’s cry was a roar of trenchant fury as he echoed words spoken long ago. “You’re no better than I, and you’ve no stomach for what must be done!”

Glass chattered off metal and then crunched underfoot. What the item had been or where it had come from were matters far from the jagged man's mind as he shrugged off the pain of his wounds in favor of a furious charge. The ranseur clove the air, coming down in a helm-splitter strike. But even in his rage the wiry man was cunning. His polearm descended spike-side first, ready to catch against Chase’s blade should she raise it up to block the stroke - the most instinctive defense for such an attack.

Should she do so, it would be a simple matter of leverage. He would drag down and back on the ranseur’s haft, forcing the knife-ear’s sword low, and then thrust forward to stab her through the eye or neck.

“Life and death. Victory and defeat. Such things are separated by a line no thicker than a blade’s edge. In the name of the Empire, rise, my Dragon. Rise and ensure Rodeken is always on the proper side of that line.”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 46
8/27/2019 19:38:34   
Dragonknight315
Member

“You’re no better than I, and you’ve no stomach for what must be done!”

Of all the darts Sark had cast today, all the venomed words, these struck closest to her heart. His earlier words echoed in her mind, the whispers now shouting.

“Let them come. Let them all come. I am still waiting to be impressed!”

“Brave words, from the woman I saw screaming for her life on the Cellar’s floor.”

“Oh, my little fool, I was so much more than a lord.”


Throughout this entire championship, he had judged her, mocked her, declared his worth over everyone else. His expectations were no less than total victory; to him, they were all merely cattle to be slaughtered. And she had thought to do the same. But standing here staring her own death in the eyes, she was the one at the brink of defeat. She would be the one to face judgment.

“Judgment, expectation?” The whispers spoke again in her mind, her repressed doubts made manifest. All her life, Morrigan was expected to perform, to follow the path of others.

“You are our brightest pupil, Morrigan, but you are lost. If only you gave up those vain thoughts of yours and devoted yourself to Alumna. Can’t you see His hand guiding you?”

“We’re rich. We’re filthy rich, all thanks to our wonderful daughter. Isn’t that right, Morrigan? You’ll keep us from the fields, right?”

Even in death, she was not allowed to make her own fate. She would forever be their ‘brightest star,’ their ‘wayward child.’

All she wanted was to find her path.

As the jagged man moved to close in, one last whisper pierced her ears.

“That’s what makes you special, Morrigan.”
“What are we going to do, Wrenith?” Morrigan stared across the table at her companion. “The entire council is closing in on us! They didn’t care when it was just the rest of you, but ever since I joined. . . They’re going to kill us!”

“Then we’ll just have to move faster.” The raven-haired woman took another swig from her cup, seemingly unphased by Morrigan’s words. “The next big discovery is right around the corner, after all! They’ll see reason once we find that temple. Isn’t that what you always say?”

The half-elf wiped the tears from her eyes. “Yeah. . . but I can’t help but feel that this is still all my fault. If I never had joined—”

“If you had never joined, we would have gotten nowhere.” Wrenith pushed her glasses back into place. “Your passion for finding the truth is a breath of fresh air in this academy.”

“But that’s just it! The elders think I’m special, that I’m too dangerous to be left alone chasing heretical ideals. They feel threatened!” Morrigan gasped as she finished her drink, the burning fire stilling her nerves for but a moment. “I just can’t let this go on. I need to take responsibility for this. . .”

The human chuckled, earning a glare from Morrigan. “What are you laughing at, Wrenith?”

“You’re too hard on yourself, lass, but I suppose that’s why I like you. Whenever something comes up, you always work at it, for all of us. Even if you wanted to, you could never put this down, right?”

A moment of silence passed before Morrigan gave a soft nod.

“See? You’re willing to work for your happy ending. That’s what makes you special, Morrigan. It isn’t your magic or your smarts. I won’t stop you, but don’t let these short-sighted fools stop you from making the right choice. Find your own path.”
Wrenith—

Fifty years. Fifty lifeless years had passed since she last heard that voice. Fifty years of torment and sacrifice.

What do you know—

“WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT SACRIFICE?!”

She no longer cared about the other paragons. Morrigan clutched her sword, pain rippling through her arm as she focused it towards the Paragon of Darkness.

“I AM MORRIGAN AURELIA CHASE!”

With a roar of her own, Morrigan rushed to meet the champion head-on. Although the remedy had dulled some of her pain, the fire in her heart kept the rest at bay. She tossed the sword from dominant to lesser, taking the blade in a reverse-grip in her other hand. As Sark descended with his cutting strike, she pulled her blade up to intercept. Metal clashed against metal as her sword was pressed flat against her arm.

“THIS MY NAME, THE ONE I FOUGHT FOR, THE ONE I HAVE EARNED!”

The jagged man tugged on his polearm to snatch the blade away, but Morrigan shifted her weight and crouched. She moved forward in tandem with the momentum as he pulled, the blade sliding against the wooden shaft. At last, she pushed up against the polearm then dived, twisting her wrist around and lurching forward. She aimed to sink the blade into his chest.

“I may howl or cry, but that’s because I’m still alive, and not you, not the lords, not anyone will stop me!”

Morrigan knew that such a dangerous maneuver could cost her everything, but as years of repressed rage filled her being, she had to strike. She couldn’t simply stay back any longer.

Sark demanded to be impressed. The Lords demanded to be impressed. The crowd’s shouting filled the air, demanding to be impressed.

“But would your friends? What would they say?” The whispers gave one final question.

I hope that they would be proud. Even if they didn’t agree with my methods, they would have me see it to the end.
AQ DF AQW  Post #: 47
8/27/2019 22:38:28   
Apocalypse
Member

Arro had anticipated a quicker recovery on the scarred elf’s part; the monk’s intent had been to shatter the knee and cripple the Paragon of Energy’s mobility with the ensuing sweep. But the battle had proven to be taxing for Morrigan Chase, and she was caught mid-rise when the kick struck. This misread proved fortuitous for the stormcaller as the position allowed her to block the oncoming blow with her armored forearm. The slam of bare shin against metal bracer sent a searing spike of pain along Arro’s leg and a flurry of Whispers rioting in her skull. She hissed in a breath to block out both, pulling her limb back as the lacerations across her foot burned with renewed fervor.

No...the grit had been the bite of a horsefly to her open wounds. This was the torturous sting of a hidden scorpion.

“...that doesn’t feel natural…
Poison. The coward’s weapon.
itsthedustitsgonnachokeusandkillusdead-
Yet an effective one.

Will you just-”

A bloodcurdling howl cut the Whispers short as a radiant sunburst engulfed the Grand Arena. Crimson sands, azure sky, the pied masses of the rolling crowds...all dissolved into ivory as the criers proclaimed the fall of Light’s Paragon.

“thankstormsherarrowswouldhavekilledusImeanwe’realreadypoisonedanddeadbut-
All will be well. Arro will not fail us.
She already has.”

Arro retreated a pace as stars danced across her vision, flakes of snow and coal spiraling around one another in equal measure. Her foes followed suit: Morrigan hastened to drink from a vial while Sark Ynet‘s blade slashed through the air with wild yet disciplined strokes.

“She hurries to heal herself. Cut her down.
I Swear, If You Let That Narcissist Get The Drop On Us…
He is more blinded. End his reign.
...mmm, air sure is tasty here…”

A chortle escaped the Windsgraced’s lip before she silenced herself. Blessed by Winds? What an honor! She should be humbled by the storms choosing her over all others; electing her as their herald to the world beyond and proclaiming her to be the Stormfather’s true heir. Arro should fall prone to relish in the delight of being torn a half-dozen directions in the midst of battle, to be mocked and berated for every decision she made. Even now, the Whispers roared at her indignation and traitorous thoughts. Not because she disgraced them, no.

“You feel it...don’t you?”

But because for the first time, they had reason to fear her.

Without so much as a glance in Arro’s direction, the Shattered Night - no, Sark Ynet - hounded the stormcaller. Blinded by his wrath as much as the detonation of light, the old wolf bellowed in unbridled fury. Morrigan Chase responded in kind, crying her own name out to the heavens. So desperate to be recognized.

“Winged Fury

No.”

Sand crunched beneath her feet, pain reigniting in her lesions with every step.

“Tranquil Thunder.

You. Do Not. Command Me.”

Blades of steel locked together in a contest of will. One fighting to reclaim the glory of the man he had once been. The other seeking recognition for who she had become. Elsewhere, the performer desired for the crowd to love the man he thought he was. Everyone wanted the Lords’ favor; everyone wanted more.

“Tempered Hurricane.

You cannot command me ANYMORE!”

Arro broke into striking distance, her voice as mute as theirs were deafening. She needed no understanding from them - only their demise. The final marks on the tapestry of her skin to finish the story of the Windsgraced and her Whispers. Baring teeth in response to the pain, her knee flashed out towards the crouching form of the stormcaller. In cadence with the blow, the monk’s right arm rose for an elbow strike poised against the old wolf. A shattered nose would put anyone in their place. One does not ignore the approaching storm and escape unscathed.
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 48
8/28/2019 0:19:49   
  Starflame13
Moderator


 Ozone, sharp and pungent, filled the spectators’ senses, and the air stilled as if the Arena itself was paralyzed. Static sparked in the false calm, leaping to cloak the Pillar of Energy in writhing electricity. The shifting figures collapsed into a single, unrecognizable mass - an abomination of twisting limbs that suddenly grew motionless. For a long moment, the tension held. Then, with a thunderous *crack*, a bolt of white-hot lightning struck the statue, cleaving it cleanly in two. The halves fell, glass crashing to the ground and splintering as it returned to the sand from which it had been formed. In the stunned silence, the criers stepped forward once more to fulfill their role.

“And so has favor been withdrawn from Morrigan Chase, Paragon of Energy.” They spoke quietly, almost unheard over the ringing in the crowds’ ears. “The Pillar of Energy has collapsed - and we bear witness to her choice, and her Lord’s rage.” Charred edges blackened the spot where the pillar once stood, dispersing gradually amid the crimson sands as the oppressive weight lifted and motion returned.
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 49
8/28/2019 22:39:47   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 “You can only drive a man so far, boy. You’d do well to remember that. Hammer him, press him, take what he has and destroy it before his eyes… You would be surprised what a man can accept, when his choices are capitulation or death.”

Despair. That was what Sark Ynet felt. But not his own. No, this sense of dread, of impending annihilation, came to him through the motes carried upon the wind, and flowing in the veins of his adversary. It was sweet, like honey on his tongue. The knife-ear knew her death was at hand. All that remained was the consummation, the final steps of the dance.

“But beware, for there comes a point when any man will say enough. A cornered foe is always the most dangerous. They have nothing left to lose.”

The honey soured, tanged with sudden, bitter defiance. It flowered, blazing into smoke and ash, and then steeling into resolve.

And fury.

He taste-sensed molten rage, like biting into iron ingots forge-hot, as Chase cried her contempt in reply to his words.

The jagged man’s ire rose in answer.

Ranseur and sword clashed; Sark Ynet snarled in triumph as he hooked Morrigan’s weapon and pulled down, just as planned. Her blade wavered, gave, twisted, and suddenly the wiry man was overbalanced. His foe’s weapon shaved a curling flake from the polearm’s helve as it turned against the wood, rasping down the haft and plunging at his chest.

And then the pugilist saved his life. Again.

Agony exploded across Sark Ynet’s muzzy perception as Arro’s elbow shattered his nose, spraying blood across his cheeks and chin. Pain, it was true, might only exist within the mind, but such a mantra was only really effective when one could anticipate it, foresee its arrival. The blow staggered the jagged man, and it threw off the knife-ear’s aim. Not much, but enough.

Chainmail links snapped, pinging apart as the weight of charge and thrust overmastered them; Chase’s blade ripped a searing line along the wiry man’s left torso, tearing through the arming jacket beneath the mail shirt to find flesh. A vertiginous wave of blackness swelled up to swallow Sark Ynet as he went down to one knee, head throbbing and side screaming.

“It is over, father. Do you hear me? No more.”

“I…” For a crystalline moment, he could feel himself losing his grip on consciousness. His thoughts were fragmenting, unraveling into pieces and parts... breaking up into unassociated impressions of color, scent, sound. “I say…”

--And still, she lives.--

The jagged man surged to his feet, his left hand - demoniac and clawed - rising in a grasping, crushing gesture.

He remembered standing thus, hand clenched overhead as he stood upon the high hill overlooking doomed Brenth. The wind at his back was strong, and he watched the dark flecks as they were stripped free of his umbral limb to dance their fated course into the city below.

Upon his finger the ring seemed to flash, not with light, but with its hungry absence. Sark Ynet’s own flesh screamed with the strain, the mass of old, cross-hatched scars on his back tearing open anew. In moments the stiff canvas of his arming jacket was plastered to his back, sticky with blood. Yet, the lacerations meant nothing to him. There was only hate, only the all-encompassing need to grind Morrigan into the sun-baked sand. The null-radiance swirled up his arm, gathering about the cracked onyx set into the band, and then bursting into a choking cloud of mephitic dust. “I SAY WHEN IT ENDS!”

Ashen specks filled the air around him, but the wiry man advanced unhindered; he was magnificently unconcerned by the particulates, or by the rhythmic resonations of pain ripping though him. Side, back, legs, none of them mattered. Not now, not when he was this close to his goal. “Your name is meaningless, knife-ear. Your lineage base. Your howl... piteous.”

The ranseur came up in his right hand, darting out in an underhanded stab at Chase’s belly. “Would you know sacrifice? I am Sark Ynet. Attainted. Accursed.”

She battered the assault away with a desperate parry; he transitioned into a double-handed scything arc, driving his quarry back. “I swore that I would defend Rodeken against all who would do her harm.”

The jagged man turned, a low-sweeping blow drawn back just as her blade flashed down to block. “When Tarika rose against us, I held the line.”

Another thrust, pushed up by a counter-chop that knocked a chunk of wood from the polearm’s shaft. “When the Empire starved, I cut a swathe of devastation across Pretu to seize its wheatfields.”

Stepping into his foe, Sark Ynet let the deflection turn the ranseur’s head towards his body, and then stabbed down savagely at Morrigan’s foot. “Brenth cried their defiance, and I eradicated them, root and branch.”

He grunted, rocked back by a savage riposte that hewed another chip from his weapon’s helve as she skipped away from the seeking spike. “And for what reward? I was betrayed by the God-Emperor. Maligned as a butcher and a cutthroat!”

Pressing forward, muscles straining with manic strength, the wiry man heaved the knife-ear back, whipping the ranseur’s tip up at her face. The strike missed by a finger's breadth, nearly putting out the woman’s other eye. “And when I took what was mine, still they whispered. In every shadow, a conspirator. Rissa and her doubts. Letta and her Drakes. Abaret!”

The jagged man’s chest was heaving, his body laboring to draw breath to power limbs weak from blood-loss and exertion. But there was nothing tired in Sark Ynet’s gaze. It held only condescension, scorn, and the surety of those either mad or predestined. “And beneath Abaret’s broken walls, I killed my boy. I drove a broken stake through his heart when I realized the truth: Iawn’s curse had corrupted him, all of them. Curse the gods, a pox on them all. I made my choices.”

Thunder boomed, glass shattered, criers chanted, and the wiry man smiled his cruel smile.

“Now, my dear Torthol, make yours.”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 50
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